Long Wrath Poems
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Pretty like the crystalline canyon rocks -
Fair like a deer wandering in the morn' -
With the Great Spirit as a faithful witness
A baby girl named Red Feather was born
And for her onyx eyes and ruddy cheeks
An angel was sent with kisses to adorn.
Her misery began with John Martin -
A white trader of uncouth demeanor
Who took one day a Navajo woman
As payment for whiskey and gunpowder
And soon his bride realized an inheritance
But in so doing died young in labor.
Red Feather lived - lived with a cruel father
Who cursed her and of her did not boast -
Withholding not his friends who laughed at her
And was ignored by passersby the most -
Irretrievably lost between two worlds
That scorned red highlights and native clothes
Until one day when grief overwhelmed her -
She ran away - against the blinding tears -
Where else but to the village of her mother
But discovered that they too made jeers
At the sight of her and there enslaved her
And instead of love - realized her worst fears.
But solace found Red Feather at moments
When she'd steal away to Spirit Canyon
To gaze upon the weathered petroglyphs.
Silence touched her heart every now and then
As she'd sit among the lonely rifts
And consider the Earth with the heavens.
There among them was one where an artist
Told of the wish of an ancient warrior
To jump the cliff and join the gentle spirits
That captured Red Feather's awe in particular
And since the life ahead held not her interest
She soon desired him and her mother
So it happened during one nice spring day:
The wildflowers breezed as she took the path -
Eagles circled above her at midday
And Red Feather stood on the edge with wrath -
Embraced the sky and Sun and leapt away -
Seeking what the next world might have.
Since that time many a wayward Navajo
And traveler alike claim to have seen
Red Feather come to them - white with glow -
And swear wholly it was not of a dream
But that she lives - she lives as a ghost
Wandering along the cliffs and beneath.
So should you come to Navajo Country
Look sharp - Red Feather's spirit takes flight.
She may run silently with a clan of coyotes
Or dance in the shadows of your firelight.
She may be the breeze that blows softly
Or the silver mist that rises at night.
In regard to human's such abject abyss and absurdity, we can't help questioning: can human still be indulgent in the virulent vainglory having shaped their pretentious and dangerous preconception of a human-centered and human-dominated cosmos? can human waywardly go on with their ecologic vandalism having already triggered the macrocosmic nature's wrath and punishment? In fact, all their perverted precepts and practices have spoilt or to a large extent countervailed the hard-earned results of their positive efforts. ( e.g. vaccine development, treatment of the infected)
As can be seen more often than not: Overloaded hospital wards and overwrought medical workers are outflanked by waves of overwhelming epidemic peaks, and the process of vaccination popularization outpaced by the viruses' variation and proliferation. Indeed, human's arrogance, ignorance and particularly conscience absence have estranged them from one informative sense: The best remedy is the due respect for the macrocosmic nature that nurtures the entire universe and the due reverence for her sovereign system that really dominates every being and everything living or working inside her domain; The best vaccine is the virtue of taking all harmless lives kindly and taking kindly to the nature's heartfelt call for every bio-community member's benign ecofriendly behavior.
Having ironed out the aforesaid reasoning and arguments and having made clear our firm attitude and stance, we hereby urge Spanish, Dutch butchers and especially the Dane banes:
Stop your criminal and cruel cull without delay, do not engage any more in any activity that may bring us extinction, mass toll and physical or psychological harm, let us resume enjoying our old habitat safe and calm.
We also want to extend our exhortation to all of the human being: Make a thorough stock-taking of the circumstances of correlated infection-prone species and overall epidemic aspect before renouncing your previous evil ways and recommitting to building a livable eco-environment and lovable bio-community. Only after the strict imposition of precautionary disciplines upon your daily behavior, would there be a promising future of fine faith and fair fortune for every existent being under the sun, of course including yourselves; In the bargain, would come genuinely effective epidemic-controlling & prevention mechanisms for yourselves.
Homeward Path 11/08 Roger M. Landry
Wise men say, stay out of the fray,
And perhaps that is logical, and even soundly psychological.
They advise, do not go my son into the dark wood; you will only come to no good.
And I ask, if the road is less traveled, it will leave me baffled?
The trail in the forest tall could it leave me feeling forever small?
Alone, will I not even hear the sound of the stately tree’s fall?
In my craven travels, shall I perhaps see the pellucid pillars of heaven seven,
Or experience the depraved depths of perdition?
But, what if there is no one there to tell?
No singing angels, or laughing demons from hell.
Shall I be weary of my iconoclastic dreams?
Because, in my youth, I had magic visions of being the princely toad,
Of crossing elegantly the paved road to fame.
However, carrion birds now read, feed on my bloody entrails strewn along the lane.
Now, I only wake up in the fevered night, no princess to soothe my stifled screams.
Beaten and torn, shall I become the salacious stripper of old?
That, with nagging words, expresses my vulnerable, and sagging soul.
Like a lost muse, shall the tiger burning bright, in the forest of the night,
Become my one and only frightful and guiding light?
