Long Trench Poems
Long Trench Poems. Below are the most popular long Trench by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Trench poems by poem length and keyword.
I descended the wretched trench of lies with willing defeat,
My heart severed too many times to ever even care
Of what horrors lay beneath
I face the unknown with a corrupt thirst
I have seen these familiar twisted faces,
And I greed for their ends—for the cease of their cries,
Longing for my vengeful rise
Too long I have felt the devastation of death entwining with my soul,
Too long have I tasted the heat of unimaginable, unbearable downfall
In the torment of screams,
My mind claws in desperation
To silence the never-ending agony,
The burning of unmerciful cataclysm
Claws made of frozen souls grip my own
Reaching in, extracting my life—I rip myself to shreds
I dance the Devil's dance to the song of weeping angels
With the sheltered moon bleeding plagues
Chaos and Havoc play upon my heart
Where have I let myself descend?
To the ends abstracting Happiness,
To the cruel tail whipping sorrows to Rage,
This madness inflicted sprouted from the Guilt of Failure,
Tell me, why is there no chance for Redemption?
These lashes, these Scars raw in the demons’ presence
Lowered head accepts such torment as deserving
Rain sears the eyes of the weak,
Faltering trust in the wicked
Their teeth gnashing my flesh, my bones
And sorrow misleads in hopeless promises
When false light brings me to Darkness's sweet embrace
Holding fast to self-loathing
I pierce the veil,
My eyes falling upon the face of Death
Empty Horror returns its gaze to me
Maggots devouring my flesh
And suddenly the deplorable Madness is me
I, the Devourer of souls
The Harbinger of Doom
Pain and Discourse my companions
I pierce the veil
Only to find misfortune reflected
Holding me, fixedly…Darkness,
Lay me down once more upon your hidden altar
For too long have I let the earth’s Monsters feed on my heart
Too long have I held onto Hope only to watch her fester
Too long… and long enough that my webbed eyes close to the vision of Tomorrow
I clasp the vicious claws with infant hands and wail at the top of my lungs
Cutting into me, all I have ever lived for
My wail exceeds all cries,
For no matter how terrible,
No matter how deafening,
My Misery reigns supreme
-A collaboration with Rebecca Larkin-
At 10,911 meters beneath the Pacific veil,
where no submarine dares dream,
I descended into the throat of Earth—
into the trench men call Mariana,
but spirits call Theotokos.
There, the water was not water—
it was glass that hummed.
The ocean floor rose like a palace,
built of crystal bones and music stones—
a cathedral of sound and secrets.
They called it the House of Fire Music.
Inside, stood the immortalized—
Beyoncé, her aura a flicker of gold.
Jay-Z, carved from thunder and code.
Janet Jackson, wrapped in the rhythm of moons.
Dolly Parton, humming in divine frequencies.
Elvis shimmered at the corner, whispering hymns
of forgotten chords.
And then, the Beings arrived—
not gods, not angels—
but the composers behind the composers.
They stood clad in scarlet and amethyst,
eyes like suns behind veils of silk.
“We are the architects of your sound,” they said.
“Every chart hit, every sold-out stage,
begins not in your world, but here.”
A ritual began.
Each musician was summoned
to offer a letter of the alphabet.
Beyoncé stepped forward. Her voice—clear, defiant:
“I give you the letter S.”
The beings replied:
“Then we give you Single Ladies.
Take it. Sing it. The world will move.”
And so it was.
Kanye West knelt, offering P.
They gave him Power.
Lady Gaga whispered B,
and was handed Born This Way.
Freddie Mercury had once been here—
and took Bohemian Rhapsody
from their marble hands.
No song is random.
No beat is blind.
Everything—
from release dates to Grammy speeches—
is scripted by ancient rhythm codes
within the citadel of Theotokos.
They are taught the law of vibration,
the diet of frequency:
“No meat that bleeds.
No sex before sound.
No fame without silence.”
Their lives are not theirs.
Their voices are borrowed.
This world we know—
the charts, the scandals, the glam—
is just a shadow on the surface.
The music industry?
A temple built on crystal lies.
And when I rose back to the surface,
gasping, reborn—
I heard the radio play a new track,
and I knew—
It came from beneath.
