Long Take root Poems
Long Take root Poems. Below are the most popular long Take root by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Take root poems by poem length and keyword.
My mother~
the reason my heart begins to beat,
my guardian angel,
my warm blanket of comfort.
In her care, my dreams take root and bloom.
She is my guiding light in every storm.
She is the song most suited to my dance,
the well of love, of kindness, care.
The only star in my ocean’s sky,
the reason I sparkle like sunlit gems,
the hearth where all my hopes are kindled,
my chest of love, my tender warmth.
A good wife to my father,
she made our family a gallery of masterpieces.
She cooks, she cleans, she works, she gives.
In her eyes, my tears find shelter.
In her heart, my love finds rest.
She wears my sorrow
and wraps me in a robe of joy.
My mother~
my first teacher, firm yet kind,
a compass when my path grew dim.
She taught me how to brave life’s storms
and guided me with patient strength
toward the light of wiser choices~
the voice of right when right felt far.
To my yet-to-be wife—
turn not my heart away from her.
Respect her, that our home may bloom.
Give her honour, like rain gives the earth.
Then shall your love flow through my blood,
and on your head shall rest the crown
of my eternal love and care.
"Weary with toil, I haste me to my bed
But then begins a journey in my head,
To work my mind, when body's work's expired:
For then my thoughts keep my drooping eyelids open wide."
~ Shakespeare's Sonnet 27
Often, when my body craves nothing more than sleep
my mind wanders in gardens where thoughts take root.
I ponder why the fervor of poetic ideas flicker and seep
into my psyche as if I must follow the Pied Piper's flute.
I cannot stifle the waterfall's cascading inspirations
for the palpitations of my pulse cannot staunch the flow.
A chorus of whispered voices begs me to take notations,
not to be forgotten before dawn's pink skies begin to glow.
I've failed to silence the visitors with burgeoning verses.
Their Sonnet seeds are planted with end rhymes in a row.
There's no ignoring their demands with my abusive curses.
I wonder how I might convince them to be quiet and go.
Once, I tried counting sheep, but I heard fairytale lines
drifting over a fence in my head, and meowing of a cat.
I tried to drown them out with music but in the confines
of my sleepy mind, lyrics came flying at me like a bat!
I'm not amused when my muse tells me I'm being lazy.
On reflection, I must speculate that she's the instigator.
I tell her to go away. I can't write when my mind is hazy.
She mumbles words I cannot hear. Why do I tolerate her?
I've given this bane, this insane lack of sleep some thought
Usually, I refuse to give in to ponderings and stay in bed.
Battle lines were drawn, and though vigilantly I have fought,
if I'm to sleep, I will surrender and write what's in my head.
I’ve known my mother
since before I had a shape,
when my soul — a seed of silent stars,
was still searching for its furrow.
I was an imperceptible vibration,
a faint flicker in the chasm
between being and not-being,
and she — the only soil
where I could take root.
She never promised
time would be gentle,
but
she gave me her shoulders
to carry it.
Often,
my path is nothing
but a palimpsest
without lantern or ink.
I’ve come this far
not because I could,
but because,
my mother’s prayers and hands,
burned and cracked by time,
stitched the skin
of my words and wounds
with light.
She was a root
that did not break before the storm,
the hope
within the wet eye of a child
learning, slowly, how to die.
And so it is,
as long as I can still hear her voice,
my soul still has a place
what I can call “home.”
But time, that silent thief,
has tattooed longing into my bones,
even
before I was born
onto this earth.
Each second
becomes a treasure
I clutch to my chest,
praying the wind
won’t steal her from my arms
like a dried leaf
scattered around me.
There’s a burning fire within me
from which you gave me life,
a flame that keeps me from weeping
like a man without a God.
A living light
I shall wear always
like a talisman carved
from an undying fire.
Your name shall become my new faith,
one that asks for no other altar
but your echo,
whispered softly,
when my prayers has no more words,
only tears.
I will write you in ink made of my blood,
not upon parchment,
but on the temple of eternity,
and I will speak your name
in all my silent sanctuaries,
like the liturgy of a son
who never fully broke away
from the womb that bore him,
until light splits once more in two,
and your footsteps, a shining beam in the absolute abyss,
will come to bring me back home.
The wind blows across
empty cattle yards
and tailing mounds
from old copper mines,
across open spaces
that spread beyond
boundary fences
and the reach
of railway lines,
way out past
the rutted wakes left
by four wheel drives.
Only bones take root
out here and grow
into phantoms
who haunt the horizon,
finding voice in the moans
that wander the land
in search of lost
ancestral homes.
Something ancient
sleeps here
deep underground.
Coiled in a sacred womb
it waits for rebirth.
Beneath the quiet cathedrals
of vaulted nights
you can hear it breathe
through pore holes
rising up out
of the red earth.
Far away,
corralled inside coastal cities,
a nation grows deaf
on the din of its own noise.
Blinded by the dazzle
of unresting lights,
it floats the continent
dangling clots
of shallow roots.
STRUGGLE OF A SOUL
On a rocky cliff I stand and barren it all seems
For miles its stretches, hopelessly still it lies
Oh my world how fast you crumble all around me
A stitch here, some glue there perhaps it will hold a bit longer
Oh my! I worry. Will it last?
Yes! Yes! Yes! Finally happiness is mine but wait…. It’s just a dream, an apparition
It’s a storm. A storm I tell you. A storm of broken hope
A shade darker the future goes bleak
Weep oh child of clay weep
Destiny looms tall and menacing in front of you
From the west it comes
The gods must have me marked for sure
And there it is again. That spark, perhaps it’s the end I feel
Could it be? Could it? No it can’t be, it just can’t
Doubt and fear becomes allies
Reborn a new life struggles to take root
Logic in miracle’s clothing my mind perceives
Inevitable we must embrace belief
To believe or not she is here at last
Breath child of clay, breath. She aims you for greatness
Original Composition by AARON.O
Do not let doubt take root within your heart.
