Long Stacked Poems
Long Stacked Poems. Below are the most popular long Stacked by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Stacked poems by poem length and keyword.
Trying to express horrifically unsavoury and odious acts of heinousness,
such unspeakable repugnant opprobrium packed with horrendousness
is a test stacked with specific unfavourable hopeless stress,
seen a crying fuzz of the weakened redundant mental mess.
You will find,
when telling of the mad,
you're unkind,
and seemingly bad.
People will treat you insanely s*it,
but insanity is you when you tell of it,
in short: if the stories are mad
and the people in them are mad
but nobody knows they are mad
when telling others you look mad
*because sometimes the simple words
better the poetry
with regards to simple minded herds,
that's what life is showing me
At birds' eye view, from an icy frosty windowsill,
8 stories high: I see a city forest full of snowy powdery
pillow packs stacked
These are spread out making a white-out
of black streets lanes
Then piles of pearly ivory fluffy flakes
cascading into tall white iceberg mounds;
greatly abounding in an isolated city that is fully bound
Trees huddled and cover themselves in
white parkas; this of snowflake designed fleeces creating
a blanket white newly made canvas for me the delighted Artist
People are frozen in their village,
neighborhoods being effectuated with the
season's frigid chilly chilled cooled air;
nipping at many red young and old numb ears
Ice vapors of a foggy mist
does tint white car's windowsills
The City sidewalks and streets has
transparently merged into one white snow sheet
Snow summits also rise high with
white zenith peak tops
People are enjoying forming
snow tunnels and igloos and
snow men and snow angels
And some people sculpt ice statues
These come into being at just below
zero temperatures of freezing
Icicles are nature's cold calling cards;
this having a very slick and cold feel touch
At this time youngsters are receiving their
reddish noses and pink red rose cheeks
Black boots, snow shoes sink in a
foot deep of snow slushing to race home
A flurry of snow scene experiences
are how most winters are known back home
The tossing of powder with frost-bite
fingers and colorful blue hue toes that are ice cold
This season has its celebration of the Christmas day: this
the time of “Christ Birth,” the reason why I and others do pray
The theme of all things each and every day; in a heart that is very merry,
light hearted and amazed for the many wonders given to us yesterday,
today and years to come every glorious day
THE WAKE WITHOUT VIGIL
Time longer than rope
Chokes hearts dangling
In the reality of struggle:-
Grieving mothers and widows
Veil their grief in sagging bosoms
As they wail in excruciating silence:-
Fragments of men, void of hope,
View and count communal graves
Swelling with dirt burying the dead:-
(Buried are “The Wretched Of The Earth”)
In the neap tides of sorrows,
Mourners wade the airy blood
Of the children of Pilate’s hands:-
In the stale winds of time, “woe is me”
Cries the forsaken land–lamenting scriptures—
Echoing Freneau: “They saw their country’s woe:-”
Stacked like molded bread slices,
Decaying bodies release spores
Of death to weary eyed mourners:-
Like an aching bosom’s colloidal tears,
Life sags on, and Sisyphus-like children
Sit under the warrior ghost of lingering hope:
(Indeed, “At this wake…none keep vigil…None:-”)*
*A line from the poem, RECESSION, by Wole Soyinke
LIVING IN MUNICH GERMANY THOMAS MANN TOWN THE TOWN OF POETRY MARIENPLATZ TOY TOWN CHRISTMAS TOWN THE PLACE WHERE HUMMELS COME ALIVE WOODEN CLOG SOUNDS IN A DISTANCE UPON THE COBBLE STONE BRATS AND LARGE PRETZEL HANG BEER STEINS ARE SLID ACROSS LONG TABLES INSIDE ROWS OF TENTS OCKTOBER IS NEAR THE OKTOBER FEST APPROACHES THE CLOCK MAKERS GATHERED CARRYING NUTS BOLTS GOLD SPRINGS FOR THE COO COO CLOCKS THE WOOD CUTTERS SAWING TINY MILK MAIDS DANCES MATRYOSHKA DOLLS STACKED NEATLY WIENERWALD SNITZEL AND POMFRITTS GERMAN BLUEBERRY SKONES BECKON MY THOUGHTS CRAVING NAUGHT CALMLY I SLIP INTO MY LEADER HOSEN SIPPING A CRISP REISLING READING JOHN KEATS COMFORTED BY TIME THAT GOES BY
Back in nineteen hundred and three
I working with a logging crew,
cutting and limbing mighty trees,
be they hemlock, pine, or spruce.
We worked for the Nowell Paper firm,
in the shades of the Adirondacks,
spent all winter in Camp Seven,
sending full sleds down icy tracks.
One morning in late December
we got up before the dawn,
that was just par for the course,
our work days were rather long.
We made it to the cook-house,
where waited the salt pork,
with flapjacks and potatoes fried,
we ate until enrgorged.
Then with a nod to the bull cook,
to let him know he’d done good,
we grabbed our axes, our crosscut saws,
and headed out into the woods.
By noon we worked a stump garden
we’d cleared back in the fall,
when we’d cut down the spruces
though a few still stood tall.
Those ones are the seed trees,
to make sure it grows again,
but the ones we felled we had cut
into fourteen-foot lengths.
Now in that deep chill of winter
we worked with our pike-poles,
hauling the logs to big sleds
drawn by horses, rather cold.
We stacked them for the ice road,
in air that made all shiver,
the teamster waited to haul it
all the way down to the river.
