Long Streaked Poems
Long Streaked Poems. Below are the most popular long Streaked by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Streaked poems by poem length and keyword.
Redemption
She slowly uncoiled her gray streaked hair that fell to her waist. She removed her
spectacles to see more clearly the windswept icy snow clinging to the branches. A
pause, settling something deep within; then her gaze shifted to me.
I reached out, but found my reach was frozen, too stiff to touch her. For if I touched
her, the burden we shared would lapse and slide away, slinking off to be buried,
uncoiled under the ground.
A pinched, dour expression settled her features into a mask that would never
betray the inner darkness which created a shadow of an existence. A mask that I
must wear as well, to ward off the hopeless life within me, growing every moment of
the day, days upon days retreating into the too long nights, hopeless to survive in
the world we have created, together as “want” and “ruthlessness”.
“I carry no idolatries, no false hope.” A breath are these words as I receive them,
knowing they are too bold to give forth a safe humility.
The nurse, starched clothing as stiff as her countenance, paused, a look of
condemnation briefly shadowing her face, the sun passing in and out of the clouds.
She could not help herself. No matter the role we are chosen to play in this world,
we are not free of a deeply flawed human nature, ice softening dangerously on a
winter’s pond. I turned away.
I came to hours later, the rejected life in me gone, a searing through flesh never
immune to a free will taunting, tearing the fabric of life so fragile. I would not cling. A
passing briefly witnessed, a single brown leaf blown by the window in the darkened
room where we sit for tea, hopes slowly elapsing like the sea waters
receding.
Tomorrow we can only envision; today we must let go of a part of us we will never
again possess. A coursing through the veins of life no more, we push, and push, an
existence wishing to sink into the yawning chasm of what is unknown and coming
for us.
The Azure dragon wept for the snows'
White had washed away and now spring has
Sprung but all was so unusually gray
And he was lonely as a soul could be
For he was the only Azure dragon left in this world
Was he a miraculous creature of size and
Stature eyes of black claws of glistening
Red and the most beautiful Azure blue one
Could ever imagine shiny and clean from
Head to toe every scale every inch the azure
Doth glow. But his lonely heart was sad and
A wreck no one to love to cuddle and bed. He
Flew to the mountains he flew to the sea but
The only Azure dragon he could find was he.
His tears fell like the warm spring rain and
Silently he prayed. Oh God of Creation can't
You send me a mate. To love and cuddle and
Go on a date? I am not asking much of
This beautiful life but please God of Creation
Send me a wife. He dozed off to sleep his
Face in a pool and awoke in the morning
To a huge surprise. For the image reflected
Before him was one third of his size. A
Beautiful maiden with lovely blonde
Hair alibaster skin lips of red roses and
Eyes of Azure blue. She looked upon him
His tear streaked face and hugged him
And kissed him no fear in her grace.
And suddenly the Azure dragon shrunk
Down in size for a man he was hidden
Though no one was wise. And they loved
And they cuddled and lived a long life
And the God of Creation did indeed send
Him a wife.
In the heart of the jungle,
where trees whisper secrets to the wind,
the earth bleeds gold,
and with it,
dreams torn from the hands of the desperate.
Here, shadows move in silence,
not creatures of the night,
but lives unseen—
women with hollow eyes
that hold the weight of too many nights
and not enough mornings.
The air is thick, heavy with promises
whispered by men
whose hands reek of violence
and greed—
gold-streaked hands
that clutch at flesh
as if it were the earth they are mining.
Despair lingers in every corner,
in the broken smiles of the forgotten,
in the laughter that turns to sobs
in the small hours
when darkness swallows the stars whole.
Loneliness stalks like a predator,
its claws raking across fragile dreams,
its breath hot with the stench
of lives reduced to shadows,
of hopes smothered under the weight
of the unyielding soil.
Each day begins with the same question:
how much is a soul worth
when weighed against gold?
How much blood
for a fleeting glint
of sunlight in the dust?
Memories of home—
fields that once held
the promise of fruit and freedom—
haunt the edges of their minds,
replaced by barren landscapes,
by rivers poisoned
and hearts hardened.
And yet,
in the spaces between despair,
there is the faintest trace
of a song long forgotten,
a fragment of a dream
that refuses to be silenced.
But the jungle hums louder.
The machines roar.
The men shout.
And the women walk on,
their bodies bearing
the weight of the world’s greed,
their lives swallowed
by the glittering dust.
Sentries of the night stand guard in perfect formation
Across the stretch of wire, like clothespins on a line
While speckled flocks of grackle stain the landscape
Spots of black against a field of brown.
As if on cue, they choreograph their flight
Up and down, like waves at low tide
Just a ripple before they settle
Bobbing to a minuet as old as time.
Chatter of excitement as they discuss the day’s events
Children too excited to sleep, too restless to stay still
Something moves, and the sentries cry out a warning,
In harmonious exodus, the sea bursts forth into the sky
Absorbing the last strands of light
They take flight across the shallow riverbed.
Reflections of black specks against the setting rays of sun
Up towards the back wash of brilliant pinks and yellows
Shards of cerulean attempting to hold back the sapphire night
A finger-painting of bleeding hues
Streaked across a mat from a single orange focal point.
A stroke of madness in a painting of harmony.