I can see quite far from the gritty solitude of a lofty mountain.
But, would rather sit with my smiling children by a bubbling fountain,
Have someone park my expensive car,
Or sip beer, with friends, in a quaint neighborhood bar.
Going on a shopping spree and wearing designer clothes,
I think, is superior than to society loathe.
To have opulent gold is better than writing poetry in poverty, wouldn’t you agree?
Or, would it be better if I contemplate my fate, eternally alone, under a frigid night star,
While I pluck loose strings on an out of tune guitar?
They say that if you favor the glacier-blue, the flavor will get inside of you.
Now that I have made enough bad choices, because of those niggling internal voices,
I am eternally lost, my mind unloosing in a wilderness of my own choosing.
Like a pharaoh, I know there is a divine treasure in my head,
But, I work and work, feel dead, and just can’t get out of bed.
The road has its own agenda, to which I know my heart must surrender,
Therefore, I shall curb my shameful wrath,
And trust that my soul knows its homeward path.
Form:
I seek not to be a presence. Forces beyond my control dictate the interactions I will have with those who come across my path. These forces disturb me in ways that I cannot understand, yet I react to them with efficiency.
Subtlety is not one of my traits. Even now, I am poised to move in the direction to which I am called. It is a direction that could have great impact. Although I may waver in the course set before me, I am nonetheless committed until another force impedes me.
On the path I seek, I can see farther than one can imagine. Even though I only have one eye, it is an eye that is clear, an eye that makes a statement. You would think that having only one eye, any spinning and turning I do would make me extremely dizzy. Nay, say I, I move ahead on the path I seek.
On course, on time, and always considering my wall. It is not a wall to jump over, or to keep me from something or someone. Instead, it is everything and everyone else who would need or want to have a wall equivalent to mine. Theirs would be a wall to keep me from them.
The path I seek can be strewn with objects that tend to slow me down. Nonetheless, I struggle against them, and keep surging forward. I depend on my own wrath and fury to keep me moving ever closer to my stated purpose, whatever it may be. At some point, I know I will lose all ability to continue down the path I seek.
Along the path I seek, I watch events unfold before me with my one eye. It is an eye that, while surrounded with moisture, does not blink, shows little mercy, and does not cry. It does not cry even as my wall begins to crumble. The crying is only left to those dear beings I leave behind along my path.
I wish I could feel the lives I touch but, the harsh truth is, I have no feelings. I am a creation that will never know what a feeling is. And thus, no love, no hate, no joy, no sadness will stay me from the path I seek.
Alas, my wrath and fury are destined to die a slow death as I continue along the path I seek. I will not be missed, but I may be remembered. I will surely be cursed and called a monster.
And before my eye finally sleeps, I get one last peek at where I have been.
Still, I cannot cry over the destruction and anguish I have wrought during my passing. I only know that I will come this way again, because that is what hurricanes do along the paths they seek.
END
Though I'll remember nature's wonders,
sunsets and the breath of spring,
feel the wind blow through my hair
and know the thrill of sunrise cresting.
We see the universe as dancing,
two such different creatures trancing,
we two will never understand
the private notions of the other,
even if we take each other's hand.
Coming close to your destruction
you will see the other side,
who says who has satisfied
requirements for a better life?
Friendship, if we could but find it,
yields the seeds of greater profit,
greater than the seeds of strife.
I now remain just as I ever was.
I shall take my morning walk,
communing with the birds and talking
to myself while reading Kafka,
glancing at the latest headlines.
Dear Stravinsky's 'Rite' is slighted,
(he'll return when ears are righted.)
When I smell a rose I'm prompted
to recall a certain lady, gifted with
a new perception, I must sadly
take exception, for the moment anyway.
The chill of morning, people yawning,
I am tired, the blush of dawning has me
feeling ill at ease, my spirit sags,
I barely reach the second floor.
'When will you return? Is Paris so much more
than you have here?' is my unanswered question.
I drag my heels to breakfast,
listless as a lazy dog, and nibble toast,
my countenance as pallid as a ghost.
A letter would be welcomed.
I shall miss you; there, I've said it.
I am your friend, are you not mine?
Tenuous and strained, two casual
acquaintances who share so little time,
we brush elbows, like strangers passing
on a platform, sharing sidelong glances,
afraid to say hello. I watch you as you go.
Others swore we would be close,
peas in a pod, familiar.
Instead there is no warmth, not yet.
Were you to try we might combine
and nibble toast together, and take
a walk, your hand in mine, and
stammer conversation 'til we knew
there was no reason e'er to rue.
I shall sit with pleasant thoughts of you.
Desperate, I ponder on your death,
scant breath expended twixt the two of us,
and loneliness an ache too harsh to mention,
pen in hand and no one to subscribe.
I'll scarce recall the softness of your skin,
or search your heart to find what lies within.
Should I be bold, or take a gentler path?
encourage you... would I incur your wrath?
If you were to die I'd never know your truth,
and I should lose the vigour of my youth.
