Long Woeful Poems
Long Woeful Poems. Below are the most popular long Woeful by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Woeful poems by poem length and keyword.
Proverbs 8:17 (KJV) - I love them that love me; and those that seek me early shall find me.
Before the sun crosses the mountains,
Slightly misty just beyond the seas –
There is a passion rising up in my spirt,
A need to chase after the fire, the brilliance
Of the One who silences the wind,
Glistens in the stars and remembers that my
Peace abides because He lives, because
He survives the darkest dread, the doubt
And the despair that create such fear in my head
Before the sunlight reflects the dew glittering
On the leaves, embracing the skinny branches,
Healing the soul with a colorless beauty,
A breathe of richest peace, silencing the darkness
Erasing the worst storms with a powerful
Beauty, a recollection of the sparkling stars,
Shimmering beyond the reach of a heart who
Only remembers the ache, the torturing touch
Feelings, both woeful and willful, urging
My soul to reach out to the One who colors
The entire world in a serenity that flows with light,
A brilliant stream of His paradise – whispering…
Before the morning kisses my cheek, there is a
Sense of the reflections brought to life by Him,
His gentle truth, His sacred reach into my soul
Where I sincerely believe – He is my reason
He is my hope – He makes a way through the sorrow,
He fills me up with a desire as I reach toward the fire
The passion that He stirs when He breathes love
Through the aching spirit that sighs freedom into
The prison of my doubts and fears, erasing the worry
Wiping away each tear with the assurance
That He is alive, inside, where He covers me in grace
That abounds and tears down every wall,
Each sorrow is released to the stars and the
Worst memories, the worst of the past…
Is gone like the hardness that once lived in my heart
He is a good, good God – and my love for Him
Is a love that says, “He spreads His laughter, His
Music, His breath of kindness and creativity…
Through my soul, where I know – I can always be
Certain that He is ALIVE and He is giving me a
Promise of the future, when I’ll be with Him in paradise –
Thanks to His greatest blessing, His greatest sacrifice…
The reason that I’m able to know Him like I do –
Because of His death and His rising – I can know the
Meaning of life, the meaning of love, the meaning
That draws each breath into a smile with that RISING SON!
"Life is a succession of lessons which must be lived to be understood."
Ralph Waldo Emerson
In this performance we call life,
my spirit searches for an interlude of peace.
My poetic mind riots consumed by rhymes,
savaging our memories of grieving beliefs.
I'm a soul rasping winter's woeful wings,
afraid I'll become a poet who ink will forget.
I'm trapped in the desert of dejected demons,
wandering in aching avenues of dreams,
forgotten in ferocious frozen vine's of time,
surrounded by meadows of blood poppies,
Season of death is a cursed caricature of memories,
full of salty tears, bitter goodbyes with spiteful sentiments.
Let me sleep in the synchronicity of angels,
as ebony horizons drift into darkness.
When crimson clouds bleed to paint the sky,
I scream at silent scarlet skies,
as black rain from a dark storm plunders.
Like acid burning my metaphorical paper wings,
I float like a butterfly cursed by moths of deceit,
as hope dances dangerously with my malevolent muse -
grace and hellfire waltz with my heart's chambers.
I can't help but remember last November,
when death clung to the air around me,
as answers we found turned into a designated dead end.
In delirious desires of deathless shadows,
I still see your daggers and cigarettes in a charcoal silhouette,
with your every breath laced with guilt.
Yet, the ghost of your voice lulls me to sleep,
as the silence crawls along the walls at night.
Who are we to judge who is a sinner or a saint.
I wonder if you will walk down the stairs of heaven,
hold me in all my fragility, remind me of childlike charms,
or will rebellious regrets open the gates of hell.
I scream at the Grim Reaper to take my soul,
ravage me, before I go,
but put a white veil on my corpse,
so each night when I visit my grave,
provocative eyes with loose desires,
can feel the wind beneath my sails.
