Long Sunday Poems
Long Sunday Poems. Below are the most popular long Sunday by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Sunday poems by poem length and keyword.
Written: June 07, 2025, for contest Sponsored by: Edward Ibeh
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The Phantom Choir
In the quiescence of last Sunday,
Prophecy heralded the hour past two,
I heard a whisper at hibiscus dawn—
a seamless voice I swore I always knew.
In blissful flutter—it said night was wide,
Chrysalis sorrow stirs a bed for fools,
that in the hush, when hearts collide,
The lost willows are left to wade in pools.
Facing the kernel until the street thinned,
And my shadow’s sepals bled away,
Rusted voice strings within me spoke again—
It's hymn frills poised for slow decay.
The Hollow Pact
Will I wake to descry my cracked mind,
emptied of all its sharpened teeth?
Will murky echoes break their binds,
Or gnaw beneath the sheath?
The alchemy battle sparks, but I am dust—
wispy strands, a soldier tied in flimsy chains.
Each idea erodes the periwinkle ones I trust,
while the weight of stress remains.
You graze me with a maze—why do I stand so still?
Resurrection of the soul—so why shake your hands?
But dread can have its way to fulfill—
The transcendence of love is lost in vicious demands.
The Third Mourning
Wise chakras buried beneath the walls I built,
the zen voice still scrawls its wordless plea.
It concedes my yantra’s vulnerability, my guilt,
peers where peacock pleadings wane into a spree.
It hums inside the tremors of sapphire light,
I close my eyes as it runs over lily-filled shorelines.
Bits of lunar-glazed silver dust grow in quiet nights,
and procrastinated pledges become lies.
In my dour dreams, it tells me not to resist—
“You know that silken shivers favor sound.”
Amid cyan azure peace, I learn misery persists,
for flickers of love fear the burial mound.
The Acoustic Waltz
In nocturnal dryness—sing soft verses in the dark,
claims the enamored inked words are not hers.
She plucks cerulean hymns without leaving a mark,
The tune of her carved kohl was lost in slurs.
She sways in the russet yarns of neon glow,
bows beneath the ricochet’s wild haze—
a phantom waltz in katabatic motion, moving slow.
a cosmic voice garden, too faint to truly be a maze.
Her pocket holds a ring of black gem glass,
won as a child’s dare, a piece of smitten ink.
She warms it, sighs, and watches it pass
through flaming flecks—hands that fight to sink.
Its not a Religion it’s a Life style
Its not a Religion it’s a Life style Don’t be Blind by your belief. Or too blind to see that if you
are not For Christ there is something that you do believe. No such thing as a non
Believer. In life we are all receivers of something or shall I say someone.
So don’t think for once you are operating under your own mind. There’s nothing
comical about the truth the light the things the vision of Christ.
He’s not a celebrity Superstar so don’t get it twisted. More to say is he is the star who
created existence which none of us can Shine without his light. No you may not need a
Sunday Television. But you do need That divine intervention. Where he can come into your
life and you can accept him as Your Christ Lord and Savior. Of all things please don’t
quench the Holy Spirit as the old Folks use to say don’t make jokes of the Holy Ghost.
If you think you don’t need time for Prayer or any of the other things. When you down to
the lowest low I guarantee you will call Upon his name. Oh you say that for you its never
been hard. Well the word say every knee Shall bow and every tongue will confess that
Jesus Christ is Lord. If you don’t want a place Up there maybe you will be the first to be
comfortable in hell. Just because you think your Head is alright a fool do too. No scientific
tool can be use when you meet him face to face. Don’t let your logical man get in the way
of what your spirit man is trying to show you.
The Devil is good at deceiving a liar that can never speak the truth. But try Jesus he will
never fail You. You come in asking for a miraculous vision. When the gift of Life was a
miraculous decision. To be living in someone else and live in this world and not accept that
Jesus plays a Hugh role in your Life. So the style you living let it be for Christ. But I can see
why when you have so many false lies of Super heroes and other people want God job.
But don’t let your spirit be rob. Confessing the truth can Put the enemy so far behind you.
