Long Vital organ Poems
Long Vital organ Poems. Below are the most popular long Vital organ by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Vital organ poems by poem length and keyword.
A poem about the recent loss of my identical twin sister. I love and miss you, sis...
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there were two of me
once
not in the way people mean
when they talk about reflection
or similarity
or matching outfits in photographs
i mean two heartbeats
that learned each other
before language
before memory
before the world could name us separate
you were not beside me
you were with me
woven through one another
a second nervous system
a quiet, constant knowing
i never had to reach for
blue eyes
identical to mine
but still entirely yours
and now
reality keeps insisting
i am singular
as if that is not an amputation
as if i have not been bisected
without anesthesia
in a way that leaves no clean edge
no visible place to point and say
“this is where she was.”
i walk around
with an invisible wound
something missing
mutilated
i was torn apart
and whatever held me together
went with you
people look at me
and see a whole body
but i feel
disfigured
expected to live
without a vital organ
who am i
without the person
who made me make sense
who am i
without the witness
who knew me before i became
someone existent
they tell me
you are still here
in my laugh
in my hands
in the small, indescribable things
but that feels like
being asked to accept fragments
as a whole
i don’t want traces
i want what was ripped from me
as something outside of me
someone i could turn toward
someone who could look back
and lay your head on my shoulder
not this silence
stitched over
where you used to be
nerve endings exposed
left this way
there is no buffer
to help make sense of the world
turned inside out
like all the parts meant to be protected
are suddenly visible
and still
somewhere beneath the damage
beneath the wrongness of being only one
there is a thread
that did not break
i feel it
in the quiet moments
once filled with your voice
not gone
just unreachable
like a room in a house
i no longer have the key to
there were two of me
once
and even now
in ways i cannot prove
or properly survive
there still are.
A frost cloud hovers above me
Numbing my senses
Trying to freeze a vital organ inside you see
Sometimes it gets so cold nothing seems to matter
As im put in a deep freeze
I spit it up
And cough out my lungs
Feeling dissappionted with the world
As im sure it will be also with me
I guess i could live a life unsung
Because all this frustration in me builds pressure
Oh how i wish i could just run and fly
What's the point in being sober
If you still feel like you want to die
Just want to run and hide
Waste away
And burn out in a twinkle of an eye
So are these thoughts in this cold winters sigh
At a frightful time when a vital organ of mine began to fail,
I thought that was the beginning of the end,
for myriad modern medicines seemed not to work.
As the disaster came unushered in my beleaguered life
the miserable mind plunged unanchored
into the unfathomable abyss of despair.
Hovering over the perilous edge of the receding hope
the helpless mind sorely got the unmistakable signal
that I had almost reached the end of the road.
I surrendered to the benevolent power of the almighty,
prayed for His blessings for the miraculous cure
contrived by the design of divine intervention.
In the darkness of opaque nights the tormented life found
in the wilderness the winding course illumined by His light.
To reach the seemingly unreachable shore my soul swam
in the sea of uncertainty with naive faith on the supreme savior,
for I innocently believed to the core in the age-old axiom
that God’s grace protects whatever He creates.
As my servile senses perceived the reliant ways of providence
the feeling of getting assured protection in His benign shelter
invigorated my mental strength for the destined rejuvenation,
that I never thought my fragile psyche ever possessed.
My heart responded to the divine healing touch for revival,
being grateful to Him for holding up my devout conviction.
Under the mystical veil of night, where stars whisper ancient secrets,
I feel my failure intensely, as if it were a vital organ,
Birthed by merciless gods, growing from the side of my head.
You can't hide it with a hat, and I can no longer sleep on that side, it's so tender and raw.
I was not faithful enough to carry this celestial burden up the mountain.
When I took my vows at nineteen,
I had no inkling that the gods wielded such cruelty.
Fear molds obedient servants, while courage is a grand illusion.
When I awoke, I wasn't awake enough to truly see.
Beneath the shade of whispering pines, I am enshrouded in a mantle of melancholy,
Each thought cascading like a dark river through the labyrinth of my mind,
An endless tale of failures and unfulfilled desires,
A cosmic dance of pain and shattered hopes.
I feel my failure throbbing in sync with the beat of my heart,
An invisible organ, yet ever-present, sculpted by gods too harsh.
I cannot hide it, nor soften its sting,
It is part of me, an indelible chapter of my unpolished story.
Often, I ponder whether I was ever strong enough,
If my vows bore any true weight,
Or if I was merely a servant to fear,
A deceitful soul, searching for courage in the shadows of misplaced dreams.
Under the starry canopy, I lose myself in a sea of thoughts,
Each star a distant memory of what I could have been,
A reflection of all my failures and dreams,
A universe of possible realities, all woven into the fabric of my story.
When I awoke, the harshness of reality cut deep,
I was not awake enough to face its unyielding truths,
But in this twilight of semi-consciousness,
I discovered a strange beauty, a bittersweet melancholy,
That defines my existence, granting me the strength to continue.
For under the mystical veil of night, within the whispering pines,
I find solace in the depths of my own thoughts,
A painter of dreams, a weaver of worlds,
In an eternal ballet of failures and hopes,
I am, simply, and profoundly, myself.
With every breath we take
It is the world that breathes
It the world that lives
And when we die what grieves
We are its vital organ
Its senses that proclaim self
Our laughter, our tears, our joy
Individual aspects of nonself
The beauty of a sunset
The wind blowing through trees
It is we who perceive
And through us the world sees-
Touches, taste, smells, and feels
Our dreams are the worlds dreams
All our hopes and our fears
The rushing brooks and streams
The sun rise ‘bove the mount
Surmounting all our doubt
The moon thro’ glooming night
midst the silence, a shout!
