Long Vein Poems
Long Vein Poems. Below are the most popular long Vein by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Vein poems by poem length and keyword.
"Color me red" this he did say
This is Satan and you must obey
The call of the wild for is it ok?
Who cares as I destroy the day
The red you color is from your vein
The ink that spilled from ever shame
You raped a child in the name of me
You will now suffer ever in eternity
I feel the words escape from your dying breath, "Please Lord dont take it out with
a noose around my neck"
For if you kill me you kill your religion, I promise you, if this noose falls through
the gallow then I will trek
I will find your kind in the after life, even if it down in the basement with your wife, I
will come and get you
You're the one who told me so, created my mind to enlist your blow, is this a
reason you are telling me?
That I must not fight but run away in flee? I'm a coward like you, you see, I die for I
believe in your creed
"My son you are not one of mine
I enlist your soul to preach my kind
You create your own from words of mine
Now rot in hell for the breach of time
And conjur a smell to remember your lie
Befriend your mind as you are left to die
Alone as you wish for your wish is a cry
You are no longer a part of my embassy
Trade your wings for the treatory that be
For a mask supposed to look like me
Horns for you stab at your constant envy
Dont you ever compare you with thee
For are weak and f&ck all that you percieve
Form:
Un-revelling Rivalry
Who am I to speak of historical rivalry I cannot contest
all the clever myriad truths conjectures and refutations
about the two masters the two foes with huge presence
when history acclaim appreciation is subjective personal
up front and back stage up all artistic ins downs and outs
My parachute helicopter mind wants to give first prize to
to Leonardo for free flying inventive rebellious mind and
he helped me with anatomy dissecting corpses and all I can
still smell fragrant formalin preserving miraculous tissues
when I had to learn those medical terms and cut into flesh
But then Michelangelo shares my middle name though I am
no angel but who can proclaim that I may never be biased in
associate vein in quite shallow post-post-modernist anticipation
when the great man also painted in narrative personification
Deluge Drunken Noah Creation of Adam Madonna and Child
Okay family man that I am I resort to holidays with my children
and am so sad to admit that we never so far made it to Rome
sacrilegious or not but how could I pass The Last Judgement
when seeing Sistine Chapel’s altar would alter the verdict
of Ignoramus with leisure time spent on Normandy’s beaches
Well now I recall that trip to Euro Disney when we walked
from Tour Eiffel to the Louvre where I temporarily lost my
little boy Moritz and almost my temper when the devious villain
hid from the artwork was sulking because the Mona Lisa was
so small and he was so tiny could not see amongst masses of
tourists the smile and metaphorical writing on canvas and wall
So in all earnest while giving a toss I could-would have to resort
to tossing a coin in regards to whom why how and whenever the
rivals could measure up to history my history my story and life
Even and because of my whacky literal critical stance and my
stanzas bordering on mockery heresy subtle subjectification
you must remember that I have one tongue and two cheeks
And while seemingly ridiculing an important theme of historical
prominence I still bow in awe admiration yet lodge my own angle
perspective whereas the two grand master’s problem was not
what I would behold in my eyes and my soul in full radiance but
that they chose not to consider each others contrasting beauty
as compliment complement Leonardo Angelo Michel Da Vinci
01st September 2016
In the wee hour of the morning I hear my spirit calling, I wasn’t sure how to respond to it but my emotion made me answer it.
It was extremely dark outside and the street light on the other side spilled over the roadway took me safely to an exotic scene. A bird sitting on the electric line chirping away as if it had something important to say. I gazed at it for a while and all of a sudden, my spirit began to cry.
The morning was extremely quiet and I could feel the blood running through my vein and my breathing exposed to the raw air circulating in the atmosphere and I walk along the lonely path looking for an escape route, but something kept dragging me back to my youth.
It wasn’t my childhood friend or the vicious lion in the den, it was the tree house I built in the mango tree and the swing I made in the navel orange tree, that continues to point me to something that is symbolic to my prosperity.