Things that you think you have to fight with, God he will make it right. Line up in his word
speak it everyday so you can be heard. Not be heard by people but by that thing that’s
trying to keep you mental. Mentally distracted from the real. Confess the Word to be
healed. Don gamble your life. Don’t gamble your life.
Everyone hates my poetry
Because it doesn’t wear makeup.
Because it stares too long,
or not long enough.
Because it mentions the body
like a room that remembers
every man who left his name in dust.
Because it’s too sad,
too loud,
too holy,
too raw—
because it does not ask permission
to bleed
where others would politely weep.
They say I should whisper.
I scream in stanzas instead.
Line breaks like broken bones —
each one healed wrong on purpose.
I rhyme “fxxk” with “forgiveness”
and call it a sacrament.
I flirt with ghosts.
I give grief a seat at the table.
I write what I can’t confess.
And then I press send.
And wait.
And wait.
And wait.
?
Go your own way, they say.
But I was never theirs to lose.
I won’t be your throat,
your mouth,
your Sunday-quiet muse.
Dance in the avalanche —
I’ll be drinking full-blooded wine.
You butter your toast,
I’ll bleed ink and call it divine.
I’m Dracula,
you’re limpets —
clinging to shores of should.
Sinister mercy monsters
with teeth made of wood.
You won’t take mine.
I’ve bartered them
for metaphor.
For myth.
For the kind of flame
that never asks to be understood.
I sit on a throne
shaped like an electric chair,
burning truth until
only the bones of beauty remain.
You?
You live in living rooms.
You collect pretty things.
I braid your betrayal
into a lei of lunacy —
my madness in bloom.
Say I’m too old.
Too female.
Too much.
There’s something in the water.
Damn right.
I am the water.
I merge with ocean light.
The moon kisses me goodnight.
Why do I need your approval to feel seen?
Must just be a throwback trauma dream.
Your eyes — not galaxies,
but black holes,
sucking the light from my becoming.
I offered constellations,
you brought collapse.
But still—
I orbit my own flame.
Still, I rise in ruin’s dress,
sequined with scars.
I chew the fat
with better men than you,
men who don’t flinch
when a woman burns through.
Men who sip my fury like wine,
and still
ask for another glass.
You?
You watered me down,
then called me “too much”
for the mess you made.
?
And still I write.
Two young men in vietnam
Sit in a foxhole one night
While chatting and talking about there families
and sharing pictures of each others wives
But along in the Dark distance
Came a bright and shimmering light
The light came down from the sky
like a shooting star in midflight
Charley was spreading
into the jungles of the night
Shouting out to one another
Tat ca deu chet dêm nay
which means they all die tonight
As the men laid in the foxhole
watching people running for there life
One of the men said we must flee
the other man said not I
The one man said
In the bright shimmering light
But why does one not flee
and run too save his own life
The other man looked deep
Deep down in the man's eyes
and says I shall do as my fathers did
I shall stay, I shall fight and I shall die
The fleeing man had a face
a face full of surprise
He asked why does thou not flee with me
on this very hour tonight
He said I just can't do it
it's not the way I was raised
my mother always taught me
to have a little faith
See I believe in God
and I believe he has a plan
and if it's my time to go
might as well be like a man
So now do you see why,
why one does not flee tonight
why I choose to stay
and risk my life and fight?
The fleeing man said no
and ran into the dark jungle night
So the one man kept his word
with every inch of his might
sitting in his little foxhole
and fighting throughout the rest of the night
Until his upmost surprise
came mornings first daylight
he seemed to have survived
survived for one more night
Re-gathered with his troops
all thankful to be alive
the man began to search
for his friend that ran off that night
asking all the troops
if they had seem him around
he finally came to the realization
that his friend was nowhere to be found
But he forgot to check
where he should have looked before
because there laid his friend colorless
and lifeless on the floor
So the Vietnam war ended, it took so many lives
but the man who said that he shall stay and fight
now lives at home with that same wife
for he every sunday
visits a tall white ivory stone
on the front it reads, I miss you
and I cant believe that your gone
But with all the Commemorative plaques
and monumental poles
theres one saying that still holds true
there are no atheists in foxholes
Is there really a beautiful heaven?
