Long Undelivered Poems
Long Undelivered Poems. Below are the most popular long Undelivered by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Undelivered poems by poem length and keyword.
Who, Why, What, Where, When?
Take a meme, and make it clean by belief, engagement,
God meme, Santa Claus or denim jeans are fundamentals,
They offer a magic carpet to all partakers into fulfilment,
When we endorse the concepts behind these credentials.
Like god, belief in Jesus is optional, warranty undelivered,
On two levels: as the son of god, and as the son of man,
The latter being the term more frequented by gospel word,
When he emerged as the people’s hero, up for a ban.
Richard Carrier believes that Jesus never existed at all,
Historically, but he doesn’t speak much of psychosomatics,
Which assumes contemporary phrasing and a high call,
To spread medical remedies and to dismiss ecclesiastics.
Crucifixion was the punishment method used back then,
Just as the electric chair is used today in the United States,
And very many people were crucified each week, like Ben,
Some who’d changed their name to Jesus, or “demonstrates”.
Jesus in the Israeli language meant saviour of the people,
Meaning intrinsically from the Roman government seed,
Trying to figure out how to make progressivism capable,
So they asserted themselves in the court case of creed.
So, if we take the storyline stat, then what does it emit,
Did Mary and Joseph name the boy on their first day?
To call him then by an off the rack name - “Jesus” bit,
Which indicated that he would create medical sway.
If Jesus crucified as god never happened, that's fine,
If Jesus was not born virgin god incarnate, then ok,
But if a Nazarene boy fit the bill as Jesus the myth, rhyme,
Then don't claim that he needed this mould to thus say.
And don't presume you don't have a faith to propel you,
That is, if you believe that a man died for his human acts,
Towards the poor and the sick who upon old age, chase,
Were only encouraged to commit suicide as bad facts.
Reading the text, many Jesus’s were crucified at this time,
So the canonical gospels may not consider just one healer:
Therefore if you think this then life can be not sublime,
And so whether you're called this or that is not clever.
This crisp dancing, figaro prancing,
Sailors cursed, and sideways glancing day,
Nearly, neatly, drowns us with its slow descent.
An unwrapped undelivered present
To behold.
Some catch a star, Some catch a cold.
Are you still listening
To what you have been told?
Well tell a lie if you must
But roll the butter and cinnamon dust
Of some sweet morsel of your own,
Created and sold before you could disown.
Give me your best shot for the love of life, man.
Sometimes the needle skips a stitch
The music skips a beat
And we let moments slip between the cracks
While we await an erstwhile cause to celebrate.
What could be more noble than the tuning of a life?
Where is your walden waiting?
When will “it” arrive?
The moment of truth that daily impacts your brow.
To what do we allow?
Treason Reasons
Concreted cracks, abandoned train tracks,
unaffordable housing built like shacks.
Unplanted seeds gardens of weed,
never having enough to satisfy the greed.
Unseen view, is the sky blue?
Goodwill bought unlaced white shoe.
The frontyard seat on ol' bucket street,
cool air doesn't help that kind of heat.
Battles kill, unordinary run of the mill,
another happy mailman undelivered bill.
Where is our morality? What is our deal?
living here in the now is such a reality kill...
bmdavey@
02/24/16
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
she remembers the hum~
a gold-threaded hymn
stitching the clover,
the way her sisters
wore sunlight like dresses,
their bodies tiny looms
woven with purpose.
Now, her wings whisper
against the silence,
a dialect of dust.
No queen to serve,
no hive to heat
with the labor of her legs.
Only the ghost
of a thousand blooms
tightening in her throat~
sweetness undelivered,
a contract broken
by the vanishing.
she circles the empty field
like a comma
searching for its sentence,
her shadow the last
word left.
sitting and pondering
drifting into a
silent reverie
but sometimes
solitude is a fragile shield
against ignorant perceptions
leading to somber conclusions
demonic voices act
like harbingers
predicting doom
innocent eyes
plagued into a trance
become emotionally numb
watching the world go by
invisible tears
suppress pain
with time
struggling to eliminate
predictable outcomes
suffering signs of sorrow
go unnoticed like
undelivered messages
spirit screams
STOP TORTURING THE SOUL
but sanity crumbles
like Autumn leaves
and
subtle yet
insincere gusts
blow each one
towards distant
shores
Silent One
Simple Musings
3 October 2017
What do you tell a man who has seen war?
"It’s going to be okay?"
When all around him, he sees decay—
The worst evils of man, laid out like carpet for him to tread.
Those around you don’t understand,
For words alone can’t comprehend.
You’ve been there. You’ve done it all.
What’s left in this life for one who has lived it all?
The memories stay—sharp and vivid,
Filling your thoughts with every breath.
An echo of you, undelivered—
A shell of a man who cannot forget.
In their sorrows, men will judge you,
Call your actions forward, ask you to repent.
But remember the ones who stood by you.
They want only you—no one else.
In their arms, you are forgiven.
In their arms, you are saved.
No matter what you have done, achieved, or claimed,
They stood by you as just a man.
Just you—along with all your pain.
A chapter ends—it feels like losing,
Losing everything you’ve ever known.
But in the end, you’ve won what matters—
Being there for those who don’t know.
Use your endless passion,
The marks that made you great.
Love those who stood beside you.
That’s all they ask—
For you to be present, whole, and sane.
In time, the pain will fade,
You’ll be glad you made it through.
Against all odds, you’ve fought and won—
Just like you’ve always known to do.