Hands clench stuck in a culinary trench with no French
Devotion can’t bench sensory commotion a saucy wench
Emotions wrench if no whiff on the breeze of cheese stench
Potions & notions quench..ocean lotions tastebuds drench
For a foodie bouillebaisse with timeless grace like Judi Dench
No dodgy Brigitte Bardot politics or slick card tricks of tarot
Go for Gallic garlic gall.. all will enthrall when in Gaul..Escargot
Choir of desire ce soir more beurre.. pot au feu.. boudin noir
The star steak au poivre or oeuvre as they make fresh tartare
Mussel frites hustle.. boozy bustle.. shellfish tussle of a bistro
Cassoulet with pomme puree then creme brulee classics spar
Foie gras a mardi gras or bizarre faux pas in brasserie bazaar
Pastry crew Michelin route could be choux or tasty en croute
Never hasty flavour douche a louche croquembouche maestro
Pouting fondue goo spouting fountains on mountains outing
Creamy tartiflette or steamy andouillette from piggy toilette
Forget Pret get a better baguette cornichons raclette touting
What’s more francois then petit pois or dreamy dauphinoise
Carbs shouting.. barbs flouting.. baked camembert scouting
No doubting dishes with calories sprouting diets are a routing
For some it’s foodie hell for me Heaven..my true blue belle
Fruit de Mer in that terracotta apparel has me over a barrel
Travel under the spell crustaceans relations you fell.. unravel
Shell fish fresh from saline swell my divine dell in La Rochelle
No askance glance at the chance for your palette to dance
In a trance at how they enchant stuff always buff & enhance
Know in advance their cultural stance.. revolution..the lance
Saw red aristocrats dead off with their head no longer prance
Instead perchance adored smorgasbord hoard vive la France
I put on my black leather trench coat from the wooden coat rack.
Wrapping the navy-blue scarf around my neck, I started to go outside to enjoy the night.
I watch the wind swirl the snow before me in the air and on the ground.
The snowflakes reflect the moon's bright blue light giving it a luster of things yet to come.
With the anticipation of the magic blooming in the air, I walk on.
Feasting on the night display of mother nature and her natural beautify, I gasp in wonder.
The moonlit trees dance as the wind blows off the snow.
I watch as the wind swirl again to the oil lit lamppost giving it a warm glow of radiated sparkling light.
I walk to the bench across the street, hearing the crunch of snow under my feet.
I brushed off the snow on the wooden slat bench and sat down with my unopened mug of hot chocolate.
The wind died down; I open my mug and stare at the crystal-clear sky full of magnificent stars.
There is one star I thought was a meteor when suddenly a loud thunderous clap permeated the air.
I gazed in astonishment at the eight Reindeer and a sleigh driven by St Nick.
I waved to him, and he waved back and wished me a Merry Christmas, and I him.
I said to myself, "Shirley, this is beautiful magic!" as I sip my hot chocolate.
As I enjoyed the warming flavors of my hot chocolate, St Nick landed his sleigh on the street.
I looked up, and he smiles, came over to me, and asked if he could have a drink.
"Yes, you can have a drink," as I handed the cup to him.
He drank the cup empty, smiled again at me.
With the finger to his nose, he magically refilled my cup.
He said to me, "You might want to answer your cell phone.”, with a twinkle in his eye.
I answered the dreaded call from the hospital only to find that my husband has been moved from ICU, and they can only say that it was a miracle.
I cried and cried and gave Santa a hug and thanked him.
He climbed back into his sleigh and nodded to me and said: "a small and insignificant gift can change the world."
In this time of Christmas season, what insignificant gift was given to us?
It’s Sunday,
and I’m drawing myself again,
third time this week.
This version features a haunted air fryer,
a coupon for free emotional labor,
and Janice—
the shoebill, wearing my ex’s hoodie
and threatening the moon.
She’s perched
on a folding chair I stole from a church basement,
clutching a Slim Jim like a relic.
Her breath smells like copper wiring and vengeance.
She doesn’t blink.
She’s been through things
I wouldn’t survive in metaphor.
Next to us is a gas station floral arrangement
wilting under fluorescent light.
In front of us is me,
in my paint-splotched pajamas,
asking Janice if she thinks
my inner child should unionize.
She says nothing,
just tilts her prehistoric head
and sh*ts squarely on my manuscript.
I call it divine intervention.
Later,
we walk into the city wearing matching trench coats,
one of us smoking,
one of us quoting Adrienne Rich,
neither of us offering apologies.
When the world ends,
it’ll be a clerical error.
Janice will fix it with duct tape and a spell
written in cut-up tomatoes.
I’ll be there,
editing the horoscopes.
And when someone asks
What kind of bird is that?