Is there a red and black hell for sinners?
Basking on this, I told myself that the beautiful heaven is this we see now, argue with the sky and cloud on this.
Father Francis told us that there is no heaven,
Pope Thomas told us that paradise is within our hearts,
and those who fall and fall on the altar of deliverance are miscreants.
We believed him on a platter of Sunday school morning.
He gave us lies and lies of truth about the World Series of lies.
In this pantful world where children wear disgrace,
In this world' voodoo, where sorrow back treasures of preachers,
In this train of earth where girls wear tears,
In this shattered world where our pride are whores,
Nothing is precious under the sun and nothing that the sun has not seen.
Man is home to himself and have choices about himself.
The clergy men that had their skulls littered in the evil graveyard of my village can tell of this.
To this voidness,
To this coldness,
To this yonder of shattered images,
Xylem of mannered eloquence of the devil,
To the world demon's demonstrators,
To the Halloween and the Dejavu,
To the magical cloth verses of the Indian,
To the cries of unholy pages of those holy book tabled before we were born,
I have a way that seems so right to me; and those are the choices I have made.
To the shrine of Illinois of the Illuminati,
To the pyramid of underworld,
To the coldness of death,
We will escape from this drum of world,
This is darkness!
This is darkness!!
This is darkness!!!
Darkness of the black spirits.
Voidness lies in the bag of red colours.
This gory miseries of the world keep us in the fold of grey.
We don't know death but death knows us,
We don't know life but life speaks of us,
We don't know abstract painting of demons,
We don't know the abstract imageries of sins;
The beauty of sin lies in the consequences that lies aftermath.
We are train of shadows,
We are feathers of spiritualities,
We are blood of feelings, emotions. anger. Carcass. Faded colours. Sadness.
Pains. Revenge. Vengeance. Evil.
Emptiness. Vacant. Void.
We are the opposite of day, synonym of good.
Is there really a beautiful heaven?
Is there a black and red hell for sinners?
Search your soul and answer to its voidness.
Yours Poetically,
©John Chizoba Vincent
Jesus taught the world
to become fishers of men
to collect Gods tithe
to overcome poverty
Yet men taught themselves
to steal Gods money
and spend it on themselves
take a look
at the houses brought
by the leaders of the church
where once they have your money
they build mansions of self greed
they read your bible
and preach we need money
for the poor
we need to help those in need
and yet your money lines their pockets
God never said build mansions
God said Treat your neighbour as yourself
is one of the most important rules of the bible
Where is the church when you need help
granted they offer food donations
but food donations come from other people
granted they provide the organisation
but yet the gravy of wealth is taken
by the leaders of the Church
do they invest Gods money
to build jobs and overcome poverty
do they create wealth with Gods money
to help people involved in car accidents
did they knock at your door
to offer you a job when you were unemployed
did they provide free education
to help you climb out of poverty
or did they provide expensive education
to once again line their own pockets
Why should Minister
have only the one job
granted on a Saturday or Sunday
the people need to hear the word of God
yet they could work
to satisfy their own needs
during the week
I am not God
But I would be worried
if I believed in the bible
Jesus was asked by the Hebrews
who should we pay God or Ceasor
He replied give unto Ceasor what is Ceasors
Give unto God what is Gods
The tithe belongs to God
You build your mansions with his money
You believe that in doing the job
of bringing people to God
you fulfil his request in the parable
of the talents
I hope, for your sake,
you are right
because if you a wrong
he said to the one that buried his money
I can be, a hard and cruel master
and all the servant did was bury the money
how much worse will it be
When you find God does exist
and he stands there asking you
what have you done with my money
did you use it to overcome poverty
did you use it to help the people in need
did you create my kingdom
invest my money
did you create free health systems
So poor people could get medication
so children can have eyesight problems fixed
so people didn't suffer
what did you do with my tithe?
Bob, the cat, lives in the room number 13 of the sixth avenue.
He likes fish, rollercoaster, ice cream cones and Sunday papers.
He's an artist. He's a painter. When people ask him about his latest work, he answers:
"I'm painting the meaning of life. I'm coloring it black, but my inner self keeps telling me it's green."
