Long Steel Poems
Long Steel Poems. Below are the most popular long Steel by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Steel poems by poem length and keyword.
When onyx skies bleed
rhinestones etched in regrets,
follow the silence;
Unsung sonatas
cradling watercolor spells
woven with magic—
from violet blaze,
beneath mulberry gloaming,
where dark poets rhyme.
But when summer rain
falls upon metal steel hearts
in cashmere cadence,
Listen to the breeze
swirling sunflower secrets
of forlorn fervor.
Amidst lavender
longings for pearlescent bliss
on glistening vines.
For even chained doves
think in dulcet runes that glow,
drawing moonlit dusks
Whilst saffron sunsets
with electric quills of faith
release healing ink.
But can scribbles veil
fog of doubt, when astral signs
mislead the naive?
Is "trust" a lost star
waning in a labyrinth
of mourning roses?
and "hope" a myth of dreamers?
Cityscape
The artist’s hand reshapes yesterday
In straight lines
Of hard edges -
Peaks of
Right angles perfected
Missing oblique or obtuse –
Claiming the horizon
In full frontal
Silhouette
Cut from ebony shades,
When daylight sinks into the shadows
And twilight goes down meeting midnight
One dimension pyramids,
Floors layered by steel reinforced
Triangulated honeycombs,
Octagonal rounds
Gather cotton clouds
Topping off their naked crowns,
Lofty spires
Scrape the midnight
To gather far flung stars
Flat rectangles with jute box tops
Soar with arches -
Lines leaping up and sliding down -
Squares low and squat,
Took up their space,
Yanked from the line,
Openings left
Like toothless
Grinning;
Concealed within the cityscape unblinking
The murmurings of urban sighs,
No rise and fall of breathing,
Foundation’s feet bound in stone
Swaying only when magnum cores
Tremble moving plates east to west, north to south;
Unseen
The doorway cradle songs
Of shivering dreams,
Desperation
Pacing
On the nineteenth floor
Fauna’s night perfume
Floating up behind dark floral gates
Of swirling iron
Grids of neighbors – blocks of neighborhoods -
Graphs of boulevards winding round,
Absent from the cityscape.
Inspirational verse – “When the lights go down in the city and the sun shines on the bay; do I want to be there in my city….I want to be there in my city.” Journey
In early eighteen-forty-four,
In Cornwall’s heart; on Bodmin Moor,
Charlotte Dymond, a young farm maid,
Had her throat slit with a steel blade,
She crossed fast streams and deadly bogs,
Found her way through mists and fogs,
But couldn’t stop that fatal blow,
That stole her life and laid her low,
She walked to meet someone that day,
Just who that was ... no one would say,
Found days later beside a track,
Laid on a cart; her shroud a sack,
The surgeon, Thomas Good, was fetched,
Had in his mind, her white face etched,
Charlotte untouched by fox or crow,
Had she been moved ... he did not know,
No evidence was ever found,
But her young boyfriend had gone to ground,
Fingers so quick to point his way,
Matthew Weeks panicked; ran away,
The hapless cripple, was soon caught,
No other culprit was ever sought,
The judge was just a rubber-stamp,
Bodmin Gaol was dark and damp,
The scaffold built, the crowds arrived,
Matthew swore he had not lied,
The floor gave way, the rope drew tight,
Was justice done ... the verdict right?
Sister Benedictine, her blinded eyes stretched upward,
seeing neither blue nor green
nor his mercy.
born into a religious family, expected
at fourteen, to kindle providence…
she’d flounder at best.
her neophyte gown, dark and drab,
long nights without prospect.
her grin grew as she noticed Father Francis,
the poetic bombast of his tongue.
the bored hunch of his shoulders.
together they’d let go of their latent inhibition,
invisible to the church,
except for one peeping eye.
Faith saw it — the lecherous act. the smolder of
her right spectacle ignited the steeple.
the overwrought mother of
the excommunicated sister
coldly calls her
by her middle name, Dolorous —
for she was promised to God
during the painful pangs of birth.
locked into a wretched wheelchair,
the mother stares into her child’s eyes —
mean green and steel blue, unglued.