I am not a Tomboy but I can do lots of boy things and I master the art of climbing tree ever since I was a baby. I can still climb to the top no matter how tall the tree grows, there are some things in tees that gives nourishment to my soul and there are some things that you never grow out of you even when you are old, they stay with you for life, because those are the things that keep you alive.
The clouds resting on the sphere laced with tangles of hope staring directly at me and stroking my back from the far end of the sea and it kept searching for a comfortable spot to spread out its lap, but the furious mountain would not allow the wind to blow on the other side but I continue searching for the destined spot in the early hours to confront the solace in the wind.
I stood there for a while and gazed at the morning stars gliding underneath the clouds as daylight forces its way out of the dark and heavens weep for the dignity that is bubbling up into my heart and I could hear the earth whispering in my ears and wind start howling in the distance.
Let the wind blow and bring fresh energy to your soul; let the wind blow and show you which way to go, let it blow the stagnant energy from the atmosphere, and fill your lungs with clean mesmerizing air.
The clouds are moving again and the sky is clear and daylight has explodes in the heavens and you must follow the path that will lead you out of the dark and elevate your nobility.
To be different is your superpower,
An incantation hidden in the heart of midnight,
A silver vein in the dark fabric of the world,
Where dreams whisper ancient secrets and reality slips through veils of mist.
In the flow of consciousness, I lose myself in the labyrinth of the mind,
Where your inner gardens bloom in unknown colors,
Each petal, a symbol of your distinctive magic,
Among the shadows of conformity, you are a shooting star often lighting up the sky.
In the depths of my being, where silence carries ancient echoes,
I find reflections of your presence, a dance of light and darkness,
In this rigid world, you are a flowing stream of gold,
An eternally burning flame, bursting with power and mystery,
Your brilliance flowing from every step on the cosmic sands.
To be different is like a dream from another dimension,
Turning time into an eternal rainbow,
With every gesture, you break the patterns of normality,
Leaving behind a trace of unknown magic and eros.
In this universe of straight lines and rigor,
You are a magician of unwritten truths,
A storm of words and emotions defying the gravity of the ordinary,
Each thought a bow of circles, each breath an incantation.
The world wears its masks of humble uniformity, but you are the multicolored stained glass,
Every hue, every shadow of your being,
Forming a mosaic that unfolds only in the moonlight,
A story seen only in the eyes of those who lose themselves in your depth.
You are a fountain of mysteries beneath the core of the earth,
Your invisible current felt beneath the common surface of existence,
Teaching the roots of an enchanted forest that blooms at your touch.
You are that wave that shatters the rocks of conventions,
An eternal call to authenticity.
Your different magic weaves lights and shadows into boundless landscapes,
A reality anchored in myths and profound dreams, fulfilling you in unison,
Showing us that in your singularity, lies the power to shape worlds.
In the flow of consciousness, I always return to your essence,
Where rigid lines unravel into endless spirals,
And I recognize that to be different is a sublime gift,
A mystical poem written on the edge of eternity, where desires become light,
Flowing through the veins of a world that never ceases to transform,
In a melancholic dance of the divine and the magic that embraces us.
You know the feeling
When you getting dressed
You going out
So you have to impress
If everything goes right
Then there goes your success
When you enjoy the date it makes you happy and smile
You haven't felt a live like this in a while
Happiness got behind you
But love trying to find you (you)
What happen to the love?
Why isn't displayed
When it comes to loving God
We try to throw shade(throw shade)
We act shamed
We fill that Void
That others left in vein
Where's the love
It doesn't feel the same
A relationship that we should be committed
To living right and doing right
We represent with great sight
Trying to work it out all for the Good
Even when things are not going
The way we think it should
Nobody's perfect
It takes two to make it
I got to admit
Fall to my knees
Give him Thanks
For planting the seeds
And not letting me sank
I want to be happy
I want God to be happy too
Dont be discouraged
He still loves you
He loves us unconditional
Regardless of what we've done
He is the father
And he speaks through us through his Son
Just like any relationship
He wants us to have fun
What happen to the love?
