Long Stave Poems
Long Stave Poems. Below are the most popular long Stave by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Stave poems by poem length and keyword.
The devil dances in your eyes
Whispering sweet nothings and lies
It's only a shame your gaze
Can no longer see past the malaise
That corrupts your brain
And fills you with pain
Lips tight and language curt
The words cut deep and it might hurt
Peer into the mirror and see
The truth for it could set you free
But a lie could forever chain
You should be tired of starting again
In a new place with a new face
Only to be gone again without a trace
And there you stand in the rain
Before you your innocence slain
Filled with broken thoughts
You cannot repair what you brought
Because it's not real
Confess it so you can heal
And your fears are broad
But sadly they became your god
This corruption became an eruption
An abruption that leads to destruction
The dance is wicked and angels fight to be heard
Word after word after word
Into the shadows you were lured
Where the devil dances
You held a blade but no chances
Your decisions might lead you to die
But I wonder if you'd even ask why
You strayed into the darkest path
Burdened by the truth and inner wrath
You can lie to everyone else but not me
For I am you and you are me
Lightning lances across the sky
And that is when you begin to cry
An angel is born in your eyes
You had to suffer to become wise
Like picking up broken puzzle pieces you rebuild
As the hole in your heart is slowly filled
It's so cold to stand here all alone
As you wonder how you could possibly atone
And maybe it sends you reeling
As it all comes back and you're feeling
The years that somehow passed you by
It's not too late to live before you die
Look around and know it's not too late
To escape an empty funeral fate
Because that devil dancing in your eyes
Was me whispering those lies
But it was with your mouth that they were spoken
And it is your heart that will leave them broken
I'm the demon you held on to stave off the emptiness
To say it aloud the reality is simply this
By holding on to me you let everyone else go
And it became impossible for you to grow
It's weird that as I slowly disappear
You're filled with a misguided fear
But I was the demon dancing in your eyes
Whispering sweet nothings and lies...
A body abandoned
needs to mourns its last breath in death
a heart cast aside
still aches to meet its last beat
and a free spirit yearns for a winged monarch moment
to fly in the spirit of freedom…
opportunity
flares a tongue
snaky and bittersweet.. a flicker
grows flames that twist passion’s kiss with kismet
a chance
to escape on a breath of air
an exhalation;
warm incense offered to vesper -
the wish of a scent to slip through the keyhole
above the hiss of heat
and gasps of air
rushing combustion to a roar
airy mystics spoke in the eerie smoke
w h i s p e r s
urge the purge of perishable pain
unclasping lonely-linger’s grasping fingers
soft-spun knit and purl unravels
as vintage yarn twined with sun and rain unties -
aging rays fail to stave Winter’s grays
and the ethereal thread of an earthly creation
releases its tendril
from the spinning wheel’s weave of circular seasons
from seed to harvest and warmth to chill
vestiges of sisterly hands cup a ceded sigh
chrysalis celebrates destined to re-emerge a butterfly
terminal tremble of a twilight trill is hushed
vulnerability swaddled
cradled by clouds of silver and gold
a mortal’s surrender consummates upon the pyre -
cinders cleansed of tears and cries and vices
but never the dreamy intrinsic colors
of the opal’s unfurling blaze
she ascends
a flash of embers relieved of ash
taking fire to the skies with a tigress torch igniting
molten pools spooning the spine of the western shadow
heralding an awakened afterglow to the afterlife -
lamplight gilds mare’s tails hooking heavens
pathways adrift from the burning thurible
of a trinity on the cusp of rebirth...
incense rises upon a heated atmosphere
riding the riddle of the four winds
beyond realms of soil and salt - reason and logic
yonder the profound truth of the-not-humanly-known
seeing past reflections within mere margins of a mind’s mirror
accepting the enlightening throb of the enigmatic pulse of creation
becoming one with the ultimate mystery
the wish of a scent to slip through the keyhole
fulfilled with exchange of gifts -
the offering of her sunset shroud
for the white mantle of sunrise
Upon my asking a lone Lenape
what happened to their tribal home;
so soulful that he barely told me
the tragic tale of how it had gone.
The white man thought he coyly took it
a thing that he cannot ever own.
It's lost and changed, cracked crooked
what will happen next, remains unknown.