We need but feel a part
Of all that which we share
From the stars that clothe us
To every breath of fresh air
At a time when a vital organ of mine began to fail,
I thought that was the beginning of the end.
The miserable mind plunged in the abyss of despair,
for modern medicines seemed not to work.
As I reached the fading edge of optimism,
receiving the destiny’s signal for departure,
I submitted to the benevolence of the Almighty,
prayed for His blessings for miraculous cure .
I found in the gloom of the dismal nights,
His light illumine the darkness of the future.
My soul sailed in the sea of faith as never before,
and my organ got the divine healing touch.
I got a changed life as the epiphany dawned
with new sunrise in the firmament of consciousness,
my senses felt the essence of His munificence,
and I realized the power of prayer.
______________
August 27, 2022
Contest : The Epiphany That Changed Your Life Forever
Sponsored by : Chantelle Anne Cooke
At the end
of the river's exhausted reach
where swamp firmed
into solid ground, there was a place
the locals used as a tip.
Broken, worn out stuff
from clean outs, hoarded
household effects finally let go,
garage junk
and the discarded leftovers
from deceased estates
were dumped there.
The place was a goldmine for boys
on the hunt for soapbox wheels
and parts or anything
that could be used to build
wonders blueprinted
on raging minds. Pipes bent
into chopper handlebars
to lend lift to a boring bike, fit outs
for tree houses, defenses for forts,
the frames for boats and airplanes
that were born in hope
but would never float or fly
beyond a backyard.
The thrill was in the making.
When the council closed the tip
and moved it miles away,
it was as if a vital organ
in the neighborhood soul had been
taken out. Boys were deprived
of the lifeblood and source
of their making. For some time,
groups would ride their bikes there
and pause before an empty space
and stare. They had no words
for their grief. Slowly, the hole
healed over though something
inside had been lost. The bounty
that was once provided by the tip
was replaced by shiny things
bought brand new from shops.
I faced the miserable plight of a failing vital organ
Thought that was the beginning of the ordained end
As modern medicines didn’t work the way they should
My mind plunged into the abyss of stark despondency.
I hovered at the crumbling edge of fading optimism
Receiving destiny’s distinctive signal for departure
As the last resort I sought the benevolence of God
Prayed for His blessings for a miraculous recovery.
Agonized by the gloom of dismal nights I perceived
His radiance illumine the darkness of my fatal future
My soul swam to the supreme savior in the sea of faith
Knowing that He always takes care of what He creates.
As my servitude sensed the signal of His omnipresence
The trust of getting sure protection in His benign shelter
Enhanced my mental strength to fight for the rejuvenation
I was blessed my organ revived through divine intervention.
___________________
May 14, 2022
Contest : Divine Intervention
Sponsored by : Chantelle Anne Cooke
(Unfortunately, the alignment goes haywire when viewed through mobile)
My\ I /Heart
@ @oooooo\ I /ooooo@ @
@The great power\I/house that@@@
@stores up blood, thumping incessantly@@
@@ in rising rhythm. The most vital organ @@
@@in me. The great fulcrum that works day@@
@ and night. It being fragile with delicate@@@
@@ tissues, incarcerated in the strong fortress@
@@of sternum and ribs. It keeps working@@@
@@ day and night sans leisure. If it goes@@
@on strike, all our life will come to a@@@
@stop. It is a magic casket. It keeps@@
@beating- lub-dub, lub- dub @@
@sure, to my ears, such a@@
@@ sweet music@@@
@ooooooooo@
@ooo@
My Heart-
The great Powerhouse that stores up blood,
thumping incessantly in rising rhythm
The most vital organ in me.
The great fulcrum that works day and night
It being fragile with delicate tissues, incarcerated,
in the strong fortress of sternum and ribs.
It keeps working all through, sans rest.
If it goes on strike, our life will come to a stop.
It is a magic casket. It keeps beating-
lub-dub, lub-dub, sure, to my ears
Such a sweet music.
something stirred in this place, long, long ago
presence lingering
half-hidden haven on the crowding hillside
enchanted enclave
Iberian portal still open to a time confused
dreams drifting on through
thrum across the gridiron, quiet gravel grinding gently
the sentinel awakens
drowsing, curious at the latest visitation from the future
the bubble reseals behind
the house is real...and unreal, the garden weaving spells
light gathers and pools
pause at the fronting porch, then enter an inner sanctum
a fulcrum where eyes uplift
dark images look down from a facing wall, side-lit
high pointed fenestration
shadows fall and mark fine furniture with moments passing
feel the slowing...of now
the outside follows room to room, minds roaming free
tranquility lost in thought
foliage frames fields above the sandy isthmus curving coast
chameleon sky shaping
worn-down mountain flat-top with broken-ended stack
vantage glimpsed by gods
vital organ chambers in this ancient time-spun being
pleasure spots under the sun
blissful verandah vista beyond the stay-forever lounge
arterial corridor, cosy nooks
quaint meandering kitchen parlour, the Churianna heart
memories replenished
oceanic winds deflect clear of the insulating calm
cyclic seasons hesitate
storm clouds cumulate around a thinning efflorescence
imprisonment below
containment creaks, dead weight of imagination lacking
chain-gangs build borders and walls
human habitation draws in, ... the membrane may burst !
sky cracking, dreams leaking
the sentinel awakes more fully, observing the scene
small steps of avoidance
humanity dances to a new tune, Inishowen reeling
to the slow beat of aeonic time