Long Unready Poems
Long Unready Poems. Below are the most popular long Unready by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Unready poems by poem length and keyword.
The homeless are not unskilled.
The homeless are not unlearned.
The homeless are not indolent.
The homeless are not lackluster.
The homeless are not those unready to embrace the dawn.
The homeless are not hesitant to walk into the daylight.
The homeless are not feeble or sleep-drunk.
They are not oblivious to the voice that speaks in the tranquil night.
The homeless are not afraid to journey into the unknown.
They are not uncalled or undesirous of a new beginning.
They are not frail-gifted.
They are the unprivileged.
They are those who have faced unfortunate circumstances.
They are the voiceless.
They are armed but unshielded.
They are a dim light waiting to shine.
They are those in the depths of the stygian night.
They are those seeking the stars to illuminate their long night.
December 31, 2025.
The times have fallen hard now, to scenes played on 'unmade' roads
Without my volition, and despite intentions, goals;
Indifference took precedence; a lust of life was part,
The key to understanding then, as now,Was placed a piece apart;
Carousing life held quietude.?
Whilst roles to play stood by, as unready future partner,
For when times would come rushing, all arrived..!
I've striven with understanding, and carried in part its lode,
Found 'light years' were really heavy... .’
Did some things that I was shown.
Now still I face an uncertain future, as a world in conflict roils,
Self-interest & self-importance, still… the poison in its ‘coils.’
I have observed full many persons from cooks, to magistrates...
Who have introduced first their credentials,
The institutions they'd attended, then put on the desk their brass name plate.
No, the magistrates, not the cooks..!
I’ve seen it happen thus, and I see it with world leaders, and the media making fuss..!
The Olympic Torch was taken to heaven; yes they showed it on TV..'
I wondered at the gestures value, for Gods sun gives all the light we need?
Still I 'spose he must have seen it, and all the 'special peoples' smiles,
WOW look at what mankind’s achieved yet still raw conflict boils..!
Perhaps a little more understanding..? And a lot more less of 'ME'
Coupled with acceptance of human mortality, and His death upon the tree..!
©Joe Maverick 30-11-2013
Jesse Forbes
1893 – 1911
Black Canyon.
Now, there was a place to be!
It is true I was born a brute in a Quaker Town.
Born a bad-tempered brute of a boy
In the two-room digs on Bailey Street and Comstock..
My father fathered two other families,
Unbeknownst to his wife..
And I was the first one disowned.
But my father was a great believer,
And I loved the man like a fool.
I took up the milkin’ business at fourteen,
And made my morning way from Orange Drive down to Penn Street.
Delivering the dozens of clinking milk bottles.
Delivering the dozens of morning salutations,
To neighbors and friends in the glad and dismal days.
I had but one romantic interlude in my short stay,
Just one futile attempt at Carpe Diem.
But was left slapped and standing by a disheveled Ethel Hurst
There in the dark shade of Black Canyon
That inauspicious August day in 1910.
Ethel Hurst did not accept the entreaties of a 17 year old brute.
Did not accept my wild stares
Or my insanely puckered lips.
It was to my surprise that I died.
Died so young and so unready.
Still desiring the perfumed kisses of Ethel Hurst,
Still desiring her heart-quenching embraces,
There, in the dark shade of Black Canyon.
Butter the toast, butter knife, bread.
blue plate, no sunlight, short-sighted blue night,
electric rings of silence.
Breakfast is slow,
not that hungry but there is honey
and I am lonesome in a tired body.
Soon, hands will press the tabletop,
will rise up, push up to lace-up walking shoes,
enter the coming light
that unsteady, unready light
with its slippery yo-yo gleams,
enter it all; the concrete hills,
the leaf and branch, the cast-up legs
of the still twitching,
the buoyant tumbling of the living,
the pumped-up throats
of the starry-eyed singers,
enter it fully, growing less unlikely,
enter myself as an unrepentant prodigal son
returning home.
They are older now of course,
even their fat tabby cats are living longer,
contrarywise, the world is younger,
the world has caught a disease,
the sky is getting closer to the ground,
and the ground gives way.
They are older and more lost now,
few are ever found living in the day,
though their gandering minds
will remind you precisely
of the weather on any Wednesday
in March, forty years ago.
The cities are almost empty of them,
they have been removed
to further outskirts,
parts given new names,
since the end of those alien wars.
They have forgotten the horror,
forgotten,
their shocked, unready husbands,
sons and daughters,
that ran toward the ravening monsters.
We were all unready,
the government, and the military
fell apart in days,
in the end we prevailed
with bolt-action rifles, knives and axes,
even our clawing hands.
We used to call the old ones,
Alzheimer patients,
they live in a world not yet drenched
with the blood-soaked gore
of our own memories -
how we envy them.
Who Are You
What is your name?
Is it a crime to speak it out, loud?
Will someone come,
from somewhere to here…
because we are too piercing,
even as we whisper?
The name of God.
The holy name of the Lord.
Places they kill you just to breathe,
the air of a new idea.