Night’s orchestra tunes up for tomorrows concert
They return at dawn to greet the day
Renewing once again the sonnet of the night
And the circle resumes.
the soft yellow streaked the terra cotta,
shadowing the speckled sallow saffron
a bluish buff upon the cochineal;
brilliant boneblack
grizzled the engrain
citrine carnation
as
the fallow flaxen,rustic rubrical
rainbow-tinted
the magenta mandarine;
unseen
the ultra-marine, tinged burnt sienna,
reflecting a golden flame of raw umbery upon
the earth green;
bright mosaic gold
mottled the sallow sorrel
virent yellow,oak stained
the pale apricot;
while
blood red,reddish russet
dotted the olive lind;
freckled crimson,
a chestnut maroon,
on fuchsias faded apple green
as burnt umber sank deep
into its sanguine slumber.
This a favourite poem because it combines my two hobbies art and poetry
Mural Musings
the soft yellow streaked the terra cotta,
shadowing the speckled sallow saffron
a bluish buff upon the cochineal;
brilliant boneblack
grizzled the engrain
citrine carnation
as
the fallow flaxen,rustic rubrical
rainbow-tinted
the magenta mandarine;
unseen
the ultra-marine, tinged burnt sienna,
reflecting a golden flame of raw umbery upon
the earth green;
bright mosaic gold
mottled the sallow sorrel
virent yellow,oak stained
the pale apricot;
while
blood red,reddish russet
dotted the olive lind;
freckled crimson,
a chestnut maroon,
on fuchsias faded apple green
as burnt umber sank deep
into its sanguine slumber.
This a favourite poem because it combines my two hobbies art and poetry
Copyright © Brian Strand | Year Posted 2007
“Come now, my friend, let me help,”
Said the rich man with a camera in hand,
His voice smooth, his smile grand,
As he approached the man in the alley so damned.
“Tell me your story, we’ll capture it right,
For the world needs to see your plight.”
The poor man’s eyes, swollen and red,
Watched the rich man prepare his lens with dread.
“I’m here to give, to lift your strife,”
Said the rich man, adjusting the scene of life,
“Let’s show the world your pain and your need,
And they’ll follow, donate, and heed.”
The poor man’s voice trembled, deep and raw,
His life, his loss, his endless flaw,
“I’ve lost my arms to cancer’s snare,
And my legs are weak, I cannot bear.”
Tears streamed down, mingled with dust,
His cries for help, a poignant thrust,
A moment of anguish, a plea from the heart,
Captured in pixels, a dramatic art.
“Smile for the camera,” the rich man said,
As he adjusted the light, the lens, the spread,
“And later, you’ll see, your story will gain,
Followers and funds, to ease your pain.”
With a final click, the scene was done,
The rich man handed over a sum,
The poor man’s hands shook, tears fell free,
A brief respite from his agony.
“Stand up now, and get to work,”
The rich man said, beginning to shirk,
His role in this drama, now complete,
He turned away, leaving the man’s defeat.
The poor man, alone, in his suffering space,
Looked at the money, his tear-streaked face,
“I’m a cripple,” he cried, “with hands that are gone,
Why not leave us to die, why string us along?”
“If you can’t help, then just walk away,
Stop turning our misery into your play.”
His voice broke, echoing through the night,
A plea for dignity, a call for the right.
In the end, the cameras clicked away,
Leaving the poor man in disarray,
A heartbroken plea, a soul laid bare,
Lost in the echoes of an unjust care.
You Held my hand when I was weak.
You held me close when I would weep.
My mother, and my best friend.
You protect me from the sorrows and hardships that often in life descend.
You made me all that I am
An artist, a poet, and a loving friend.
You brightened my hopes for a better tomorrow
Your influence on my life is extraordinary.
You assure me of my talents, my potential and inner and outer beauty
Even when my face is streaked from mud or other impurities.
You are the fire that drives my courage
and the best person to sit down with a glass of red wine to discuss life with.
Happy Mothers Day
To the creator of this writer.
Confession Seeks Forgiveness – I Do Not
I will not confess, nor beg forgiveness,
for the sins of others, unrepentant,
nor succumb to “Inquisition’s” game,
accept their scars in Jesus’ name.
Confession would relieve them of
their guilt as they stand in mocking
pose of staff and quilt.
I will write in metaphoric hell of
living in a demon crusted shell,
hearing only roaring of the beast
denying me my right to living’s feast,
carrying the weight of living death
tortured by the scent of whiskey’d breath.
Catharsis, the confession of the soul,
leaves me empty - never feeling whole,
frees me from rage’s pain streaked grip
the demons of the past escaping crypt.
Hate and violence turned upon the self
a loneliness that anger cannot quell,
an innocence long locked in private hell.
Confession seeks forgiveness, I do not.
Writing let me voice the things I thought,
spew the venom of a vile and putrid stench
that I’ve lived with from that day - and ever since.
Thus have I learned to live in guarded space
in endeavor to show only freedom’s face
to smooth the ever present strain
the somehow they might see my hidden pain.
I seek not absolution for their sin
but the destruction of unholy liars den
where they hide the children’s souls they stole
under flowing robes and crowns of mitered gold.
8/31/2014
The night hung still
beneath the clouded moon,
and from our deck,
we watched the hazy glow.
The crickets softly chirped
their mating croon
as shadows spread
by trees, danced down below.
And then, we saw it
slithering out far!
Out on the grass,
it undulated there-
a snake-like vision,
crawling- so bazaar;
streaked white and black,
it writhed- gave us a scare!
Soon heading closer,
monster-like it moved.
With night binoculars
held to our eyes-
could not believe-
with vision then improved,
this mystery became
a huge surprise!
Sleek, white and black-
and moving like a snake,
a skunk with five kits
lined up in a row
as one big monster-
such fear did awake;
was wriggling in the grass,
real low and slow!