Long Unsparing Poems
Long Unsparing Poems. Below are the most popular long Unsparing by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Unsparing poems by poem length and keyword.
Mind is racing
Limbs are aching
I feel the end is nigh
All alone in night unending
Time a torturous lie.
Brain fermenting
Thoughts fragmenting
Shatter in glass shards
Fingers soon to dust returning
Hold fast my deck of cards
Fear is mounting
Heart is pounding
I know the end is nigh
My sight long gone, still I see
Those shards light up the sky
Children laughing
Old friends calling
From a distant shore
Mem’ries of a life unsparing
And a time that is no more
The time it passes,
through the darkness
With teeth so sharp pain bites
Missive from cassandra spinning
Prophecy I cannot fight.
Life and loving
True belonging
No more need I pretend
Gave life a go, decried its blows,
My hand I played to the very end.
Panic’s funny if it’s explained in rhyme.
I’m at a brite, swank, corporate event
summarized by its unexceptional
atmosphere - so I put on my watch face
- hanging back, an observer in the pack.
Fitting in is emotional labor
I couldn’t be more chilled - there’s a ‘work’ me,
who knew? Like a LinkedIn survival skill.
It must be a very recessive gene.
Adulthood happens without my consent,
like old iTunes agreements no one read.
Sooner or later we must all face the
unsparing proposition of working
- the need beneath it is adult and real.
Not money, in my case, something bigger,
something I must approach indirectly.
The wheel of life may spin quite wildly, but
ultimately, it lands on consequence
.
.
A song for this
kid by everything but the girl
kid by the pretenders
The air shimmered, a wavering mirage,
Heatwaves rippling through the afternoon,
A furnace blast, relentless and fierce.
Shadows retreating, thin as whispers,
Concrete burning underfoot,
Even the cicadas silenced, stunned by the blaze.
Mirrors of light, cruel and blinding,
Sky a bleached canvas, stark and hollow,
Leaves curling, thirsting, brittle to touch.
Breath searing, every inhalation a shock,
Sweat beads forming, reluctant to cool,
The sun an unyielding overlord, unsparing in its gaze.
Silent streets, deserted, still,
Nature hiding, subdued by the glare,
This unexpected inferno, a summer’s merciless grip.
beyond earnest vows
and doting promises
our love will last
forever and a day
yet all avid promises
are one day shattered
in spite of best intentions
sometimes I hear its thunder
it’s in the quiver of his voice
the shiver of his nightmares
the shudder in his fearful eyes
the feeling of helplessness
over his body convulsing
inevitable visits to the oncologist
vital treatments and aftershock
unsparing reminders we are not immortal
it’s the pain of growing wings
the price to pay for crossing over
till then…
the promises feel real
every day a gift and blessing
a promise is a promise
in this realm or the next
AP: Honorable Mention 2022
Submitted on May 31, 2020 for contest THE PROMISE sponsored by SILENT ONE - RANKED 2ND
With a deliberated ruse; she washed its tiny face with a soft washcloth.
With no resistance, she enfolded the wee infant into a swaddling cloth.
In the Autumn equinox, she placed the tiny form in the simple wooden box.
She watched them perform their antiquated burial tradition, and then she returned to the loose gray dirt.
She then headed home with a secret beneath her skirt.
Earlier during the dim of the day, while they were seeking each other for comfort.
And while superficial prayers were offered up with great effort.
She blew breath into the tiny mouth and massaged its tiny smooth chest.
And by the grace of God, the tiny infant was blessed.
Madame Blackwell by virtuous askew created a makeshift bundle and made a switch.
Her deed made unnoticed without a glitch.
No regret manifested in her heart.
No transient sorrow, in place was a spiritual upstart.
For retribution was pacified and made whole.
There was a righteous mood in her soul.
Justice was done.
For her, the sun's unsparing glory shone radiantly on her and her son.
She once wore white like a promise unspent,
lace veils fluttering with tomorrow’s breath.
Now the mirror shows a woman halfbent,
counting empty rooms where love met death.
The house she lost still stands in memory’s lane
walls that echoed laughter, then screams, then silence.
Dishes left in anger, doors slammed in vain,
a tongue like winter wind, sharp with defiance.
Friends whispered warnings she never could hear,
“Soft words build bridges; sharp ones burn them down.”
She answered with fire, with pride, with a sneer,
until even the hearth refused her crown.
Children visit on weekends, eyes full of questions,
polite little strangers learning not to ask why.
She smiles too brightly, hides the infections
of regret that bloom when the curtains draw high.
At night the bed feels wider than oceans,
no arm to anchor her storm-tossed soul.
The shame arrives dressed in quiet devotions
a ghost in the kitchen, a weight in the bowl.
She waters dead plants out of stubborn habit,
feeds stray cats that won’t stay for her hand.
Once queen of a kingdom, now beggar of habit,
learning too late what a woman must understand:
A home is not built by the strength of her will,
nor kept by the fire she refuses to tame.
It crumbles when kindness is left on the sill,
and character’s cracks let the cold enter in.
She carries the blame like a stone in her chest,
not for the leaving, but for how it began
the slow, unseen poison of words unblessed,
the woman who broke what she swore to defend.
Yet dawn still comes, cruel in its mercy,
lighting the ruins she once called her own.
Shame is a teacher, harsh and unsparing;
perhaps, in its shadow, a wiser seed’s sown.
