Long Truth Poems
Long Truth Poems. Below are the most popular long Truth by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Truth poems by poem length and keyword.
The Greenbrier's Tenacity
I am the root that refuses the drought. I am the vine that denies the clean edge of the saw. You curse my thorns and call me wilderness, but I am simply the will to live, unbound.
My stems are leather, supple and sharp. They climb without asking, weaving through the neat, clean rows, a dense, insistent, complicated love. I am the silent truth in the heart of the manicured yard: What is essential finds a way to endure.
My leaves are heart-shaped, glossy, and deep green, a constant, quiet declaration of presence. I do not wait for the season's approval; I am here, always, holding the space.
The root is the law: thick, stubborn, and vast. It is an anchor against the shifting soil, holding the memory of every rain and every hunger. You may cut me back to the bare earth, but the life force is only driven deeper.
When you finally surrender to my persistence, you will find the small, dark, blue-black cluster of berries. They are the food of the deep winter, a gift of unhurried survival.
I am the Greenbrier, the tough, thorny truth. I teach you that to cling is to conquer, and that the deepest strength is found in the refusal to rest.
For personal addiction, I'm aware
Dealing with my desires, I must beware...
Such are arenas for daily conquest
Putting faith to test amidst chosen best.
Sweet desserts please my tongue, I do confess
Yet, flesh loathes to gain weight in the process…
Discipline for well-being should prevail
That I need to practice, though sometimes fail.
To honesty and truth, my mind does cleave
From hypocrisy or deceit, I leave
In so fulfilling, I struggle in pain
As heart trusts the Lord for blest pardon-gain.
With passion for perfection-striving deed
Versus vexation against error-breed
My soul admits human weakness and flaw
While thriving in peace, learning from guilt’s claw.
Conscious of carnal and divine nature*
My spirit seeks to live as new creature
In Christ, quickened by His grace, mercy, love
Doing God’s will, sharing gift from above.
*2Corinthians 5:17 Therefore if any man be in Christ, he is a new creature: old things are passed away; behold, all things are become new.
October 5, 2022
9th place, "Desire and Aversion" Poetry Writing Premiere Contest
Sponsored by Unseeking Seeker; judged on 10/11/2022.
I cannot compete with something as painstakingly glorious as you
Envy is but a humbling tumble down a steep, rocky hill
I am crushed in your fits of glory—your screaming for passion
My approaches are absolutely wrong
Therefore my communication is a weak, ransomed victim
Your poison arrow frog skin rubs against my exposed body
I happily accept my fate
For your beauty surpasses the ephemeral pain of the infectious reign
My erroneous, inevitable downfall
I hold you up—I feel the need to keep you tall!
Michael the Archangel did not insult you once, Lucifer
How then will I?
How can I possibly be higher than you?-
Why would I want to?
I admire your freedom
I simply disregard your macrodomes of ever-worshiped flaw
If I could allow myself, I would share in your glory
Only to add to it further
But as I am poisoned with the truth
I can only be your grounded pedestal
And though you flee from humility in its wake upon my brow
I realize everyday you are living for the grounded now
And I merely look to the unknown future
A place I dread where you unwillingly hold me up
Bonded in the ground with Death and Hades
You become my pedestal, and the worms my vineyard
My parasitic feet seer your glory
I am ever so sorry
I never wanted this renown
There was a time I do recall
When you overtook me in my sleep
I cried aloud in helpless acceptance
But soon I was forced in a croak of laughter
I felt your bitter poison
I felt pride at last
I thank you for it
I thank you for showing me
What I will never be
Dear Lucifer,
Provoke me no longer to praise your eternal existence
Generations of Evening take a hold of me now
And the fruit must be shared
10/22/22
They try to get the inside scoop
By beginning to snoop
But they're just full of poop
Like the ground floor of a chicken coop
Rarely intentions honest, too many out to dupe
Pathetic how low they're willing to stoop
Against the opposing group
Regardless if they do it solo or with a troop
This cycle continues to loop
Spinning around in a circle like a cauldron full of soup
Back in the day I use to hoop
But now I hardly give a hoot
They often test close to their death in one fell swoop
It's the root of evil that they continue to bite like fruit
Sorry that it's a hard pill to swallow but it's the truth
Been this way since John Wilkes Booth
Babe Ruth
Also when I was a youth
The same can be said since way before then due to an old tooth
As well as being a sleuth
Continually I just fought
Taking much loss
At what cost?
Continual power shut offs
As well as human contact being cut off
If it does no good then stop giving it much thought
Easiser said than done, when you're recovering from such shock
From here to beyond New Brunswick
Ain't that some s***
That they too often judge quick
Where at all is there any justice?
They stay quiet as a mouse
Or bad mouth
Then drag it out
If there's one thing I know its that all this craps about
As bad as all these damn droughts
Such a sad route
Always passed out
From being blacked out
On top of burning through a half ounce
Inside empty, never a crammed house
Of course at one point I had doubts
Not just words but the truth I rap about
Regardless of if that counts
They once cheer-led the working class,
until they were useful no more,
now they call all of them ‘racist,’
to be hated and deplored.
Ignoring that it’s wholly sane
to fear losing a scarce job
to an illegal immigrant,
to be well and truly robbed.
But all of this was done before,
it’s a cold and brutal fact,
the left created old Jim Crow,
bigot votes feathered their hats,
until they decided dark folks were good,
and handouts their votes did net,
one day they will be cast off too,
there’s nothing left within the left.
They once championed free speech,
now they’re singing a different tune,
if they don’t like what you’ve to say
then they just try to censor you.