Our sense of self, of our longhouse fires
this "hilly island" turned to stone.
On that same old ground stands soaring spiers
where "bow stave" hickories once were grown.
Like low blowing leaves in wisping winds
our spirits spun sorrows through the years.
There are too few left to tout the ends
to soothe away ancient father's fears.
We drew deepest strength from sweet silt soil
the same on which too many people stand.
When we try to reach, dream, climb 'n toil;
then roam high steel in the skies so grand.
Notes: 20 lines rhyme For centuries before the Dutch renamed Manahatta (Mannahatta) in Lenape language meaning "hilly island", to Manhattan in the 1600s; this land had a rich Native American history. Today it is called New York City. The Lenape natives inhabited this area well before the 1500s. Europeans disadvantaged indigenous peoples as they hastened to turn tribal reservations into personal property for themselves. This is not a proud part of American history.
1/16/21 written
Cavernous
I do not believe !, nor do I want to believe
that the delineations you pain upon the canvass’
of our, oh so brief time upon this plane together
represents the true you, the real you, the spiritual soul of you.
I wanted, so much for you to stand by me,
so much for you – upon this earth – to stand with me,
to walk with me upon the raging waters of this sea,
this life of ours, to be with me in calming these waters
these storms, storms drowning emotions, feelings, desires,
sending them into the depths, into Davie Jones’s locker.
Down, down, down to the bottom – of our hearts, our souls.
Me - my spirit has slipped into the mouth of this great Cave,
the caves within – deep, dark, dangerous, opened mouth –
where a Carcharondon Carchanis, an Orcinus Orca, awaits,
it’s stalactites downward force, piercing the upper regions
of my heart, causing great geysers of blood to fly,
it’s stalagmite stilettos, thrusting upwards
into the lower, nether regions of my bleeding heart,
piercing every fiber, every beat that vibrates to the songs
that love’s composers lay at the feet of us hopeless romantics,
songs that have become deafeningly silent to these old ears and the light of their sounds, penetrates not these old eyes
as life’s blood, drips in vain, like tear drops through a vein’s
aneurism – the wounds inflicted by these predators,
wounds ripped into the living flesh of a stilled, beating heart
as it tries to navigate a coarse between Black Shadows,
between the teeth ( stalagmites, stalactites ) of this Cavern,
I have chosen to explore – once more - for Life’s, sake.
The deeper I travelled into the interior of this Cave,
The more I realized, my feeling became even more grave.
The question became, how do I avoid the sting, the bite, stave off the inevitable, – never to love / be loved – to the grave
with all I shared, all I desired, all that I gave !
From the mists of uncertainty, from the fogs of doubts
come numerous ( hundreds ?, ) pages of enlightenment
( for the blind and the blinded ) that project, that question,
that are, even, living statements.
B. J. “A” 2
January 30th 2009
Now that December has descended
with it's roots of ice and skies of snow
our timber fortress is a sanctuary of ethnographic enlightenment
and embassy that entreats the exchange of craftsmanship,
lately I have been preoccupied with my etymological research,
it is important to President Jefferson, an anthropologist
that we discover the origin of the natives through their languages,
he is obsessed with understanding the diversity of the human race
a bone collector of civilizations and shaman of scholarship,
Private Sheilds, through his blacksmithing expertise
has allowed us to barter iron for corn without which
the Corps of Discovery would either lose vital quantity of provisions,
be reduced to malnourished paupers, or even engage in unscrupulous raiding,
there are still a thousand arduous miles to go
from all estimations, before reaching the Pacific,
as is, the Elders, especially from the Hidatsas
are suspicious of our motives
because of the 18 foot high pallisaded fort we have built adjacent to the Mandans,
so mistrust is suppressed well with an open door policy
and liberal trade of battle axes,
knives, weapon and tool sharpening, kettles, needles and so on,
January 1805,
the new year has introduced 40 below zero weather, syphilis and fists fights,
to stave the ills of boredom we routinely go on hunting expeditions
through the gruelling grip of winter's madness,
another activity that warms the soul are the spectacular jamborees
that conjure the whiles of instincts
and reminds us all how the heart seeks it's deepest expressions,
Cruzzatte plays the fiddle like a tempter of lunatic love
while Silas Goodrich thumbs a mandolin into the dreams of romantic heroism,
the squaws often coo with eyes of diamonds
arms outstretched with fingers swaying like wind blown wheat,
York is a sensation with the Indians
they have never seen a Black Man before
describing him as the black clay of chaos,
they believe there is magic in his skin
touching and rubbing him constantly like a healing stone,
J.A.B.
