Long Unkindly Poems
Long Unkindly Poems. Below are the most popular long Unkindly by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Unkindly poems by poem length and keyword.
Oh how I saw a dreadful thing today!
You wretched thing, your grievous wretched act,
How dare you leave me for this piece of clay!
Unkindly you have broke our solemn pact
To never leave each other in our hold
Of affectations held by bonding brass;
But yet you left the nest to keep the cold
Away from us, and joined this piece of crass!
Oh how I wish to —Nein!*—Explain no more!
My eyes are clear enough, my heart is not.
The forge of your demise I have begun
To light, to force the blade of budding clot;
To reap what you have sown; the flames of hate
Of love, of sorrow and despair, inflate!
Note:
Nein- German for no
At the old place,
the days were the color of unsharpened pencils—
dull wood, faint graphite.
He knew the timing of every bell,
the way the lockers stuck in winter,
which stair creaked near the railing.
He could walk it all without looking.
Maybe that was the problem.
Nothing surprised him.
Not the ceiling stains shaped like countries.
Not the way his words
sometimes slipped past unnoticed,
like chalk dust in the air.
He kept his head level.
Did what was asked.
Let the afternoons close quietly behind him.
When he left,
he carried no grand speech—
just a box of notebooks
and a habit of watching from the edges.
The new building had too many windows.
Light fell across the floors
in long, bright stripes
that were hard to ignore.
He squinted at first.
The halls moved quickly,
but not unkindly.
A shoulder brushed his—
“Sorry.”
A pause.
“You’re new, right?”
He nodded.
The word felt small
but it didn’t disappear.
In class, the teacher asked a question
no one answered right away.
He waited.
Then didn’t.
His voice sounded different here—
less like it was testing the air,
more like it expected to stay.
At lunch, someone shifted a backpack
an inch to the left.
Enough room.
The days began to pick up color—
not all at once,
but in strokes.
A joke that landed.
A project partner who texted after school.
A hallway that seemed shorter
by Friday.
He still noticed things—
the hum of lights,
the rhythm of steps on stairs—
but now there were other details too:
sunlight warming his desk by third period,
a laugh he recognized
as partly his own.
If the old school was pencil-gray,
this one was something closer to morning—
not blazing,
just steadily brightening.
And somewhere in the middle of it all,
without ceremony,
he stopped standing at the edges
and found himself
exactly where the light fell.
Looking at people
Looking Straight Up
Up to no good
Up to something
Something is awry.
Something is wrong
Wrong if I stand up
wrong if I speak out
Abusers are sitting.
Abusers are seated
Seated in the Senate
Seated in Congress
Congress don’t speak out
Congress won’t speak up
Upward I look, get
Up out those seats
Seats of deadbeats
Seats of sin sitters.
Sitters of children
Sitters on children
Children of prey
Children pray
Pray for Morals
Pray for the immoral
Immoral decayed senate
Immoral invisible nation
Nation of blind fools
Nation of daft followers
Followers are blind.
Follow Blindly, yet unkindly
Unkind to teens
Unkind old farts
Farts of stench
Farts on the bench
Bench needs strength
Bench of stench
Stench stinking
Stench leaking
Stinking’ thinking
Stinking lairs
Lairs lie in beds of lies
Liars on fire
Fire burns liars
Fire in family beds
Beds kept secret
Beds Kept unkept
Secret beds kept
Secret best kept
Go to Jail
Go for bail
Pay Dues
Pay your victims
Truth…
Owed…
Let your words not hinder, but be a balm.
He is someone's significant other,
and as they kiss, may your conscience be calm.
He's long been a best friend to another,
tossing back and forth sports balls and wisecracks.
Though annoying, siblings love their brother.
This hardworking son helps Dad with wood stacks,
and excels in gym, his preferred subject,
trading with his peers for favorite snacks.
He's someone's someone, so show him respect,
giving honor to those who know him well.
Before speaking unkindly, please reflect
that waves trinkle to shores after they swell.
The ocean is full of stories to tell.
7/23/22
FIVE STANZA TERZA RIMA Poetry Contest
Sponsor: L. Milton Hankins
When Spring’s soft murmurs broke the stillness of the rolling hills,
He took his guitar outside to welcome days of daffodils.
His music wound throughout the pines in greening melodies,
The gypsy lady heard them and was stirred to fantasies.
Across the daisy meadow, his tunes reached out to her at night,
On his front porch she could see him bathed in yellow cabin light.
He played upon her heartstrings with chords he never planned;
She was his gypsy lady ... he was her music man.
At night, she softy crept into the nearby forest glade,
With moonbeams woven in her hair, she danced the notes he played.
He watched her whirling, twirling form reach out to him in love,
But bound by love to another, he cursed the stars above.
Each night she gathered up his songs in the folds of her gypsy skirt,
Then shook them out as a healing salve for her heart’s deep, aching hurt.
Danced among his guitar songs, wore his music like a shawl,
The image of his smiling face was painful to recall.
When sunny brightness swept across the daisy hills he pined,
While, cat-like, memories of her slipped in and out his mind.
Each night her presence in the glade made him sing a sadder tune,
‘Cause he belonged to another; she belonged to the moon.
