Long Spoken Poems
Long Spoken Poems. Below are the most popular long Spoken by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Spoken poems by poem length and keyword.
32 Bar Blues: A Spoken Word Poem
In the shadow of the neon’s dusty glow, Oh, the blues, got me cryin’/echoes of Otis Span whisper, “Why?” Champion Jack Dupree, a voice so true, I’m lost in the Bad Luck blues/
In a world of broken souls, where the road to nowhere stretches on, I found you, baby, like a light in the dark, the blues never dies, it lingers, and it holds you tight/
the weeps and wails, on the south side of a town that’s seen its fails, Slim Harpo in the corner, feeling down and out, the county blues sing a song of doubt/
From the river delta, a treasure unfolds, Folk Cotton Blues, stories untold/ Lightnin’ Hopkins, electric and fast, In the warmth of the back porch, shadows are cast/
Sun House, the father of Folk’s embrace, his lonesome roads live no trace/ blues before sunrise when my baby says I don’t want you any no more/ man, I’m out the door/
Stormy Monday blues, heavy on the Mississippi nation, Tuesday is just as bad, Wednesday just as worse/ man, the week is losing control fast/
Jimmy Witherspoon croons, “Take a chance!” Shake your hip, girl, let the blues make you dance, but baby, I’ll miss you, when the work gang calls/
As Howlin’ Wolf’s spirit through the night sprawls, Back Country Blues, a lineage so strong, in every heartache, a back breakin' song/
In the rhythm of the blues, our souls collide/ let the blues chords carry us, let the rhythm guide us not to a world of sorrow, but to so much joy in our blues pride, from the ashes of a blues life we'll rise and shine, with the 32 bar blues/ I hope you won’t turn me from your door when I have all this blue’s pain of mine / so dig this, the blues are nothin’ but a good man feelin’ mighty bad/
It seems like yesterday that the air in our house was thick,
so thick I could choke on it before breakfast.
My father’s voice
sharp as broken glass,
louder than any thunder I’d ever heard.
He didn’t just speak.
He carved.
He carved his anger into walls,
into skin,
into silence.
It seems like yesterday I was small enough to hide, but never small enough to escape.
I pressed myself into corners,
made myself paper-thin,
thinking maybe if I was quiet enough,
still enough,
he’d forget I was there.
But monsters don’t forget.
They feed.
It seems like yesterday
your hands, Mother,
were shaking over a sink of dishes,
eyes glazed,
voice swallowed whole.
I didn’t understand it then, how survival can look like surrender,
how sometimes staying feels safer than running.
I thought your silence meant I wasn’t worth saving.
But now I see,
you were trapped too.
You were breaking too.
And in your own way,
you were teaching me to live through it.
It seems like yesterday I blamed myself.
For his rage.
For your tears.
For the nights that stretched like an ocean
with no shore in sight.
Children always think it’s their fault.
Always think if they just smile harder,
cry softer,
breathe quieter,
that they can turn a monster into a man.
But no smile,
no silence,
no shrinking could save me.
I know that now.
It seems like yesterday that I carried shame like a second skin,
Like a secret tattoo only I could see.
But scars aren’t shame,
they’re survival stories,
they’re proof I lived through the fire and didn’t let it burn me down.
It seems like yesterday,
but yesterday is gone.
And me?
I’m still here.
I’m still standing.
Every breath I take is rebellion,
every heartbeat is proof,
that his shadow didn’t win.
It seems like yesterday that I was a child in the dark.
It seems like today that I am the light.
It seems like tomorrow that I will build a home where love doesn’t hurt,
where silence doesn’t stain,
where children sleep without fear and wake without scars.
It seems like yesterday that I was broken.
It seems like today that I am whole.
It seems like tomorrow that I will rise again,
and again,
and again.
Why do we always
agree to disagree
instead
of agreeing to see
the harmony
in eye-eye
possibilities.
See
if you can follow
me.
If we let go
of what we believe
to our duty
to make
the other person
see
our point of view,
if we dispensed
with the energy
we
erroneously put in
to desperately
want to be right,
we just might create
a peacefulness
that can set us free
from always wanting
to be right.