Now lumberjacks always work in pairs,
and my partner was Guy Montreaux,
a Quebecois better with an axe
than any farmer with a hoe.
He was quite an entertaining man,
lifted spirits in our shanties,
and knew the words to every bawdy song
ever sang in the north country.
On that grim day he huffed loudly,
having been put through his paces,
as he loaded up the last big log
a horse jolted back in its traces.
The equine kicked, the pile shook,
the teamster cried,’Get clear!”
Me and the boys all dove away,
filled with a familiar fear...
CONCLUDES IN PART II.
In a dusty bin, albums lie stacked, old and worn,
Yellowed with age, a few tattered pages hold pictures of a newborn.
Another bears autographs, a favourite band’s ink now faded,
With a young girl’s crush and tears, memories created.
Years of life captured through childhood and beyond,
Each image, a fragment echo of lives once vibrant, creating a bond.
Stories of laughter and love now unfold,
In fading photographs, only shadows remain untold.
Reminders of yesteryear we hold tight before they disappear,
A collection of memories, faces fading, but to the heart the feeling is still dear and near.
A heart that understands
is a one-of-a-kind rarity.
It still smiles, even when cold
to the touch. The world would be
a better place if all and sundry
had such a heart!
A heart that understands
knows how to listen. It ushers
people in without judgment.
And one is free to linger, to stay.
Such a heart we all need, like
an umbrella on a rainy day!
A heart that understands
assures us not to worry
about minor slights caused.
It's accepting and patient to a fault.
And it doesn't judge or demand
an explanation from anyone
A heart that understands
is simultaneously sympathetic
and empathetic. It doesn't care
that one's woes are stacked up
against each other like Jenga.
It forgives one and all!
A one-of-a-kind rarity...
that's a heart that understands.
Submitted for...
Strand Choice 10,Any Form,Any Theme Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Brian Strand
Date: 01/30/2020
Date written: 01/26/2020
I’ve got so much to say,
But my words don’t come out right.
Thoughts stacked in my chest,
Heavy, ready to fight.
I try to speak, but I freeze,
The words just slip away.
I need to let it all out,
But I don’t know what to say.
I’m screaming inside,
But my voice won’t break through.
I just need someone to listen,
To hear what I’m going through.
I’m not hiding, just tangled,
Stuck with nowhere to go.
I want to let someone in,
But the words refuse to show.
I’ve tried to scream, but it’s silent,
The words disappear like dust.
All this pain I carry with me,
But trust just hurts too much.
Maybe someday I’ll find the strength,
To speak without the doubt,
But until I know they’ll listen,
I’ll keep my heart locked out.
Maybe someday I’ll find the strength,
To speak without the fear,
But until I know they’ll listen,
I’ll keep my words right here.
Every scream has an echo.
In alleyways slick with rain,
Where mothers light candles
For sons who won’t come home again.
It rattles through church halls —
Empty pews, silent choirs —
Where prayers turn to ash
In unholy fires.
Every scream has an echo.
In the stomach’s hollow roar,
Where children count cracks
On splintered floors,
Dreaming of feasts
They’ve never known,
Sucking on pennies,
Pretending they’re stones.
It ricochets off council walls,
Graffiti bleeding names of the dead,
While men in parliament chambers
Debate the price of bread.
Every scream has an echo.
In veins carved hollow by rusted spoons,
In toilets that reek of midnight tombs —
Where trembling hands
Trade blood for release,
And the only high left
Is the hope of peace.
It hums in the silence
After fists meet skin,
When apologies are whispered
But bruises sink in.
Every scream has an echo.
It doesn’t fade —
It stains the bricks,
Haunts the drains,
Hangs in gutters
Like cigarette smoke,
Carrying names
No one dares speak aloud.
Listen close —
You’ll hear them now.
A choir of ghosts.
Stacked screams.
Stacked souls.
They scream for justice,
They scream for light,
But the echo grows darker
Night after night.
And when it circles back —
It lands in you.
In your chest.
In your breath.
In your truth.
Every scream has an echo —
And one day,
It will answer you.
I wandered into Zig-Zag Zoo,
Where fluffa-phants juggled kangacoo stew.
A wiggle-whisk wolfie tap-danced on air,
And puffaroo ponies braided clouds with flair
A quiver-quack quonk wore polka-dot feet,
He waddled in circles to a bubblegum beat.
The glimmer-fox giggled, tail swirled like paint,
While bounce-back babbits fainted like saints
A spottle-nose rhinker played drums on a tree,
A sparkle-snout tigerfly buzzed up to me.
The hippo-whirl helix spun round like a top,
He zoomed past a frink-ferret doing belly-flop!
Snicker-snail serpents slid fast as a sneeze,
Their shells were like teacups, with curtains and keys.
A zebra-zab zebbit with wings made of chalk,
Drew rainbows mid-air while he moon-walked the walk
Then giggle-girafflings (only two inches tall)
Stacked fifty-three high and didn’t wobble at all!
A monko-bot dingo handed me a balloon,
It squeaked out a joke in a squealy cartoon:
“Why’d the zoodle-zoo chicken cross the vine?”
“To tickle the tiger-knight guarding the sign!”
The whole place went wild, confetti and cheer,
Every creature in motion, absurd and sincere
I laughed so unstoppable, breath whooshed right through,
And I swear half those critters laughed back at me too
Contest : Souper Suessy Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Benjamin Bartley
Date: Dec. 6,2025