But, gift me one more midnight,
to create my final masterpiece to paint my dreams,
carved with marble white ink,
engulfed in sentimental verses -
for this is poetry, formless suppressed speech.
One day our quill will eternally slumber,
as our conscience passes from poetry to dust.
In the plight of adversity, only I, truly know,
that stars speak stories how simple words were not enough,
as truth only prevails through poetic justice.
(***warning ungapatchka language ahead***)
Flush with rage the spouse will become allied
if reference made how she buzzfeeds disorder
altercation especially likely if divorce blurted
making me wish to experience (immediately)
bartered bride, when mine pointed finger doth
nonverbally chide markedly appalling untidy
predilection she blithely exhibits woeful scant
interest to maintain can-do spirit affecting plea
zing aesthetic humble abode ofttimes slacking
off cleaning trail of abomination, which talent
includes unwittingly cultivating qua primordial
soup possibly duplicating conditions when life
originated (bajillion years ago) on planet Earth
witnessed courtesy think gummy, groovy, gooey,
gloppy, (nippy, nap, noopy) protoplasmic slimy
oozing blob (starring Steve McQueen) amoeba
like swallowing small towns with names such as
Chester Springs, Downingtown, Phoenixville,
& Royersford hungering, hinting, and hankering
to hasten home hearing Harris harridan hooligan
hoopla conniption purportedly linked into order
issued courtesy board of health for hen pecking
wife to hustle & make house beautiful for Biden
(accompanied with hit parade) announcing (yea)
at long last Republican administration overhaul
which fête yours truly slated to host determined
(weeks ago), thus necessitating legally wedded
counterpart to apply elbow grease in tandem to
render spic & span where unsightly food scraps,
soiled clothes, scattered papers, et cetera strewn
helter skelter, the disarray the culmination of 4+
years occupying these digs in Schwenksville, Pa.
Upon being told "get the place in ship shape order"
she went ballistic like bupkis fired out me gluteus
maximus, (whereat I couldn't help but think ICBM)
yea, an incongruous thought as she rattled vitriolic,
colorful expletives coarse language enough would
make sailor blush shutting his yapper uttering before
he even uttered "shiver me timbers," hence clatter
and din created cacophonous noise as my fair lady
affected one woman siege warfare as pots and pans
flew pell mell thru air while I took refuge in fallout
shelter unused since total mortal kombat destroyed
major swath of webbed wide world, global debacle
our dear leader triggered (when in pensive mood) he
lobbed weapons of mass destruction after being axed
to "go back home" meaning his mother planet Uranus.
I was cursed with ink
intoxicating blank canvases
with toxic scribbles,
releasing twisted tales
of suppressed troubles.
I was a forsaken ebony rose
in satan's grasp,
kneeling on ungodly needs
in a gothic fortress
of woeful odes,
surrounded by black knights
and colorless blossoms,
searching for legitimate sestinas
and versatile villanelles
to ignite my quill to bleed
without semantic barriers.
Swaying like a pendulant,
on the edge between
light and darkness,
resembling midnight's
black ice queen,
I thirsted for a
universal prophecy.
A poet who would engrave
perennial verses upon my
discoloured healing heart.
To paint antique stones,
during sunless days
in a moonless kingdom.
A calligraphic catharsis,
adorning the sincere crown
of an imperial ivory king,
whose angelic voice
glitters like gems,
soothing insensitive beating drums
within my pondering pensive mind.
A majestic master of his quill,
reviving poetic intimacy,
fusing his musings
deep inside untouched chambers
with an unscratched itch,
of my undanced fandango.
F a t e has a way for
versifiers to assimilate.
From the first drop
of his couplet,
he had my tongue
rhyming to the rhythm
of his unspoken lyrics.
Now, I am a slave to
what I have become.
Handcuffed and blindfolded
by preserved petals
between perfumed pages
written from the tip of his
magical wand like fingers.
I am weaving crystal quartz
words in witching hours,
whilst he pours dulcet musings
incensed in white sage
over my rustic bronze silhouette,
as I am his willing mistress:
a submissive subservient pawn
to his silent slavery.