Why isn't displayed
When it comes to loving God
We try to throw shade(throw shade)
We act shamed
We fill that Void
That others left in vein
Where's the love
It doesn't feel the same
A relationship that we should be committed
To living right and doing right
We represent with great sight
In a relationship
You want to be excepted
Not an empty space
Dont want to be neglected
Even when life gets hectic
Pray and talk to him
You wont regret it
Where is the love
That made you excited
Light the fire ?? in your heart
You cant hide it
Someone who except your flaws
And make you flawless
The cost that is you can't believe it its costless
Just prove that unconditional what you want
He understands
He's your supply
Waiting for your demand
To seek after him do all you can
What happen to the love?
Why isn't displayed
When it comes to loving God
We try to throw shade(throw shade)
We act shamed
We fill that Void
That others left in vein
Where's the love
It doesn't feel the same
A relationship that we should be committed
To living right and doing right
We represent with great sight
Repeat until chorus fades
Written by:Concetta Hardnett
10/4/2015
Locked in the history through the doors of his mind
Are the remains of an unwritten contract he signed.
The rules he lived by with his own flesh and bone,
Wrote in his blood and signed alone.
An Indian father or a Spanish bride,
The white mans greed won’t alter his stride,
The black mans courage with endurance within,
Mixed with trials errors and mortal sin.
Through the hardship and horses through courage and pain
These are the hands that held the rein.
Annie Oakley, Kitty Wilkins and Bell Star,
Combined lace with leather and created a gender scar.
From Picket, Custer, and Crazy Horse,
These are only a few who would not alter their course.
And those less know on Oregon’s trail,
Who sold all they had and to the west set sail.
Chisholm, Goodnight and French, some of the Cattle kings,
They all are the reason a cowboy sings.
And their blood still flows through our veins,
These are the hands that held the rein.
Forgive them for they knew not what they done,
As they settled the west with hand and gun.
Fought for open space they went through,
Not knowing that greed and politics followed them too.
Restless by nature a curious kind,
Searching for answers they will never find.
An unwritten code he rides for the brand,
It pumps through the veins into the soul of this man.
He gathers those memories and tries to remain,
These are the hands that held the rein.
Writing no letter for he can’t but he would,
To who he’s not sure but it is understood,
There is no place to send it anyhow,
So he saddles his pony and rides for the cow,
Sings a song and says a poem in rhyme,
To cut the quiet and pass the time.
That helps keep the stories of his horse and life,
As he sings of a friend and dreams of a wife.
Through the doors of his mind those memories remain,
For these are the hands that held the rein.
Like shuffling a deck he’s held in his hand
He has gambled his life and made a stand,
And made a vow he will try to fulfill,
With the luck of the draw his blood flows still.
To the next generation, with changes in time,
We still hear his stories in song and rhyme.
And if one more day could be spare
For the songs sung and poems shared
Let him live just one more day,
Let him ride for the brand and draw his pay.
In our future let our history not be in vein,
For our hands are now what hold the rein.
Form:
...For two weeks Lester worked that pyrite vein,
and every day a brand new dollar came,
at the end he hug dug out two cart’s worth,
said Higgs, “Now that’s enough work in the earth.”
He smiled proud, they dragged it to the trains,
Lester still sure the old man was insane,
once loaded up, he said, “I will return
in six months to see you get all you’ve earned.”
He saw him off, thinking that that was that,
the man was mad, but his wallet was fat,
Lester had coin to live another month,
jobs came and went, he needed a new one.
Some laughed at him for digging up fool’s gold,
friendly ribbing, if all the truth be told,
he didn’t mind, and got a good story
to tell people when out drinking whiskey.
Come wintertime, Lester was at the bar,
Higgs and his mine from Lester’s thoughts were far,
he shot the bull with several local guys
when the door open, and all were surprised.
