Long Unmoving Poems
Long Unmoving Poems. Below are the most popular long Unmoving by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Unmoving poems by poem length and keyword.
Truth and facts are twins,
born from the same silence,
cradled in the same light,
yet hunted by different men.
Facts stand naked in the marketplace,
cold, stubborn, unmoving.
Numbers etched into stone,
events that happened whether we like them or not.
But truth…
truth walks deeper.
It enters the soul of things,
breathes beneath statistics,
and whispers what facts alone cannot explain.
A fact may tell you
that chains once held a people.
Truth will tell you
how those chains still echo in their minds.
A fact may record
the fall of a nation.
Truth will reveal
who sold its future in the dark.
And so the world fears them both.
Because facts expose lies,
but truth exposes intentions.
Politicians manipulate facts,
crowds distort truth,
and loyalists bury both
beneath noise and emotion.
Yet the twins endure.
For facts are the footprints of reality,
and truth is the soul that left them behind.
Separate them,
and society becomes blind.
Unite them,
and even darkness begins to confess.
I knew He was with me
When I felt the pangs of regret,
The shame that filled me with darkness,
Breaking through my hope and faith,
Punishing my mind, my smile…
With despair, grief
Hues of anger in scarlet
Screams released by silence
Whose only dread, the fear
Falling from a heart who dreams
Only to find their dreams
Stifled by the agonizing
Details in a lie, a stolen hope
Who only knows to leave
Because His light has faded
From the present moment,
From the promise of tomorrow
The answer of a heartbeat,
Breathing quietly…
Still, I knew He was with me
When I couldn’t even feel Him there,
His presence so quiet, so unmoving
My mind questioned His will
His ability to change my condition,
My yearning and position…
The darkness of a storm far bigger
Than any tempest I’d ever known
I knew He was with me, abiding
Giving me His encouragement,
Comforting me with a light so tender
A love so gentle and sensitive…
My heart felt like it could break
From the feeling, the sense of a joy
So alive, compelling – intense
It gave away pieces of its intimacy,
Its grace and beauty, its kindness…
Erasing every doubt, all suspicion
With the promise of a peace so startling
It surpasses all understanding
This is the gift of Christmas…
Knowing Him
Who is with me, filling me
With hope, faith and love
The light that sings joy
The warmth that burns
Through the doubts, coloring life
In an embrace of spiritual tranquility!
A BRIAN STRAND PREMIERE CHOICE no 54 Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Brian Strand
December 11, 2022
Imagine a black velvet curtain
Pinholed to allow specked light
Now imagine that same curtain
Endlessly stretching out of sight
And there you have the immense
Velvet blackness of outer space
In which I hang and float seeing
That speckled velvet any way I face
I suppose I am that lucky man
To know the exact second he will die
No single second longer possible
No matter how or what I try
For the oxygen of life is finite
In my cocooned fragile suit of death
I can rest here calm and unmoving
And so harvest every single breath
Or I can thresh and move and panic
Burn up my allowance fast
Never quite sure which breath
May be the next to last
I am speaking my thoughts slowly
There is so much I want to say
And I hope oh how I hope
I will be found some day
And maybe then just maybe
Some descendant may know
How much I loved life
And how I loved her so
I am that one lucky man
Of our ship crew of five
The only one still here
The only one still alive
Routine maintenance inspection
Left me suited spaceside and in luck
The only one to survive the hit
When that unknown object struck
My thoughts are now recorded
I am reconciled and at peace
I shall open this seam soon to cold cold space
And so choose my own moment of release
Cruel fate is perhaps a considerate friend
Allowing me the when to make my own end
Imagine a black velvet curtain
Pinholed to allow specked light
Now imagine that same curtain
Endlessly stretching out of sight
Pathetic (poem)
i fear I am incredibly pathetic.
That the heart I carry is too swollen with sorrow
so heavy, it sinks me beneath the tide of feeling.
Emotion is not a storm I weather,
but a sea I drown in,
slowly, silently.
I’ve grieved for months since the accident,
still haunted by echoes of a moment that fractured time.
The days bleed together
a blur of aching mornings and restless nights.
Pain lingers in my bones like winter,
unmoving, unwelcome, but nonetheless, familiar.
Healing, for me, is not a sunrise.
It is the itching thaw of frostbitten skin, painful, sluggish, inevitable.
And still, I press forward,
not for glory, but for gravity
for something greater than my trembling frame.
The world spins on
indifferent, relentless.
Hours blur like traffic lights in rain,
a carousel of chaos,
never slow enough for rest,
never fast enough to escape.
So I paint my lips red,
kiss the mirror like it’s a goodbye,
and laugh, not because I’ve found joy,
but because the cruelty of the world
demands defiance.
I smile. I manifest better days.
And they come
soft, golden, fragile.
But always shadowed
by the dread of another fall.
I fear I am incredibly pathetic.
-Haven Basford
Toppled by a bottle, collapsed upon
her painful past, asleep—but well awake!—,
unmoving, but for her mind stirred aquake,
the girl is yawning before her black dawn.