Love over hate,
Weapon-ized by deceivers that draw out,
those they can beat on, in front of others.
The world watches, as many are marched away.
Cells waiting, what else is in store?
Death surely.
Silence the voice,
of truth, before others hear.
Keep it in a box,
so all will fear.
You are foolish.
It is like water and finds a way.
You can not stop the living stream.
It moves across the land,
one soul to another,
Until “He” comes.
Those unready,
will drown.
Written, thinking of Hong Kong.
Prayers for those that were marched off into the darkness.
China ... all eyes are upon you...
You rose on the backs of others,
now we will see,
if you mean to break them,
or thank them?
Alas, those days are gone! So long Argentina!
Deprived by vaccine law! Must do or be fool-dead!
Viral fear so rapid, the gene-techs’ in fast rev
Ending the long debate, big pharm governs mandates!
No talk of tried and true, gene-play is in fashion
Though it has been decades, with research showing naught
Usurping panic won, in careful thought’s adieu
RNA induction, into cells muscular
Everyone producing, proteins of a microbe!
Spike me with this logic, for I’ll become hostess
Stranger no more to me, I make the antigens!
Of nucleic acid shots, none are like polio…
Now the scientific fad’s gene manipulation
Even in infant phase, unready for the stage!
(12/21/2021: Meridian 342 Bethel Island)
I found Richard today -
November the Third.
Isn’t that just like Richard?
I don’t know.
I can’t say.
He died a fortnight-plus ago.
I never knew him.
I never gave him time.
To know me.
To show me.
How to know me.
And by him, through me,
perhaps to know him.
And you.
He is no longer a Thing of This World.
Our second laureate,
my latest regret.
And I’m late to even this: coming to regret
my being late to come to him.
To come to his.
And now it's come to this.
It’s come to he’s gone.
I’m settled into the far-back;
into a window seat,
of my own making
on a love airline,
not of my own making -
or buying.
Though, its true, we don’t buy our seats.
We lease our place.
And when another pays
the costs are borne by all,
all the same.
Everyone pays for their place,
And their time in their place.
I finally sorted my self into a sort of place -
this seat; but also this head-space to write
to Richard.
I’ve no connection to the far below world,
despite the gregarious partygoers strewn all around
the nearby seats.
I’m thirty-three thousand feet up and I’m up above the Sandia
which is another mile up.
So, call it 40 K.
No signal and its days after I began this poem,
which was begun a remorseful dozen few years
after I might’ve opened myself to whatever this
obit. writer wrote. What he lent the world.
No, what he gave. He lent the world his place in it.
He left his poetry. A sole Lasting in the Everlasting
Never Lasts. Nothing Lasts, they say.
So, now that I am ready (Itself an insult to the man.)
I fly, in joy, through skies and find I am yet again
Unready. Remorse is the microscopic stress fracture in
the airplane wing.
Enough distance, enough disconnect, enough stress.
and the Whole Thing comes apart.
I already regret what I never once met.
There are moments
When I don’t know how to pray
There are moments
When I don’t know what to say
There are moments
When doubt and worry get in the way
There are moments
When I can’t see the light of day
These quiet moments
When silence echoes on my soul
These dark moments
When despair forms a sinkhole
These pensive moments
When worries seem to control
These sober moments
When love is the only thing to console
That is the time – the moments
When I feel like my heart is greedy
For the love and joy and peace
That colors me in hues that are so needy
For the light that falls on my spirit
Pulling me through all those unready
Things that bring my heart strife
Like a garden who is flourishing but weedy
These are the moments when I cry
Because my heart is so filled with doubt
That I linger in the temptation to strive
For the comfort and relief poured out
From a heavenly Father who knows my sorrow
And fills me with inspiration all about
The wonder and beauty of His love and peace
The light that lingers inside with a shout
Of joy that comes from finally knowing
God is alive, pouring out rain across the drought
These moments come to remind me why
I have a peace amid the worry I can’t deny
That is the reason why I always try
To hold onto the One who always will supply
Hope, faith and unending grace that will dry
All of my tears with a love on which I can rely
A man reached me at the market that day.
He lifted two handcrafted seats on his head.
He urged, "Won't you buy my chairs?" Today.
Nobody took my chairs. All moved instead.
I recall helping others with daily duties in life.
If you find a poor partner, avail him in strife.
None are so flush that they might not borrow.
The fate of the poor may be our lot tomorrow.
Look, these are the best things I have made.
Please buy my seats. I slum my children frayed.
He seems gloomy. This person is my age.
Words nag me. I gave him cash and change.
I echo helping others, even when being mean.
Do not judge your pal's deep suspicions, lean.
No fine, people can avoid shame or misery.
Lift others in the race for a swathe of glittery.
I replied, "I need one seat, but sell the rest."
Kids are waiting, and I wish you all the best.
Thrusting his hands to pray, I was unready.
For me, it was an incomer with tears already.
I never lost the venting of the chair salesman.
It may not be a lot to exalt others when we can.
If it turns on a brother, do not let envy ruin it.
We pray for each other's rightness, joy, and grit.
Written: November 28, 2022