There stood Mad Higgs, shaking off winter snow,
he saw Lester, and to him he dig do,
and on that bar, in front of half the town
a thousand dollars in greenbacks slapped down.
All eyes went wide at such a stack of cash,
Higgs said, “Now partner, I say you earned that!”
The tumult came, people confused and loud,
over and over, they just asked him, “How?!”
Higgs just smiled, “I said that I’d be back,
spent half a year selling it from my sack
to the children, those precious girls and boys,
yes, my pyrite was their new favorite toy!
“They like shiny things, no one need be told,
and loved to play with rocks that look like gold.
The girls pretend that it’s their jewelry,
the boys pretend that they are rich, you see.”
The men in the bar then all clambered ’round,
cried how they’d like to help him work the ground,
but Higgs said, “Loyalty I do reward.
stay health, Les. Come spring we will dig more.
“Next time Ill give you forty percent share,
but now I have to run, so folks, take care!”
He walked out of the bar to catch a train,
he wasn’t mad, just cagey with his game.
Now for this winfall Lester gave great thanks,
invested most in mines, ranches, and banks,
until he could survive of dividends,
not have to labor each day like most men.
But two weeks of the year when Higgs returned,
he’d go that shaft, and his dollar earn,
dig out pyrite for Higg’s to take and sell,
a fortune of fool’s gold, so people tell.
I saw in his eyes that a life had been beaten away.
The cigarettes smoked, the shaking hand. A young
man he is but youth had been stripped away. Replaced
by a fierce, trained killer, a calm man he was, well
spoken and polite but kill me he would have if the
order was right.
They train them so hard to defend you and me. But
it's not training I see in his eyes. It's not fear, it's
not lies. A man experienced in what he'd fought
through, we can not comprehend the effect on the
mind that would do. Cold eyes with a smile, with
a shake of the hand. In complete awe I was as he
explained it first hand.
The memory of battle was so evidently raw. I listened,
I listened hard to what he had to say. It moved me to
tears later that day.
With a respect I had not given to any other man, I made
damn sure he knew that he had mine when I said thanks
and shook his hand. On behalf of me and my wife, I said
thanks to a man who had given all that he had, to defend
our way of life.
For this was his belief, he saw it as his calling. To be a
shield between us and terrorists, to be the brave, to
fight for people who can't fight, to be true, to walk into
hell and to fight for me and for you.
A hero he is and will always be. Though humble and
refrained, smoking that cigarette in the rain, carrying
pain as he moved forward with his life. I could see the
battle scars there like they'd just been cut with a knife.
Though so young in age, an elite combat soldier he had
been. Seen things a young mind should never have seen?
It wasn't glory, nor praise wanted by him now. Remembering
his friends dying in such pain, such sacrifice paid for us now.
What made him well-up, what made him speak to me was
hearing the simplest word that all soldiers seek. 'Thanks'.
That's not much for me to say. But him knowing that it was
heartfelt when I said it made him see that their sacrifice
was not in vein.
When I think it's hard living day to day, I will remember
this poem and what is has to say. I will remember the young
man who I met in the cold, with his weary eyes and say
thanks to him again for being so bold. Remember what he
stood for, for what his youth and his friends had died for.
When the embers of their fires finally die, the memories of
a soldier's war will never lie.
Any foodie on the brink
Of getting moody thinks
Of the dear dairy panacea
The culinary kinks
The cultural links
Gourmet high jinx
Of no.. not Cullen skink
CHEESE
As drinks clink then sink
Where the nods & the winks
Go to the food of the Gods
The stuff that really really stinks
CHEESE
A noble global endeavour
Arty farty dolcelatte party
Comte & cheddar
Smutty nutty double header
CHEESE
Palette caged by a rare
Cave aged Gruyere
Who can forget..appetite whet
Heat light stand manned..expands..
