Long Turned Poems
Long Turned Poems. Below are the most popular long Turned by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Turned poems by poem length and keyword.
After turning 18, I did not hesitate in registering to vote.
Many people had suffered discrimination, and I had taken note.
Mary, my maternal grandmother, could neither read nor write;
but she taught us to turn from the wrong and choose the right.
Grandma was born in 1888, a time of reconstruction from so much destruction.
Turning 18 in 1906, she could not, but certainly would have voted if she could.
So when I turned 18, voting was very high on my list of priorities.
Therefore, I stepped forward, and did what I knew I should.
I was filled with pride, and I know grandma would have been proud of me also.
Grandma Mary was my maternal grandmother and was a very courageous lady.
I don’t suppose that she would have cared a whole lot if I were a Democrat, Republican, or Independent. I suppose that she would have advised me to vote for whomever I had concluded to be the best person for the job. I can imagine her saying to me, “Curtis,
don’t worry about the media and the spin masters. Don’t fret about what others do, think, or feel. Just keep yourself informed and learn all you can. Make up your own mind and form your own opinions. Make your best move and commit the rest to God”.
So you see, I have good reasons and causes for which to vote, even though sometimes the causes and candidates may not even interest me. I think that it is that tug in my spirit being energized by the memory of my ancestors. I sense them telling me to cast one for me and also one for them. I feel that they are saying to me, “Curtis, cast this ballot for all of us so that this government of the people, for the people, and by the people, shall not perish from the earth”. I believe that I owe that much to them. It’s the least that I can do for all that they have endured for me.
So that, my friends, is one of the reasons I am compelled to let my voice be heard. That is why I am saying , both now and when I cast my ballot in November, Grandma Mary and Grandpa Ralph, I cast this ballot for you!!!!!!!!!!. Posted 10032016 cj (originally written 02042008. Some parts have been lost. Narrative has been rewritten, edited, and connected to remaining original piece for posting on PS)
I am not a warrior
My skin is pale and soft
I am not the kindest spirit
My words can hurt you to the bone
I am not purest serenity
I am fragile and unwhole
but my eyes own warm expressions
of a giving, caring soul.
A soul so weak and strong
sensitive and true
A conflict , a fine sentiment
of what's right or wong to do
I am not a warrior
My skin is pale and soft
I am not the kindest spirit
but there's sweetness in my song
Unveiled I came to your arms
No secret in-between
You walked through all my valleys
and alleys I have been
All I was I have shared with you
Who I'm not and who I am
You touched my heart
You've seen it all
Cloaked with gossamer
and bare.
I am not a warrior
My skin is pale and soft
I'm not the kindest spirit
my words can hurt you to the bone
But I am who I am
I am human ,I am real
I have loved you
and embraced you
till lips turned cold and still
Because doubts created darkness
silent teardrops and more fear
Like no warrior but with starlight
All my battles I would win.
Inspired by the song 'Warrior' By Amber
The high and the lows, strife and blows
Through high tides, and angry winds,
Hurricanes and tornadoes
Life stalls, uncertainity builds,
fear beckons and faith dissolves
But with the last ounce of hope, i cling to Psalms 46:1
Daunting opposition flanks all directions ,
Laying bare fibres of my imperfections.
Trust turned to ammunition,
piercing the fabric of my unsuspecting fondness.
The multitudes in my corner, merely a façade,
amplifying the solitude buried within.
With a weary soul, defeated mind and bleeding heart, i march on,
Psalms 34:18 engraved on my chest
Time and again, faith holds a higher price, far from what my mind can afford.
The "mustard seed faith", fails to take root in these barren soils of doubts and endless worry.
The spiritual gives in, leaving the battle to the clay that easily breaks.
But in the eleventh hour, 2 Corinthians 4:7-9 becomes my resounding assurance.
Amidst my silence, whispers break through ,
Not of man, but of Him who resides in me.
He walks the path I dare not tread,
He lights the dark I cannot see.
Though fear may take hold and shadows loom,
I rise again, soul trembling but with renewed strength from Deuteronomy 31:8
My daily reminder that He that goeth to-fore has never ceased to care.
Do you know how I feel inside?
I feel alive,
I’m feeling emotions that made me hide,
living like I’d died, experience was denied.
