Long Woke Poems
Long Woke Poems. Below are the most popular long Woke by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Woke poems by poem length and keyword.
I first stepped into the quicksand
When I was only twenty-one
My girlfriend missed two cycles
My college years were not yet done
I doubled up on my courses
While working late into the night
And started sinking into the quagmire
Cuddling my daughter nice and tight
I sunk into it even deeper
When two sons then came along
A house with a mortgage
Credit cards to pay the throng
My job became an anchor
Adding weight to my sinking ship
But instead of calling out for help
I simply bit my bleeding lip
Muck was up to my neck
When college tuitions came pouring in
But I knew, for my children,
To do less would be a sin
My loved ones standing near me
Didn’t seem to notice me disappear
Suffocating in the deluge
Was my most horrific fear
When my head was finally covered
And my world went dark as night
I heard sounds of a helicopter
I heard beeping and saw a light
The doctor who woke me up
Said, “You had a heart attack
You must climb out of the quicksand
If you want your life to come back”
Then I learned to see the joy
In what I thought was ballast weight
I learned to share some of my burdens
And not carry them all upon my plate
I learned how to reach my hand out
To other hands that were always there
And I left my life of quicksand
Burying within it all despair
Sam Adams Woke Up Dead
Sam Adams woke up dead
He had met a strange man
In a strange bar, in a strange land
The man told him
Beware, today is the date
You will meet your fate
Sam Adams drank too much
Twenty drinks too sober
Drank until he died
Found himself in a huge room
With hundreds of people milling about
The hangover from h … pounding his head
Sam Adams groans,
Shouting out
Where am I?
“in limbo, my friend, in limbo”
Growled Mr. GR, the grim reaper
Dressed in a sharp, expensive, tailored black suit
Wearing cool Ray-Ban Sunglasses
State your name
Sam Adams,
Hmm
Oh, there may be a mistake
But what the hey,
The records are never fake
Not yet the date
For you to meet your fate
Go back to your mate
He found himself
Home with his wife
The love of his long life
Wondering until late
If it had happened?
What was his fate?
He asked her
Did I go out last night?
What, no you’ve been here
He explained what had happened
She said it was just a bad dream
Covid fears had kept them home
The phone rang
It was the man from the bar
Did you have an interesting night?
Oh well, Mr. GR comes for us all
Soon you will meet your fate
But not on this date
Night fell on me unexpectedly
Like overwhelmed by lust lover
Hiding in shadows of my dreams
In faint moonlight emerging
From the top of eucalyptus trees
Like a gigantic night bird
Grabbing my hair and pulling me
Towards his body and landing
On my lips with his airy wings
Enveloping me and devouring
With fiery consuming passion
That I drowned in
I did not want to escape
I had no willpower to move
I surrendered to lust
That we shared all night
And both slowly sank
In sweet vast ocean
Of bottomless well
Of never experienced
Pulsating sensation
Both of flying up high
In the starry nights sky
And falling deep down into
The dark bottom of ocean
Of burning sensations
That lasted all night
Till next morning I woke up
With my head spinning around
Feeling sick and nauseous
Filled with strange ideas
Never known to me before
Like a pregnant woman
With a precious secret
Of creating new life
Deep down in my psyche
I held a secret
That I never revealed
To anyone
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
It wasn’t the current that woke me~
nor the moon’s cracked reflection
slipping between the reeds.
It was the hush,
the way the water paused
mid-sentence,
as if gathering words
from the silt,
from the bones of fish
who forgot how to swim upstream.
Then~
a voice like wet stones,
like roots unbraiding.
Listen, it said,
not to me,
but to the banks,
to the willow’s slow bow,
to the heron’s hollow legs
standing knee-deep in time.
I waited for meaning,
for a prophecy curled in riverweed.
But the water only chuckled
a sound like pebbles rolling downhill~
and flowed on,
carrying its secrets
to the sea’s open mouth.
The charter bus was just for us to take us on a trip.
But when my wife was getting ready, she fell and broke her hip.
Now you might think that that would end our lovely get away.
But she didn't blink as you would think, she just refused to stay.
Now Buses aren't the easiest to manage dis encumbered.
So when she finally got sat down, for miles she just slumbered.
And when she woke it was no joke, she started to embellish.
Her dream of going to the bathroom, well let's just leave it at ish.
So you can just about imagine the turmoil that ensued.
When she had to do all of those things inside that little loo.
This guy who had brought on some beer was having his own issues.
So now the driver hands out depends instead of little tissues.
For the tickle my funny bone contest.
Written march 8th, 2014
Tucked inside a box of dust, hidden beneath the weight of years, I found it—a photograph. Its edges were curled, its surface clouded with time, but the image within was clear enough to unsettle me.
There were faces I didn’t know, standing in a yard of brittle grass. And there, at the center, was me—or someone who looked too much like me to dismiss. Her hair fell in the same waves as mine, but lighter, sunlit in a way my own never was. Her eyes held something sharp, something knowing, as though she had seen more than I ever could. She wore a red dress, one I’d never owned, standing beneath a sky I couldn’t place. The trees behind her were skeletal, their branches clawing toward a horizon painted in ash.
I turned it over. The back was bare, save for a smudge of black ink, as if someone had started to write and then thought better of it. My stomach twisted. The air in the room felt wrong, heavy. The photograph seemed to hum faintly in my hands.
