Long Stream Poems
Long Stream Poems. Below are the most popular long Stream by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Stream poems by poem length and keyword.
They stream in, seeking liberty
hoping for some sympathy
America once extended a welcome
Today the outstretched hand is seldom
Leaders neglected to check the newcomers
for police records, to view their true colors
We let in too many criminals, too much crime
with neither good reason nor rhyme
A perfect storm ensued
migrant murder and corruption
dominates the news
giving well-meaning Americans the blues
A tragedy could have been averted
had not government shirked its sworn duty
But now there are mass deportations
narrowly backed by a jilted population
Washing away drab, dour and rotting
elements, falling rains cleanse our earth anew.
Sunlight returns to beam upon fresh, crisp nature.
I have begged the rain to pour newness on me
but never does it heed my plea or grace my need.
Rain, I desperately beseech you, please, as a cloud
do burst a purge of all thunderous fear, stormy,
stinging pain and anxiety tidal waves
continuously knocking me down.
The sun will never warm me with healing,
soothing rays if the rain never floods my concrete
dam of depression, freeing my life’s stream to
flow with deep content.
Though the rain denies me relief, it keeps
me company, for its dark skies match my
inner gray, dreary season and give me proper
reasons to shelter in isolation.
On rainy days, I may pretend that I am part of
life, rather than a human drought of
withering, mortal inertia.
I may even, fleetingly, allow myself to believe
the returning sun will spot the drenched
me and, in either mercy or love, revive,
refresh and restore my drowning, soggy
spirit with rays of therapeutic warmth.
If only thunder would crack, roar and screech a
demand for skies to pour suicide ideology drops
down in a loud, rhythmic, lulling beat, such drops
would, in time, evaporate and I would realize
the blessing of a true, deep, restful sleep.
Oh, the forest whispers to me,
as stained leaves on the ground crinkle;
and birds chirp and trill in a tree,
but too soon those leaves will wrinkle.
As I walk the wind groans and moans,
oh, the forest whispers to me;
soon the branches will be bare bones,
the crows cawing is like a plea.
Squirrels chirrup running with glee,
through the leaves that swirl, twirl and dance;
oh, the forest whispers to me,
the beauty puts me in a trance.
A stream that gurgles and thunders,
and ducks still quack and float carefree;
so many sweet scenes and wonders,
oh, the forest whispers to me.
_______________________
October 16, 2021
Poetry/Quatern/ The Stained Glass Forest
Copyright Protected, ID-10-1397-695-16
All Rights Reserved, 2021, Constance La France
Written for the Premier contest, Onomatopoeia
sponsor, Emile Pinet, Judged 11/13/2021
Fourth Place
Poem of the Day October 18, 2021
My sorrowful sight sinks in the darkness within to see
the sanctum of the soul, still like the deep blue sea.
It finds where the torrent of tears I cry flows to lie
in the cauldron of the scorched essence till it is dry.
Melancholic mind then searches for the sense of glee,
like the cheery cloud in the somber sky it floats free.
Tinged rays of the new sun flash on the face of gloom,
in the barren plant once more the buds of joy bloom.
The radiant hues illumine the pallid life to shine bright,
the feelings glitter in the divine glow of the inner light.
The rapture stream cascades unbound within my heart,
there I hear the serene song with melody of bliss start.
___________
May 7, 2023
Contest : Couplet Poetry
Sponsored by : Sotto Poet
“She began her journey in the search of truth,
Stumbled upon a thought that changed her in entirety,
Drunk at 4AM, driving at 125Km/h she saw a light flickering near,
Speed thrilled but never in her life had she felt such fear.”
Some place in past, near or far, don’t know for exact,
Someone penned down a conjecture,
It subsided all of the truth and the lies,
A belief was molded,
With many distant sighs.
She was taught from the beginning,
A rhythmic lie was sown,
“With each collapsing star in this universe,
A new universe is created, the exact opposite of our own.”
For her, the longing for beloved quenched her heart,
For he had died a long time ago,
And now she is back at the start.
For every dead, there’s a living,
For every truth a lie,
For every pain there’s a reason,
For every question, a sigh.
Driving at 125Km/h she witnessed the light,
The light, many died to see,
The light, many killed to be.
One go into and all different then,
Echoes around,
Counting to ten,
“Stop here, you are missing him”
Her one true love waving as she goes,
In the stream of light,
To a distant world,
When stopped, found him again,
But in an altered story, an altered name.
Still hoping for him to love her same,
Start afresh,
Oh! The cosmos and their stupid games.
(A universe exact opposite of our own)
Constantly bugging her brain,
Numb, she couldn’t feel or see,
Hoping to exist in his realm,
In the afterlife,
Proceeded to kill self.
