Long Wolves Poems
Long Wolves Poems. Below are the most popular long Wolves by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Wolves poems by poem length and keyword.
“Betwixt two thoughts there is a gap
No illusions therein entrap
In the time stretched pause we then see
Ego craving is a mousetrap”
Smile, laugh
Stand and stare
Walk into a world that is unprepared
For a mask of emotions
And the duality of your soul
For being yourself makes it hard for others to control
The ties that bind
The hands that shake
Plans that man made disappeared in an earthquake
What’s inside of you will still remain
And human chains will fade
If you release your wolves to save the village
It is you, yourself you have betrayed.
Never give up in dismay
Be brave
What is inside of you, is to help you find your purpose
Do not be afraid
Sand Creek
Dawn arises
And a line of good, blue-coated American boys
Sit astride their horses
Just outside the camp.
They wait
Outside the Cheyanne camp:
Those animals they were here to hunt,
For Country, God and Glory:
They took no mind
Of their own flag,
Fluttering in the breeze
Just behind them.
Who now will prove to be the animals?
With one sharp bark,
And a toss of his hair
Their leader charged forth to kill everyone
In their path,
Panting in the crisp winter air;
All howling and baying.
To kill the innocent Indians there.
They knew not what had happened
As they heard the guns;
Running through the snow in rank confusion,
Men, women and children alike
Felt the sting of hot lead
Invade their bodies,
And fell hard in the grip of merciless death,
Painting the snow with
Great patches of bright red.
And those not so lucky,
Died by the cutlass and the bayonet.
Those who escaped for a time
Were cut by the ice of a frozen creek,
But those cuts were as nothing
To the cut of losing loved ones.
While the bluecoated Goodboys
Robbed the bodies of their clothes
- And limbs -
The hidden still living waited,
And hated,
hated,
hated
The bluecoated wolves were heroes,
So it was said,
But not heroes, only wolves
Would do such in things-
At least wolves do so to survive.
They claimed the Cheyanne were savages,
But it seems they were the best of teachers,
In this respect.
What to do with such beasts as these?
Kill them, surely.
After that, the Cheyanne tried,
And many died, but they tried
All the same.
And in that place,
The bluecoat stench
Shall evermore reek.
Shed a tear,
Shed many,
For the victims
Of Sand Creek.
Sacred EarthMother and Child,
bearer and born
to win together,
to not sin apart
No less true for elephants
and dolphins
and humans
and undemocratic sycophants
than owls
and solvent wolves.
Child rightbrain nonverbally born
to hear before seeing,
to internally feel
before externally touching,
to smell before tasting
sometimes win together,
sometimes sin apart.
For what purpose
MotherEarth and EarthMothers
but to deeply learn bilateral Winner,
prime composting compassionate health
equally codefining
ego/eco co-refining
co-acclimation,
Earth's perpetually regenerative celebration...
Green cultural opposite
of red fascist nihilistic
wealthy multicultural life denying
Sin/Sin
Lose/Lose nihilism,
climate change cynicism,
unhealthy womb denialism.
An eerie silence wrapped the bog,
I dared not move nor speak.
The chilling blanket of the fog
where evil beings creep,
conceals within tormented souls
now stirring from their sleep,
and there with gruesome fate foretold
lie secrets they will keep.
Into the darkest night they prowl
as silent echoes shriek,
and even wolves with frightened howls
hide in the forest deep.
The terror of the living dead
will follow where they tread.
A Quatorzain is a centuries old form that was used by those like Shakespeare for creativity not restricted by strict rhyme schemes and syllable counts per line like Sonnets were. Therefore, each Quatorzain could be an original creation, however, it wasn't a totally free form because it was still restricted to 14 lines and usually written in iambic meter, also, unlike a Petrarachan/Italian Sonnet it usually ended with a rhyming couplet. Some have argued that it evolved into the English Sonnet. Writers often played with the number 7 as I have done here with alternating iambic tetrameter and trimeter. I also used mono rhyme in the trimeter lines (something not commonly done with Quatorzains yet, as I alluded, it's the beauty of a more free form).