That night, I left it in the attic, buried again among the relics of forgotten lives. But sleep didn’t come easily. When I closed my eyes, I saw her smile, wide and uncanny. I heard the faint rustle of leaves, though the windows were shut. Dreams dragged me to a place I didn’t know but somehow remembered—to that yard, that sky, those clawing trees.
I woke in the dark, heart pounding. My hands shook as I reached for the bedside lamp. When the light spilled across the room, my breath caught. The photograph was there on my dresser, though I hadn’t brought it down. The girl in red was still smiling, but now, the background had changed. The skeletal trees were closer, their shadows reaching for her shoulders.
In the silence, I heard it: a faint, deliberate tapping from the attic above.
It seems these days, across the land,
that the Klan has somehow got a tan.
Somehow, instead of being free,
folk now take pride in their bigotry.
They say their skin defines their life,
even dictates who they take for wife,
claim it is their ‘identity,’
determines their morality.
Then they attack those ‘other’ folk,
who along with this crap won’t go,
the souls that shout,”Listen to King!
Color is a meaningless thing!
“Just because you have the same pigment
does not matter, ain’t worth a damn!
What’s inside is what matters here,
our dreams, our hopes, our thoughts, our fears!
“If you can’t judge a soul by that,
they you’re a skin-bigot, that’s a fact!
You won’t see people as they are:
Individuals you should not tar.”
Yet when you speak this simple truth,
they claim the bigot there is you?!
When you call out their bigotry,
they claim,”Oh no, that can’t be me!”
They scream that they don’t have ‘power,’
then shoot you an undeserved glower,
how convenient that their beliefs
from moral sense give them relief.
Lets them slander others all day,
lets their skin-bigotry blaze away,
But all their lines can’t change what’s real,
they’re bigots true, and here’s the deal:
If you judge a soul by skin alone,
even if that soul may be your own,
then you are a bigot, bona-fide,
no matter how you spin and lie.
If you lump together other blokes,
and whine of ‘privilege,’ being ‘woke,’
if beyond pigment you can’t see
if you can’t deal with history,
then ‘skin-bigot,’ I will call you.
You’re offended? Well I am too!
Every time I see loud lefties
cheapening our humanity.
…Your skin don’t make you special, but your obsession with it will make you evil.
Once upon a time there was a little boy who lived for Christmas.
Each year he would place cookies under the tree for Santa Claus.
One special year he woke up to find an empty plate and a bright
gold shiny button from Santas red suit. His mom said, " Son,
you better put that in a safe place. Next year you can place it
on the plate again, hopefully he will take it back."
Each Christmas Eve the boy shined up the button and place it
on a plate aside the cookies. Years went by and the button stayed
on the plate but the cookies were eaten every time. Puzzled, the boy
couldn't figure out why Santa would not retrieve it. The boy grew up
and became an old man. Before he died, he had a lucid dream of Santa.
He asked Santa why he never took back his shiny gold button.
Santa replied with a smile, "I gave you the button to keep the dream alive inside of you " I don't need to worry about the button, Mrs. Santa, always keeps extra buttons in her sewing box. " Then he laughed so hard he popped another button. In the morning a Rubious light shone from his night light and there on his night table lo and behold, right before his eyes lay another shiny gold button, just like the one before.
Dec 3, 2022
After the party most of the crowd woke up hung over
Bad breath foul temper and worst of all few memories
Some covered in regret and puke on sodden sheets
When it had meant to be a night to remember
Others were hopeful that the condom had not leaked
True extra-large man size only that was for sure
But drunken members do not live up to the promise
What’s the name of the woman and in whose bed
Truth of the matter is that the flaccid remembrance falls short
No morning glory either after the rave of ill-mannered bravado
Not much to celebrate with no ink in the shrivelled-up pen
Maybe his friends know what he has been up to or not
Jessica and Timothy had been at the very same party
Glowed at the camp fire and full midnight moon
Until drunken incoherence stepped over the mark
Their fireworks happened after the celebrations
Safely home they had one more pink lemonade on ice
Switched on the intricate Turkish lamps next to their bed
Caressed and cuddled and made love fully conscious
Reaped the rewards of temperance and had a ball of a time
At the dawn of a new day they went back to the beach
Swam in their ocean of love collected sea shells and pebbles
Where the tides had washed away debris and dissolute pain
It takes courage not to fit in but sobriety holds them together
24th June 2019
I type on my keyboard.
But you do not listen.
You type on your keyboard, too.
And yet, I can hear every single "clack, clack" of your keys.
Tonight, as I draw the curtain of darkness
And gently try to summon sleep,
A mosquito comes buzzing, wing, wing,
Sucking away all my heavy fatigue.
I fall into a dream.
Yet, I still hear your voice.
"Clack, clack."
"Wing, wing."
"Ah, damn it!"
"Let me just endure this until you finally retire!"
Feeling a breath, as if someone was invading my bare skin,
I woke up without realizing,
And struck down with all my might.
That was the end of the mosquito.
You should have just sucked a reasonable amount and left.
But as I wake up in the early morning,
I suddenly realize
That my boss and I are only a single year apart in age.
Like a humble Bodhi tree,
In the end, I bow my head to him.
Tomorrow, I will greet him with all my energy!
“Hello! Good morning!”