Long Weeping Poems
Long Weeping Poems. Below are the most popular long Weeping by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Weeping poems by poem length and keyword.
I watch as roaring winds accost
withered leaves that would soon be lost.
Branches, once laden green, beware ~
November will strip your limbs bare.
Your clothes swept to the muck and mire,
raked onto their funeral pyre.
Wet from drizzling rain, they are tossed,
weeping, as if they had been glossed.
A windswept death does not seem fair.
It fills me with grief and despair.
I would raise them up high...higher,
each leaf escaping flames of fire.
No headstone with name 'Leaf' embossed,
etched with November's snow and frost.
Fallen leaves have no Winter lair,
no warm warren as does the hare.
If Nature could somehow transpire
to save them, 'twould be my desire.
November 29, 2020
William Kekaula's Lay November Contest
checked with HMS
a young girl weeping in the corner
darkness grows deep inside her heart like a cancer
sunken eyes, blood exploding from her nose
angry purple bruises on her thin arms
no one can see her
no one to help her
despair and hopelessness fill her up
he has set a dangerous precedent creating this mess
too many souls are affected by domestic violence
worn down
beaten down
with no help in sight
the menace he displays behind closed doors
shows his cowardly depth
his warped and cruel means
she prays for silence
with arms wrapped around her battered body
sobs locked inside
there will be no spark of light at sunrise
to give her relief from this night of terror
the fear gives a dull ache as she perceives
an unimaginable ending
Gradually the crystalizing dawn -- more hardened
Than folded steel --- more sharper than
The blade that cuts!
Wisps of thin vapour, once loitering insidiously
At the steps of each staunch door,
Swirling away -- seemingly almost alive!
Coiling and uncoiling. Has all the litheness of a
Dancing girls weightless silken ribbon.
Until, retreating back, high, into some lofty,
Inaccessible mountain...
Dissipates as if just abandoned dragons breath.
The trees and streams are no longer so solemn.
Circling over the temple, above the brittle lands
Frosted chill, red-beaked choughs noisily engaged
In agitated clattering...
But now the temple bells are commanding those
Monks to prayer.
The blind and withered monk, who sits alone
In his unassuming corner, reminds us:-
"An emperor who abuses his power unsettles the
Equilibrium of the whole nation, the workings of
Nature,
And the livelihood of all people;
His responsibility is to maintain harmony in
Himself and the empire...
By acting in accordance with Confucian principles".
It is for them to contemplate what we cannot
Comprehend:-
We are peasants and it is not expected of us
To understand such wise things; nor should we.
We understand the fish and their ways, and the
Ways of the Blue River...
Just as monks understand our gracious lord Buddha.
Rouses the sun. Slowly lifts an enormous sky.
Glistening hoarfrost spun from bramble to
Bush -- strung from bough to branch like
Giant spider web;
Stiffened grasses that so pleasingly crunch
Underfoot;
And from these grasses, droplets of moisture
Ready to be released like slow weeping tears;
They will join with and sweeten the vibrant
Spring waters -- clearer than quartz --
That stream in tripping rivulets over yellow rocks
To splash from shallow cup to pouring pool...
Once you have tasted these waters you would
Have little more need of wine.
Wine is for idle men, or for our warring masters
To drink when celebrating great victory;
What use have we of intoxicating wine?
It is better kept as an offering...
Lest the river Gods grow angry and
Spoil our catch.
The tribes of Canada's aboriginals are recorded,
On birch bark scrolls their history and stories told;
And in songs and poetry they keep their heritage alive.
(And I have Ojibwe blood in my soul.)
Oh they once owned the land,
Fishing and hunting for survival;
Growing crops and creating beauty,
Warriors strong and so fiercely proud,
Then the white came and stole their land.
Pushed them into reservations to starve,
Yet during World War 2 they volunteered.
Thousands joined the troops to fight in a foreign land,
As excellent snipers, scouts, coders and such brave fighters;
Their blood mingled with that of the pale-skinned troops in battle.
Hundreds and hundreds of native warriors lost their lives far far away,
Buried in the soil of a battlefield and not their homeland with their ancestors;
Courageous, intelligent and the bravest were given war medals for their service.
But after the war ended forgotten,
Veterans ignored by the government;
They have fought for years and for years,
For some kind of war recognition and honor.
And it is only in recent years that honor is found,
Some say it is too little and too late to say sorry;
I know that it is sadly years and years overdue.
Finally the aboriginals of Canada have been acknowledged,
I often go to a monument downtown erected in honor of them;
All the tribes are represented in bronze - and I find myself weeping.
(And I have Ojibwe blood in my soul)
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August 7, 2015
Poetry/Narrative/Wrapped In The Flag
Copyright Protected, ID 15- 697-980-0
All Rights Reserved. Written under Pseudonym.
