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.
She is trapped in this dark prison, enraptured by the trees, how she became to be a part of them is surely a mystery
Her limbs intwine with the branches and they make up the crown on her head, it’s as though when she was broken, they called out to her from the dead
From the darkness of the night where fear lies in wait, that is where you shall find her in this desolate, resting place
Some blame it on a curse saying that is why she was put there, and others believe that is just a myth that some make up because they’re scared
Scared to venture to those woods, to see the one enraptured by the trees, and hear her woeful cries in the night as she longs and weeps
Weeps for the one that broke her when she was in another form, when she could reach out and touch his handsome face before he left her scorned
Now she can’t touch anyone or anything, her hands are just tattered branches that hold nothing but decaying leaves
She still holds her wistful smile although no one ventures there to see, she doesn’t wish to hurt anyone at all she just wants to be set free
She wants to be able to break this curse or whatever has placed her here, she wants to run back into his arms where she never felt scared
But she can never have this because in reality he doesn’t truly exist, he is just a vision that she conjured up long ago when she was banished to this abyss
She dreams of a life where she can be free and not feel tied down anymore, she wants to be tethered to something, but this isn’t it she is sure
She loves the feeling of being held although it’s only by the branches of a tree, and she longs to not be awakened by the coolness of the breeze
She wants eternal peace because she can no longer live in this cell, but she knows that she can never break these ties that bind her, she knows this all too well.
Rags To Threadbare Tatters...
(a true “FAKE” story
how Mein Kampf - chill as hoary
frost – and totaling lacking glory.)
A woeful disgraceful
cautionary tale stitched
from the barest thread
harkens back half life
of yours truly
comprising a few decades
in the pluperfect past,
when this husband newlywed
living hand to mouth,
when thy wife and me
occupied mine boyhood abode
sharing one kid size bed,
though dwelling under
same roof as parents,
this "pariah" did dread,
cuz prior to getting married
most every day
found me loathing mandates,
yet never fled
duet hoo bing
cowardly, yours truly
blithely endured pa
rant till fulminations,
and litany of"hateful"
broadsides at my head
minor misfortune, sans scant
details barely one
measly paragraph
tenuously stretched,
thus (with all manner
of dogspeed, I fetched
kvetched against restricted
poetic licensed finesse)
to complete
at least one
page (OpenOffice)
word document spread
attempting to convey penury,
but nonetheless I
consider meself
if nothing else
blue tiff lee well red
irrelevant to stand in good stead,
and pertaining to
profession of thespian,
never found me professionally
acting out a scene
neither did I glean,
nor memorized
scripts, thy counter
with applying literary mien
super tramp ping cheap tricks
to convince skeptical readers
"Quod Erat Demonstrandum"
just show up on opening night
when mine break
out character lean
on words since being "green"
behind ears of corn lean
refulgent klieg lights
will shine a light
asthma pantomime
dramatics mean
business and take
thumb page from playbook
portray me as
superb drag queen
when "lights", "camera,"
and "action" called
debut appearance
with stellar broadcasts
in every magazine!
The Internet
Across the earth they cast a net
In which a worldly soup is met
The good the bad the in-between
The dark the light and greyish sheen
All jumbled in a mighty throng
The clever right, the woeful wrong
It is the same, or so I’m told
Just like the fisher nets of old
They trawled the oceans deep dark floor
And netted creatures by the score
Some fat and plump, a rich reward
Some dank and foul, tossed overboard
And so, be sure that when you stray
Along that road... the net’s highway
To use your brain and use it right
And cast the rubbish out of sight
Check all your facts, don’t use one source
Before your genius you enforce
For though the net’s a magic tool
You wouldn’t want to look a fool.
House Wrens in the Cottonwoods trill
Sonorous requiems ringing out as poetry
In sullen streams of languid silence-
A eulogy of bereft love
Wistful woeful clouds scuddle
Across the somnolent heavens
As the fading of your footsteps once more
Have found their rhythm in my memory
Your eyes, your face, your arms
Lie surrendered in my enchantment
Haunted by this ritual of melancholy
This final ‘Good-Bye’, this 'Last Dance'
You walked away long ago
To not remember that love never leaves
Those who know its eternal clock
Those who kept the flower and watered it
May 12, 2023
Anatomy of Melancholy Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Craig Cornish
Where Ravens Cry
Beneath ancient boughs, where woeful ravens cry,
Our souls entwined, chilling winds around us creep.
The fragrance of midnight blossoms drifts nearby,
As dense fog enshrouds the glade in cryptic sleep.
With every touch, spectral fire ignites the sky,
Like graves in soft silver light, desires dig deep.
A moonlit serenade whispers through the trees,
Love’s dark melody carried upon the breeze.
Under the starlit sky, our bodies entwine,
Beneath a shroud of mystic mist, passions play.
Azure eyes, like haunted sapphires, darkly shine,
And guide my love through the night’s bewitching sway.
Each amorous moan, a ghostly lover’s sign,
An unholy union, our vows will betray.
A moonlit serenade borne on raven wings,
In our pounding hearts, love’s dark melody sings.
