Long Whitened Poems
Long Whitened Poems. Below are the most popular long Whitened by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Whitened poems by poem length and keyword.
Peace has left my heart
Joy has left my home
Happiness has deserted me
Goodness and I strangers we are…
Guilt is my friend
Fear lives in me
A vested companion
In my abode is agony
Sleep has deserted my eyes…
For the crimes I committed
For the pains many I caused
For the anguish many a times I birthed
For the years of robbery I did…
On a thorny seat I sit
I sweat in the freezing weather
Warmth I feel not
My heart and soul is a burning furnace
Peace truly has deserted me…
I am the living dead
A walking corpse I is
Satisfied hunger dwells in my belly
Dancing songs of sorrow
With its beautiful fangs
Torturing my whitened dark soul…
Respite I seek
A break from these
I plead
A turn to the past
In the hands of time I yearn for
For a correction of my erring years
But wishes never will be horses
The wasted years of pride
Shall haunt and hunt me
Repeatedly till ages unending…
He could take what most found, in the time of that
Particular incumbent fashion, to be lacking in any
Pleasing or greatly passionate way,
And, after immersing it into low, blue flame,
Repeatedly beat upon this quivering mass as
If it were but a whitened molten lump when
Drawn from violent, torturing heat constrained
Deep within some smith's insatiable forge;
Seen there the blistered face, scorched forearms
Impervious to the fizz and burn of popping sparks;
Blackened hammer wielded by a gnarly hand,
The repeated raising; forceful, downward strikes --
High-pitched ringing chimes of metal on metal;
And him, the better craftsman, bent desperately
To his task, shaping something new and
Disturbingly strange...
While, amassed amid the silent roaring of those
Unremarkable fields,
An idealistic generation, readied, prepared to spill
Its hot, innocent young blood over a sea of
Flowering petals for the valueless ideal of an
Unworthy hour spawned by a vile whoring b***h
Before it slunk back into the lengthening
Shadows of a withering age.
Thistledown wus his name and sometimes he stung, well actually his stem stung. The stinkers gave him a bad name, they did! Handsome wus he. Aye, the ladies loved him. Coming near to his full bushy head of royal purple pomp, thought he smelled good too, they did, bees to his honey.
Summer time was his time, the time to bloom. His thorns served as fairy swords. An', on mass, he an' his guarded the fey's mound. Thistledown kept the cows from trampin' the wee ones. An' the cow plops from offendin' the Royal's wee noses. No hoof falls made treacherous the field's lay.
Suren, he wus sharp this fine boyo. He did 'ave a soft side, a sure sweetness. When fall's goddess Mordron* brought the chill down, he softened. Queen Mab* sent fey to catch his whitened crownin' glory, as each strand, a silken treasure, soft fell and so, Ole Thistle lost his head, for from his crown, and its down, wur made sheets of silken softness for the Tuatha De Danaan's* beds.
*Goddess Mordron/Welsh mythology, Modron ("divine mother")
* Queen Mab of the Fairy
* Tuatha De Danaan pre-Christian gods represented as heroes or fairies.
[Tribes of the goddess Dana]
Shouts of triumph and defeat echo from the fields
day in and day out.
Drivers continue learning in that same cracked parking lot,
living proof that history repeats itself;
different shaking 16-year-olds,
same bumped curbs and too-hasty turns.
And Youth floats on,
floats on by.
The sun sets another day,
and the world is casted in the most vibrant oranges and purples
from the Matron’s final brushstrokes.
The Crone assumes control now.
With a wave of her gnarled hand,
leaves skitter across snow-dusted earth
against a background of gray and dying light.
And I drive slowly,
soaking in sights I’ve dismissed a thousand times over.
I’m guided by memories of times once passed
overlayed across my sight,
and through them I view the old roads I used to speed down
with little regard for life and its gifts.
The asphalt I know is further worn,
further whitened by Winter’s reverent graze.
I am not who I was when I last traversed Stanhope Road.
I am older,
wiser,
my eyes no longer veiled.
Fall has passed me to his successor.
I can only hope Winter will receive me with a feather-light touch
and shape me as gently,
for its bitingly cruel reality knows no bounds.
Blood always contrasts harshest with the snow.
Snow storm with a name
I faced the storm
A nor'easter came
With winds whistling
It howled with rage
Each hour it gotten stronger
Harsh winds were a blowing
I saw as the night start
Shadows of snow-flakes, shining
Tumbling into snowy ecstasy
Crescent moon smiled down
Hidden within the shadows of eve'
Before long, the moment of fury
Was devouring in twinkling vanity
Street seethe was making big appearance
In frantic, theatrical, vigor
Clammy with sweat, as the night ascend
Snowy scatter, whirly, whirl
Twisted, white and gemmed
Among, great white columns
Groaning in whitened envy
Rushing with mirth
Amid rustling sounds, through the weeds
As sobbing winter-end groaned saucily
Stagnant air was filling up
And breezing through without a care
Frigid wet snow vomitted, breathlessly
A la mode the terrestrial terrain
Whilst, morning rised in orchestral splendor
As pristine wintry morn' prayed faintly
Snapping and rippling with glee
In aftermath, the crystalline whiteout
Laughed and giggled, insidiously
Into the mist of peaceful bliss
As God drew nature in artistic flurries
And snow angels danced into the day
Over the distant horizon where unsullied love
Quietly calls in her yet unconsummated calm,
There daft hate has not sown its haughty gall;
There void's vitriols make no sweet airs numb.
