Long Unpolished Poems
Long Unpolished Poems. Below are the most popular long Unpolished by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Unpolished poems by poem length and keyword.
Stirred.
Blurred.
Deferred.
A haze of thoughts.
In the raw.
Unprocessed unpolished.
Ethereal feral.
Impulses really.
I might drown.
A sea of ambiguity.
Random content
in my private universe.
At times, I can’t be bothered.
At times, I want them loud and clear.
At times, I want to scream and be heard.
Ofttimes, in time that can’t be rushed,
ofttimes, so deep they must be mined,
my words must form within a forge.
I capture what takes shape and worth,
from medleys of thoughts sublime
that seize their moments; coming forth
to shine as lines when flames combine.
I cannot say, before their time is ripe,
the fullness of my thoughts, voiced without fear.
I'll wait a while for words that set alight,
that frame them, read aloud for all to hear.
To capture rhyme, and then to set in place
as treasured memories of grief or joy.
To speak my mind with clarity and pace
in metered euphony that I'll employ.
Now, heard aloud, at last I say my part;
what's written need not die without a voice.
Once polished, may it then be known as Art?
The verdict will be in the critic's choice.
And so I write -- so that I will not die
without a voice for all I could not say.
Unburdened and uncluttered, let me fly
full-fletched in colours, darting into day.
AP: 1st place 2022
Collaboration with Kirk Tierney - based on my poem 'Writing Is How I Connect'
A touch of fur on the orient sea is what I long to be
A rose blush in ice crush is the sunshine of my pen
Mirror of certainty, wander through the fire, bring me the key
As the dark is near, calling through a parasite’s depth again
Midnight silence is my starry sky amid my broken heartstrings
But then, I sat unto my bed, weighing all my wheels of carved pages
Then I looked outside, whispered something sweet to dusty cold things
With my step on start, shadows ride well with the smoke of my golden ages
Tears on default, with doves on assault, I’d lie for my sanity to hold
This cold night brought me to the vein of my deep pit, I just can’t let go
It has dug unto something delicate part of my emotions untold
And so, my skin has been peeled and the darkest blood overflow
Sound of life’s unpolished, hidden gold has vanished
And again, and again, sunrise is being punished
May 1, 2021
“Midnight Sonnet”
When the chandeliers shattered, we did not stop.
The velvet faded first, then the gilded mirrors,
then the faces of the people who paid to watch us float.
It is easy to move when the world is watching -
when the floor is polished, and the lines are clear.
Anyone can waltz under a brilliant sun.
Then, the quiet room swallowed the light,
and the floor became an ocean of pitch.
In the dark, your face was the first thing I lost.
I could no longer prove you were beautiful.
I could no longer check if you were looking back.
There was only the sudden, violent weight of your pulse
pressed against the center of my palm -
the singular proof that I was not alone.
The panic was a cold stone in my throat.
To take a step into absolute blackness
is to demand that the earth meet your foot halfway.
We stumbled. You bruised my ankle;
I tore the hem of your coat.
The rhythm degraded into something raw, unpolished,
stripped of all the graceful lies we rehearsed.
We stopped dancing for the audience, for the music,
for the fragile illusion of control.
We danced to prove that two people,
lost together,
are no longer truly lost.
The dark does not ruin a dance; it reveals it.
It strips away the performance until only the structure remains -
two bodies, breathless and terrified;
proving that a blind fall
held tightly enough,
holds more beauty in its terror
than perfection ever knew.
It was sunny the day our hearts broke away.
A decade has passed—but some wounds ignore clocks.
The news bloomed like bruises on a nation’s chest.
Shoreham stood still.
Time forgot how to move.
Eleven men.
Men of mornings and small routines.
Lunchboxes. Laughter. Motorbikes.
Some had children. Others were children—still.
And one…
one kept wildflowers on his phone.
Too shy to say, “This made me think of you.”
There’s no symmetry to this grief.
It leans sideways and doesn’t apologise.
It smells like engine oil and funeral flowers.
It hums in the throat of widows and mothers,
grows moss in the cracks of pub tables,
clings to the wings of the plane that didn’t stop.
Somewhere, a bottle of red remains uncorked.
Somewhere, a bike rests against a wall no one will move.
Somewhere, wildflowers still bloom—
and someone remembers
the man who loved flight,
but stayed grounded
for everyone but himself.
Still.
Author’s Note:
For the eleven lives lost on 22 August 2015 at Shoreham:
Dylan Archer, Richard Smith, James Mallinson, Mark Trussler,
Matt Jones, Matthew Grimstone, Jacob Schilt, Daniele Polito,
Tony Brightwell, Mark Reeves, Maurice Abrahams.
You are remembered.
Dear Editor,
I won’t let you stand on my throat—
Stifle my compassion,
Weigh down my shoulders
With a chip — not sweet like chocolate,
But sharp like ice.
Not from the old block,
But cracked from the freeze
You placed in my bones.
You guillotine my fire
And return me only grief.
Dear Editor,
I know your job is important—
But is it louder than the truth
That begs to be heard?
Just because a stanza doesn’t touch you,
Or it ends without rhyme or convention,
Does that make it any less real?
Dear Editor,
Please see the substance beneath the design.
We poets are crucified
For daring to call out—
For letting our voices
Tremble, burn, and bleed.
Dear Editor,
I once wrote about loss
So heavy, it cracked the sky.
A plane fell — and a friend was gone.
And I wrote it raw.
And I sent it whole.
And it came back with silence.
Maybe the timing was wrong,
But the pain was right.
Dear Editor,
I beseech you:
Look into your heart,
And look at the piece.
Admire the craft,
But let truth ring through.
Then maybe more of the unheard,
The undervalued,
And the unpolished
Will shine, too.
