Long Subdued Poems
Long Subdued Poems. Below are the most popular long Subdued by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Subdued poems by poem length and keyword.
Pink Is Having a Moment
with
the new pink cricket ball,
pink soccer boots,
Yes, it's True Folks! It's a fair game!
But,
no World Cup team
is clad in pink—
they think it's too tame,
or maybe too bold,
a distraction
which amounts to the same.
Pink in fashion
is always arriving fresh,
and returning.
In nature, though,
it's as old as a daybreak
and twice as enduring.
Pink panthers,
pink flamingos,
pink slips, pink gin,
pink carnations in a lapel,
powdered pink wigs on
pink elephants after midnight,
drifting through Versailles
in clouds of rose-red perfume mist;
gate-crashing catwalks,
then riding away
in the Shock of the New—
A Shiny Pink Cadillac.
But don't expect
the pink moment,
to last very long.
It'll be left
as a glinting hint
subdued in the background.
Blushing in sunsets,
hiding in seashells,
lounging lazily
inside ripe watermelons,
lingering in galloping galahs,
coral reef fish fins flaps,
and the inner demure curves
of a conch shell.
It will fade from fashion
around the end of July.
Pink's moment will pass.
Yet, somewhere, out there—
A rose will ignore them,
a flamingo will stand on one leg,
and the evening sky
will blush
without permission!
and
the world will discover
Pink isss It!
all over again.
—The Hymn of Women—
O Lord Son of God, you really are standing there after you have defeated the corrupted world with your tender flesh
O my Lord true Son of Man, you really are standing there after subdued by the wicked minds
O my Lord great soul, you who did not break the poor women’s
vulnerable heart, really are standing there with a compassionate
gesture after you have crossed over the abyss of death, the river
that the dark prince reigns
O Jesus the most precious name, when your flesh that is torn
and wounded turns into a glowing candle to shine the darkness
from the cross high above the prince of darkness kneels before you,
the flame of life in us burns forever as a candle light that never wanes or dies.
For you sinless blood cleanses us and your open wound eases our pain,
O my Lord; the horrifying shout on the cross now echoes in our heart
with the echo of great passion, the desperate cry that once pierced us quickly
now embraces our soul with the hug of great fervency
For the Lord of resurrection is standing there in the early morning soft sunlight,
for the king of glory the true life is standing before our very own eyes with open arms, our sorrow turns to joy, we celebrate
For your victory over death, the Lord, we praise your name ‘Christ Jesus’
we worship you the Lord of resurrection
the vintage typewriter waits,
its keys resting beneath a page
that resists becoming ordinary lines
from that subdued expanse,
a mountain rises,
a cabin folded into stillness,
a blue stream slipping through
the distance the page imagines.
small white birds drift above the picture,
as though the typewriter has released
fragments of a dream instead of words.
they hover like thoughts rising
from inside the mind,
tiny wings carrying them
toward whatever waits beyond.
the light from the desk lamp
falls across the picture,
a gentle benediction~
remind me that creation begins
when machinery yields
to imagination.
the page becomes a world,
and the world becomes a doorway
through which the writer steps,
carrying only the brightness
that first rose from the keys.
There is a darkness always lurking around.
Concealed, but ready to pounce, swoop
you downwards rapidly and keep you there.
Hold you captive in a hole, in darkness.
There is a darkness called depression,
a mental illness that affects your wellness
for it invades your mind and body, distorts
your thoughts, numbs senses and feelings.
Darkness, you are not welcome anymore
for you cannot seduce me anymore.
Yes, you did so many times in the past
when I was lost, broken, easily swayed.
Those times you targeted and took me
with you, down, down, down in the dark.
You held me hostage, your force kept me
down, no matter how hard I tried to get up.
I was able to escape a few times, but you
kept recapturing me with your black web,
finding myself subdued in dark spell and
looking for a light in the dark to get out.
The last time you captured me was the
murkiness, the longest stay I had and the
hardest struggle I had to get out for I kept
falling back again and again in the murk.
That was a long, long time ago and now
you are restrained to stay away from me.
You have too many faces, one being the
depression I totally confronted, goodbye!
savage child
within without
part angel
part feral cat
your song bursting
with anticipation
youth oozing from every pore
alive with passion
not yet subdued
rage not yet subjugated
o child, don't let life
ever tame your spirit
Read on air by invitation ~ August 8, 2021 'POETS' HARBOUR"
AP: 3rd place 2022, 3rd place 2022, 3rd place 2021, Honorable Mention 2022, Honorable Mention 2022, Honorable Mention 2022, Honorable Mention 2022, Honorable Mention 2022
Submitted on August 7, 2021 for A BRIAN STRAND 4 TO 14 LINE POETRY contest sponsored by BRIAN STRAND - RANKED 1ST
Beyond a small stream’s margin lay we two
beneath a giant oak which spread sweet shade.
We barely knew what next we ought to do
there, pleasure-sated from the love we’d made
within deep foilage – on carpet lush.