She danced throughout his moonlit dreams, he knew his thoughts were wrong,
Though he was bound to another, his heart sang a different song.
She knew she could not have him, his ring showed he was wed,
At night while she lay lonely, he was warm in another’s bed.
Years passed, the gypsy’s youth was gone, but not her love for him,
His fingers stiff, he still played on though her moonlit dance grew dim.
He strummed out songs of passion with a calloused, shaky hand,
She was still his gypsy lady ... he was still her music man.
One April’s eve those piney hills lay bathed in quiet peace,
His guitar sang to her no more, his soul found sweet release.
From the agony of loving her through years of silent pain,
Now daisies pushed up through the sod in a gentle spring-time rain.
With silent gypsy sadness, mourning love’s unkindly loss,
She lay upon his sun-warmed grave, head pillowed by cool moss;
Tears glistened on her grief-worn face, her heart burst from the pain,
In death, she’d be his gypsy lady ... and he’d be her music man.
The shabby hotel rooms were dank and dour
An indigent family blinked in the dark
Too dull to see much at this wake-up hour
The man of the family has such a bark.
A new baby! How marvelous! An unthinking person said.
But a new child in this family was just another to be fed
We don’t need another mouth, mama unkindly thought
The others seven children knew to do what they ought
In these rooms, seven children tried their best to please
They welcomed the tiniest bit of a summer breeze
No air conditioning for this family of ten.
Every day was a day of labor, once and again.
They did their share, and they kept the baby clean.
He was a sweet boy, but enthusiasm did pale.
They had not needed another; it might sound mean.
But this baby was an extra to feed and had such a wail!
you know some people talk out of their a$$
to fill inside some deep unspoken need
and so they try to make their gossip pass
to let the demons out and to be freed
I do not know who's spoken ill of you
why would they so malign an angel fair
they fling malicious words, I'm sure untrue
and now you've gone, there's not a poem there
I'm sad, I'm sad, I'm twisted deep inside
You gave to many here the chance to write
the gates of membership, you opened wide
and now your name is gone from on this site
To those who know not what they do or say
Your words, your deeds have pushed my friend away
Eileen Manassian
I'm very sad because a very dear friend of mine has deleted her account from this site. This women has handed out PMs and Life memberships as though they were candy. She's intelligent, smart, and beautiful, and I'm gutted to know that some people have been unkind to her. This is a sonnet slam, if such a thing exists. I have not been told who the people who have spoken unkindly are...but it isn't the first time it has happened. My friend is above and beyond pettiness...She left quietly...but this is me being upset.
Moonstruck Josette
There's a sad tale told of moonstruck Josette
Who's love turned into ashes of regret
She found romance when only sweet sixteen
With the most handsome man she'd ever seen.
Though he treated her unkindly at times
Josette overlooked those menacing signs
She adored him despite his cruel trait
Then came the day he decided her fate.
He took her to a wood where no one goes
Josette felt he was well nigh to propose
He said to close her eyes and count to ten
Poor Josette never opened them again.
Down in the woods lies a silent Josette
Her demise so tragic one can't forget.
*+*
13th November 2022
Some say yesterday a sweet memory,
but to me, yesterday is another bad dream
I want to shake off forthwith.
Although I admit today as today
because I see sun in the sky, I suppose,
today would be another day of bad dream as well at last,
and if this premise is true or can be constructed from
past experience and present, then, what can you expect
from tomorrow. Most likely, no positive outcomes.
Despite of all those negative connotations, I want to vest
some meaning to tomorrow. Perhaps, I have a belief
though with uncertainty, that everything has its end.
With ruined make-up in a timeworn suit, I roam
a street as usual to find my place to perform monodrama
and when I crack jokes considering passersby in the street
as my audiences, the jokes were thrown at the ground,
kicked and stamped by the heartless audiences and returned
to me as an empty echo.
Nonetheless, I have to accept their unkindly reception
on my jokes as if it’s proper and reply with another joke
awkwardly, though it’s painful, I swallow the result of
such treatments dilute them with tears
and follow the time that brings nothing good for me
but only ill omen.
Form:
Loaded with spilt oil the tanker delivers its cargo ashore from the sea
Man-woman pressed destiny has relentlessly decreed to forge steel
Rust has settled unkindly by ‘progress’ corroding its soul while wood
With tamed worms could have shed shredded sails for steady repair
Midnight toil from tarred ravens in sable omens omit void and despair
They mock as they engulf soiled meaning tar feather and frighten the light
Depleted the torch has twisted the anchor croaking the stuttering engine
Smeared the sunken tree of beauty fails to seed timid remains of dark timber
Vessels return their burden back to lost hearts blemish inspiring breath
Blood streams of innocence painted in shadows struggle to deliver their
Essence when disempowered streams of kind conscious love’s passion
Miscarry luminous shipments consign a cemetery of grave splintered cross
When the fork in the road waves to wrecked ships and turbulence reckons
As seemingly empty we choose whether droplets of thirst are half full or drained
Cantankerous storms may lead to new compass with the needle carved out
From slumbering lumber setting tentative cruise for the passage of time
06th June 2018
Written for contest: Filled with Ebon Veins