I’ll smile, say,
Oh, she’s mine,
we found each other in a storm.
In savage streets it’s hand to hand
once shrapnel rips the air that’s damned,
no sin of ego in this land.
Baptismal bloodshed echoes
through rust and rebar ghettoes.
There’s bullet swarms and rocket rain
but infantry must hit terrain,
forget I’m sane and rupture veins
with melee-trench-knife flashing,
the bane of peace doves, slashing.
I wear their red of death and drive
my blade abuzz in hellish hive
to stay alive! Yes stay alive!
The apathy of killing,
and twisting morals willing.
My heartbeat kept, a victory,
it pounds just like artillery
but prized, despite the misery.
A witness to destruction
and holy soul’s corruption
and christened by the selfishness
of presidents with negligence,
we soldiers march with evilness.
The narcissistic leaders,
the preachers and the breeders
of rhythmic spates in drumbeat hate
unfurl their nation flags and fate
in bloodlust war… while heads of state
stay combat clean in bunkers.
I witness gurgling utters
your last and bloody gasp for “mama”.
I grasp with greed my breath in chest.
Thought ricochets inside my skull;
I’m still alive! I'm still alive! I'm still alive . . .
It was a cold dark night, with a hint of rain in the air
The sparkles of light, carried by running drops from everywhere
Looking like a city within a park
A stunning sight in the dark
A slight breeze
whispers through the trees
As I walk slightly splashing the puddles
Leaving behind base like ripples
I slightly hear a sweet voice call out
'Help, help, I cant get out'
I turned to see what I heard
As from the shadows he appeared
With a horny mask and tight red suit
He ran so fast his tailwind sounded like a flute
The silence is replaced with screams and bangs
Suddenly the devil appeared with girl in hands
Placing her down on a vacant bench
He vanished as if he fell in a trench
Police arrive the girl is safe
A hero new to this place
A suitable name for this rebel
HELLS KITCHEN DEVIL ????
Day after day, week after week, when rush hour traffic’s at its peak,
I’ve had to sit and wait and wait, knowing that once more I’d be late
And have to face the boss’s frown, who lives the other side of town
And can control when he’ll arrive; there are no road works on his drive.
But our road’s down to single file; it’s been like that for quite a while,
With traffic lights at either end, while workmen work out what to mend,
Behind a line of orange cones, oblivious to the drivers’ moans.
It started with a water main. They mended it – it burst again
And cut off electricity, another high priority
So they hired another digger; made the trench a whole lot bigger.
With traffic lights now far apart, commuters started losing heart.
To town there was no other way, so queues got longer every day.
One day they started filling in, but scarcely did the work begin
Before there came a frantic yell, “The bloody gas main’s gone as well”.
And so they dug it out once more, till it was deeper than before.
They put a sign along the way, “We’re sorry for the long delay,
All caused by things beyond control. One day we will fill in the hole”.
This morning, passing in the car, I spotted something quite bizarre.
With paper hats and champagne flutes and coloured ribbons on their boots
The men were gathered all around, their spades were lying on the ground.
And I could only sit and stare, as “Happy Birthday” filled the air.
I called out, “Who’s the Birthday boy, I’d like to wish him Birthday joy?”
And, as one man, they turned to say, “The trench is one year old today!”
Left, right, forward, back.
An endless cycle, lost in time.
Wondering what’s wrong,
asking what’s wrong.
When glass breaks, it doesn’t break even.
Shards of time, emotions, and hope are scattered.
They broke the glass,
this stagnant soul is left with the mess.
With a withering broom and dirty dust pan in hand,
all that was salvaged ended with mourning.
But when the pieces were collected out of the trench of rage,
a new foundation was created.
This light emerging from the abyss below,
beautiful as the death of a star.
Melting the glass, cursing all who dare damage true art.
Screeching with light that burns the sky.
A broken sword can be fixed,
there will be a new Excalibur.
A soul for a soul, a heart for a heart.
Lasting forever, in a land apart.
We went in to see
To see the broken line
Though good people we once may have been
Can we still make that claim from now on in forward time?
Men, boys and animal lives
Perished defending a scrap of ground
A solemn quiet now we see with our own eyes
Where smoke and sharp lead reigned hell from the sky murdering the ground
Doubts too painful to bear
Live in our minds constantly
A tear for love, a smile or a care
Do we still have the right to feel any humanity?
We entered the trench to see
To see the broken line
Though what we saw defied belief,
broke our hearts and scarred our minds.