He has gothic way of seeing materials and articles.
He wishes everyone to speak in fragments of literary lyrics, and then he would spend all his days tangling these fragments making an abstract form out of a puzzle.
He goes for a walk before breakfast; walking on two legs, wearing a leather jacket, and whistling after big ass women are his forte.
He passes Mr. Pumpkin floral shop, turns into the eighth avenue, and enters his favorite café called "Your Favorite Café".
He sits on the second chair at the second table, and orders a coffee:
"Black, dark and bitter like a cat's soul", he says to the waiter.
He sits there all morning, sipping his black coffee, dreaming about how it would be if his past, present and future selves exist together, thinking in sync, and communicating through a common medium of artistic sense, saying words in the silence notes of Van Gogh.
He dances all the way home. If anyone cares to ask, he says:
"I'm drunk in Coffea Arabica, a perfect weed to make you tantalize with Arabian dreams and gives your nerves a breakdown."
Dancing along the pavements, he counts the roses in beats.
One, two, three, four… two, two, three, four… three, two, three, four, and so on.
The number of roses is directly proportional to the number of steps he's gonna salsa in the bathroom.
He sits on the toilet bowl, and deciphers the problems with human rights.
He stands on one leg on the bathroom floor, with arms spread like hugging the air, mouth wide opens.
He squeaks like a mouse and tries to hop like a rabbit.
He falls hard, crashing the cold bathroom tiles.
He bleeds red like the color red.
He says "Perfect".
He runs into the bedroom. There stands his actual latest work, the heart of a vampire, portraying himself with a deadly cat fangs and a wicked mustache.
He splashes his blood all over the painting, and shouts "eureka".
He starts to hum Yankee Doodle through his nose.
He falls asleep, and dreams about dinner.
"Scramble eggs with tomatoes".
Saloon
Squeezed between office buildings
On lower Broadway
Desolate and out of the way
Faint neon sign marks the place
For the downtown art scene.
Poetry readings on Sunday afternoons
Only the regulars show up
Invited or not
Some mount the stage and
Recite a piece or two
To scattered applause.
The beat goes on
Summer nights fly by
No Sunday readings now
It’s Saturday and it’s a different place.
Crowd mingles
Three deep at the bar
A/C working on overtime while
Marvin Gaye’s What’s Going On plays
Jazzy and soulful
A monster hit
To no one’s surprise.
A hangout for anyone
Bodies waiting to meet
An Agent.
Or maybe a Publisher.
Or a Rep.
Anybody. Somebody. Anyone know somebody important?
Naw, this ain’t the place
This is St. Adrian’s
A place for
Artists.
Writers.
Sculptors.
Working class dreamers.
Pretenders and losers.
Wannabes.
Lost children and
Casual loners on the prowl.
Carol, alone in a corner booth
Glass of white wine in her hands
On the rocks of course
Smiles at everyone like a Mona Lisa.
Jack Micheline
Bronx’ original Beat
Wrote River of Red Wine in ‘58
Manuscript under his arm
Waits for someone
To buy him a drink
Elaine, beautiful in a peasant blouse
Scent of musk oil like a halo
Motions
To the young men
Who watch her hands
Move like deadly weapons
Stan’s a photographer. Sleepy, one night
Left his equipment in a car
Morning arrives and
Broken windshield screams
You’ve been robbed.
Junior, a sculptor, needs rent money for a walkup in the East Village
Otherwise he’ll live on someone’s couch
Gil does commercials
Until he finds an old lady
Then Hollywood here he comes
And Glenn is a writer with lots of ideas
But no paper and no place to go.
No one asked what I did for money
Or where I lived.
I was accepted with a simple sitdownhaveadrink.
Sometimes there’d be ten of us
Squeezed in a booth or
Around a table
Talking and talking.
Any topic not important
Just to meet and forget for awhile
The nagging loneliness and rejection.
It’s well past midnight
Chairs scrape the floor and there’s an echo in the walls
Left behind are empty glasses and stale beer
As the place begins to empty out.