And if you still keep talking,
they send out PC-hate brigades
to mob your home, get you fired,
take everything you love away.
If you mention the rule-of-law
all you’ll hear is their laughter,
associate with one of their foes,
they’ll throw you to a prosecutor.
If they find no crime they make one up,
it’s the tactic that they like best,
no cares for justice or the truth,
there’s nothing left within the left.
If you should dare to worship,
try to live by those beliefs,
they’ll say you are ‘intolerant,’
that you conscience is ‘bigotry.’
And yet should any one of them
break a single P.C. law,
they’re ostracized and cast right out,
without a single moment of thought.
When you point out that they have just
chosen a different, unproven faith,
they cry “Fascist!” or just stand there
with a blank look on their face.
Unless, of course, you join Islam,
then they cry,”Don’t even jest!”
Up ’till the day they get blown up…
there’s nothing left within the left.
They still cling to socialism,
though it fails and devastates,
they’d rather rule a ruin then
admit they have made a mistake.
They push us towards a civil war,
if we are not already their,
and the shocking thing about it
is that they do not seem to care.
Power is all they’ve left to crave,
they jones for it like and addict,
if they break lives in its pursuit
then they are just fine with it.
No love of freedom still remains,
morals and principals bereft,
the walkaway folks have it right,
there’s nothing left within the left.
Except maybe death…
Our veins are veins in leaves,
and even if you hate them,
without them, the world would wither.
Our scars are maps of storms we survived,
and even if you wish they weren’t there,
they trace the paths that made us strong.
Our tears are rain,
and even if they fall too freely,
they flow through the rivers that make the earth bloom.
Our freckles are the speckled moon,
and even if you wish they would vanish,
the night would be empty without them.
Our hair is a field of wild grass,
sometimes tangled, sometimes soft,
and even if you fight it,
it grows freely, reaching for light,
holding the small storms and sunlight of your life.
Our hands are rough,
our nails chipped, our knuckles bent,
and even if you hide them,
they build, they hold, they reach.
Our lips are dry,
chapped, sometimes trembling,
and even if you hate them,
they speak our truth, carry our laughter, and taste life.
Our eyes bear the weight of endless nights,
the bags under them formed by studying, by striving, by thinking too much,
and even if you see only fatigue,
they have witnessed dreams, hope, and all the worlds you’ve imagined.
They say our bodies are too thin, too fat, too soft, too strong,
and even if the world tells us to change, to cut, to sculpt, to mask with plastic,
we do not need to.
They move, they hold, they love, they are home.
We are perfect..
Every vein, scar, tear, freckle, strand, hand, lip, eye, and body
is exactly what makes us alive.
The past my call to me
Distraction try to bind me
But your love will always
define me.
I'm standing strong
I'm standing strong
Trouble tries to pull me away
To distract the path and the journey
I take.
I've been down that road too many times
I won't go back for fear of losing my mind.
I won't go back to living a lie
I've changed, I've changed, now it's my time
to fly.
I'm standing strong
I'm standing strong
It's time to show the world
We have the right stuff
Love of the Father is more than enough.
I'm standing strong
I'm standing strong
It won't be long now, it won't be long
Before you know it we'll be going home
Standing strong, standing strong
I'm still standing strong, until the day
He calls me home
Nothing stands in crops of air,
A silent whisper, an empty stare.
No words to say, no breath to hold,
No tale to tell, no truth be told.
In no dark, in no light,
It doesn't wrong, it doesn't right.
No path to walk, no self to face,
Just drifting thought in a blank space.
No voice, no sound, no silent hush,
No thorny rose, no snowy slush.
It wears no name, it holds no form,
No calm, no chaos, peace, or storm.
Yet here it sits, this hollow thing,
Not song, not cry, not anything.
A space between the pulse and breath
Not life, nor sleep, not even death.
So here’s to Nothing,
A simple stride
A silent sea of meaningless tide.
A canvas blank, a dream unspun,
Where all begins, and all’s undone.
More about Dreams
Upon the glowing, silvery dust of moon beams,
ride the gleaming slivers of passionate dreams.
From the depths, they arise – come to our inner sight
on the churning tides of R. E. M. s – throughout the night.
In other dreams – out of the shadows they come
to haunt the midnight hours – scaring life from some.
To others, a carnival of fun, laughter and joy,
and for most, dreams are not but a ploy
that brings to light, that which they cannot see,
nor understand that which lies beneath – to be
the truth behind the veil, creations, of imagination
from the subconscious, as it releases the forces of frustration.
B. J. “A ” 2
July 15th 2005
Sir Lavalier joined the Crusades as a young blade.
Living the life of a vagabond in many a new glade.
Curling up with more than one pretty maid.
Until he met his match in Miss Everglade.
He wanted to settle down, but this was not to be.
She told everyone “I think he wants to marry me!”
But he was called away, and was gone for three.
By the time he returned, she had two babies, wee.
Sir Lavalier was broken hearted with despair.
He traveled to every altercation and took every dare.
He never forgot the love he had for his lady fair,
But he poured his enthusiasm into all Christian care.
Trying to make all others turn to the faith in which he was born.
He did not care about their ideas or ideals, his faith never torn.
He loved this lass, whose father had raised soybeans and corn.
Forever after his heart would lament and mourn….
Sir Lavalier’s soul was never the same, to tell the truth.
His dreams always returned to the love for his Ruth.
He never fought again with the enthusiasm of his youth.
Tainted and torn, he turned to vermouth.