I OPENED A DOOR TO A TIME BEFORE,
WITH DELUSION, MYSTERY AND SO MUCH MORE.
THE SUN WASN'T SHINING BUT THERE WAS PLENTY OF LIGHT.
I FELT TRAPPED IN A WORLD BETWEEN DAYTIME AND NIGHT.
THE STREET LIGHTS HAD CANDLES, NONE OF THEM LIT.
THAT THREW ME OFF, FOR A MOMENT A BIT.
COBBLESTONE STREETS AND BUILDINGS OF BRICK.
A STENCH IN THE AIR THAT WAS MAKING ME SICK.
I LISTENED REAL CLOSE I HEARD SOMEONE WEEPING.
IT SOUND LIKE THEY SAID IT'S THE SECRETS I'M KEEPING.
I LOOKED UP THE STREET SAW PEOPLE WALKING ALONG.
I RAN TO THAT SPOT AND FELT SOMETHING WAS WRONG.
I STOOD IN THAT SPOT WITH MY BACK TO AND ALLY.
I HEARD A GIRLS VOICE SAY MY NAME IS SALLY.
I TURNED AROUND AND WITNESSED A FLASH.
I LOOKED TO THE GROUND AND SAW A PILE OF ASH.
I HEARD PEOPLE LAUGHING, IN BACK, TO MY RIGHT.
I SPUN AROUND QUICKLY, THERE WAS NO ONE IN SIGHT.
I STROLLED DOWN THE STREET AND THOUGHT QUAINT LITTLE TOWN.
WHAT REALLY SEEMED STRANGE, THERE WAS NO ONE AROUND.
I STROLLED THROUGH THE PARK TO TAKE IN THE SIGHTS.
I SAW A LOVELY YOUNG LADY, WHO'S SMILE WAS BRIGHT.
I JUST HAD TO ASK, DO YOU REALLY EXIST?
WITH A WINK AND A NOD SHE GAVE A SLAP ON MY WRIST.
COMPLETELY SURPRISED, THIS MADE ME GASP.
SHE SAID MY NAME IS TAZZIE AND I LIVE IN THE PAST.
I SAID MY NAME IS PEPPERMAN. SHE SAID I KNOW WHO YOU ARE.
YOU WALKED THROUGH THE PORTAL FROM A WORLD NOT FAR.
I WAS REALLY QUITE STARTLED. DIDN'T KNOW WHAT TO SAY.
SHE TOOK HOLD OF MY HAND AND SAID PLEASE WALK THIS WAY.
THE SUN SEEMED TO SHINE WITH A WARM GENTLE BREEZE.
THE FEELING OF EMPTINESS DISSIPATED WITH EASE.
THE FRAGRANCE OF LILAC BOMBARDED THE AIR.
COLORFUL FLOWERS WERE EVERY-WHERE
FROM THAT POINT ON, THE PLACE CAME TO LIFE.
I FELT MY MEMORY WAS SHARP AS A KNIFE.
ICE CREAM VENDOR AND CHILDREN AT PLAY.
THIS ALL TOOK PLACE ONE YESTERDAY.
Draped in silent fog, is a reservoir of dreams
weathering each season, with a mystifying scheme …
On a wind-swept shelf, she is silently sleeping
Where secrets are guarded and are hers for the keeping
Looking out at the tide, where the seagulls are sweeping
In her moldering courtyard, where quadrivial paths meld,
Among ancient arches of an old Spanish style
Names locked in history, many stories revealed
Etched in the headstones, where angels have dwelled
The cracked marble fountain with polished ligures,
Above the church doorway, vines are withering, bare
Aloft from the steeple, are the four watchful eyes
Looking out to the sea, and the deep crimson tide
Three vestige bells dangle from loft, overhead
Their voices are quiet, with pericopes spoken
Soft hymns of doves, fill the rafters, instead
From crumbling ruins, bricks humbly laid
There are shadows of saints...and moss covered jade
A weeping old willow, with leaves crackling dry
I drink with my ears, and listen with an eye
Of all those who prayed, for those who passed by
Unbelievable echoes, the tolling of the bells
Making sense of the senseless, I can hear what it tells
Giving voice to my feelings, and new hope to my eyes
A peace in my heart, where the holy grail lies
Are heard in the voice, in the church of blue tides
____________________________________________________________________
For The Contest Sponsored By Shadow Hamilton "Any Subject"
Using Words: unbelievable, mystical, ligure, pericope, reservoir, quadrivial,
7/22/13
Written by: Sashi. Prabhu (zeauoxian)
Written on: 28th July 2012
Tonight I trudge down the weeping shore,
My troubled heart and uncertain mind cry galore
The waters rise up to speak to me
I try, comprehend its sublime message for me to know and reason see.