Milky glue or is it silky Moo Goo
Fanned..hands pulling strands
Eat not..planned fondue
Best damned bet
Always get a Raclette
CHEESE
Prouder of Gouda
Or louder Parmesan fan
Even when its powder?
Tilting to the built in love
For Stilton.. never wilting
Hard the calling card
Or more a Roquefort sort
Taught soft held aloft
French can’t bench moulds
Aristocratic blue vein
Dramatic wench holds court
Emphatic stench & stain
CHEESE
Whatever floats your boat
Maybe Goat gets your vote
Or those in the know
Gloat..chose sheep & Manchego
CHEESE
Young or well hung
Given time in the cellar
But won’t sneer at Paneer
Mozzarella can be stellar
Even give a damn
About dear Madame Edam
CHEESE
If you're of that whining ilk
Got that dining disease
Opining it’s just mouldy milk
Having a dig..you big tease…
Well won’t try to appease
CHEESE
Wary of the not rated
Scary squirting lube
You squeeze with ease
Flirting fairy out of a tube
Ill fated.. pre grated or
Diced into a nice cube
CHEESE?
Or drastic vices
Plastic elastic slices
Could go for Dairy Lea
Fell under the Babybel spell
Or pray tell maybe
Its Le Vache qui Rit
CHEESE?
Always a winning wheeze
Ideal at the beginning
Or end of a meal
No ratty ways of thinning
Natty diets lose to fatty riots
Choose ways of sinning
A ruse to amuse..
MORE CHEESE PLEASE
He says grinning
P.S If eating cheese before bed
Gives you a crappy nightmare
So what if you have fed
On cheese in these dreams
No scrappy schemes in your head
Led to days with rays of sunbeams
Teams of happy memes instead
Well it seems only fair
© 2009 (Jim Sularz)
Quiet mounds of yellowed tailings and dead weeds whisper low.
And proud rusting relics telling tales of striking gold.
The rush from East, from North and South, by wagon, train or foot.
Days not all that long ago, in tall ships made of wood.
“A gold rush struck in ’49, all quite by accident.
A burning fever that cut men to bone, in a sea of dingy tents.
Day and night, they toiled and told, many headed home without a cent.
But some packed out bags of glistening gold, and made a stop at Buzzard’s Breath.
The town’s mud logged street, deep with horse manure, bubbled like a shallow grave.
With a Sheriff’s office, a livery stable, and a church for souls to save.
And a fancy house, on a grassy knoll – sign read, “Madam Lil la Tart”.
With soft, curvaceous ladies who mined for hearts – and gold of a different sort.
Didn’t take long before easy gold, was extremely hard to find.
And burly miners, tough as steel, moved in to hard rock mine.
With bloodied knuckles, dented hats, they blasted at a furious pace.
To find the gold, called the mother lode, yellow blood coursing through their veins!
The mine they worked was called “Long Shot”, the men thought that name a curse.
But the miners hankered for the handle, “Buzzard’s Breath”, and the mine’s name was reversed.
As luck would say, they held a royal flush, when they hit that horse-wide vein.
Of the purest gold, yet to be found, this side of the Pearly Gates.
Eyes wide as saucers, they were all in awe, everyone was filthy rich.
The miners should have all retired and should have cashed in all their chips.
But a man’s hard to figure, when his blood is yellow, and he’s stricken with a gold fever.
“Eureka! boys, git the dynamite and a whole lot more mining timbers!”
They mined that vein to the bowels of the earth, and the heat increased by day.
Buzzard’s Breath became the hottest place, to Hell – the shortest way.
And then one day, the men never came back. – Hell must have jumped that claim.
Of the purest gold, yet to be found – that’s where the Devil mines today!”
Quiet mounds of yellowed tailings and dead weeds whisper low.
And proud rusting relics telling tales of striking gold.
The rush from East, from North and South, died a slow and quiet death.
Along with days of tall wooden ships, and the ghosts of Buzzard’s Breath.