Knife in one hand, emptiness in the other,
In the blender of non-existence
Exhaled, “maybe somewhere,
In the multiverse, there’s a version of me,
And you, a fleet of hope,
That we are meant to be.”
all the beauty and wonder
a vision of dreams
a natural spectacular
slipped through a seam
making smiles for miles
you lit up our days
as your voice rang out
souls lost were saved
your anger is deep
at the harshness of life
I’ve seen crying for days
for a strangers plight
a heart on a platter
is what you give out
at injustice your rage
cant be sold for a shout
I have cried with laughter
at the oddest times
on a rainy night
at the witching line
I have watched you create
a scripture of hours
I watch as your smile
adorned the wildflowers
I could cry for the pain
that’s burning my heart
I could rage at the night
while I rip it apart
But I push that aside
for the love that I feel
couldn’t be stronger
or anymore real
your a flower on my moon
a star in my night sky
I sit here and wonder
will I let my heart cry
the tribute you’ve given
I send back to you
for the butterfly days
and the wildflowers too
at the ebb of the tide
as light hits the moon
flowers are dancing
as spring threads your loom
all the beauty and wonder
of a walking dream
the moonbeams are quiet
as she slips through a stream
Namaste
deep down a path in the forest
it is quiet, distant and isolated from the world
a small meadow of wildflowers sway in a breeze
the birds are singing a symphony
I hear the violins drifting among the gnarled trees
a stream tinkles like bells being rung by angels
I rest in the tranquility of nature
the breeze caressing my soul and I feel wonderful
time is far away, things to do put on hold, paused
a gang of butterflies come fluttering
like painted candy they drift and glide here and there
then, are gone in one swift current of wind
next comes a hummingbird
I hear the whirling wings first as she stops for nectar
as I admire her sparkling in the sun like multi mirrors
I wish this interlude could last
but life is calling so I must go but I know this place
and will return often for a piece of tranquility
Sometimes I wake, at least believing I have,
but find that I'm wandering about,
perhaps dreaming while walking in a mist,
through empty halls where moonlight
doesn't stream through windows on walls.
I'm alone in lush jungles of canopied forests,
and bathing in pools behind waterfalls.
It's a strange realm of a juxtaposing existence
where my words and thoughts mingle,
trying to blend like slow-running river currents,
flowing into roiling tides of ocean waves.
It's the place where lost love lingers
and grief echoes its mourning call
trying in vain to heal in silence
and sobs are stifled throes of sorrow
as their cries are only heard by me
as they ricochet through my mind's tunnels.
In my poetry these corridors exist—
these hollow spaces and empty places
I create in journeys between sadness and joy,
hope and heartbreak,
life and death
and where with each breath I take
holds gasping ghosts of lost loves
as they hover, unheard but felt in the ruins
of what once was a lamplit rendezvous lieu,
now withered and cold, a cavern of darkness.
There's stark sadness some would label madness
found in dreams that leave my body and soul
aching and craving to come awake.
Whether I wander in a blossoming garden
in these reveries, remembering candlelight nights
of passionate kisses within love's arms—
they're only a worn tapestry of broken threads
from the many textured fabrics of my life.
Some became tangled and some unraveled,
others frayed and were pulled apart
that had to be stitched in the wounded places
with a patchwork of bloodied cloths to cover
the scars that form crossroads across my heart.
More often the dreams that find me in slumber
now take me to happier places where smiling faces
surround me and ease the pains I've borne.
Though time in those spaces flows too quickly,
like grains of hourglass sands sifting and shifting
like dunes formed by errant Zepher winds.
Now, as I walk in the warmth of sunlight's rays,
erased are the hovering ghostly shadows.
From those ruins where life was lived, I'm drifting
past the perished caverns from my yesteryears.
Walks we took, across the bridge and down the ridge we'd climb
He'd catch himself to shorten steps, while I'd be stretching mine
With fields to plow, and milking cows, yet he always made the time
One look beyond the bridge of time, and childhood can rewind
Those summer days, soon passed away, yet love just lingers on
How simple all the world seemed then, unfurled beneath the sun
Together we would brew mischief, while chewing juicy gum
We'd talk about most anything, and walk till the daylight dimmed
I'd look to him, with questions, grand, then, he would give them thought
He'd scratch his head, and often said, "I'll answer the best that I can"
Then explain in words I understood, and knew that less was good
"How many stars are in the sky?" ..."Well, Sugar Pie,... a lot!!"
If I could choose a single day .....across the span of time...
Where the sun was gold, the stream was cold, the skies were bluer blue
A quiet place...his whiskered face, the grace he showed to me
We'd walk our pace, across the bridge, where greener grass would grow....
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The old pictures,
borders coiled like dried autumn blades,
give only glances.
A youthful laugh, unheard now,
a sun long set on that certain day.
I try to piece it together,
the scent of the salt air then,
the weight of a hand in mine.
But the details drop,
like sand through open fingers.
There are times, sharp and sudden,
a song on the radio, a particular shade of blue,
that spark a phantom voice.
But the full narrative,
it recedes.
It's as if a mild current
is often pulling,
repulsing the fine lines,
blending the vibrant colors
into something softer, less defined.
"Memories buried in the wavering wash of time,"
they are there, I know,
just down below, harder to touch.
Like old tokens at the bottom
of a changing, sunlit stream.
And perhaps that's the blessing,
the tender fading,
leaving only the essence,
the warm hum of what once was,
not the sharp pain of what's gone.