But this is round two and Ive dealt with that before,
well I didn’t deal with it I just fell to the floor,
turned sore and felt the force of the war.
Now, I know that tactic doesn’t work,
it just drives you berserk,
so this time I’ll work through the hurt,
stick with it, endure and not desert effort.
I’m all or nothing, go or stop,
it’s all I’ve been, it's all I've got,
now it stops!
I lack patience, that’s why I became a patient,
so this time I’ll be in control and pace it,
play through the phases, adapt and change places,
marathons and sprint races, prepare for all cases.
It’s called evolution,
I won’t go back to depression,
I’m out for a solution!
As a youngster, I looked like a boy…there was nothing girly to be seen
I could run topless without comment until the age of about fifteen.
I could climb the highest tree, jump the highest fence
I even dislocated the shoulder of the man teaching me self defense…
I could run forever eating the wind - but was never really fast
That didn’t matter in any event, I was the one that none could out last.
I could dive and swim from the heights to the depths
I could do so much and never lose my breath.
Then I turned eleven and things started on a decline
I fell out of a tree head first… and it was definitely not by design.
I hit the ground, but remember it not, apart from all the screaming
From thirty foot I took my dive because of too much leaning
They all knew I was the only one able to climb that tree
A mother asked me to save a kite that had cost about 50p
I remember thinking that branch was thin and would break
I was right but for the mother, this risk I did take…
It caught me out and that was when I learnt there was one thing I could not do,
And that was fly like a bird, or float like a butterfly, believe me, I really tried too.
My neck was broken when I landed there and hit the ground,
I remember my toe was the only thing hurting when I came round…
But then a terrible thing happened… and I turned into a girl
My tomboy escapades were gone - it happened in a whirl
I hung on as long as I could but things began to change
One thing was sure at this time… I was never mistaken for a boy again.
© 19/05/2012
The Life Is …
The Life Is …
When I was young, there was no pain,
The only pain was to complain.
When I was young, I did not care,
Just as long as my love was there.
When I was young, my life was great.
But I was there a bit too late.
A bit too late to know life was,
being young and having no flaws.
A bit too late to celebrate,
What I had then was called my fate.
Now it’s different, weather is cold,
I turned into a man that’s old.
The spring has passed, summer is gone,
Autumn at rest, winter is on.
I am too old and know it’s gone.
It is too dark to hope for dawn.
Now I know that a part of life,
It is old age and lives with strife.
Now I know that my life is not,
The perfect plan when I had thought.
The life is not the silken dress,
Unmarked from flaws, full of success.
My life is just a song I sing,
It is winter chasing the spring.
It is sorrow, it is laughter,
It is hope for morning after.
My life is just a long poem,
Had a young star; none would know him.
The life is just a shooting star,
It is so bright but can’t go far.
Blink your eyes; it’s all be gone,
I played this game like a faceless pawn.
I played so well; somehow, I lost.
You don’t want me to count my cost.
My life is like a field of dream,
Or maybe like a moonlit stream.
My life is like a drop of dew,
Waiting the Sun to say adieu.
My life is like the dew at dawn,
The sun will kiss; it will be gone.
My life is not to be just young,
It is okay to be unsung.
My life is like the morning breeze,
It can bring storms or bring you ease.
You are hoping for one more dream,
That wakes you up in golden gleam.
The life is like a candle’s flame,
It lights up love or burns to blame.
The games are on, and the moves are fast.
I do not know how long they last.
For some, it’s short; for some, it’s long.
Go have more fun; it is not wrong.
Remember now, it might get late,
Go play your move before checkmate.
10/2/2019
Haloo
Note: The painting is called “A reminder”; it’s acrylic on wood.
Note: This style of poetry is called "Masnavi"; it is the spiritual couplets. This particular masnavi consists of eight syllables in each line. Poetrysoup has a great explanation and example of this form of poetry.
