Long Thorn Poems
Long Thorn Poems. Below are the most popular long Thorn by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Thorn poems by poem length and keyword.
A journey rendered, framed, and set
as plaster comic book panels.
Flip through the Way of Sorrows.
Peruse condemnation to sepulchre.
No matter the church, I found and compared
each episode through ten-year-old eyes
that scrutinized every detail.
Digested the mechanics of suffering.
These fourteen were my first gallery.
A restated traffic jam of nudity and frozen
sadism that floated above me as priests spoke
of love, faith and doing unto others.
I recognized violence when I saw it, the cruel
slapstick in the mortification of the flesh.
Thorn in brow, nail in palm, scourge on back.
Gladiatorial voyeurism. Masked in reflection.
Obscure inside where no one can see,
No one really knows who she is,
Invisible and silent disabled to life,
Nobody knows that she lives,
And she walks alone, breathes alone,
She’s wallpaper tattered and torn,
She feels she’s not even a simple small rose,
She’s now not even a thorn,
Because she’s mastered the art of ignoring herself,
Ignoring her feelings inside,
Doing and pleasing the people around her,
Whilst ignoring the pleas in her mind,
So now, to others, she’s a vision of smiles,
To others she’s a beautiful spark,
But inside she sits dead, numb and cold,
With depression alone in the dark.
Artist: Michael Card
Song Title: Why
Why did it have to be a friend
Who chose to betray the Lord
Why did he use a kiss to show them
That's not what a kiss is for
Only a friend can betray a friend
A stranger has nothing to gain
And only a friend comes close enough
To ever cause so much pain
And why did there have to be thorny
Crown pressed upon His head
It should have been the royal one
Made of jewels and gold instead
It had to be a crown of thorns
Because in this life that we live
For all who seek to love
A thorn is all the world has to give
And why did it have to be
A heavy cross He was made to bare
And why did they nail His feet and hands
His love would have held Him there
It was a cross for on a cross
A thief was supposed to pay
And Jesus had come into the world
To steal every heart away
Yes, Jesus had come into the world
To steal every heart away
One of my favorite songs by Michael Card....here is the youtube link if you would like to hear it...http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kFGXW3kJ3as
If I leave earth, I wish to leave saying it
to the whole world: ‘I have no sorrow in mind.'
‘No sorrow I have'—writing these words and
wreathing them in mind, I wish to leave silently
feeling the warmth of happiness on my body.
I have seen Rose; its thorn has not got shelter
into my mind. Being a Chital fish, I have swum
in the unfathomable youth; age and decay
have never been able to touch my soul.
Winter has retreated; cuckoos have started singing
the song of flowers throughout my existence.
If I go back, I wish to go saying it: ‘True and
beautiful is the muddy hut made with affection
on the desert of life. True and beautiful are
Night's moonlight, Day's civilization, mother's
honey-call, child's face and beloved's sweet words.'
Oh, hear this woebegone girls prayer,
words that in silence weep;
to drift among the stones and air
in a place green and deep.
I wander mournful and forlorn,
within a cloak of grief;
yes, am scarred by death's cruel thorn,
that creeps like a dark thief.
I believe- I can let gloom go,
oh, yes I have the strength;
although dark stained with death's woe,
I will journey any length.
On stones engraved are beloved names,
I will write this despair;
that my poetic muse now claims,
on white- then, in a prayer.
I believe- I can cut this thread,
to find my tranquility;
on gossamer wings I leave the dead,
and all vulnerability . . .
but, will I ever be free of their voices . . .
_______________________
July 24, 2019
Poetry/Rhyme/I Believe
Copyright Protected, ID 19-1168-465-02
All Rights Reserved. Written under Pseudonym.
Written for the contest, Choose Your Own Title, Vol. 7, Songs
sponsor, Edward Ibeh, Inspiration, #3- I Believe, Era
First Place
We are like rose bushes pruned by various things
Some, cause and effect, like the death of a dream
Defining moments in how or if we move on
Do we live despite defeat and become art
Something beautifully flawed yet uniquely inspiring
Like a rainbow after a dark violent storm
Will we choose to reflect the light or the onyx cloud
Both have a purpose and a violet value
For what is light without darkness to compare
Even in failure one can be victorious
A hero who sacrifices self that others may live
Can reflect light despite the darkness of death
The womb to his body is as a thorn from life’s rose
The demise of his dream gives rise to others
Light enters you and your soul is transformed
You become part of the fertile grounds
For a larger dream to become reality
From a seed to a bud and perhaps a tree of life
Light which will enter you, facilitating your victory
For in tribulations your soul lives on cheating death
Before the first tongue
suffered the burden of naming,
the garden possessed
its own onomasticon:
Leaf,
Lumen,
Lark,
and one white rose—
an inviolate effulgence
ensphered in dew.
No creature
contested its quietude.
The bee
Received.
The wind,
that elder philologer,
declined dominion.
Only the hand,
catechised by appetite,
confounded wonder
with warrant.
