Long Unshared Poems
Long Unshared Poems. Below are the most popular long Unshared by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Unshared poems by poem length and keyword.
Two Taurus husbands
intending to nurture shared truths
of Win/Win
organic mind/bodies
engaging Earth's interdependent communion
To discover our conflicting
and often unshared
half-baked thoughts
intentions
anticipations
in articulate and marvelously punctuated language,
rhythm,
lexicon of meta-confluent function
and integrally warm
co-gravitating flow
like butta'
To uncover,
recover,
rediscover
our therapeutic seeds
and traumatic weeds,
cooperative hopes
and conflicting transracial despairs,
repeatedly,
co-passionately,
authentically,
resonantly
and, at last, co-arising
Yummy regenerative treats,
communication strings of ecstatic recreation,
spectral sights
and savory sounds
and bouncy muscular rebounds
of potential co-redemption
Healing,
anticipating rom-com therapeutic curiosity,
resiliently co-engaging discovery
re-connecting beloved EarthTribe communities
re-developing health-wealthy outcomes
Slowly replacing
traumatic stress disorders,
binging on hate crime dramas,
and RightWing atrocities
against sacred EarthMothers
and green innocence
While wintering and withering
deep seated desperation
in life's last retiring
isolated
lonely recliner.
Little bird, what troubles thee
is it the worm in your belly
little bird, what pains thee
is it the worm of misery
is it the bitterness in your heart,
or the offense you can't forgive
is it the anguish that sets you apart,
or the hurt that holds you captive
is it the cancer of bitter love,
or the loss of deserved affection
is it the cruel withdrawal of
his tenderness and compassion
life is much too brief
and youthful love's even briefer still,
your forestalled relief
keeps you from seeing His eternal will
what befalls you
is neither unshared nor a mystery
God sheds His tears for you
in the midst of your painful agony
little bird, what troubles thee
is it the worm in your belly
little bird, what pains thee
is it the bane of misery
Form:
They say walls have ears and listen to the secret whispers of the night,
but have they ever heard my tears, the entwined and broken words,
confessions rising like steam above a heart burning in silence,
while the murmur of pain flows like an unseen river through cracks in cold stone?
If the walls had a voice, they would whisper secret answers in a gentle murmur,
like wind through the branches of a forgotten tree, guiding lost steps in the darkness,
offering me refuge in their soothing song, the stone caress of unshared love,
an echo that soothes the shattered desires of my soul, like a sweet comfort in the night.
As the night lays down like a carpet of black velvet, the shadows grow,
drawing stories only the heart can read, a dance of lost souls,
and if, instead of being silent witnesses to my unrest, they would sing an old lullaby,
I would find the sweet sleep of forgetting, a moment suspended between dream and reality, a gentle refuge.
They say walls have ears, but I wish they had the voice of an eternal friend,
a companion of silence that answers me, calming the storms of my heart with warm whispers,
to be the beacon in the endless night of my solitude, offering solace beyond words,
in a world where only the echoes of desires are heard, whispering the truths I have not spoken.
Her tears fall like rain on a borrowed shore,
A quiet deluge, seeping through seams,
Staining the fabric of a life not hers—
His shirt, his collar, his cuffs worn thin,
Drenched in the salt of a love forbidden.
She weeps for him, the man she holds
In the hollow of her chest, a stolen flame,
A fire that warms her, yet chars her soul.
Each drop a confession, a mute apology,
To a heart that beats for what it cannot claim.
She traces the threads with trembling hands,
His scent a tether, his warmth a ghost,
Her love a river with no mouth to run,
Pooling in silence, drowning her slow.
The wrong woman, they call her—
A thief of glances, a beggar of time,
Yet she gives all, her tears the proof,
A currency spent on a debt unpaid,
Soaking his clothes with her breaking truth.
And then the wife, the keeper of vows,
Lifts the sodden cloth from the basket’s weight,
Her fingers brush the damp of grief not hers,
A stain she cannot name, yet feels too well.
She washes the shirts in a rhythm old,
A ritual of care turned bitter with knowing—
The tears of other women weave through the warp,
Heartbreak stitched into the weft of his wear,
A tapestry of sorrow she scrubs in vain,
For the water runs clear, but the pain remains.
The wife’s hands pause, the suds grow still,
She senses the echo of a stranger’s ache,
A chorus of fractures pressed into his skin—
How many tears have kissed these sleeves?
How many hearts have wept their claim?
She wrings the cloth, and with it, her peace,
The laundry a shroud for a marriage worn thin,
Each tear a thread unraveling trust,
A silent war waged in soap and rust.
The wrong woman cries, the wife washes on,
Two souls bound by the man between,
His clothes a battlefield, soaked and cleansed,
A map of longing, a ledger of loss.
One loves in shadow, one in light,
Yet both bleed red beneath the strain—
Tears that fall, and hands that mend,
A cycle of hurt with no clean end.
For love, unshared, is a wound too deep,
And the shirts he wears bear all they weep.
when she came to us
She spoke very less
Unlike other maid
She was silent
Brows-up seems -
Filled with self respect
My mom tried many ways
To hear her
Atleast once a day
"In her past lives
She might be a princess" -
My mom guesstimate.
Slowly & Slowly as time flies
We heard her voice
Descried her lovely smiles.
She told my mom -
"her spouse left her alone
With one daughter & one son"
I know, it sounds painful
But believe me, very common in slums.
