Long Untrod Poems
Long Untrod Poems. Below are the most popular long Untrod by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Untrod poems by poem length and keyword.
Oh, children of a lesser god-
defects can steal your life away,
as you are judged by how you look,
or if you hear or speak, or see;
if arms and legs fail miserably-
or minds perform imperfectly.
We fail to see the worth inside
which often cannot let us know
that sometimes- there a talent lies-
above, beyond, what we believe
you are so given to conceive-
then, awed by what you do achieve.
Your real self may be entrapped-
so yearning to express those things
you can't define, yet live within.
And, if that spark is reared in stride,
savant, you will be classified-
child of a greater God espied.
Oh, children of a lesser god-
we must help hone your paths untrod.
April 5, 2020
~8th Place~
Contest: Children Of A Lesser God
Sponsor: Craig Cornish
Judged: 04/18/2020
Inspired by the story of Kodi Lee, an autistic, blind young man
who is now a famous pianist and singer, after his mother
saw and supported well his inborn musical talents.
Link: https://youtu.be/pDPdRYF7hTQ
I ask, dear God, how can this be?
It rends my soul and stabs my heart!
How could they pass those bills, decree
these inhumane new rules will start?
It rends my soul and stabs my heart...
these facts about a choice made law;
these inhumane new rules will start...
humanity's horrendous flaw.
These facts about a choice made law!
To kill a life that's near complete;
humanity's horrendous flaw
to snuff it out...halt its heartbeat!
To kill a life that's near complete
or one that's fully born...dear God!
To snuff it out...halt its heartbeat...
a moral breach...till now, untrod.
Or one that's fully born, dear God,
how could they pass those bills, decree
a moral breach, till now, untrod.
I ask, dear God, how can this be?
Sandra M. Haight
~4th Place~
Contest: A Protest Poem: A Poem With A Message
Sponsor: Stephen Pennell
Judged: 04/06/2019
~9th Place~
Premiere Contest III: Open Poetry
Sponsor: Rob Carmack
Judged: 02/08/2019
We want them all to see our Lord,
We want our land to be healed again,
But can we put down our sword?
Can we pour down love like rain?
We want the world to see our God,
To hear His Voice, to trust His Word,
We cry and cry from deeps untrod,
But into dark paths, we are hurled.
We know the plans He has for us,
But are we ready to begin?
There is no time left to discuss,
Why we still like to play with sin?
Give us the power, the first love,
Don’t let us be asleep, lukewarm,
Watch over us from high above,
And make us towers, in the storm.
It has to start right here, right now,
With all of us with me and you,
You live in us, You’ll show us how,
Give us the strength Your will to do!
I have seen the fire blossom in snow
on the Himalayan peak
wondrous meteoric dust
rise in hymnal flames
Rode on shoulders of snowy giants
on heights untrod by human feet
bathed in mighty energies
released by countless contemplating seers
Erect they sit in hurricane and hailstorm
fortified by the valor of spirit
exerting hard to safeguard the cultural treasure
the time capsules embalmed in the racial memory
Light-bearing is the language of all creativeness in Art
the pan-human tongue, which every one understands
a peaceful all-unifying stream that flows in every heart
as the vehicle of the creative light into all recesses of life.
(Yayati poem)
Author: Madan Gandhi.
Form:
For years it had flown through dim canyons,
hollows where the mute sheltered in echoing caves.
Poems shifted loose and gearless.
Words darted for cover as if caught
in an empty bell tower.
On tongue-chilled days it would croon inarticulately
as it sang beneath jawbone rafters.
Then one drunken night I felt it clearing its windpipes,
coaching a squeaky organ into yawps of utterance.
I can see it now, a raw unlovely thing,
a creature hammered through gurgling fissures,
grown stark with a transpiring clarity.
I would mislay it like a lost penny,
go crazy to find its untrod trail again,
then it would return like a tramp begging at my door.
I hear it knocking now – a homeless angel
eager to shed the next paltry revelation
in a foundling language.
No longer is it a chance sighting,
no longer a luminous flutter on dark walls;
it is red of lip,
a painted vowel in my unbolted mouth.
A mouth that now divulges,
and sometimes in a dull turning year
may say something worth transcribing
for the ears of other madmen.
Once upon a woeful early December night nigh,
Who am I, in this fateful time of scry’s reprise?
Over many a quaint reminisce of my ghostly past,
Suddenly, feel eyes piercing again, with no end.
I looked around, to no avail; my time has end.
I turned and saw darkness cast.
As I went out in the dreary night, I felt peace,
Oddly enough, the crickets chirp, and the wind speaks.
I walk along the road, and yet I felt uneasy.
Again, those piercing eyes sunk deep into my griefs.
“Where are you?" I call out. "Can you hear my pleas?”
Again, I turned to dark seas.
Strolling about, footsteps echo, though path’s untrod.
I falter back home, but it's inconvenient fraud.
Back to the untrod path of what could be or not,
I look around, to no avail; I feel this facade.
Eagerly, I call out; now there are piercing prods.
I seek out the darkness's fraud.
I see no evil, hear no evil. What are you?
I gently crept all about with no sound; I’m bound
Bound to seek you and end this childish game you play.
How come I have heard no sound? Are you not profound?
Thy hide an enigmatic like bound that surrounds.
Are you in the darkness bound?
