Long Unspent Poems
Long Unspent Poems. Below are the most popular long Unspent by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Unspent poems by poem length and keyword.
”...things come in three…”
before I look to TV
my stomach sinks
at the idea already
perhaps more news
to darken my day
watch the tide grow
in stains of decay
another horizon
as Atlantis rising
can it be?
”...don’t scare us…”
why, so we can care.less?
and if you don’t think
I’m pro.human
then it’s you
that should come
to the shoreline
hear the innocent
die in the ocean
watch a child cry
from convenience
stores that supply
dried food in a bag
”...here kid…”
have a mc.nugget
moms busy
and so is dad…
we’re working
like we’ve never had
because we don’t
and you won’t either
because there is
no hope for better
so swallow our
rant and our shant
with more want
because the world
is going to sh!t…..
.....
stop it.
unacceptable vent
smells of a slick I cant
oil that soils more
then a gaping vent
designed to crush
our will and intent
fight back…
explore unknowns
rethink the world
how we live
how we ‘own’
rethink
how we learn…
”...grow something…”
for a heal.thy.body
reinvent the weheal
rein in the ‘repent’
learn to value smart
a heart unspent
rethink…
everything.
< 3
Form:
Its been a long time since I’ve felt blissful,
I know I’m the one to shoulder any blame.
Bliss ended long before years turned golden,
too many matters I’ve allowed to inflame.
I’ve always been, for the most part, a loner,
crowds and idle chit chat I’ve tried to avoid.
Married sixty years to the same woman,
Just two D.I.N.K.S. one in need of Freud.
But surveying the past changes nothing,
so musings should focus on time unspent.
But the future holds no aspirations for me,
it’s just about time to take down the tent.
But throughout my life I have been blessed,
faith in God has seen me through each test.
She was just seventeen
The flowers had started blooming
The flower doesn't bloom for itself
It wants to mingle in another breath
The parents scolded heavily
The petals moaned with pain in the veins
The flowers didn't stop blooming
At the pot of seventeen they seldom stop
What's the point in the blossoming
if the scent can't be exchanged
at the intoxicating corridor
with the eyes closing in the blue uproar
of scarlet cascades
Over thousands of blades
The hailstorm was brewing
the moon needed to awake
She was kept confined to her room
School teachers came and counselled
None could feel the heat
None could heal the corporal twitches
Attempt to commit suicide alerted the father
The petals turned nihilist
Was taken to the psychiatrist
Was given anxiolytics
The petals faded, the scent closed the door
The cage revolted for the blue sky
An uncle said he knew a psychoanalyst
Who could deal with the disease deftly
The father agreed and the uncle
accompanied her to the boy friend
The fusion was magnetic
The norwester raged about with lightening
The unspent birds got released in the garden
The buds were keen to return
The depleted river returned too
And the cool full moon sat in the wind
The psychoanalyst then reoriented her thoughts
The uncle gave her woolen friendship
The ship now sailed in the river with blue red and white flags
The viewers on the bank would not even blink their eyes
_______________________________________________________________
March 4, 2018
Random Acts of Kindness - Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Kai Michael Neumann
"Well"
Well,
I’m way too romantic
aren’t I?
Tattoo’d poetry
on a tongue
not
speaking
on a body of work
spent unspent
love let loose
on a deep
French Kiss
tatoo'd poetry
on a tongue
locked in
your everything
diving deep 6
into you
like Persephone
underground
I’d rather be a carwreck
driven 100 mph or more
slammed up against your wall
with purile certainty
fingers entwined
the plot curled, legs twisting
fingers deep
in ink
Well, bursting
I’m deep
like deep Red bells tolling
out there
in that walk on water
ocean of yours
sharks circling
I ride
their sandpaper backs
holding tight onto their quartz fins
their razor sharp teeth
cutting up all my pages
in the in-between
emerged in everything
the losses over
every winning win
the black and white
Orcas circling grin
wolves like words
come to save me
and I am yours
eventually, heaven ridden
Well,
I’m deep
6 ft in
another
4 and 20
blackbirds
risen
Candide Diderot. ‘24
A sliver of horizon, stiff in hand,
it bears no city, street, or promised land.
No inked direction on its back is set,
a silent promise, a forgotten threat.
It is a vessel built without a helm,
a ship adrift in a vast, indifferent realm.
Its message, trapped within the pulp and dye,
a whispered secret passing readers by.
It speaks of all the words we leave unsaid,
the phantom letters in the heart and head.
The “I forgive you” or “I love you too,"
they’d never find their proper avenue.
It is the bridge that ends before the shore,
the key that fits no lock upon the door.
It holds a sunset view, a painted sky,
intended for a specific, single eye.
Its life is one of stillness and of wait,
a transient object sealed by silent fate.
It knows the sender’s hand, the stamp’s brief kiss,
then plunges into the communication abyss.
It lies inside a drawer, or on a shelf,
a lonely testament unto itself.
A metaphor for chances cast away,
a sun-bleached memory of yesterday.
The postal system, in its structured might,
delivers day and navigates the night.
But this card breaks the code, the golden rule,
a rebel item, a stateless, wandering fool.
It mocks the logistics, the sorting machine’s whir,
a phantom address with no destination, sure.
It is the story told to no one’s ear,
a bell that rings where no one is near.
Perhaps its power is in the void it keeps,
the silent promise that within it sleeps.
