Long Sweat Poems
Long Sweat Poems. Below are the most popular long Sweat by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Sweat poems by poem length and keyword.
Cascades of stretching autumn ivy
snuggle close to the verdigris hardware
of an intricately carved, but sun-bleached
walnut door under a collapsing portico.
Droplets of sweat trace jigsaw trails
through the clinging film of dirt, revealing
the white of fluted pillars looming crookedly and
hunched by centuries of unappreciated exertion.
An eerie nostalgia laps at my consciousness
fettering my imagination to that very portal.
What yearning is this, to peer backward through
the impenetrable curtain of time?
Curiosity gives way to fearful dread;
wandering thoughts to waking realization;
that it’s a frightful thing indeed, to love
as death relentlessly pursues the same.
What can be built that cannot be toppled…
What can be polished, that will not erode…
What can be loved that cannot be taken…
behind that impenetrable curtain of time?
08/13/15
Black is the new poetry my dear
Authored by our ancestors so I could have a voice that is heard beyond the volume of fear
The ink has always been dark so see with your ears
Black is the new love, now let your heart hear
The strength born from blood, sweat, and tears
That grew into a sunrise of a smile, my dear
My darling I keep your Melanin near
And your beauty adds depth to my mirror
The reflection tells me weapons are forming but they will stay in the rear
Because,
My black is the sunset to my depressed anxiety to steer
A blooming future in the right direction never to veer
Toward negativity, my dear
My black is the armor that never cracked, from the roots of scars and ignored facts
My black has always got my back so even if my eyes close you will still see this color, add a period to that!
My black is a promise painted like a rainbow you'll never grey wash my faith, peace never cracks
p.s. my black has wings that sang...
He was a midnight black stallion with little white spots;
Who only let me ride him, but others could not.
He had a temperament unstable, make no mistake;
His looks, not his personality, earned him the name of Snowflake.
Snowflake could out run and out jump other horses,
But didn’t like being confined to show jumping courses.
We received no blue ribbons and won no silver cups,
But out in the open that horse could giddy-up.
I preferred it with no saddle and he preferred it too;
My parents didn’t like it so they seldom knew
When Snowflake and I would go off by ourselves,
Riding through the canyons and the red canyon shelves.
One day he miss-stepped and off him I flew;
I broke my right leg and he broke his too.
I made my own splint and noxious with pain,
Somehow was able to mount him again.
Snowflake limped home, my tears mixing with his sweat;
The look on my mother’s face, I’ll never forget.
My leg was set and put in a cast,
But Snowflake’s ride home would be his last.
Now every winter when the first snowflakes fall
That beautiful fine stallion I lovingly recall.
I have left the canyons and my riding life behind
But a better, truer friend, I never will find.
By, Joe Flach
For Constance's Contest: Horses and Snowflakes
I went with both "Horses" and "Snowflakes", also using Snowflake as the horse's name.
Notre Dame...Notre Dame...
your eight hundred years of wisdom’s gone;
eight hundred years of beauty strong;
architectural sage, Notre Dame.
Notre Dame your life has seen
so many broken centuries and
oh, the stories your stones could tell,
told by the ringing of your bells.
Will they rebuild you once again?
Will your façade grace more eyes and
then will you be the same as once;
can France’s spirit overcome this loss?
Survivor of revolution and two world wars;
you’ve stood beyond the bombing hoards.
How many strove to give you life?
Their legacy’s now a burning pyre.
One hundred eighty two years of sweat;
poured into stone and minaret.
Gothic, stained glass beauty of Pa-ree,
such blood and sweat poured into thee.
Oh Notre Dame...Notre Dame;
survivor of eight centuries;
what’s now to become of thee?
Written 4-15-19
As an artist, I am sorrowful for this beautiful loss but, glad that no lives were lost. When I think of those who poured their life’s work into Notre Dame’s Beauty, the artist, architects, stonemasons, carpenters and more, I feel an even stronger sense of loss than just that of an
The actor was acting up
whilst falling down,
then tumbling
like Jack and Jill,
watering his career
with the director’s tears.
Those tears they turned the reel
into a real mistake
that killed the mistaken idea
that the actor couldn’t act.
Oh, he’d act whilst playing
a wall or packing a wallop.