Throned in intricately carved
prose and poetry,
where monochrome strokes
of thin lines no longer perish.
There’s no need for a sorcerer
when his sentimental sonnets
are an addictive elixir.
I am deliriously comatose
and chained in piercingly
euphoric sagas of his saccharine soul.
Even Lilith seized the moment
to behold what belonged to her
In the name of infatuated love.
So this is me, stealing
scented seeds
sown along parallel paradigms
of his rightful Parnassian paradise,
d r o w n i n g in
metaphorical monograms,
leaving memoirs of a poetess~
seething glitters and gold
reborn from the depths of
a savior that saved
me from burnt chapters
of darkest oblivion.
Loneliness is not what I’m looking forward to
Distress was not part of my gladness, so true
Oceanic, ominous waves bring me down sometimes, darling so free
Tension-packed, traumatic nervousness gives me moments of mere bravery
Oceanic, ominous waves swallow me whole and silence takes its toll substantially,
Eventually washing away the jubilance that blooms like the sun of the afternoon
Gladness and God’s grace makes me flutter away and sway away oh so beautifully
Like a suave butterfly out of a vicacious cocoon that flies in the month of June
Love from above is essential and beneficial to my heart of cold stone
I’m like a resonating, dynamic dove in the sky, then captivated in descending disheartenment
I rove in fields of blues and grays - the ominous waves, alone,
Have scared me off and made my optimism die and now, I am facing dire discouragement
Emotionally inclined and woeful waters spill out from my oceanic eyes
Getting rid of the guilty conscience and fighting back lust and lies
Crimson rain, like waterfalls, collide from the wounds of my heart’s desire
I want to be as pure as amber-colored auras around the rather dazzling fire
I’m as freezing hot as fire below the waters of wistfulness
I want to boil up your wondrous waves of blissfulness
I don’t want to look back at the ominous waves of fearful fretfulness
I don’t want to backtrack the sorrow from within you and I regardless
Majestic, mesmerizing movement of the sparkling sea moves us for an eternity
It brings me benevolent bliss and leaves the gloomy waves envious of our serenity
I just don’t want to be humiliated by hatred and its horrendous thunderstorm
Instead, let me feel the monsoons of meandering magnificence unfold and keep my kindred spirits warm
Evaporate the oceanic, ominous waves from tearing us apart -
Drown not my hopes and joys of my youth from my heart; give me a reason to venture on my own
We are a ship of vital vigilance and shimmering might from the start
I am much like a seashore-bound shipwreck, once wandering through the abyssal waters all alone
Ascending awesomely like the exuberant, extraterrestrial mountains
Oceanic, ominous waves try to break me into shards of empty misery,
Expressing my solitude’s serene solace through my poetic words
Loneliness is not what I’m looking forward to, but to release it like birds
“There’s a special providence in the fall of a sparrow.” Shakespeare in Hamlet
**************************************************************
Augury
As the shine of the sun sets down
In the far away horizon
In villages as in the towns
And dusk stealthily makes its dawn,
The sky awhile pivots to pink
While clouds wafted by woeful winds
Seem in the firmament to blink
Racing across the sky with spleen.
Does the pink sky augur a storm,
Tempest, typhoon or tornado
That may buildings and trees deform
Without a tinkle of ado!
Does it herald devastation
Of fauna and flora on land,
Of harvest and cultivation
And rocking of boats on the sand!
Nature seems to have its own way
To admonish human beings
To hold their boats firmly at bay
And arouse their inner feelings
To keep those near and dear to them
In safety and security
Until the end of the mayhem
Heralded by the augury.
To scoff inklings of such omens
Is to invite spates of worries
From the clutches of a demon,
Let one`s ship sink in the deep sea,
Allow storms to set one`s house flat,
Disregard clues from the divine,
Let the wild winds whip off one`s hat
And snub signals from the sublime.