The grass, which from the bank seemed to unroll
with wealth of buttercups and trim of brush
continued past us, up a gentle knoll.
Wrapped in one another’s arms, we pondered
how the rill, once sprightly, seemed subdued,
and how it once had rippled as it wandered
toward this sheltered spot of solitude.
Our brook, which kissed each boulder on its way,
in vacant time – with us – now sparkling lay.
Sept 10, 2020 the 'COMPLETELY YOUR CHOICE (7)any form any theme' Poetry Contest of Brian Strand
Visage of spring time shines on convivial tapestry
Monet’s luminous landscape of vibrant elegance
With the sparkling blue lagoon of dreaming eyes
And the petals of blooming lotus of luscious lips
Painted on the satin canvas of cute countenance
Engraving the narcissistic features of innate pride
With the hues of Dorian Gray syndrome subdued.
The wheels of time turn over the wrinkled canvas
The spider of winter weaves webs of endless lines
Hollow eyes gaze forlornly at weathered wasteland
Wilted flower loses the patina of lips longed once
Hedonist psyche refuses to gauge the grief of loss
What is a face if not a metaphor for a panorama
Snapshot contoured in lines of concealed charisma.
December 27, 2019
Contest : Completely Your Choice (39)
Sponsor : Brian Strand
An image of a bottle feeder attached to my brother’s cage,
his crib - a newfangled breast without arms; only the arm
of an anti-motherly technique sold by the public freak.
I laugh, loads. I know my mom was not cold. She probably
threw this crank-y thing into the gar-bage; replaced by
a handsome hippo, stuffed with cuteness and cuddlesome.
My mom didn’t use her own milk. The sixties were hip.
No, she didn’t work outside her domicile. Life was a trip.
Tipped the scales for me, a sailor guy asking if I’d breastfeed
my upcoming bundle of joy. Think of that, from a guy’s lips
to my ears. So I looked up the idea and,indeed, thank him.
Still, my mom always nursed me with good milk; and arms.
Her mom didn’t rescue her when she tipped boiling water
and onto her foot, so she climbed up some steps to my cry.
No cells back then, except your home, all alone; with tears -
mine and hers, but hers comforted me while her foot throbbed.
I was not robbed of this story, and thus, am always careful
to carry water to the sink with compassion and caution.
Your mom, did her best? Most did, didn’t they? Selfish, hey!
Heard of one mom who left her infant son all night under the
anguished moon, no crescent to rock him, no suckling.
His anger grew…emotions embedded in darkness. Police
handed him to his grandmother who swaddled him with love
until his anger subsided; subdued by the grace of God.
What kind of mom will you be - will your love blast
into eternity? Put aside yourself, no baby anymore.
Give quick attention to a son and daughter…adore!
Locked up in an enclave
With no threads nor bars
Confined to a gaol of wit
Tied upon the folds unkind.
So weary from an inkling
As the moment's trance pound upon my thinking
But this heart is pure
Not fit for a hole as filthy as foul.
In a prison called mind
My legs do tremble within its walls,
Like every convict seeking the air of freedom,
I seek mine from the hands of boredom.
Darkness spreads upon the moment's reverie
Far across the land and the skies-
They taunt and haunt our very being
Setting our foot upon a land of thorns.
What if I watched from this dark walls
And paint a gloom of what beholds man?
What if I remain as meek as a muted flute
And fail to sound from the towers of justice?
Will I still be free from this prison called mind?
My nerves seems restless
Wishing to be subdued by this poetic recess,
But every sad tales-
That grace the moonlight
Is of woes and callousness.
Those woes:
Of broken homes and shattered dreams,
of grief and death beyond pity's sill,
Of hunger lingering on crumbling hill.
From the cruellest of lands
On the streets children take to arms,
And mothers wander helpless in search of alms.
Poverty and ignorance are still to hang on the scaffold,
Like a flood it sweeps across our land.
In this lone wall
Where thus peasants call
And the trampled in dusty mash-
Order the day to a gallant march.
To bring relief to the people
To stand by men when comrades call;
Never to languish in this prison called mind.
A rouged sky paints a clown's face,
on a dawn rising moon.
The open earth, that not closed in
by brooding trees,
but is as spread-out acres,
where the hush and harken
darken eyes and ears,
to surmise with a blind expectancy,
Yonder fields of tall, unhooded grass,
rattle their spines and tremble,
before an unseen avalanche of doubts.
Stiff hedgerows crouch
over darkly webbed roots,
fears huddle under thin skins,
a subdued ground waits to be found.
It comes,
the storm inside the stillness
blooms, still unseen
its tumult as yet a far stretch.
All the cup-shaped,
all the cupped and hollowed,
will be gagged and drowned,
by a plunging sky --- one not yet nigh.
Too late,
a squirrel barks a warning.
A teacup of terror has been spilled,
unbowed heads unwillingly turn,
wondering -
wherefore, to where?