Awake as always at four bells
Call of nature, best alarm clock
Frozen by the sight
Could it be a trick of the light
Just a short pause and glance at the floor
There it was thirty-two years and never
Saw it before, until this morning
Etched in the oak wood flooring
Installed thirty-two years ago when they first
Bought the house on the lake
Was a perfectly depicted etching of
His recently deceased wife’s face
He shook his head, squinted his eyes
Blinked several times, yet there it remained
A perfect silhouette of his loves face
He unconsciously whispered her name
How could it be real? He turned his eyes
And turned back, it was there
All these years and not once did the image appear to him
It existed in a single board four inches wide
Roughly six inches in length was the silhouette
Paralyzed by the sight he grinned and then laughed
She had found a way to stay with him after all
Sixty-seven years they had been married
Sixty-nine years they had been together
Cancer had taken her away just four weeks previous
He walked away and came back
Stared down at the floor board
Thinking it would change, but there it was
His loves face etched by the grain
And natural lines of that one four inch
Wide piece of oak flooring
He stood there transfixed when suddenly
He was bought back by the buzzing of his cell phone
It would be his little girl
She called every morning just to check on him
She was sweet like that
Should he tell her? No, it might be that she would not see it
He was not yet convinced it was not just some trick
Of his mind; old age was not always kind to the human mind
Every day for a week he stopped each morning
To view the silhouette in the oak floor
He would smile each time to see his loves face
He went to see his son for a weekend
Thought about mentioning the floor board
Changed his mind
It would be his secret
He could visit her in his own way
Never really talked to her much
Not his favorite thing to do in life
She could be annoying to talk to
She asked too many questions
Could never accept yes for an answer
But oh that beautiful face
Just as in life he loved seeing her beautiful face
He was a blessed man
Our love took off even though our
wings were too fragile to fly.
Neither knew it would take us
soaring into the sky.
With hearts full of love, our spirits
ascend.
Ignoring advice given and words of
caution, we chose not to listen and
refused to descend.
Our young souls never dreamt that
love could wane or fade.
We were both sure that neither
would break the promises we had
made.
The fire was untamed but then
settled and continued on a steady
flame,
Until the first storm broke, and you
cast the first blame.
Without hesitation, the arrows came,
I watched how quickly you tore the
picture from the frame.
Eyes once filled with love were
welled with tears,
How trust changed into doubts and
whispers turned into shouts, all so
unfair.
Confused and shaken after that first
hurdle, we were in a daze.
Too young to understand that being
in love wasn't only about happy
days.
Both were stubborn to let the traces
of our differences dissolve,
Nothing got resolved.
But the imprint of this, my first love,
remains firm, for it was pure and
true.
It reminds me of a blissfully happy
time that I once knew.
by Zyrool
Things are Not well. My withdrawal is bad. Still numb
and hallucinations are ongoing. Hard to talk On phone.
I'm at home.
Can't stay calm.can't sit still can't get out I don't know
what's real.always shaking not eating or sleeping.
Scared of things others might know like whole World
kidding and jokes on me.
Insanity not kind to me so tired of nothing but pain
wish for relief from shadows all round me. Life of pain
and joy is scraped away
Never saw it ending this way.
Never give up. Never knocked down
never turned away just turn cheek
So of all the things I've done and seen
The trouble I made in my home town
I own it all with no regrets and as I stood
I will fall not weak. Strong till spark exits me.
Form:
Once, there burned a fire deep within my heart
but that was long ago, before love was torn apart
Scribed were pages of sonnets, romance at its best
I shelved the albums by virtue of my own behest
because they caused me too much pain and sorrow,
and so, I thought, 'I'll get rid of them tomorrow.'
Ten years went by, but today they were torched
Memories, up in smoke, my poems were scorched
I couldn't bear to read them, or I would reminisce
Flames sputtered their cries with an incessant hiss
Sheafs penned when with love I was sorely smitten,
verses and lyrics for countless songs he had written
Gray clouds hovered; tainted air encircled my head
Edges of curling parchment were singed as ink bled
I watched them crinkle and smolder in the trash
The wind carried my words swirling in flurries of ash
I was renewed with pain as I breathed the smoke
It felt like my heart was mourning as thunder broke
There was a tightness in my chest and my throat
I was drowning in the rain, trying to stay afloat
Sparks fed my sadness as smoke drifted to the sky
Sobs escaped from my lips in an emotional outcry
The storm soaked the remainder of prose and verse
I turned and walked away with a groan and a curse
January 17, 2022
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