The future will bring unexpected things,
A woeful tragedy our heart to sting,
And though our plans be laid so well,
A power, from where we cannot tell,
Moves, or turns circumstance around,
Here giving joy there bringing a frown.
An insignificant spark, a slippery spot,
An induced germ, a misplaced dot,
Can turn someone; a group, a horde,
To bring about peace or bare the sword.
What say ye then, my wise friend you;
Is it blind fate and a little luck too:
Some random power to tip the scale,
And bring forth heaven or show us hell?
Concerning the puzzle of seeming happenstance,
Can you of the future perceive a glance?
Has it reason or design at all,
Can man influence how 'fate' must fall?
How helpless then we tend to be,
If we be pawns in a random sea,
Where utmost effort is brought to naught,
A battle comes that would not be fought,
And all this turns on the merest flick,
Of someone's seeming uneventful trick.
Who can approve such an absurd display,
Of struggling mankind's effort made,
And undone by a change of wind,
The toss and turn of chance to send?
I will not accept such an odd charade
Of appearance too early or too late,
Of a random force that turns my way,
Into some strange and awkward play.
I choose a design of great import,
A meaningful kind, of a rational sort:
With a purpose far above the crush
Of humanity's desire filled headlong rush.
An intent supreme,of a virtuous kind,
With purer motive and reasoned mind;
To set things right and bring an end,
Far more desirable than chance can pen.
To vindicate the cause of all,
The pain, the strife, the rise and fall,
Of man's travail from then til now;
Though to prove it to you, I know not how.
Please bear with me and consider this,
Lest some good purpose we should miss,
Could the answer be thus simply stated:
"By Him and for Him they were created"?
The purpose of creation and the Adamic fall,
Could glory for Christ be the reason after all?
More magnificent a claim cannot be made.
No more noble reason for existence laid,
Than for my existence to be,
To glorify the one who is most Holy.
The Spirit written text does make the call,
Of one Lord supremely over all,
With a secondary purpose in mind,
Of a merciful and a redeeming kind.
All wrapped up in this purpose too,
Could be salvation for me and you.
I ask you now, does this ring true,
Creation made and with good purpose too?
I could tell from the look on his face that things were not going his way, the numbers have been overwhelming but the people have been deceiving him; some people with bad intention tells him what he wants to hear but the reality is finally drawing near and redemption is shouting at the window but I could not tell from whence came that unpredictable sorrows.
The luster has gone out of his face and there was no music in the place and the universe was beckoning him to come. But he was reluctant to move. For one brief moment my eyes met his and the pupil and the retina began to sing without a specific rhythm. Something was not right and all of a sudden a shadow stood by his side and covers him.
The evening drags on and he stumbles along. He stands on the stage with a strange look in his eyes as if someone for him had just died, his droopy eyelid sagged and the hair on his head lay flat and the suit that he was wearing laid haphazardly on him as if he was drinking.
The strength and power have gone out of his voice and the purpose has already die and the people were screaming and shouting but he could not hear them. He stood and stared blindly at them as if he wanted to cry but the tears could not flow.
The night kept rumbling on and I could hear a distance song but I could not tell where it was coming from. I could tell from the look on his face that he didn’t have enough strength to complete the race. He was just going through the motions with solidarity in his heart but from the look of things he was running out of steam. The jokes were gone and his words were falling on the ground and the message was nowhere to be found.
I could tell from the look in his eyes that the rivers have gone dry not one single tear could be found in his eyes; the people's laughter have faded, the shouts and screams have died down and gossip starts circling around. Election was definitely not on his agenda something bigger than that had captivated his mind.
I have never seen him like that before with that sad droopy look on his face, you had better take him to golf court to recuperate before he drops out of the race.
I could tell from the look on his face that he detests being in that place and he was just going through the phase. Reality is just setting in and he has committed a woeful sin. It is time to start the orchestra.
False promises and bold faced lies
From leaders we call men,
Too foolish, vain and unwise
It’s the election blues again.