We leave
Hitting the still streets
Looking for a cab
Or the nearest subway
But before we do
We promise to meet again.
So it finally tracked you down.
The sting, the rush, the nods all caught up
Added up
To three days alone with no resurrection.
The cross to bear was all yours,
All ours,
Now.
Your words, your voice filled my life for over a decade.
They played in my car, my room, my head off and on.
I grew up under your influence.
I tried to sing like you when I was alone.
I tried to imitate that low, bellowing agony,
The screaming madness, loud and angry.
It was rough and beautiful like a slit wrist in warm water.
You were black magic to me.
I ate a “rotten apple” today.
The realization that you will forever “stay away” tastes nasty and stains my mouth.
And the “nutshell” is that brilliance doesn’t always make you brilliant.
Needles and damage can’t even capture my thoughts today.
Yes, your pain was self chosen.
Truly, you are now “the man in the box.”
Your voice is crawling out of my speakers on this gloomy Sunday.
It dances and weaves slowly, thickly through the smoky air.
This beer is the first of many toasts I will make to you throughout my life.
Here’s to talent.
Here’s to waste.
Here’s to a soul misspent.
Here’s to “just a taste.”
Here’s to pain.
Here’s to rage.
Here’s to the insane.
Here’s to a modern sage.
You saw your own end.
Today is truly the beginning of a Mad Season.
It is the beginning of another hero lost from my world.
“Lifeless dead.”
I think you knew more than you let on.
You knew the risks and rode the horse bareback none-the-less.
It was always your choice.
I wish it would have been mine.
The thought that you will never write another lyric
So that you can wail it out into a dirty world
In an effort to cleanse the sins
Absolutely
Kills me.
I never got to see you live because
The addiction limited you.
I feel betrayed.
“The River of Deceit flows down”
And the polluted veins finally made their way here today.
One night, on the verge of madness,
Lost in addiction,
You made me realize the price.
You made me understand.
Your words,
Your voice,
Kicked me in the heart.
“Slow suicide’s no way to go.”
I kicked it all and came out on the other side
Clean and stained.
Alive.
I have always owed you for that.
You told me to “Wake Up”
And I did.
Knowing that you never will or can will always haunt me
Like your words, your voice.
In Memory of Layne Staley
BEAUTIFUL BEACHES, A Letter to Daniel
By Curtis Johnson
Hi Daniel,
There once was a man living high on a mountain whose name was Harry
Mt. St. Helen was threatening to blow its top, and everyone started to worry
Harry had been there 60 years and thought he would live on to tell his story
So after being warned to evacuate, Harry refused and decided to tarry
Sadly, when the volcano blew, Harry was later found in 40 feet of ashes
It’s interesting at times, that life can be so tame, so sweet, and so calming. Because of our positive experiences, we relax and enjoy seasons so charming Like Harry, we are unconvinced of danger, and need not fear rumors and warnings
Sandy beaches on the oceanfront are beautiful and lots of fun, when all is sunny and bright. For eight years my family and I lived in San Francisco within four blocks of the Pacific. Believe me when I say that the Oceanside is a calming and charming place. We spent lots of time in the Golden Gate Park and on the beach.
One Sunday afternoon, my two small kids and I took a walk across the rocks above the ocean beach. The waves were coming in pretty far, but I thought that we were high enough. I thought wrong. We had not been on the rocks 5 minutes before the waters came splashing against the rocks that we were walking on. I held the kids and protected them from the big splash. I got pretty wet, but no harm was done, and the lesson was well received.
The sandy beaches of life will often suddenly turn into rushing waves of sea salty waters. My friend, there are times when the volcanoes of life will heat up and blow their top. When they do, we best be aware, heed the warnings, and seek higher ground.
Dan, I do not know what you may be going through presently, but I am praying for you. If for any reason you taste those salty waters of what was once a calm and sandy beach, I have every reason to believe that God is going to change things for you. If the volcanoes of your life have blown its top, I have every reason to believe that the ashes will not bury you. When the troublesome adversities of life blow against all of us, God is always both warning and leading us out to safety.
So Daniel, my friend, may we together seek higher ground. Love you. Curtis09262013