For while addressed, its journey would be done,
beneath the gaze of a specific sun.
Unaddressed, it belongs to all of us,
this little card, this wordless, world-less fuss.
It carries every possible reply,
a universal, silent, hopeful sigh.
So let it rest, the unaddressed postcard,
a little piece of life we’ve held unbarred
from finality, from being truly sent.
A perfect moment, perfectly unspent.
It is the poem I write that you won’t read,
the planting of a universal seed,
awaiting recipient, could have been,
a memory in time that no one had seen.
I have not the will
If not for anything perhaps everything
Life if there is the real
Can I but ask for one more a dream?
When so little can mean so much
When so much is to mean nothing at all
Life to forever be judged as such
Might death be a relief to applaud?
To have words yet unwise
To have time yet unspent
Humanities to be made for lies
Where did my moments went?
I have truths to belong my own
Yet of lies to speak a better of in truth
Have I a stranger in me unknown?
Yet to have somehow a society a better proof
If life is real
I do not have to dream
Have I the will?
If not for anything perhaps everything
Give none to love, its toxic disarming charm;
obey your mind not your heart;
my dear family and kindred spirit friends;
Nothing refused to love is
wing unspent.
Let your heart go free,
beyond the far horizon,
the abyss of the brain.
Enduring fire,
love is a fire that burns,
everything on its path,
good flame rising to the sky,
requiring courage to
dodge the smoke, the bold master
dictating to follow with untold intent.
Give none to love, hear me, its
demons stealing all grace, unhinged
from logic, unmade by reason.
Let it brag about its scope, the cry
of the beloved, diving into your dream,
the vague promise of salvation, obey
your reason, pity your life, and give none
to love -- one who fractures all deserves
no remorse at all.
But walk freely in museum of love, gingerly
on its bundle of broken hearts littering
its ground.
On the precipice it stands,
loose-limbed with a sinewy grace,
body taut with an implied swagger,
face, grinning, a sun-dappled gold.
Unclouded by the cataract of cynicism,
its eyes survey a horizon heat-hazed with
a thousand promises.
As yet, love has left it with no sutured heart,
nor loss summoned a creeping despair.
By no friend has it yet been betrayed,
from no purpose has it resigned and strayed.
Lies, it has heard, but, believed, cannot hurt.
Ignorant of what it doesn’t know,
it has an ego undented by falls,
not yet weaned from the milk of optimism.
It has yet to learn the vices of body and mind
that take a lifetime to unlearn,
or the discontent sired by desire,
and what it could gain when there’s nothing else it wants,
that wisdom can be glimpsed only by a sobered fool,
yet Sobriety keeps a lonely vigil over a humanity
drunk on hate-filled wine,
and Truth is a far-flung place,
maze-like in black, white and every shade of gray,
that an ideal is oft a shabby lover next to the
painted temptresses sent by Vainglory and Greed,
that too often, in a world of crass appetites,
an angel has to stoop low before it can fly high,
and, thus flying, loses its angelic smile.
It does not yet suspect Fortune’s mischief,
taking us unawares with its games,
demanding that we shuffle in time to the music of whims,
that the love of life is often repaid,
yet sometimes unrequited.
All this Youth has yet to learn.
Pristine, with not a wrinkle on its soul,
it stands on the precipice,
untroubled by hints of the limits of infinity,
emboldened by intimations of immortality.
With wings unfurled,
beaming in the sunlight
for one last time,
it soars wide-eyed towards
a life yet unspent.
Sad Journeyman of Death
Sad journeyman of life’s unending tests
bides time in loathsome sojourn cross each dawn
respecting naught but future’s numbered breaths
a-weep upon the touch of bloodied thorn,
Aroused to madness ‘neath the scent of war
bathes in the fearful prayers as fleeing life
soaks the rusting fields of nevermore
too soon, too soon regaled by drum and fife.
Slowly the agony of youth expires
thrust now upon old roots as unleafed trees
clutch the unspent lies of life’s desires
to live, to age, another day to seize.
Sad journeyman this lonely hypocrite
Death wields his scythe yet doesn’t sharpen it.
10/29/2017
//sonnet//
submitted to – DEATH – Poetry Contest
At dawn I’ve found and realized
What I should have before twilight
Daybreak has seen my agony
And it alone cannot save me
Wherewith was I? Before you died
Before were closed those pretty eyes.
Whereon to go? My world is cold!
My equator is like the poles
Oh dear! My dear, the dearest one,
Your beauty years! They’re all forlorn.
When I was all, but close to you
When still I fought for all undue
Bitter this pain and all I feel
On top my tongue and on my skin
It makes sense now and still does not
Sure! You are gone, and I’m distraught
Such fairly being, art excellent
Was seized from me, our time unspent
No timely count or seconds ticked
Not one was found when we were with
No memory of you and me
Our history can never be
Oh love! My love, the sweetest too
How come I knew all things but you?
In vanity, I chose to live
When I’d have been just close to thee
Heaven please give, one golden year
And save me all my pain and tears
To later shed in joy with her
For pain, or fate, for all we are
I sought you late, too late “my peace”
And found you where you should not be
I’ve found you; cold, your skin as pale
-As the feet of the nightingale.
Your freezing touch, and absent gaze
Your carelessness to all I say.
Alas, my queen, i found you gone
I found you when your life was done!