Come out from hiding; I know thy eyes follow thee.
Why won’t you listen to me? Do you speak in threes?
I know you are out there; why do not you reveal?
How do I convince thee speak to me? Please, please, please?
I wait for an answer, but only I say, “Pleas.”
I spoke to you in threes; do you need some more pleas?
The wind blows against my ear, and I hear nothing obscure.
A distant echo runs into my ear; I call, “Who is there?”
Echo no more; the sound is clear, I call out again.
Footsteps follow; finally, it emerges from darkness’ air.
It has appeared. Who is there? Make me aware!
It calls out, but not clear.
I got a glimpse of the figure that finally answered my call,
A wraith that seems to haunt my memory.
Its eyes, like embers, cold, dead, and deep,
And though the form looked cloaked in dread,
A ghostly echo of what’s dead,
A past that whispers in my sleep.
Time casts a heavy glow
On the world I left behind,
Transfixed on a new tomorrow,
All the new seeds I’ll sow.
Emerging is a new day,
How the light blinds my eyes.
Focus on the bright cascade
Of this everlasting rise.
Beneath the earth is trembling,
My footsteps unsure and numb.
The silence almost deafening—
I can almost hear Hope hum.
A quick glance back behind me
At the thralldom left behind,
Hope continues to remind me
Of all I’m rising from.
The dawn unfolds before me,
A light I’ve never known.
Each step is one small victory,
In this light I call my own.
A gentle breeze enfolds me,
Countless paths untrod.
With open arms, I gather
The dreams I once thought flawed.
All are unworthy. Each if us fail we are weighed
In the balance, the plumb line is streched over
Our ways, we fall like fruit before the harvest
Is here.' wasted in the very paths of redemption
We are close by..yet our ears are dim.!
Eyes full of sleep, we call out for sight.'
Yet we love apathy.' We do not struggle
Sin enfolds us, our days pass in turmoil
Like dew before the sun, we are a vapour
Those who know us, might search yet no
More will we be found, without help we
Are doomed.' The Great day approaches '
Yet we give no thought to salvation its
Path is the only one untrod by us.' The
Paths of anger and blasphemy we use'
But the valley of the dove.? We may never
Enter.? For its gate is low ' and we will
Not bow '
Before the cedar learn'd the speech of steel,
Or heartwood yielded to the carpenter,
Its argent rings kept covenant with the weal
Of thawing springs and every pilgrim star.
No bough begrudged the tempest what it took;
Each wound became another living book.
Then came the hands that quarried trunk from loam.
One sought a boundary where lambs might rest;
One sought a crossing, calling strangers home
Across the torrent's vehement unrest.
The timber neither gloried nor complain'd:
It served the purpose into which 'twas grain'd.
Long years I honour'd bridges for their grace,
And deem'd all fences born of timid fear,
Till autumn, in a lichen-haunted place,
Unveil'd a quieter arithmetic there.
An ancient rail, half-vestured now in moss,
Kept not one flower, yet shelter'd all from loss.
Beyond the hill a broken arch was thrown,
Its patient span relinquish'd to the stream.
The river mourn'd no less, yet journey'd on;
It would not counterfeit a perish'd dream.
Some crossings, once unfaithful to their end,
Grow holier by refusing to pretend.
Then first I saw the oak had held no will
To part the meadow or unite the plain.
No fibre cherish'd malice, good, or ill;
No grain distinguish'd blessing, loss, or gain.
The tree gave only what its nature could;
The hand alone interpreted the wood.
I search'd my heart and found, with inward shame,
How many fences I had call'd a scar,
Though they preserv'd what tenderness became;
How many bridges bore me from my star.
For every road I should have left untrod
Had ask'd my feet to wander out of God.
There are estrangements mercy ought to heal—
Proud silences no sunrise should forgive.
There are departures only fire can seal,
Lest dying falsehood counterfeit the live.
Discernment is the rarer, sterner art:
To know which timber waits within the heart.
So now I bless neither the flame nor nail,
Nor praise the wall, nor crown the spanning frame;
I ask but this when love and judgement fail:
What keeps another soul more true to flame?
For wood remembers only how to give.
It is the hand that teaches it
whether to divide—
or let another live.
The end, or beginning
of the strip mall starts
at the Subway Subs
a set aside frontage overlooked
by bushes and idling traffic.
Further along, the ephemeral
Pop-up Party Shop;
when not ‘up’
that commercial space
sells T-shirts
a print for printing slogans.
Abutting is the computer game center,
pale youths enter
not to be seen again until cell phones
broadcast amber alerts.
Lastly, the hardware store,
a well-thumbed cluttered cave,
struggling to re-invent its old brands.
Abruptly
it all ends
at curbs and untrod paving.
The mall hangs on to the small change
of a larger, more changing world.
On an adjacent blacktop
drivers stay in lane
until the junction and the traffic lights
lead them somewhere else
less out of time.
Dusk comes to smear the parking lot
with its cowls and drapes,
the wingspans of an evening haze
sweep-in nocturnal tones,
chimerical forms reshape storefronts,
leave obscure echoing sinkholes.
The strip mall nightly sinks
into its less concrete reality,
a haunt woven
from the discarded wrappers and scraps;
that spill over its one solitary trash bin.
It will be days before it is emptied
or filled again - maybe weeks.