But...
She is an angel
An Angel for my home
An Angel for my mother
An Angel without wings
An Angel without feathers.
She was absent
From last three days
We were tensed
What might be happened?
Finally we came to know -
Heart-rending episode-
At one Black Night
She drank forcefully
By someone, unknown
She was found in the next noon
At the corner of road, laid down
Unconscious and undressed
Undoubtedly she was raped
But who cares?
Her family & neighbours are silent
As nothing happened
'cause it's not new there
Victim may change
But that Black Night
Repeats at very short interval
I know, it sounds painful
But believe me, very common in slum.
Today she came again
Started working in my home
Her smiles & voice vanished
In a box - closed & locked.
Brows-down & silent again
Seems - lost somewhere
In the forest of unshared pain.
Yet she came to help my mother
Now, I am damn sure
She has been sent from heaven
An Angel for my mumm
An Angel from the slum
From Heaven to live in the Hell
She is an Angel
An ANGEL from the HELL
13 March 2018
Poetry contest -Quick Fire Rapid Rhyme
Sponsored by -Brenda Chiri
There are poems that I don’t share,
long contemplative feelings and emotions
held silent in my heart and soul.
They are here in my notebooks,
intermixed but hidden, kept private
from friends, family and would be readers.
We don’t reveal everything about ourselves;
somewhere beneath the surface lies the us we are,
keeping out the world with our secrets.
Some people just can’t help themselves,
transparent beings, angry and pained enough
to let the whole world see.
Revealed outright and openly displayed
all their hurt, heartache and pain,
their deep inner fears and loneliness.
That’s not me – mine is here written down
by pen on paper for me to see,
to know is enough and remains
unshared.
What is this sense of being?
That I am, I have been, I will be-- is it a blessing
to ever feel time's razor edge, gathering its moments in my
memory as a squirrel hoards its seeds and nuts for winter,
food I will eat when my youth has long since melted down?
Or is it a curse other animals are spared: to know that
uncalled day will arrive, rudely, perhaps violently--
the one day we are bred to fear?
Yet for some unshared reason I have never feared that cold
day, that day of burning ice--not as a child, when I sensed it
signaled a return to heaven's luxurious playground, nor as a
young man when I thought dying to be no more than oblivion's mask.
Now I know death is only a sleight-of-hand, a party trick
of that great illusionist, Time, who is itself but a vapor,
a wisp of smoke veiling eternity....
It is just not the way I imagined,
It is just not the way I wanted,
I see life like roller coaster rides,
Turns and twists and hurdles of all kinds,
Loud roaring and the powerful slap of the air,
Shouting and laughing out loud as if any care.
No matter how much you fear,
But you dare to finish the ride.
The end may be strange and weird.
But you are okay and ready for another ride.
Never tell the closest one how you endured,
No one cared, and okay to keep it unshared.
Keep it to yourself even when in your deepest pain,
Folks only desire to seek for their gain.
Just laugh out loud and seem you are the happiest.
She sacrifices herself,
on an altar of secrecy.
Leaving the best of her,
on the cold stone of iniquity!
Hidden behind a smile of "I'm okay",
she says she can't remember yesterday.
Yet those scars on her bitten lip,
have a different message to say.
She shuns her femininity,
the reminder of her misery.
Locked within an artist's mind,
freedom exchanged for insanity!
St. Peter offers some treasured relief.
Yet in her mind she's trapped underneath,
the weight of a man now dead and gone.
Ensnared within her forgiveness belief!
Time doesn't heal,
because she never reaches out.
Frustration expressed, in each strangled shout.
Clinging to the fragments she never talks about.
Pieces of evidence are everywhere,
top to neck clothing and short cut hair.
That once carefree girl who is no longer there.
Now she adheres to rules of right and fair.
Cracking jagged shards bottled up inside.
She doesn't believe her broken needs repair,
sometimes the victim is sadly unaware.
So she occupies the shadow lands of being scared,
relief is elusive for her thoughts remain unshared.
Her a silent prisoner with soul insnared,
sacrificed by a monster who pretended he cared!
Form:
Success in my hand
The power and the glory
On top of the world
I am invincible; me
The little ones left
by the wayside without care
I take what I want
and to hell with their despair
for my life is mine
and I do not care for them
they raised me up high
and now there's no need of them.
their pitiful cries
as they ask for my help; no
they are beneath me
I'm on top of my game; go
they should work harder
for I have attained it all
their jealous actions
they can't wait to see me fall
And fall I did for...
I discarded my support
there was no one left
to encourage through nought
I was abandoned
and fury; my demeanour
for once I had all
but my loss is now keener
struggling to rise up
cannot bear to look, to start
reclusive I am
the world I knew fell apart
avoiding my life
as I sit in the darkness
squandering choices
hiding from my own smartness
and do nothing but
nothing for that catharsis
depression my friend
the filth it stacks up; a mess
I cannot clean it
the will has left, I have stress
no need to arise
There is no appointment set
lay here, die in shame
for a prouder time frames bet
energised to sloth
I have become the mundane
through lust; greed attained
I kept it all, unshared, vain
And wallow in self
My shame defined - reality
To those I have hurt
discarded and used, malady
I need you all now
If only you'd forgive me
but here I sit; spent
I'm denied all connections
and life passes by alone.
25/10/2018 - Edward Ibeh