During my journey through life
I have filled countless pages with words
And found a home to share them
On poetry soup
In 2009 I was just a boy
Still in high school
With youthful exuberance
Burning in my heart
Poem after poem I wrote
Wanting to express myself to the world
I posted them day after day
To stave off the pain inside
In 2021 I became a lifetime member
After years and years of debate
To support the place
That is my home away from home
Though I've struggled with words
And struggled with form
It was never a struggle
To find a place for me here
My journey is far from over
And I hope that no matter where I roam
That I will always find a home
On poetry soup
Those BazBull bro’s kills what they said they'd save
Chill pill drills ho’s cheap thrills all traditions waive
Rave it's their fave the oldest format what they crave
Pretend that cricket lite ..might a bright future pave
Defend rascals debacles in Oz really was a close shave
Righto was sh*te say goodnight barmy tsunami wave
Did cave in hosts through thick & thin everything gave
So goodbye to the superfly lie cheerio the final wave
All a slave to T20 noble sort of this global sport a knave
Can't stave off woes depraved way they did play.. behave
Smarmy army hell bent heaven sent Tests to their grave
In the early morning fuzz, a smoky inhale of life
the lamppost is lit and the trees are just waking up
Five Forty Two Am: the eyes of the sky are grayly
I hold my stave high as I begin my very first poem
Bushes and creeks containing tiny quakes of light
piercing through a silent heaven, I feel alright
Sleeping in the room next door he is unaware
of the awakened altered state that claims me
Down the path of memories I go alone and safe
standing behind a closed window, vouchsafe !
Smoke blankets the city on this Friday morning
I can't touch the fire, I am only its town crier
as I write about the residue of the wildfires,
I can see the peeling back of its slight
and know instinctively,
It is daylight....
"Streams of Gold, Blazing Andromedas"
Engagement came at a cost
the written word read
and worn like a purple robe
to keep out the cold
stave the hunger off,
feed the soul eveything,
Everything, is what it wants,
silky words like feathers
tickle the closed throat,
the lips open the kisses
like envelopes
eternal sweet plumbs,
like losengers
in a glass swear jar
too many now,
innumerable,
judged and fined,
selected and sucked
unreasonably
for some kind longevity,
the life, for all it's worth,
in treacherous weather,
sometimes flounders,
pauses for a while
looking upwards towards
an empty sky searching
and waiting, for far away lost gods,
then uncomfortably dressed,
the robe, loosened, like a pagan,
the written word read
and worn on the outside
like a purple cross,
the stars glittering in
reflective windows,
the view immeasurable,
the external shell
disgarded and dropped
at the feet of absent minded
causes, the reviews smile
like wolves lost, they're
missing the red hoods,
they're missing
the real treasure,
the deep buried plot
the naked pleasure
of walking away
graces a certain freedom
priceless, like rare diamonds
entwined with diamantes,
who can tell the difference now?
twinkling like blazing andromedas
at the distant edge of their worlds
Engagement locked in at a cost
fresh water pearls
au natural, nothing
false here, the
kintsugi veins glow
lux vitae
in fig leaf stories
a naked life shining,
seen running in
broken streams of gold
the missing Page left opening
marked unopened books,
walks like a lost adventurer
through stories
that arrive on leaves
(LadyLabyrinth / 2023)
It is not about how you act or what you do
its all about knowing where to cook your stew
Its not about how others see you
or what they choose to think of you
or what you think they think of you
Its about what the man in the mirror sees
when he reveals his soul to himself...
Its not about the drama that surrounds you
nor the thoughts of others that fill your head
Its about that inner voice that often
goes unused, the same one that begs you to listen
when you are too busy talking and taking a stance
Its more a way of feeling when the world is out of touch
its more a way of loving you, when it hurts too much
Its not about how you should behave,
but all about how well you carry your stave,
all the way to the finish line.