In great ecstatic joys do merry lips there rejoice,
And forever sing happy songs themed on hope;
Where lie purest lands spiteful feet never tread,
Past farthest skies where jollities sing full voice.
We've there each saint in finer whitened gowns,
Under bliss-filled wings free from earth's frowns;
Where witch-hunting enmities oppress no more,
Where our mudslinging detractors wage no war.
Sublime carols heavy with unceasing peace
Pipe rest to every battle-battered soul there;
Where brotherhood keeps all on their knees,
Where no tempting sights weak victims dare.
There's a sprawling refuge all green and pure,
In a most pristine state past our highest azure.
Take me , my love to the waters source
souls naked to each other and our course
my praise lifted the apple of mine eye
art thou glorious , tis mine song to cry
You must lead my way in a walk thats True
for all the fine things I have found in you
gentle call so beckons you are my delight
your visions fill all mine day and night
You are too precious to leave my mind
for you I shall leave all others behind
gypsy soul has wandered the world lost
her dances with others behind her are tossed
You are jade like the sprouts are green
the life you've breathed into my being
like the spray of waterfalls tumbling down
I bow to what our God has crowned
You are gentle in a world thats cruel
and emollient that can heal a fool
you have taken whats broken and made it whole
from the world which has taken its toll
You are the song upon my lips
the clothing strength that girds my hips
you are the blood within my heart
the energy that fills every part
the breath of spirit which gives me life
the calm that eases all my strife
Your sacrifice has flowed crimson red
that you might give life unto the dead
I must meld my soul to you
so I might learn the things you do
You love me with a heart so pure
I know all time it will endure
My heart skips like the rams of mountains
you quench my thirst with your fountains
your pardon has released from the fall
tis only as I have answered your call
the melody of love did my heart soften
may you , my love enter here quite often
You are the shade of all the groves
the whitened wool of all the droves
the warmth that dwells in rays of light
the knowledge that gives to all insight
you are the flash of epiphany
the spectrum that brings us to our knee
as the universe moves to your will
you do with abundance our lives do fill
source Song of Solomon
COPYRIGHT © 2010 C Michael Miller
The widow's eyelids of the house gradually close,
Over the empty rooms, where love once wove the velvet of longing.
My wife has dissolved into the echo of days, my daughter - a fleeting thought,
Books, paper birds loaned to the winds, my clothes,
Silken bones wringing out the last drops of time.
A caricature of a chariot, with wheels freed from roads, I offered it to the void,
In a past already too dim, too detached from the living present.
And the real and the dream, love and the void, they dance away, fragile
As the bitter waving of foam - soon gone, nameless on the lip of the glass.
And my mind is now more a prayer without an altar,
A sanctuary with icons that fade, discolor, lost in time.
Senses catch only the shadows of saints set to leave,
And my soul is an unwritten liturgy, where faith is all that remains when life recedes.
Everything I loved, the wanderings of my soul whitened everywhere,
They have taken flight towards the ashes of tomorrow, I do not retain them, do not stop them.
Like a hermit of oblivion, I end in a chapel of silent gratitude,
In the chamber of the heart, only the empty echo of my wandering steps, proof that I was and that I am, in a world that no longer recognizes, but passes.
Solo it came; embedded in the droves.
They covered bodies with once whitened sheets.
Assembly lines carry them to the stoves.
Stench of death and burnt flesh along the streets.
I am doubtful now of ignorance’s bliss.
Red flag; just another blown forewarning.
Death; ‘tis the season of our new abyss.
Where sorrow wakes us, to greet the morning.
Prayers now ending with the plead “please God’s Son!”
Overwhelmed worldwide by a lunar phage.
If only heed had been on precaution
existence may have bilked this final stage.
Solutions are socially systemic.
Every soul, a role. Prevent pandemic!
april starts clocks forward spring
practice in full swing
nets untangled from their poles
players to contact & enroll
gang mowers greased&oiled
kit-bag dis-embroiled
grass-stained pads whitened bright
fixture list to expedite
fix sight-screen broken panels
coax another season from my flannels
spring-clean changing rooms dried with mud
re-lace boots& re-stud
wash& iron umpires coats
then score-box to creosote
tea-urns to scour crockey to clean
a captain's tasks routine unseen
dreams of 50's in the sun
games won by just one run
cricketers' good indifferent & unsung
this national game played just for fun