6/9/2019
Eight word free verse challenge Poetry Contest
Sponsor: John Hamilton
*Merciful Heaven - an exclamation
The twin towers topped New York City,
symbols of freedom, they scraped the sky.
Hollow mountains reduced to pity,
but a nation’s dreams refused to die.
America suffered a hate crime
as the world watched planes pierce concrete.
And religious zealots swore, this time
the devastation would be complete.
Structurally slit, as with a knife,
fire melted through girders of steel.
And the impact of life striking life
made the devastation surreal.
Choking on smoke, with no escape found,
people lived out their worst nightmare dreams.
For desperate souls leaped to the ground,
their lives lost amidst the panicked screams.
Defining freedom’s ultimate state,
shapes the soul and heart of a nation.
And yet, Muslim clerics filled with hate
proudly praised this abomination.
(Quatrain)
8/2/2017
The heart of a warrior
By Michelle Morris
20/08/2023
Never underestimate
The heart of a warrior
The wild one who remains free
Undaunted by societal norms
Never underestimate
The change that can be made
By one determined person
Guided by light and love
Never underestimate
The potential of a soul
That spreads joy and peace
Uniting the greater whole
Remain wild, remain wild
Remain free, remain free
Go where you will
Follow Gaia's Spirit
This world will try to tame you
This world has people in grey
We are not meant for concrete jungles
Wearing dismal attire for sheeples
Hiding behind concrete walls, glass and steel
Hiding behind mainstream media
Access to unlimited knowledge
Yet choosing mediocrity and mindlessness
You cannot force enlightenment
You cannot force the good
You can only set an example
Of the best way for humanhood
Everyone has their own path
Each of us has a choice
Anything is possible
If we can learn to use our voices
Change for future generations
Won't happen if we don't act
By standing up for what's right
By learning and understanding
Never underestimate
The heart of a warrior
The wild one who remains free
Undaunted by societal norms
Never underestimate
The change that can be made
By one determined person
Guided by light and love
Never underestimate
The potential of a soul
That spreads joy and peace
Uniting the greater whole
Remain wild, remain wild
Remain free, remain free
Go where you will
Follow Gaia's Spirit
© Michelle Morris, 2023
Edina's life story is worthy of being told with sympathy,
she was a refugee from worn-torn Kosovo breathing
an air frosted by the harsh wind of January;
she escaped from an abusive father named Bojan
when her town was burned down towards morning,
but that horrifying image is worse than
her living hell lying on a bed facing a window made of cherry wood
as she waits to be abused by men violating her body already bruised.
Today three's no sun peaking, only icy rain falling;
and expecting screams from pain, she starts crying...
who will assault her when that creaking door opens?
But against her will, she must obey the stranger's voice.
Twice a day Vuk, a sturdy Yugoslavian men, walks in
with a tray of bred and water and says, " Eat it, ****! "
Edina shivers and nods for fear of being beaten;
will she gather some courage and finally shout?
How can Edina escape from this tiny room
that has steel window bars like a prison? Her weak, short arms can't ever grope,
they will never bend them and know freedom;
although gloominess is all around her, dim sunrays give her comfort, not hope.
The coldest and longest night awaits her...no sleep for Edina's scared heart;
she'll feel dirty and can't wash the filth away to feel clean...
rough hands will touch her, making her do a despicable act!
Rain won't stop falling: it's the shiny tears of angels rolling down her chin.
The newsprint bleeds in steady ink,
A current pulling past the brink.
He reads the words, and in his chest,
A sudden torrent breaks its rest—
A river, cold and black and wide,
Begins to churn its heavy tide.
It floods his veins, a rushing roar
Of rushing waves that smash the shore,
Drowning the room, the morning light,
In deep, unstoppable, darkness of fright.
The column speaks of shattered glass,
Of broken steel upon the grass,
A midnight road, a fatal strike,
Two lives swept downward, storm-like.