On a quaint spot I sit by myself
Looking out and gawking into the vastness of grey greenness for help
Gushing, come memories of a thousand days,
All weaved into a garland soaking in moon rays.
The waters sound encore in my ears,
As I listen, my mind ebbs and slowly fades away all my fears
The salty breeze, gently tap my face
The frothy sprays splash to knock me out of my daze
As time elapses these sublime moments pass
And sand becomes my bed and blankets of water cover me…..
The weeping shore…
Crying mind galore…
Waters rising to speak to me….
I have comprehended the subtle message stored for me under the sea…….
I am now content, happy and filled with humility…
And moments that I live have begun to be filled with tranquility…….
A baby! What a remarkable creation…I remember our first night together…how I could not help but stare…thinking how…only a day ago…he wasn’t even there.
Thinking back on how…exactly…this moment came to be…wondering how something so beautiful…began his life inside of me.
Asking myself as I held him…looking down on him from up above…is it possible…is it even conceivable…to so quickly fall in love?
When I felt the softness of his skin…the roundness of his head…his ears…his nose…his mouth…I had to stop myself from weeping…as…for the first time in both our lives…I watched my baby sleeping.
I remember thinking to myself…is there anything more beautiful…more heavenly…more innocent…more sweet…and then he moved his little hands…and kicked his little feet.
I put my hand upon his chest to calm him…and there I let it linger…soon his entire baby hand had found its way around my little finger.
And as he held on to my finger…I found myself hoping he’d never let it go…wishing this moment could last forever…yet…knowing he will grow…
Knowing I will do my best to keep him safe from sorrow and from harm…
Knowing there will come a day…when I can no longer hold him in my arms.
But I was not sad or worried at that moment…as I held him and stared at him from up above…because…as inconceivable as it sounds…at that moment…I understood a mother’s love…
I understood it on the day he was born…yes…even way back then…
how each day…
as he grows a little older…
I will fall in love…again.
I see him stumbling around looking for something to hold on to but there was nothing there except the open thin air and a bunch of bureaucrats wearing thin frocks walking around on wet grass with fake greetings and a forced smile that caught us by surprise.
Bob has been in the news and this has left everyone confused he is running for office again, midths the barrage of criticism running down his spine weakening his legs and making him look like the walking dead. At first, he looks like a robot coming out of a hut, and then it appears like a man in despair. There was no one around to cover him except for gravity and his own sanity.
Bob is fun to be around but this time his attitude makes me frown, he does some weird things, like walking with his nose pointed in the air and use his finger to show you the clock.
Sometimes he is agitated and his temper cuts deep causing everyone to proceed with caution while he rolls the dice and shuffles the cards. He is a nice person to be around but the mood swings will drag you down; yesterday I invited him for tea, we had a small talk and it left my aunt weeping in the dark, what is really going on with Bob?
Bob is a very good man but sometimes he looks very sad; he has a very tight schedule and attends more than ten meeting in a given day, heaven knows how he stands up while going through the gate.
He knows his work quite well and he can talk up a storm from hell and still remain true. I watched him come and go and how he presents himself while he rides the big ship, and the ceremony he attended with the mercenaries hiding in the bushes and the guard of honor marching every hour to pay their respect to Bob.
He wasn’t quite in it, he was always looking for something to hold on to but the air propels him along and John, his closest friend, stood next to him and pushes him on.
I could sense a silent annoyance rising up in john’s emotions, as he reached for support while climbing the steps. He attempts to hold john several times from his back but John shrugs and show him the way with a polite gesture.
They and had a cup of tea towards the end, and spend some time feeling out each other. What was said, I really don’t know but the cluster bombs exploded and close that chapter. The tennis match was a blessing in disguise, and it is an indication of how the story will end, I love happy endings.
~~
I struggle always with my memories,
The long ago past is forever lurking;
In a moment I am whispered back,
And the pages of my life are fluttering.
Fluttering in the misty winds of time,
To where the joyful and painful burn;
O but this is the key to who I am,
And each memory has its own turn.
Turn back the pages of my journey,
I am a little girl playing and dreaming;
O but to stay frozen in this memory,
And to not ever know the pain of weeping.
Weeping has always been my companion,
I so often stand in a place of sorrows;
Past the ornate gate and winding road,
And the past shall haunt all my tomorrows.
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August 16, 2014
Poetry/Quatrain/Winds of Time
Copyright Protected, ID 08-591-463-16
All Rights Reserved, 2014, Constance La France
Submitted to the Standard contest, Any Poem #8,
sponsor, Skat, Judged 08/2014
Third Place
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Submitted to the Standard contest, Where Frozen Embers Burn,
sponsor Gail Doyle, 2014
8th place