Long Traces Poems
Long Traces Poems. Below are the most popular long Traces by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Traces poems by poem length and keyword.
I wish to weave my veins with yours, like two rivers joining their destinies under the eternal sky,
to let my blood flow through the corridors of your craters, carrying with it a song of life,
to drive out the deeply embedded poison, to show you how it is to breathe without the demons that tear at your silence,
like shadows that have hidden too long in the dark corners of your soul.
I wish to open your ribs like the gates of an ancient temple forgotten by the world,
to extract your heart, scrape away the accumulated pain, and place it back, purified and reborn,
still beating with the force of a universe, still yours, but stripped of the shadows of the past,
a symphony of beats singing of a rediscovered love, pure and eternal.
I wish to unveil your skin like a map of memories, to replace your scars with my fingerprints,
so you never forget the touch that brought light where there was only darkness,
like a gentle wind that erases the traces of the storm, leaving behind the peace of a summer rain.
I wish to pull the demons from your throat, to throw them against the walls of this fortress that is you,
to watch them beg for mercy, as they dissolve into the shadows of the night,
like beasts that have stolen too many dreams, disappearing into the oblivion that has long awaited them.
But trust is not something I can give you out of the blue, like an elixir of lost hope,
you must open your hands, let fall the blade you've held like a talisman,
until your palms remember how to bleed, how to let the pain go,
and to receive the light that will envelop you in the warmth of an endless morning.
Are your books a treasured possession,
That you treat with great respect?
Always use a bookmark,
Keep them quite perfect.
Or are you the reader
Who turns the corner down?
Who's books are worn and comfortable,
Dog eared and beat around.
Do you scribble in the margins?
Or crack open the spine?
Leave a book splayed open,
Or do you consider this a crime?
Are books to you so sacred
That they always look pristine,
Once you've finished reading
They still look new and clean.
I always use a bookmark,
Of this I must confess.
My Granny would be horrified
If I did anything less.
But as for keeping them unblemished,
This I can't declare,
Some of them are well travelled
And showing signs of wear.
They have been on beaches,
Stuffed inside suitcase's,
Got sand and water damage
And even suncream traces.
Some have been pre-loved before,
Been handed down to me
And whether they were treated well,
This I couldn't guarantee.
I know that books are precious,
I try not to destroy.
I want to share them with you,
Let everyone enjoy.
3rd March 2017
I’m on an Island
Surrounded by water full of life
Years pass and pass by
Leaving me on this island
Laying around with days a bore
That people forget to adore
Sun shines all day and the moonlight lights up the place
The ocean clearly embraces the reflection of the moon
The moon traces the ocean with silver light
Like the days that passes by
My surrounding becomes just my own
The island that I am on is my own self doubt
The days passes by are the boats that I see
The sea that the moon light traces is my fear to leave
The people that are around are lazy and do nothing
The years that pass and pass by are not forgettable
My surrounding is just my own is my family
And this is secures myself doubt
The island that I am on is my home with everyone
They all are my surrounding my sun and moon
By a meander scar there stands a tree,
a survivor of long history,
in winter it does something quite strange,
red sap seeps out, and the snow it stains.
The scientists, they know not why,
they’ve studied it from low to high,
the only thing they’ll say for sure,
is that this tree only bleeds in winter.
Some say it traces back to a girl,
who had eyes for one man in this world.
She’d always met her lover at the tree,
to be in his arms, serene and happy.
But one night she went to see him there,
finding only a rival’s jealous stare.
His blade flashed and plunged in deep,
she fell to the ground in eternal sleep.
They say her lover killed that man,
then never more by the tree did stand,
until death came for him in time,
he sat down by the tree, and did not rise…
Does it weep for them? For true love burned?
All we know is the tree bleeds in winter.
Others think it dates to a hero’s retreat,
dying as he stumbled on tattered feet.
To the tree he went, and there he fell.
Who was chasing him? They do not tell.
He lay his sword there on the ground,
and watched as gentle snow came down,
a momentary peace as he left life,
far from his family, friends, and wife.
The people found him the next day,
frozen and lying in a supine way…
For this poor man does the red sap stir?
Is that why it only bleeds in winter?
Some say it’s because of a little child,
a six-year-old girl, crazy and wild.
She went out by the old tree to play,
but too many hours out there she stayed.
Her mother came out to look for her,
but found no trace of her little girl,
soon all the town was on the hunt,
searching every corner for one so young.
Never did they find her, trying so hard,
word soon went out, and traveled far.
Winter went by but no news came in,
the sweet girl was never seen again.
To this day, when the cold winds fly,
near the tree you can hear a mother’s cry…
Is that the cause, does it seep for her?
Can’t say, we just know, it only bleeds in winter.
Traces of the masterful
impregnable prepubescent wall
still extant scads of decades since
complex edifice erected to force tall
permanently leaving me unmoored,
marooned, and furloughed ready for pall
bearers to spill soil upon my
then emaciated stick figure overall,
an unlovely bag of bones
stripped of flesh,
sans unseen deadly parasites,
who valiantly tried to mothball,
and nearly succeeded, kneaded,
and deeded landfall,
when aghast parents
at wits end betiding,
halting, and ramming ace kickball
player with serious
game of life and death,
the latter cleated toehold
unanimous decision to install
topnotch scorer anticipating
seeing his name plaque mounted
within glass encasement within guildhall,
faintly hearing inaudible teammates
praised showered, visited
head upon one, with grit and gall,
who clinched championship
wrathful excoriation against me
referee could not forestall,
who fumbled, kindled (as predicted)
loose tongues flaying hide with no rescue
to escape being skewered behind eight ball,
thus the above "FAKE"
metaphor merely to accentuate
self repudiation delivering
to this defacto scapegoat
bullies taunts endlessly berate
ting, jackknifing, and resulting
with implacable self hate
deferrening allowance,
asper my grant (migrant)
humph...pariah status
to learn social skills quite late,
and apathetically to marry and mate
despite ambivalence within my pate
even now...the entombed fortress prison wall,
I cannot obliterate
hence... no surprise WALLS - I HATE!