He could play it straight
after emptying a barrel
of hops. He’d monkey
around, sure enough,
but the reel turned
out real good.
The director sobbed,
as did the leading lady,
sober as a titmouse,
lips trembling,
for she had wined
99 times.
But, that hack was good.
She’d had to admit it,
after she was committed.
Had they committed the bum,
the movie wouldn’t have won
and the Oscar
would have gone to the ‘toon.
The director and leading lady
dry their eyes
as the actor wets his whistle
one more time
to charm the public
with his sublime rhetoric.
He bows
over
and regurgitates
over and over
his subliminal vocation.
The ‘toon’s now sarcastic,
bombastically declares
he should have won.
(No actor is humble)
This fumble will cost him,
and accost him.
The winner wipes his lips
and the sweat from his cheeks,
cheekily rips
up the toon’s script.
“Be real…” he says.
Love being lost
My tears merge with the storm
The cool rain is making me sweat
Don't want to be found
Nobody is wondering
Love being lost
So enjoy the quiet vibe of being invisible
So much of so many that I so miss
Don't want to be found
The mirrors go black in solidified hibernation
Love being lost
The apples receive scars from the falling limbs of aging time
Soaked to the bone and blue throughout my weary soul
Don't want to be found
Everybody is centered on self
Love being lost
Stuck in the past like bloody thorns counting sheep making wishes
Happiness is missing the time machine that I have not the simplest of talents to make
Don't want to be found
My favorite parking spot is wherever and whatever is long since forgotten like unsung trailblazers collecting mummified dust
Moonlight riding the oceans tide
Covers images of love pressed into the sand
And smoothes the beaches to hide
Evidence of lovers woman and man
Man chases woman in playful flight
Laughter wakes the still of the night
He catches her, the figures bind
The ocean whispers a mist fine
Ruby lips I press next to mine
A turtle lays her eggs which will hatch in time
Emotions of love flame the night
Passions of flesh that turn sweat bright
Man and woman together tight
Lovers alone on a beach at night
The moon looks down to see
Embarrassed he hides behind masking clouds
Winds blow the ocean breeze
Soft rain falls, lovers run under towels
Picking up belongings running to the car
They sit and watch the storm as if from afar
The turtle returns to the sea
The lovers drive back to the city
when i look in
to a mirror i see
you not my reflection
hating myself i take
my forehead and
break the nose
of the image be
fore me that
opens those
senses
that ensure
me as i bleed
then see
it is me
for i'd
never
hurt
you
it's the
me that
i mean
to be
mean to be
me waking
from a dream
but i sweat
from the
bottom
of me
though
what
thoughts
it should
be a
frontal
lobotomy
so repressed
that i pressed
my genes
again
so no
wrinkles
but with
no complaint
i look upon my
face but it's
not that of
the mirror
touch
and then
begin to shape
what i see
what i want
to be or should
be but
who is to
say more
then maybe
this is the
way of
growing
in
age
Form:
when industry
stood on this soil
with chimneys that
spewed sweat and toil
the furnace fires
relied on mines
through arteries
of railway lines.
now looking back
to charcoal skies
through rosy mists
of childhood eyes
a line of trucks
each filled with rocks
crawled slowly past
a signal box.
the building formed
a silhouette
that framed a scene
I wont forget:
the dying of
that worldly light
was captured there
in black and white.
I'm standing now
where true art stood:
in a 'reinvented'
neighbourhood
where sleepers sleep
beneath the grass
where once those engines
used to pass.
. for public domain
Where we hung our overcoats I don't remember,
or at what time winter snow fell late December,
I barely recall the living room
with the television or radio on,
snuggled in a chair, wanting weather of September.
The living room, our family's sanctuary,
where we prayed for a quickly passing January,
we held our tongues from bitter comments,
mostly, but one slipped out on occasion,
which made for an unpleasant colder February.
Spring and Summer came with outdoor body odor,
showers and sweat all through the harvest of October.
Comments on sore bones and blisters,
exchanged among my mother and sisters,
kept the conversation lively through November.
Our parents have long passed on, as we have passed on,
alone, or enduring lives we have created,
lording over our own living rooms,
to keep them from becoming tombs
of the silence that awaits us at the end.