A sliver of horizon, stiff in hand,
it bears no city, street, or promised land.
No inked direction on its back is set,
a silent promise, a forgotten threat.
It is a vessel built without a helm,
a ship adrift in a vast, indifferent realm.
Its message, trapped within the pulp and dye,
a whispered secret passing readers by.
It speaks of all the words we leave unsaid,
the phantom letters in the heart and head.
The “I forgive you” or “I love you too,"
they’d never find their proper avenue.
It is the bridge that ends before the shore,
the key that fits no lock upon the door.
It holds a sunset view, a painted sky,
intended for a specific, single eye.
Its life is one of stillness and of wait,
a transient object sealed by silent fate.
It knows the sender’s hand, the stamp’s brief kiss,
then plunges into the communication abyss.
It lies inside a drawer, or on a shelf,
a lonely testament unto itself.
A metaphor for chances cast away,
a sun-bleached memory of yesterday.
The postal system, in its structured might,
delivers day and navigates the night.
But this card breaks the code, the golden rule,
a rebel item, a stateless, wandering fool.
It mocks the logistics, the sorting machine’s whir,
a phantom address with no destination, sure.
It is the story told to no one’s ear,
a bell that rings where no one is near.
Perhaps its power is in the void it keeps,
the silent promise that within it sleeps.
For while addressed, its journey would be done,
beneath the gaze of a specific sun.
Unaddressed, it belongs to all of us,
this little card, this wordless, world-less fuss.
It carries every possible reply,
a universal, silent, hopeful sigh.
So let it rest, the unaddressed postcard,
a little piece of life we’ve held unbarred
from finality, from being truly sent.
A perfect moment, perfectly unspent.
It is the poem I write that you won’t read,
the planting of a universal seed,
awaiting recipient, could have been,
a memory in time that no one had seen.
State of Grace
An Army nurse hoses blood off the floor.
while the doughnut dollies smile and flirt
with the wounded boys
down the hall.
Back home they scream baby killers, Spit in our
faces with sadistic joy.
White sheets cover the dead soldiers, just boys, being wheeled
out one after another, out the door, too late.
Body bags await, and body parts stacked up by the door.
She held his cold hand, as he lay dying, in fear… calling
calling for his momma,
Nurses in tears can’t take any more, but they wheel in
another dying boy through the door.
Screams of pain, dulled by heavy monsoon rain
pounding on too thin canvas walls.
Unforgiven... in a State of Grace one boy after another dies
time and time again, she must hose their blood off the floor.
Padre telegram in trembling hand, knocks on the… it’s
The door is open?
Memories of rows flag draped lead lined coffins
as he steps through the door.
And sees the boy’s young wife, naked, with a stranger.
on the… looks away, can’t watch this anymore...
who the are you?
Your husbands been wounded,
but he is doing well, he lies...... Well…. Wel..l
Well, he has lost both of his arms and legs,
she said, So, he’s not dead? , , ,
no NO GOD DAMNED insurance payout,
no no no?
He turns and leaves the boys wife
still naked wife in a State of Grace, with a
stranger on the…..
Padre in tears walks out the door ….
Shaking hands, he, recounts
the telegrams, undelivered, yet again, quickly,
there’s still six more.
Fate, like Charlottes topaz eyed… tiger still lurking in shadows
As an Army nurse in a State of Grace,
hoses the blood off the floor, and stacks
the body bags by the door...
(c) London F. BuSS
11,000 nurses served in Vietnam, were volunteers. Many still suffer from PTSD.. GrocPedia (Elon Musks) wikipedia did an interesting review of this poem. I should say that im not a
pacifycist, i was a soldier, and i would rather die a patriot than a coward...
intensely seeking my furry boots today due to the snow
looking every possible hiding place, both high and low
did you look where the fairy lights glow asked my curious husband Joe
I had to move a broom, two rakes and an old green garden hoe
Found an undelivered Christmas present almost given to a foe.
an Oster bread maker with tiny flecks of hardened tannish dough
not terrific fun to look in the garage with mice running to and fro
I found lots of old things including my daddy’s killer crossbow
found an tarnished copper trumpet, but it no longer would blow
discovered rusty trimmers I use when I am forced to mow
And a broken antler and broken leg on a spotted porcelain doe.
did you find your boots asked my only husband named Joe
no, however, I found many wonderful other things though.
there were many bags and boxes, and a faded red tow rope to show
hey! said husband. What's the black feathered thing in the next row?
his offer to help me hunt mousey garage was notoriously slow.
he was elated to find his great-grandmother's hideous afghan throw
it was a stuffed one-eyed crow, nothing enjoyed by the status quo
are those flowered things starter kits to allow seedlings to grow?
not being a gardener, how in devil’s name would I know?
as for losing boots and mittens though, I am the pro.
`
Even in darkness,
when a moonless sky
preaches fear from a pulpit of shadows
pointing elongated fingers…
when walls crumble
into a rubble strewn alleyway
and graffiti issues spray paint threats
on frantic facades dripping sabotage…
and kindness remains
hidden away in sealed envelopes,
unaddressed and undelivered,
discarded in bundles of false accusations
Her beauty shines unending
in effervescent streams,
illuminating in a photograph, poetry
and a kind word from quivering lips
caressing my heart
in watercolor enchantments
and pastel pleasures…
showing me it is not what, but who
for this darkness is hers,
weighted thoughts on soft shoulders
binding wrists in tethered worries
and still she smiles . . . for me