Alone, couched by a burning blanket drawn
over a conscience guilty at the stake,
slipping into the sly hands of the snake,
she sees not clearly the sickening con
which lures her slowly to her deathly state.
Unknowingly, she’s dozing, edging deeper
into the dreamrealm, into the hazy
murk of the promised land.
Her name was Daisy—
until, unexpected, said the reaper,
“Poor thing… if only you could now change fate.”
Out of the long exhaust of measured years,
Out of the weight no calendar can prove,
I speak in verse because plain speech is bruise
And rhythm is the way my breathing moves.
The world is loud with ordinary tongues;
My quiet truth must travel clothed in flame.
I am not broken for the words I choose,
Nor weak because my language bends like light.
If others trade in coin of common sound,
I spend my wealth in syllables of nerve.
The cost is high. The silence heavier still.
Yet this is how my battered compass points.
I am so tired—yes—bone-deep, star-deep tired,
With years that press like stones against the lungs.
My heart hangs low with unwept centuries,
With things too dense for ordinary speech.
And still I rise each dawn to shape my breath
Into a line that does not disappear.
I was not cast in molds of easy make.
My mind runs rivers others cannot ford.
But I have crossed my dark by using sound
As bridge and shelter, weapon and embrace.
What others call strange, I name survival.
What others doubt, I live as daily proof.
I do not ask to be as others are—
The asking cost me more than I could pay.
I ask instead for one unmoving truth:
That I may rest without surrendering fire.
That tired hands may still be honorable hands.
That heavy hearts are not defeated hearts.
Beyond this weight, beyond these failing years,
Somewhere the quiet gathers what we give.
And even now, though worn by storm and time,
I keep the one possession not yet bent:
I am the keeper of my inward voice.
I am the measure of my chosen words.
My body may be weary unto dust—
But still my meaning stands, and still I stand.
While in the moonlit night he stood, his crew below asleep,
the captain gazed with knowing eyes upon the ocean deep.
A sinister tranquility was fleeing in the path
of moaning wind grown resolute in showing forth its wrath.
The moon, a pale pearl paradox, stared calmly down at him.
Then angry clouds obscured its face and everything was dim.
Behind the captain’s knowing eyes, his thoughts had grown astray.
They took him to another place where once he used to play.
He stood among the acres of unmoving solid ground,
where waves became tall stalks of grain the wind blew all around.
The first of many undulations crashed onto the ship.
He pictured rippling golden wheat and felt his vessel dip.
The men, awakened, clamored now. He prayed their deaths be swift
and gripped the wheel to navigate a ghastly forceful lift.
Imagining hot prairie sun, he viewed the huge cold swell
that came to bury them. . . and closed those eyes that knew too well.
Written years before it was posted here at Soup on 6/6/2010
Submitted 8/26/2022
for Mark Toney's 2022 Poetry Marathon Mile 13 Poetry Contest
I am in stealth-mode today, sneaking from place to place, unwilling to be stopped or recognized.
My cocker spaniel has honored this in absolutely no way, not recognizing this new improved sneaky side of my me-ness.
I have slipped in and out of rooms, not making eye contact, where I stand motionless, listening, unobserved, unnoticed, hearing noises I had never heard before, noises meant for today only.
I creep into my husband’s office. I am dressed from neck to feet in black, I am not wearing a helmet or a veil, but I have cautioned my burgundy hair to keep quiet.
I stand for a second, watching my man, on the other side of the room. He is wearing headphones, looking down, at something probably not as interesting or stealthy as me on his desk.
Suddenly my awful side urges me to open my eyes wide and push my mouth into full blown wide-open mid-gallop, knowing what will happen.
Full stealth now, I pray the dog does not notice me and enter.
I know the instant he has spotted me standing there in full-blown-not-quite-rigor-but-almost-as-scary attention, unmoving, stealth-mode.
He jumps a foot.
Why do you do that? He asks me.
Making me laugh.
I'm a prisoner of time
A prisoner of space
Only able to exist in
This non existent place.
On a safari through time
Back to the Dinosaur days
To observe and to study
Many Dinosaurs ways
Enclosed in a force field to
Avoid Contamination there
I stupidly stepped outside
To smell and sample the air.
I stood on a plant so
It couldn't feed a bee
And the ripple down effect
Removed existence from me.
Not really still alive
Yet not really dead
Non existent in the future
Just stuck here instead.
Unmoving in time and
Unmoving in space
I've become the shade
That haunts this place.
Just a prisoner of time
Just a prisoner of space
Only able to exist in
This non existent place.
I've never cried as much as I did last night
The crime scene was not a pretty sight
Seeing her lying there unmoving with her blue eyes open wide
I didn't want to investigate the murder of this child
What I wanted was to run away and hide
But when I looked again, I plucked up enough courage and crouched down to check if I was seeing right
And I balked at the sight of every huge bite
The ugly marks on her arms and neck had sliced open her smooth soft skin
Dried blood covered most of her chin
I clenched my fists
And felt a deep burn penetrate my wrists
Finally, I mustered up enough courage to touch her silky hair
And I found a significant clue hidden right there
In the tangles of her long dark hair
A tiny weeny pearl
And I knew who had done this to my little girl