Trenches
By Nathan Hannen
I look at the moon, Unaffected by superiority of height
With another bang a mortar explodes nearby, Loss of sight
Now the rain begins drenching our fragile souls, Never right
The silence only separated by human cries and terrific pain
The machine guns volley their assaults, Again more slain
On this pointless stage of war enemies hit hard and we are insane
As this terrible era of death continues, Our souls flood
The soldiers faces look blank and scared, Covered in mud
The scars of war cut deep inside me, Another dud
The attacks continue in their unrelentlessness, Our bodies are scattered
With downward spiraling thoughts and morale, The collective heart is shattered
Rain and mud combine to seep our energy, Blown apart, Sinews splattered
I pray this oblivion will cease, My hand touches my heart
This single thought racing in my mind, Of green silent fields and a fresh start
Bodies flung to the side with nowhere to hide, I have played my part
Amid confusion and chaos the noise stops, An all too familiar sign
Onward the enemy thrusts, Forcing us, Cries of pain, Resign
Many thoughts extinguished and expired, Except mine
Bayonets of unsparing mercy pierce us, The men I knew, Cut in half
The mind witnessing the the body laying still, An escape path
Then up with true strength we rise, With built up anger and wrath
Soldiers forgotten like the falling rain, Their souls, A battle long gone
I march forward, One track mind, It won't be long
The End.
Form:
I grew up on a farm
that was often boring, despite its charm.
As a form of detox
I loved to go on walks,
ignoring my mom's talks
for I knew she was scared, I'd come to harm.
It's scary by yourself,
I felt I might meet the Devil himself.
But, that never stopped me
I wanted to roam free
where no one else would be
and in winter, I'd sneak out by myself.
On my way home, I'd go
past a cemetery shrouded in snow.
Rumored to hold a curse
some say, involves a hearse
and locals fear the worse
for strange sounds get heard when winter winds blow.
Once, I felt unsteady
and couldn't pass; I just wasn't ready.
There's nothing I could prove
but I was scared to move,
and things didn't improve
though I should've been back home already.
And then I saw mom's light,
never has there been a more welcome sight.
Though her eyes were glaring
and her tongue unsparing,
her scolding showed caring
and her heart whispered everything's alright.
(Rhyme)
1/7/2018
She lived beside the old temple that has stood
For years on the rocky bank of the silent river
Flowing all through the lining greenery cover ,
The woods and the arable land rich and good ;
Years ago she was the landlady ruler, across
The several hamlets, who doled out for free
What they asked for -grains, clothes in a spree
And never cared for the end - gain nor the loss
It was an abrupt outbreak, an epidemic dreary,
That effaced the strugglers picking by lot ;
The good landlord was the first to be caught ;
For no cause, nor reason he became weary;
Leaving behind his suffering soul sans a child
And all his countless riches for her to cherish ,
He finished his spell with no joy, so to perish
Alas ! the fate what else could be so ,so wild..!
There were mixed feelings and selfish amity
When the folk got more than what they sought
Coaxing the lady with ease and plea distraught
Soon she was homeless, yet in sound sanity,
Serving unbiasedly, the destitute, needy poor
Beyond all her ability and resource limit
But never was there a lapse nor any null remit
As the noble soul dwelt on healing their sore
Decades elapsed since, but for no change;
A slight cry of suffering reaches her soon :
And she rushes to them be it night or noon ;
None forgets that she is on the eighty range
Oh God! how strange are these facets of life!
While some chase far, the void and the futile,
Ever seeking somehow just their needs vile,
Noble beings but breathe for those in strife.
On the dismal day --- recall the rustics around,
She was carried away by the floods too wild,
As she tried and saved a drowning child ,
But lost her stance to the unsparing ground;
Hue and cry ,and searches wide found her not ;
A lamp is lit on the chosen day on her door sill
And many offer their prayers thereabout still :
More for favours than in memory of the spot.
True add verse situation,
whereat me mission
trans send dint state didst ache
after yours truly nearly
did nearly break
chassis 'pon took drastic
over corrective measure,
not quite August,
nor jejune piece of cake,
while rounding raised
curbed contra corner
suddenly felt wrath of wife quake,
viz passenger rear tire
gone flat as a pancake
impresario found myself
hearing Thus Spake,
Zarathustra, when in truth...
twas ma constricted trach.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Some weeks back
acting so cool and chic - bank
king all bravado, machismo
self importance, and frank
lee babbling like a cripple creek
off by a black key with Hank
Williams tune imagining
myself swaggering like a lank
key trump petting Don
(feigning faw being "Beefy") plank
walking lampoon able
laughingstock Freaky, thank
less as a lapsed worn eraser head
pencil necked Geek yank
key doodle dandy hood be
forced to do penance as cap
pit dull leotarded asinine
arthouse flop, where nary any words
(worth their weight in gold)
described my benign
behavior, NOT even
smattering of unflattering deign
nig grating hammock colorful expletives,
that would find an ensign
sailor to blush at my inept
shameless travesty over the line
utter in apropos totally tubularly
moronic juvenile mine
ness zero car raze zee antics,
didst drive my doppelganger nine
tee bajillion miles away in search
of another auto body – pine
ning for newer model
then a 2009 Hyundai Sonata sign
ning off contract with this
stunt driver wannabe
unimpressively try'n
to act the blithe dare devil,
while thee spouse didst wine
and scream more'n bloody Mary
as the gunned axle nearly broke
trying my damn nest to
"FAKE" dagger a type cloak
his husband resembled a fool,
where angels fear to tread didst evoke
unsuccessful, unstinting, and unsparing
unstrung epithets of colorful expletives
unsuitable for poetic folk
boot urgent prayer went out
to incredible Hulk
Hogan, and/or even the ghost
of Andre The Giant, this haint no joke!