Understand?,
If we always agree
to disagree,
instead of agreeing
to see
the harmony
in surrendering
to the reality,
to the possibility
that just possibly
someone else's
point of view
actually
has merit,
we will never see
the beauty
in humility,
and realize
the other person's
point of view
is valid too.
It's simple
mathematics..
Follow me.
We always agree
to disagree,
which is why
we
are always
at each other's
throats,
and when we do
this,
we are not part
of the solution,
but a part
of the problem.
US President Donald Trump delivers!
Disappearing people,
people aren’t illegal
The inefficiency of DOGE
Nothing makes sense, it’s all a mirage
Ignoring the Supreme Court,
immigrant prisoner’s fees come up short
Drastic aid cuts kill people overseas,
bringing back rare disease
I’m not bashing the Trump agenda
Sipping a five-dollar coffee and Splenda
It’s inflation, and his
insatiable appetite for tariffs in other nations
Got his gimmick and applause
Worldwide leaders upset because
outrageously tariffed
Worse than even liberals predicted!
Firing government workers,
ridding twitter twerkers
Best say 2020 election was rigged,
and that other candidate cheated
Silicon Valley beware,
AI undermining gives a scare
Pardon the bad guys,
lock up innocent lives
Tariff-related market collapse,
Gerrymandering make new maps
Farmers forced to overregulate
Under lableing’s blind fate
Suing the media,
can’t fact check on Wikipedia
Bye bye D.O.D
end of US Army?
Rename it, department of war,
forget defense, think of horror
I mean, I could just keep going
Let’s see what is missing?
Government workers fired
Lack of qualified candidates hired
Take his family and RFK JR radical,
gets checks from pharmaceutical
Braking the law shooting-up everyday,
what would the dead Kennedy's say?
What isn’t missing is Trump in the White House
and his trophy wife spouse
And so instead of unabashedly bawling my eyes out
I’ll do what it takes to mellow doubt
That’s only half of it,
Melania spoke out, I’m now in a bad state of regret
Give me a drag—I need cigarette!
In land of light, where spires rise high,
We speak of love yet let it die,
For quiet faith and tender creeds
Are strangled by our selfish needs.
We drape ourselves in robes of white,
Yet shadows thicken, day and night.
We name the Christ with hollow breath,
And wield His sword to bring forth death.
Some say it’s power that we seek,
To silence all the gentle, weak;
A whispered lie, a guiding hand,
To keep the meek from taking bread.
We cast our stones with righteous face,
While kindness slips to slow disgrace;
And as our temples line the skies,
Our children learn a world of lies.
Yet still the dreamers, bruised and worn,
Recall the world where love was born—
Where fire once lit the lowly way,
A light the darkness could not sway.
But if we seek to shape the world
With fires that burn and flags unfurled,
What lives we touch may never rise
To know a gentler paradise.
In every breath that bruises break,
Another spirit must then ache;
And one by one, we dim and fade
In shadows of our faith betrayed.
In the cosmos where colors collide/
Under a canvas of vibrant pink and purple tide two abstract figures, hats tilted just so/
Stand tall in the galaxy, putting on a show/
Geometric shapes dance in a minimalist spree, Jazz notes shine like stars, wild and free/
Are they space lamp illuminators, or comedians in flight? Telling tales of the universe, in the stillness of night.
They float through the cosmos, shining so bright. UFOs in formation, or cosmic jesters on a space flight/
Bold colors clash, a celestial array, In this otherworldly realm where a new comedy's hybrid imagination is at play/
Saturn lamps flicker, casting shadows on cosmic dust, While alien beings laugh, bursting at the seams, man, what a rush/
So let the jazz flow, let the universe hum, In this vibrant expanse, all are welcome to come/ Join the cosmic comedy and let your worries fade into the Milky Way/
Under the glow of laugh-N- lamps, in this infinite space. Embrace the abstract and one day visit Mars/
For in the heart of the cosmos, we’re all comedians there. So laugh with the aliens, they brought us here, In the vastness of space, we are all going there/
Breath Without Apology
I stand here,
with a chest full of echoes,
and a tongue heavy with prayers.