What shimmers in the shadow like
Behind the shadow of these eyes
Twilight and the tryst
Of time we cannot list
But if my love I list the hours
Spent beneath the woeful powers
Of sun and moon and simmered star
The hours will not get me far
Bound in circles round the sun
And circles make our hearts undone
But there is final beauty in the place
Where sunlight falls on wintr’y palace
And all the portals of the sky
Are frosted silver in the night
There-my love-my soul is spent
On memories-but not again
I cannot rise-I cannot wake
Tis crueler than a deathly state
For if a broken soul may writhe
And pass beyond its mortal rim
At least in passing it doeth give
A glint of what once was lived
But I like stone am molded o’er
Till crumbling turn to dust no more.
Disasters have plagued our planet since the dawn of time,
When primitive creatures rose from primordial slime,
And a comet came down to hit a dinosaur’s head,
Causing a headache so bad, he was better off dead.
So, he asked the plain question, “to be or not to be?”
And invented Tylenol with codeine, number three.
Before you know it, Mount Vesuvius exploded,
And many kilometers of magma unloaded.
Thousands were inundated - a woeful loss of life,
One man frozen stiff forever with his neighbor’s wife.
The Chicago Fire was equally terrible.
To be cooked alive is certainly unbearable.
As disasters go, this undoubtedly qualifies.
Mrs. O’Leary’s cow did publicly apologize.
When the South Fork Dam breached, to people’s worst fears,
The Johnstown Flood immersed folks here and there to their ears.
If you happened to be shorter than five foot-seven,
You saw a few fish, and then you went up to heaven.
This holiday season, some fun you may wish to poke
At me, as you might Scrooge or Grinch, but this ain’t no joke.
Prepare for a worse catastrophe, never seen before,
One you can’t ignore, which will knock you right to the floor,
Let me underscore, get ready, there’s food to store…for
The Great California Quake of Twenty-Twenty Four.
Deep in fathomless shadows I weep with woeful sighs.
My heart, once so innocent, I have come to despise,
and with each tear I cry for wrongs I have committed,
I find myself unworthy of mercy; unfit to be acquitted.
A broken promise is a grievous offense of a serious kind.
I charge myself with the crime that can only be defined
as one that now gives me the burden of carrying the pain
of wounds on my odious soul that I abhor and disdain.
I spun a wicked web of deceit when a friendship I defiled.
Broke a trust as if the devil tickled my ear; I was beguiled.
I wove a tapestry sewn with lies, words I shouldn't have said.
I'm wrought with torment, forgiveness dangling by a thread.
In penumbras of solitude, I hang my head in wretched despair.
No cry for mercy will I beg. The suffering is mine alone to bear.
I will remain veiled in the vestiges of transcendent invisibility,
without expectation of empathy. I live in a state of culpability.
It was a twisted path I walked, and I must carry all the blame
for in the act of betraying my friend, I am drowning in shame.
The boundary line between revenge and mercy is very narrow.
I fear I'll not be forgiven if my field of benevolence lies farrow.
Each night I wake in nightmare's bed, my body feeling chill.
In haunting silence around me I hear my heart beating until
I curse myself for turning away from a friendship I spurned,
for in the fanned flames of what we shared, I was also burned.
Written: July 30th, 2026, for a contest sponsored by Seth Pina
*********
Your very skeleton
is not spun from cotton and polyester.
No, it is not carved from wood,
nor forged from metal or steel.
Its substance is—nerve endings,
tissue, and blood—
circulatory systems,
bound,
but not from woven fabric.
A lethal lotus languishes,
lamenting in its limbo,
crouched on bended knee.
A curved carcass, prostrate
beneath time’s passing wheel.
Its chalk-white bones
measure the slow decay,
where darkness lingers
in the hollow space within.
Cyborg of a cyber-skeleton.
Coiled with a steel-stitch
sprocket of subjugation.
Its spinal cord, bound in circuitry,
hums with sorrow.
A crestfallen cranium,
a heavy, hollowed
moon-orb weighed down
by the gravity of grief
in synthesized solitude.
Amidst this woeful wheel,
supplications of skinless steel
fuse forgotten fragility and fortitude
into a fatalistic future.
For you were neither tool nor tree,
but a tight-furled tapestry of flesh—
a weeping engine, bound in bone,
where the wild pulse fights the gear,
and slowly fades to rust.
The Calling
I hear the calling
She is out there in the wind
The darkness though
Hides her inside my very thoughts
My dreams escape only at the light of day
Where I wonder
Was she there at all
My life has been this journey
Seeking the calling of the one in the wind
Her voice does sing, and the pain of loneliness
Is my very own chamber of horrors, that stings
I would fly away, if only, if only
My broken wings would mend
My heart is silent for it does not move
There is no beat, no flow of love or tear
No bonds to hold me to your breast so dear
I have given this world a million smiles and facades
I have cried for the pain of all the woeful stories untold
Burdened it seems, with angel duties
I am no longer with strength to hold or hope
I feel the dust inside my mouth
I hear the calling
The kiss comes too late
To wet my soul
Thus is I who must let you now go
To the depths of torment far deep and down below