To pain, and wrong paths, it keeps the feet bound
To where gathered dark clouds refuse to part.
Yes, hearts wrench as ones beliefs fall apart.
When, in that held dear, there is no truth found,
Will doubt grow, deepening within the heart.
If the narrow, cramped way is where we start,
And if within our souls humbled hearts pound,
Never will the dark clouds refuse to part.
For some, the tickling of ears is their art.
Their empty words furrow a hollow sound;
Sowing the seeds of doubt within the heart.
Pursue truth, as one who chases a hart.
Once captured, wrestle it, hold it to the ground.
Only then will the clouds begin to part.
My love, from you my gaze does not depart;
Vowing only to what keeps us ever bound.
Do not let doubt take root within your heart,
Lest the gathered dark clouds refuse to part.
The longest held habits are the hardest to break.
Resolutions and promises easy to make…
When we just can’t hold on, makes us look like a fake
So we just try to go with the flow…
It’s hard to shake loose what we once held so tight
And it all drags us down, keeps our spirit from flight
So we stay in the shadows when we should face the light.
It’s a tyrant we must overthrow…
Thus the long, slow road of letting go.
We all start the path with a brave little grin
As we try to escape from where we once had been.
But the truth is it’s still right there under our skin
And we hope it won’t take root and grow.
We yank at the weeds, pull them out of the ground
But we’re always surprised that they go so far down.
Can the freedom we’re searching for ever be found?
I must say, I don’t really know…
Thus the long, slow road of letting go.
Why can’t I forget?
Just walk away from the regret?
The fear from every threat won’t let me be.
It’s always on my mind
And I can’t leave it behind.
A loose thread that’s entwined all around me.
There’s growth in the movement away from what’s past.
The distance to travel seems frighteningly vast.
But rushing does not mean that we’re moving fast.
That’s something we already know.
But open our arms and then open our hand.
And open our minds that we might understand.
Nothing will ever go just as we planned
And the scars, I’m afraid, may not show…
Thus the long, slow road of letting go.
I am a poisoned tree,
and you are my apple.
I made promises to you
that I may never be able to keep.
But above all else,
I pray you never grow
into someone like me.
May the poison end with my roots,
and never find its way into yours.
I’ve had my fair share of mistakes,
but most of all, I hope you turn out great.
From palm trees to gardens,
I’ll spend my life tending your light,
so you’ll always know how to bloom.
I’ll fight my biggest battles
just so they may die with me.
I want your life to be free of pain.
You’re my biggest blessing upon this earth.
If this curse must claim a soul,
let it claim mine—
so that when you take root,
only love will grow.
They do not begin with fire—
no banners, no marching drums—
only a whisper placed carefully
into the softest parts of a child.
The most vulnerable—
those already standing barefoot
on the thin ice of belonging—
are the easiest to teach fear to,
the easiest to bend toward certainty
that is not their own.
A lesson repeated becomes a truth,
a truth repeated becomes a weapon.
In dim courtrooms where time is currency,
men trade their innocence for daylight—
pleading guilty not to crimes,
but to the suffocating wait of cages.
Freedom, reduced to a bargain,
signed with a trembling name.
And somewhere above,
in rooms upholstered with promises,
the system hums its quiet corruption—
gears greased with silence,
hands washed in procedure.
Lists are made.
Always lists.
Names written not in ink,
but in permanence—
registries that outlive mistakes,
outlive context,
outlive mercy itself.
Local hands build them,
brick by careful brick,
until the walls begin to resemble
a nation cataloging its own reflection—
afraid of what it sees.
And governors—
smiling from polished podiums—
speak of order, of safety, of strength,
while somewhere beneath their words
is the ancient arithmetic of ambition:
that power may be climbed
on the backs of the condemned.
A body becomes a statistic,
a statistic becomes a platform,
a platform becomes a throne.
And the children—
always the children—
watch.
They learn what justice looks like
when it hardens.
They learn what truth becomes
when it is traded.
They inherit not only the country,
but its contradictions—
and in the quiet spaces between them,
something begins to take root.
In a late night, when stars are born in the mirror of the lake,
And the moon dances on the waters, silent and melancholic,
My thoughts unravel and reassemble,
In an unceasing flow of consciousness, like an endless river.
Many speak of their sorrows and scars,
Of loves that did not want them, of unfulfilled desires.
But I, who have neither of these,
Sing something else, a song of the heart dissolving into silence.
With me, a nightingale sings where
Existence itself relinquishes its will.
You hear it, ponder, and turn somber,
And my pain grows too, like a shadow stretching out.
Ah, if poetry were more than ink carved on paper,
It would be a portal to places where grass is taller than trees,
Where the blue sky lulls you to sleep,
And slow clouds beckon you to slumber.
In an absolute abandonment, I let myself drift,
With an intimate detachment, like a leaf floating on the river,
Far from the banks, unable to bear burdens and sorrows,
I dissolve into my own tears, in the silence of the night.
There, where forest dryads hide
Beyond mere imagination,
Leaving behind only shadows and whispers,
I find solace in the profound silence.
Ah, if you would open a window, you would see:
Endless green fields, where dreams take root,
And the moon mirrors the stars from your soul,
Dissolving you into your own tears.
With a tenderness like that of a leaf in the river,
I float, bearing no burdens, feeling no pain,
In a late night, when stars are born in the mirror of the lake,
And the moon dances on the waters, silent and melancholic.