" ONE MORE TIME "
Stale and innocent I close my eyes.
Unpolished bones inside.
I mock my dreams, in hope I find reality.
I swim like streamers near an undying sea.
STALE ............
INNOCENT against a stetson smell.
I CLOSE the door that circulates my emotions.
MY EYES, allergic to the the smallest particles of your lies.
UNPOLISHED beauty, that can't be seen with the naked eye.
BONES INSIDE shiver like no other.
I MOCK the same words, over and over. ((I LOVE YOU))
MY DREAMS keep me from fading.
IN HOPES I wake up to feel more alive.
I FIND REALITY when I close my eyes.
I SWIM LIKE the open sunrise.
LIKE, the moon you come and go.
STREAMERS NEAR and far, move real slow.
AN UNDYING SEA, I just want to fall and jump right back in.
BY;PD
Past the hour when the clock stops ticking,
the mind begins its quiet, solitary work.
The barriers of the afternoon collapse,
leaving only the raw, unpolished thoughts
that are too heavy to carry in the sun.
In these blue and hollow hours,
memories do not arrive as warnings;
they arrive as soft, persistent echoes,
reverberating against the walls of the mind
like rain trapped inside a hollow valley.
The world believes the dark is empty,
but it is crowded with unanswerable questions.
We trace the geometry of our regrets on the ceiling,
weaving ourselves into the fabric of the night,
until the first cold thread of morning pulls it all apart.
A Look Back at Eighteen Months Here-The Show is Over
When your poems reside in a shoe,
like mine,
pounding the pavement to nowhere.
The onset of blisters isn't imagined.
Those blisters take roots,
hindering your motivation
to move-
and to continue to write.
It hurts.
Seeing those poems take residence
in pity.
Sans the
comfort of
leather and lace,
shine and sole,
all of which would have been nice.
But all my eyes see are my poems,
tucked away in worn loafers,
unpolished,
unnoticed.
Not exactly eye candy.
But eyesores ...judging by the lack of views, here.
And undoubtedly my shoes made of synthetics
and sneakers
to the purveyors of good poetry
and good shoeshine.
I look down for good reason,
defacto
and stigmatized,
no contest wins,
no poems ever in the top 100 (new) list,
no scent of roses (or views),
nothing.
Nothing.
An abyss of sublimity,
save for the white bird
that chirps
to nobodies ears.
To wit.
For he who signs up for this site
got a handful of mixed emotions,
confetti less tomorrows,
a begotten rah, rah,
a ladle of spiel,
poems published ...
and in my case alone footnote
that I was a member
sans the shoe shine.
I really have to admit,
writing here,
eighteen months now,
has taken its toe.
I have no one to blame but myself.
Kind Regards,
connie pachecho
4/26/2018
The proprietor of the show has decided to call it quits, citing mental health issues here. The posse of black bears got to me. The guises, pretense, and hate towards me eroded my spirit. Tell her she can play with my insanity but not my spirit. To my readers, I really appreciate your patronage during this journey here even though the crops are bare and the barn fronts a blank stare.
The cows fight with the pigs, and bacon went to waste. One thing I take is the seed in me to aspire elsewhere, which I've already planted at HP under the name Logan Robertson. Thanks again. Wish everybody the best.
*** RATE THE BATTLE ***
Rate your pain, they always want to know,
On a scale of one (least) to ten (worst — “like hell,” they say),
Although, I think, that should be reversed, because at
One, first, this pain is anguishing; wanting to be foremost;
Rooted under everything.
I see a numbered One level pain as insipid, blocking out life —
Like an iceberg
Able to sink a ship; with there being
One, only one way eyes feel when popping out from such pain;
One level of invasive emotional or physical pain that
Makes the soul groan and
The lips try to repeatedly keep their shortened breaths
Whispering, “Lord have mercy. Christ have mercy. Lord…”
At One, or Ten (by their scale again now), I refuse
To imagine even a peek into hell.
I refuse to walk on a bed of flaming embers. Blut, at
Nine, I might lay bare on a bed of unpolished, sharply-cut lapis,
Trying to picture some promise of miraculous beauty
Underlying the monstrous pain.
A Nine would keep me in a self-induced trance of complete
Stillness,
Holding my breath, before I’d let it consume all my humor; and
I’d try, yet again, to find praises in the suffering;
Wherein, too, Faith in God can bring the strength and hope
To survive the scales of pain
In favor of the whole spirit’s long on-going,
Felt rise in gratitude.
(Deut. 9: 1-3)
————————————————————————————-
(c) sally young eslinger 12/10/2022
Thanks be to God…
Twenty came to town eighteen will go home,
two drained of blood left in a vacant tomb;
Since we are planning to stay for a while
it’s critical we keep a low profile;
An unpolished gem unkept and ignored,
save the eye catching phrase above the door;
Rickety sign read ‘Black Heart Masquerade’,
this building truly could use an upgrade;
So much history in the chandelier,
old fashioned elegance everywhere;
Vampire eyes so much older than these walls,
time to feast on the mayhem of a ball;
A perfect disguise let’s create a brand,
we’ll rebuild this lounge that was abandoned.
Waking up before the sun kisses
Chirping of birds becomes brushed aside
Putting glasses to see better
With unpolished shoes I ride over
With an old beg of mine
Keeping some old books inside
The rusted passage let me in
I walk through a road edged with topiary
as if golden hedges welcome me
The old corridor embraces my stomping footsteps
Holding a chalk to create and defend
I march into battle ground cum temple of knowledge
Keeping all agonies behind the doorway
A warrior devotes to serve the future
An oath to fire up extinguishing lamps
And to nourish the saplings till they grow
Time rushes with greying hairs and vivid memories
But the grown up trees reminds me to keep going