Then
the stem vouchsafed
its green apostrophes.
One thorn
solicited blood
before blood
solicited speech.
Yet the blossom
Withdrew
no redolence.
Its whiteness,
anamnetic of snowfall,
absolved the very air
that coveted it.
Only at vespers
did the ordinance
become legible:
the thorn
was never
the flower's severity,
but sanctity
Assuming
the grammar of sap—
Creation's final rubric,
lest beatitude,
Misparsed
as possession,
translate Eden
into rubble.
I
For long faulted as wicked causing pain,
And condemned as crooks of a cruel kind—
Old prejudice or heartless brain’s refrain,
Repeated ad nauseam a point to grind—
An error all the same of humankind,
Yet, thorns for sure, villains we never are,
Veil not Flowers your harsh front hid behind,
Thorns might have cruel look, but kindly core.
Your spring blossoms, Flowers, bestirred by breeze
Oft a caress steal at an early dawn,
Or take your youthful buds on life’s new lease,
Who love to pinch a spike of a naïve thorn.
Try to be your own judge O to tell us:
Who’s innocent, who has harsh animus?
II
Innocent who’s, who has impish passion,
Your spring blossom no less than red rage is
To us— lifelong mendicants on mission—
You lure, sway us— meditating sages,
Whenever your youthful blossoms embrace
Us, try sway us from our austere a course,
And still, we thorns not once have lost our grace,
Blamed no less still in popular discourse…
That, innocent seems to be tender skin,
Not our kind oh with a rough exterior,
We thorns are scarce evil from core within,
Yet, it’s not so to this world of error.
Aphrodite shoots with arrows of flowers,
Whilst Shiva’s trident fair blessings showers.
III
Yet, weapon of war’s called Shiva’s trident,
Whilst flowers get undue paeans of praise,
These ways or world fail not us to amaze,
If truth assailed is, it’s no accident.
Why, wonder I, He who would trident bear,
Cares for no worship performed with flowers,
Scorches passion of world, poison doth bear,
Why Shiva over all deities towers.
The way thorns are, no flower’s ever known,
We point places to go, point to the time,
Point at duty, why kings wear thorn-studded crown….
Not flowers, thorns point to places so prime.
Rejoice O Flowers still, you win the day,
Whilst doomed are we to live a life of lay.
________________________________________
Crown of Sonnets |07.03.2024| flower, thorn
I pricked my finger
on a thorn of Voodoo roses
felt the stab of crimson
and sweet burn of saffron
in a tequila sunrise
I smelled apples but tasted oranges
as a clock chimed with mockingbirds
in the chartreuse trill of Spring
Summer's cerise burn passed
in a steamy haze
with the glistening sting
of hazelnut sand between my toes
and the white capped kisses
of salty teal on my face
before the cresting of absinthe foothills
One chill morning dew appeared
on pointed leaves as wisps of cirrus
sped in a porcelain sky
and salt lay on my cheeks
not of bright Pacific dreams
As I groped for apricot skies
rose petals fell and curled like ashes
acrid as whiskey and bitter as gin
lost in the gust of October's amber swirl
April's scarlet whisper was silent
in Autumn umber
the seasons having passed
in a sapphire moment
with the piercing shimmer
of Voodoo roses in bloom
10th Place
The Poet's Ear Contest
Sponsor: Greg Barden
Written: 7/16/17
-The Windmills of Your Mind-
Soul progress
back field in motion
The guff
Chose, chose, live grow leave! GO!
Leapt from heaven's gold
Jump started into a human mold
White clapboard poverty with tiger lily blooms,
blueberry rake poverty woolen looms.
Riffs of Emerson, Whitman, Longfellow dawns,
mothers’ hazel eyes, father Davidesque form,
chosen to drive twixt a Jew and a screw.
Magnet of lunacy...
Tumbled like an agate into the stream of life
part of the dream lesson
scream lesson
Abuser of power, one who had once roared,
Eve shaped now, weak and mewling
between the weeds of woe.
Care taken by lovers torn.
Watched over by pedophile uncles.
Befriended by lewd Father of sons.
Adult child, searching amongst the Word
for the Word is God and GOD …
There are so many words
Root ripped scenes from beauty to horror
Shiksa* taunts seep in with the smell of borsch.
A pumpkinseed amongst the pricks of Brooklyn
A wild rose planted in the asphalt soil
Doo-wop ditty
Jew’s bop to a Dago harmony,
bagels, bialys and the French twisted strands
of great grandma’s hair.
Clipped, stripped of family shoved whole
into yet another new mold.
True believers, ah yes, fanatics all.
The struggle to survive whole healthy
dipped in, dripped in, a bath of acid and thorazine.
Polish priests pedal platitudes to the sisters of St. Joseph
behind the gilded glory of the Church.
Raped by trust and betrayed by lovers,
a rose married to a prickles thorn,
so empathy is gained, and a healer born.
Metal must be formed in a crucible of fire
A healer can not be born without tasting the pyre.