Written October 8th, 2019
for Best New Poem Contest
Sponsored by Emile Pinet
Too much, too much
Too much, perhaps -
The barren beauty of the steppes,
The fire lacing through the skies
Before the night draws down
Her jewels ignite through her Eternal locks
- As do the sparks within your hair, My Love,
Alight within the scattered ash of magic years,
They tell their tales into the dark
As we lay down to dreaming-time;
Too much, perhaps
For such an one as I.
Too much, too much
Perhaps too much
The thunders of the sea
The silence in the snow
The way the years steal past,
Ghost hands upon our shoulders
- As rests your voice upon my heart, My Love,
When you speak to me of memories
We built of stone or straw together
Too much, perhaps,
Too much, too much.
Perhaps too much
Too much, too much
The Tiaga's green magnificence,
The jungle's deep malevolence
Starlight shine on deep still lakes
No craft of Man has ever touched
- As shine your eyes, My Love,
When you smile at me day's end,
Bright with subtlety and secrets
Warm with dreams and desire
Too much, perhaps
For it not to steal my breath.
Too much, too much
Too much, perhaps
The furious strength of Spring,
The howls of wolves in the Winter
The way life chases life
Harrying it ever onward
- As burns the life in me, My Love
Fanned to flame by you;
Against the crowding dark it leaps
Its mad Defiance to the end -
Too much, perhaps,
Perhaps too much:
Though, finally, not enough, alas.
The man who brought our Frantic Age to being
Once said, "Nothing is too wonderful to be true."
It must be so, for were it not,
Fate ne'er would've sent me - You.
With a parting of the crimson seas,
they aren't appeased with just a smile
That girl who walks the star-struck mile
will pay a price that goes unseen
They catch a glimpse and swallow whole.
Then nonchalantly steal her soul,
with no remorse or thought of deeds, ...
just goals to slice her thin, and spill her name,
upon red carpets dyed with greed.
Beneath stiletto stilts she comes.
They think it's fun behind the lie,
that masquerades to dazzle eyes.
Are lonely hearts so worth the prize
while clamored lust engulfs and drowns?
The flashbulbs light the milky way
while voices scream among the fray,
and peel the starlight's skin away.
There is a hole, deep in the dark,
as black as death without a spark
A friend to trust, or out to gain?
To rub a shoulder, hug the fame?
She's guided by an elbow's charm,
disarmed, by tabloids, drowns alone
They're hell-bent on the mystery
The secrets of her universe
A paper doll is thrown to wolves,
is just a soul who has rehearsed
to fade and die, alone........
alone.......with a million flashbulbs drugging her,
...then dragging her.....as she tumbles from the throne....
______________________________________________
For the Contest: Cynosure
Sponsor : Nayda Ivette Negron
Mountain Forests
Driving through the vast forests
Of Central Oregon
Through the wall of trees
I imagine them talking to me
The trees are whispering
Dark satanic rituals
Voodoo mumble jumble
Evil chanting
Then they speak
Loud and clear
Welcome humans
To our world
You think you are
The king of the world
The lords of creation
Masters of the universe?
Soon, all too soon
God and Gaia his daughter
Will tire of you
Their latest plaything
They will discard you
Throw you down
Disgusted at the world
You have made
You took the world
They gave you for your pleasure
This huge wonderful world
Filled with life
You took a paradise
Beautiful, bountiful
Rich and wonderful world
Turned it into a sewer dump
God and Gaia
Are not happy
Not happy at all
With you stupid humans
They will rise up
Smite you down
And turn you
Into dust in the cosmic wind
And we will laugh
and we will be witnesses
at your funeral
but we will not cry
No one will cry
No one will miss you
No one cares about
The fate of humanity
And so you
Will fade away
Into the distance past
Just dust in the cosmic wind
And the trees started laughing
And the birds and bees
And all the other animals
All joined in the manically laughter
Laughing at the prospect
Of poetic justice
For the enemies
Of the natural world
And the coyotes
And the wolves
Joined in howling
Under the light of the full moon
Thus I imagined
Would be the end of days
The end of the world
And the end of humanity
Chess
Let us play a game.