I adorn your flesh in trivial words and heat,
The quartz in each brushwork may deplete.
Ashy blossoms under shattered feet,
In the dusk, inspired by optimization accrete.
Deep-set violet eyes without a discreet,
Reaching clouds that cover your sight beat.
Seeking to deprive the tempo of greet,
Illuminating this obstacle isn't defeat.
When your sight is adequate to compete,
I shall entice you till our bones excrete.
Betrayals occur during the heat of deceit,
Overwhelmed in combustion entreat.
Salt from the sea is in tears and downbeat,
Inhaling every color of poetry may reheat.
I bestow my words to the shells of your feat,
Leaving blurry traces in my vision to meet.
You are safe and muttered during the retreat,
I am inhaling your irrational fear and heat.
Rose petals satiate voids in the heartbeat.
Written: December 04, 2022
The orange sunset bleeds, and in its wake
Corona of moon flaunts a hue…opaque;
To etch one’s vision until dawn rises
While brushstrokes in oil abandon the day--
With pigment lavender circling away.
And tints slip-slide on radiant flowers
Where a pond’s varnished tones daub evening hours ,
That olive boughs hang on an easel moist
Embellishing garlands utterly white
Along ebullient woodland, red and bright.
How such panorama fires one dappled trance
Allowing colors their primitive vibrance…
As still- life bursts like a god's creation :
Here, an artist traces traces again
In night’s chill … bold paint splashing nature's grain.
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To find an island floating somewhere in the middle of the ocean shall I go following the water as it flows? In spring, as a flower with the color of scarlet, violet, or canary; in summer, mount on the cloud passing by; in autumn, drifting along a secluded inlet for a while, then as a fallen leaf, shall I go following the water as it flows and find an island floating somewhere in the middle of an ocean?
To recover a long gone lost time shall I become a moon and stars and trail the traces of ever so many bitter and sweet memories? From a remote village in a deep mountain, send my regards through a bird’s song and await the good news coming with a cricket’s chirp, and if it become that there is no story left to tell or hear any news from the other side of mountain consider it as the time to let my dear memories go, or shall I remain as a moon and the stars in the night and trail the traces of my memories to recover a long lost time?
Then, one day, a high wind rises from the nether world, in jet-black armor, mounted on a black charger holding a lance under his arm, rushes at me, and pierces and scatters the worries, anguishes, and pains that of this worthless life has had well acquainted with, with his lance and horse’s hooves, I shall stand on the top of the hill as fluttering weather-beaten shreds of banner, and when the wind falls I shall live as neither the sun, no a moon nor the stars, but without a word, the will, or the cognition, on other side of paramita* the land of eternity.
*Nirvana [Paramita]: 1. Buddhism: freedom from the endless cycle of personal reincarnations, with their consequent suffering, as a result of the extinction of individual passion, hatred, and delusion: attained by the Arhat as his goal, but postponed by the Bodhisattava. 2. Hinduism: salvation through the union of Atman with Brahma; moksha 3. a state of freedom from pain, worry, and the external world. The Random House College Dictionary. 1980. U.S.A.
Surging storm swarms in the shattered sky,
traces tormenting terror in frantic air flowing by.
The whispering wind of joy knows not why
it should face the ruthless turbulence of despair nigh.
Afflicting anger in the spiteful mind flares up high,
smolders the sullen life to make extant ember fly.
The anguished ashes drift away, failing to find nearby
the solace of benign hope, the heart doesn’t comply.
Harrowing haze clutches the hidden horizon to mystify,
spreading the shroud of gloom in the ambiance awry.
Away from the veiled sun the charcoal clouds glide sly,
hoping from dark a bright day will appear, they’ll descry.
Seething sorrow makes marooned mind to silently sigh,
permeates pain in heart plunged in misery by and by.
Agony rescinds as divine touch illumines the soul to rely,
in blessed life’s sanctum sedate hope weaves bliss to lie.
She stands by the window
Looking out over the blue
For soon he will sail home
He lover oh so true
It was many weeks ago
From Valletta harbour he sailed
For the Atlantic cause
Following the convoy trail
From its industrial ports
On America's east coast
The war efforts cargo
Must never be lost
Tankers and freight
Ammunition and foods
To serve the heroic
As we deservedly should
Corvette's on the peripheral
Scouting for the packs
For these demons from the deep
And their torpedo attacks
Action stations
As the packs are discovered
Sonar kicks in
For the depth charge shower
The surface explodes
In showers of spray
As lookouts view
Any debris display
The sighting of bubbles
And traces of oil
One of the wolves is maimed
Another statistic war spoil
Days pass
As Liverpool is reached
A rare sight indeed
For a convoy not breached
This Corvette of the brave
And the hero's who have manned
Continue on their journey
To the North African lands
By the Bay Of Biscay
Into the Gibraltar Straights
Down the Mediterranean
To Valletta where she waits
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