It names his girl, it names his face,
Lost in that crushed and quiet place,
Struck by a drifting, drunken hand—
Another tragedy to the land.
The river in his mind flows deep,
A mournful and long suffocating sweep,
Bearing the weight of final breath,
The icy certainty of the end and death.
He feels the phantom water rise,
And presses hands against his eyes,
Believing every line he sees,
Sunk in the current, on his knees.
But then the roaring water clears.
The banks recede; away go fears.
A sudden sun breaks through the haze,
And rewinds all the violent days.
The ink was wrong; the truth is spun—
No twisted steel, no damage done.
The driver breathed a sober air,
No alcohol was gathered there,
And on that road, no shadows fell,
Both he and she are safe and well.
The rushing river slows its pace,
A quiet stream now takes its place,
As peace returns, a gentle gleam,
To wash away the waking dream.
It all began in innocence:
A glass of wine, or was it three?
Euphoria and sweet release
That set this thing inside me free.
The very nectar of the gods
splashed forth, producing mirthful joy.
To loose the tongue, the stiffness too,
Give liquid courage to the boy.
And so it was, the hook was set,
yes, thus began the long descent.
Slow journeying from light to dark,
Insidious, malevolent.
The tale is one that’s sordid, long;
it does not happen overnight.
By steps, by turns, one finds oneself
unable to resist, to fight.
The years went by; the first were good,
except the excess: always there.
Then later, shocking none but self,
one’s lost capacity to care.
There was no God, or so I thought;
I scoffed at those who did believe.
In secret, doubt, anxiety,
And no way to obtain reprieve.
I had no outlet or escape,
So I would run for miles and miles,
And run and run and never stop,
except at stores with beverage aisles.
I had this hole that could be filled,
Or so I thought, with alcohol.
My go-to brand was Steel Reserve
‘cause it was strong and cheap and tall.
Twelve-pack a day for endless years,
Yet wondered why things weren’t alright.
The nightly stupor, morning tears,
And long since gone, that first delight.
You hate yourself; this is your lot.
You push away your friends, your wife.
That drain you circle: very close.
It’s what you got; this is your life.
And though you’ve kept a job somehow,
Your work declines; you’re pretty good,
Still doing more than most you know,
But far, far less than you once could.
Your kids, you can’t look in the face.
Pride chips away a notch each day.
They know what’s up; you’re a disgrace.
Time passes thus, just slips away…
And then one day… you hear a voice;
It’s coming from between your ears.
My conscience died long years ago.
The voice of God? That’s cause for fear…
“Your life’s a mess, now go get help!”
And so I did, outside of me.
From there, it seems the heavens part;
A sweet release, my eyes can see.
I often wonder why a God
Whom I despised would call on me,
But that’s a joy He loves to do:
To find the captive, set him free.
High Noon Antics
High noon, the time was set upon this arid, sultry day
The guns would set against the other, quick-draw style
In speedy rivalry and bid to have their final say
With keen eyed rapid movement versatile
This Western town could not contain two greats
Fanned were the flames of liquor and land dispute
Thus one would remain, the other to a deathly fate
In quick draw fashion and concluding shoot
The saloon doors yield to the spurred and booted big boys
Holstered guns secured against their denim hips
They walk out with swaggered gait and angry poise
Out from the quieted hub bub of secure sealed lip
A spitting sandy cloud cause tumbleweeds to roll
Across the vacant lot betwixt a row of phantom, cardboard houses
Where twitchy curtains hang, but of people, not a soul
They count the paces for the big encounter
Ten honest steps with one determined turn
And steel eyed stares that cross the shaky divide
With hands that hover o’er the fire arm unconcerned
Now sudden moves determine who might live
Discharged the flash of solar weaponry betwixt the gap
A groan from somewhere denotes a direct hit
On crumpled knees the gun relinquishes its grasp
Now prone upon the dusty earth, a final moan emitted
He took the bullet between the eyes by one more precise
The other just grazed upon the arm, remains unfazed
Blowing smoke from his gun, he revels in the others demise
Only room for one here, he removes his gaze