We will act like there are two sides,
and the scales are even.
I have seen the metal weights,
they keep under the table.
They are real,
and made to cheat reality,
in favor of fantasy.
Starving people are easy to control.
Those that have no weapons,
have no defense at all.
Sheep go to the pens,
and believe they will be sheered,
and spared, for another day.
Instead, they will be served to the diners,
on plates of gold and silver,
hammered from melted wedding rings,
and fillings.
Death stalks the unwary,
but does not kill right away.
No. Instead it chooses to play,
with its toys, its food, and its treasures,
depending on the time of day,
the wanton moment,
or the ever-repeating cycle
of the full moon.
Wolves choose sides,
as even they know there will be a culling.
They don't want to die with the rest.
They try to hide among the innocent,
to be spared... the knife.
Heroic men will take note.
The only question is
"Will their heroism exceed
their sense of personal fear?"
Men of old
had sons and daughters.
Their lines still exist.
They are the Watchers.
When words like seeds remain uncultivated,
in somber silence the poet within me dies.
In the misery of my perishing poetic oasis,
petal like poems refuse to infuse idealistic pigments.
But without words, a midnight beast lurks in thoughts
hidden behind metaphors written in psychedelic ink.
My beloved is a black rose who's thorns are like blades.
Her pecan lips lustfully devour my heart's purple blood,
because she loves to see me bleed in musing rivers,
flowing upon shores of her poetic fibres.
On dark murky days her tears plunge like acid rain,
melting through my shiny white knight armour.
For, she is the ebony queen in my chessboard of life,
in position for 'checkmate' against an ivory king.
In my troubled mind,
the sun is like a timid yellow umbrella,
hiding behind grey ashen clouds, which in clementine hues,
appear like orange smoke polluting my toxic swollen lungs.
And I can't breathe without her sugar lips
bringing me back to life with her special scarlet kiss.
Yet, I am her willing prisoner,
even in absence and distance,
we remain eternally chained,
as spiritual word weaving lovers,
prowling and howling like wolves
wandering under the blue moon.
Number 4
“You can’t stop the waves, but you can learn to surf.” - Jon Kabat-Zinn
Time has an interesting
way of revealing
riveting narratives,
embossed within ivory
clams in raven letters,
perhaps, it is the
crippling kismet,
that dahlia dreamers are
shackled by society’s
sanctimoniousness,
but I still follow my
roseate heart to swiftly
lead this pristine paragon
of moving minutes.
I can hear the wanton
wolves devour the
magnanimous moon,
transcribing unheard
nocturnal tales, emanating
through deep russet
eyes of a silent stallion~
as I leave poetic footprints
through heels of a black
caviar horse by
the nacreous shoreline.
Someday, the sun will rise
and allow me to embrace
colors of you again,
although torturous tentacles
of marine monsters malevolently
try to steal the soothing hope
within my soul,
from a thousand seas away.
If only they knew, skies
can reach beyond
prancing peacock dreams
emblazoning distant horizons,
with a plethora of
milky quartz, perfumed
in whispers of lemongrass,
reflecting silvery echoes
of a cosmic whale’s conch shell,
floating in an ancient bottle
of antique emotions,
anchored to the depths
of bottomless oceans,
where corals have
our fate rewritten
within chambered nautilus.
So, wait for me when
twilight dims, and meteor
showers come crashing,
to pour blazing stars
upon lime green planktons,
for my soul is surfing
through aquatic realms,
to find my homely
sanctuary in your arms
glossed in lavender balm,
I breathe beneath seraphic spheres,
devouring the ticking seconds,
dancing to the wind that whispers
in trembling tunes,
unafraid and unshaken
by the unknown.
I live in the moment,
celebrating the air that wraps
me in wisteria warmth.
The sun-soaked stairway
to porcelain
peacefulness,
is to steer your heart,
through the art
of mindfulness.