I want a life,
not stitched in fear,
but woven in safety,
like a blanket that never tears.
I want a love,
not a riddle,
not a puzzle with missing pieces,
but a flame steady,
burning without question,
a hand that does not tremble
when it reaches for mine.
I want peace,
not the fragile kind,
not the one that vanishes
when silence enters the room,
but peace that lingers,
like incense in the rafters,
like dawn refusing to surrender to night.
I want simplicity,
the kind that feels like home,
like laughter spilling in kitchens,
like children chasing shadows,
like the sound of rain
reminding us we are alive.
And if you ask me again,
what I want,
I will tell you
I want to breathe without apology,
to love without armor,
to rest without ghosts,
to live before dying,
to begin before ending.
© Tr. Elvis Otieno Gikoi
® ArtFromHeart
They ask why my walls are empty,
why echoes still outnumber frames,
why every nail waits untouched
as if it's afraid to remember.
They think it's neglect.
They think I forgot how to make a house feel like home.
But they never saw how every choice
became a battlefield.
A color was too loud.
A picture was too much.
A dream took up too much space.
So I learned that silence matched every room,
and bare walls were easier to defend.
Somewhere along the way,
I stopped asking,
"What do I love?"
Instead, I asked,
"What won't start a fight?"
Now the house is mine.
The quiet is mine.
The freedom is…
mine.
Yet I still stand holding a picture frame
like it weighs a hundred pounds,
waiting for a voice
that no longer lives here
to tell me I'm wrong.
Healing isn't always loud.
Sometimes,
it's standing in an empty room
and realizing the walls were never waiting for permission.
I was.
One day, I'll hang the picture.
Then another.
I'll choose colors without apology,
fill shelves with pieces of myself,
and learn that home isn't built by perfect taste
it's built by trusting the heart that was once taught not to choose.
And when these walls are finally covered,
it won't just be decoration.
It will be proof that I came back to myself.
So, I’m home for winter break
and trying not to break
because I thought I could break away from my problems, my chains—
but my wrists break instead of the shackles.
I don’t want to be home—
I came back, and no one was home.
Just like the week before,
and the month before,
and the year before.
And when I think more,
I can’t remember the last time anyone was home.
I’m starting to think
that I don’t have any home mates.
Not housemates, not roommates—
they’re here, but they aren’t home.
Because home to me isn’t here.
It’s somewhere between love and fear,
somewhere between far and near,
somewhere I don’t have to hear from any of you—
about how I’m overreacting
and unprepared
and indecisive
and just, scared.
I know that.
That’s why I bought new bedding and towels and hangers.
That’s why I spent four months with so-called world changers—
just to feel like I’m no longer in danger.
The people in this house can’t see
I’m building a home somewhere else.
That’s why I came home and didn’t see them anywhere.
Because most days, home is wherever they’re not.
But I need them like water—
only, I can’t swim.
I’ll die with them and without them.
I had a semester-long break.
They judged my body
like it was evidence.
Like it was proof
I was less than.
They never asked
what this body survived.
What this spirit carried.
What this mother endured
while still showing up
every damn day.
I bled in silence
and called it strength.
I prayed with shaking hands.
I begged God
to make me smaller,
so I would be easier to love.
That’s the kind of damage
the world does
when it teaches a woman
her worth
lives in her appearance.
But I am not built
by their opinions.
I am built
by survival.
By prayer.
By ancestors
who did not break
so I could doubt myself.
There is something holy
about a woman
who has been through hell
and still chooses softness.
There is something dangerous
about a woman
who finally knows her worth.
If you could not love me
when I was tired,
triggered,
healing,
still learning how to breathe
you do not deserve
the power
I am becoming.
You do not get
to dishonor the storm
and then expect
to inherit the peace.
I was sacred
when I was breaking.
I was sacred
when I was doubting.
I was sacred
before I ever believed it.
And now that I do
I am no longer asking
to be seen.