Feign to believe the web they weave
With patient ears we listen,
Future balanced if they achieve
From deceitful eyes teeth glisten.
In principle, fate is our blame
Yet in our selfish pride,
Our judgment shadows woeful shame
Behind scapegoats fail to hide.
Ballot fiends they all may be
Watching poll numbers, plus or minus three,
What will their victory bring to me
After January twenty-three.
Subsidized youth sports, gun control
Child care dollars galore,
A policy a day, and truth be told
Campaign gifts are a chore.
What matters East-West-South ‘n North
Is that we get it right,
While opponents bicker back and forth
By cable, bus or flight.
Success depends on unity
Without it we’re a wreck,
While one side suffers mutiny
The Grits give Tories heck.
The separatist Bloc` says “Let us go”
Demanding sovereign freedom,
White margarine and one-tongued-signs
Does Canada really need them.
The answer is, quite simply, oui`
We cannot tear apart,
Instead, honor all with dignity
And make a brand new start.
While men debate with pointed fingers
On issues big or small,
Our neighbor’s fear of terror lingers
With plans to build a wall.
Five billion they shall not relinquish
While bring East to peace,
Infernal war fires ne’r extinguish
Diplomacy for lease.
Denying partnership in war
To Iraq we didn’t go,
And up in space where eagles soar
Again we said “Oh no”.
Canada is not the States
Their future is not ours,
While Bush comments on us, berates
His future quickly sours.
When we look back upon these days
In golden years of life,
Will mirrored lakes obscure with haze
Too thick for sharpened knife.
Or does the future hold great treasure
For Canadians, one and all,
With strength and courage beyond measure
Winter, Spring, Summer and Fall.
Like years before, each voter chooses
With hopes and dreams of change and glory,
But in the end there’s winners and losers
Different writer, same old story.
Scott Goldsberry
December 30, 2005
Dew
Soul of morn, at night thou sleep
Then dance in mead on blooms on grass
The pearls and diamonds all there weep
Thy shining sheen them all surpass
Thou kiss the Green green vales and hills
Thy love all earth and heavens cross
Dewdrops are the tears of fairies
Hovers that in nights on sky
Beads of glass the gems on daisies
With the beams of sun they dry
Puff of wind from blooms them erases
Then he said these gems goodbye
Moon purchase them in star night
And send all diamonds to our land
Decor it heath and woodland sight
And help her mighty seraph band
O love of sun and moon ish beam
That no one on earth for thee stand
O breath of morning , Drops of dew
Refresh thou souls that roam on earth
O beauteous eye, O watery hue
Thou heave last breath soon after birth
In meads thy friends all channels tread
And then inhale they thy pure breath
It seems more soothing there to think
To part from thee just means the death
From heaven's height on earth they drop
And shine on leaves on bloom on green
From edges of the leaves they pop
And call the centuries in between
More beauteous than the magic world
Is dance of pearls with diamond sheen
Thou foster child of sky and earth
Thou wedding garments of the trees
All Nature is the guest of Heath
And welcome it who ever sees
Thou vanish at the Zeus gaze
O thou the Queen of snow and rain
Thy love for thee mourn in the green
And search thee in the days in vain
My goddess shine thou in moonbeams
That come to meet thee from the sky
In morning shine thou with the glee
Then to the goddess moon thou fly
A silent silent time of Glee
Thou silent breath , thou silent hue
Whence there you fly all wish and cry
O come on goddess we love you
All woeful hearts all beauteous souls
In morn they come in search of thee
Inhale in morn thy scented breath
And then return in mirth and Glee
Oh moan of eve, Oh smile of morn
With grief and Glee thou intertwine
We are the beat of one sole heart
With thee it breathes, the soul of mine
On earth and heaven only one
Thou melting lass ,thou glassy Queen
Thou left behind the Bacchus pards
Thou lofty than the Hippocrene
Thy dresses dipped in heaven's sea
With Eden gems and pearls they shine
From sky in goblets angels bring
Thou full of gems thou heaven's wine