Oh, fear! The sinister finger of a tornado!
Twisting, spinning, spiraling in turbulent
toroidal twirls of angry winds and high
pressures, few forces - natural or nay -
are as destructive or as frightening or
as beautiful! Yes, I am myself afraid
of those weaving beasts of spinning
horror, for there are few things as
certain to bring unavoidable death
and destruction, but I have also
always been drawn so to their
violent beauty and power, and
their affect on atmosphere and
light. There is little anyone can
do to avoid their wrath if they
find you, and that assured ill
anger of nature is why they
are so reviled ... buildings,
cars, animals, trees, bits,
pieces, farms, insects,
trucks, people, pets,
houses, things that
grow, move, stand
still, fixed, loose,
secured - there
is hardly any-
thing that is
outside the
mix of the
horror, but
if you are
a broad,
strong,
long,
flat,
....,,,,~>>~,,,,....
- Smooth, deep, thick, hard, layer of the finest concrete, then you are SOLID! -
Submitted on November 22, 2020
To the "SHAPE UP" Poetry Contest
Brian Strand, Judge & Sponsor
~ 1st Place ~ in the "The Shape Of My Art" Poetry Contest, Line Gauthier, Judge & Sponsor.
How long will this suffrage last?
Painting the dark picture of a darkened past.
My people are supposed to be blessed,
But we are cursed in this foreign land.
My people are supposed to be royalty,
Yet we are slaves.
The seed is supposed to grow higher and higher,
But yet it withers away like a dry flower.
Just accept it, that the curse is with us,
How long will this suffrage last?
If only God’s commandments were kept,
There would be no ignorance or plague,
No death or lost identities,
No religion or slaves.
There wouldn’t be another Egypt
that would take us far away from the motherland.
How long can we survive the curse?
Will it be forever and ever?
Will our beautiful queens continue to receive pain
While baby daddies are the ones to blame?
How about the separation of our families
causing broken homes?
Is it the curse of our ancestor’s blame?
How long will we rely on this oppressive nation?
The king over us that has no regard of our struggle.
Their nation became unstoppable,
They rose higher and higher.
But my people plundered lower and lower
since the days of old, from slavery to civil rights,
And all them stories untold.
We are the tail but not the head,
We fought for our rights but we still are not equals.
How long will this curse last?
When will the shouts cry, “Free at last!”
This is the curse,
A curse where God has shamed us,
From generation to generation,
Leaving our enemies blameless,
While they steal everything we own
And make it their possession.
Our people are the creators,
Yet it is unknown.
Almost four hundred years
the plagues has risen like a swarm of locusts
Devouring the blessing because of our scattered nation.
We were like the stars in the sky shining,
Until our numbers dwindled
from the slaughter of the beast’s wrath.
If only the ancestors stayed obedient and humble,
Maybe our lives would be a blessing.
We would be living with silver and gold,
But instead we were uprooted
from the land that was promised.
My brothers and sisters wake up!
We are living in a curse.
From poverty to persecution,
Watching death catch more bodies.
Repent and renew your mind and spirit,
Follow His commandments until you reach further,
Back to the motherland that is soon to be promised.
Get out of your ways and you will be covered.
If not, you will continue living the curse.
Form:
.
A whale in a pail is far more active in a gale or in copious amounts of hail. Putting money into sharks is a shifty act involving the shuffling of coats in cloakrooms. And clown costumes placed in the bowls of women's frames are reserved for the elite attire of lemmon lipped bowler heads whose acidic tongue holds the weaponry speeches of tomorrows gore. Pain is a painted potato placed with the pilots to place on a place numbered out and planned on maps arriving by facetious fax machines whose many layered buttons seek to halt a single growing grass level with a shard spoken key. Turning a keyboard to an angle one can visit the highest climate but coinage is best reserved for a large bull with a blue tie. Behind many layers. Many layers is not many lettuces it is merely many lanes. And lanes are lovely on a summer evening returning from the abbey to the house in eighteen fifty-three in long beautiful blue dress with fancy earrings and hair wound in a tight bun. Looking around it is unsurprising that history repeats in the timeless whorl akin to stirring an acre pan of stew or making sandwiches for two hundred people at a picnic. Societal swamps seek some swanky shuffle starting storms. And all the while the little pixies dance in the trees. The unicorns prance, the fairies fly round and round, and all other realmes folk sigh at the endless processions of humans making endless chain of woe. Cause no pattern to rise up from a paper print. For if you do your whole world and house will be prints causing visitors to arrive in many windows to create a karmic reaction and a reaction is a realism and a responsive reach but not a retch. Little frog hums in the kitchen cupboard. He is very bored today and would like to go visit the pond but the machinery placed there ensures it is not safe to hop and when hopping it often is the case that shots are fired from the artillery of the ant people in plastic helmets. They move akin to a swarm of kettledrums on a backlit of carbonised baking trays. Powder that then. Beetroot faced woman in that raspberry printed dress. And to encourage the wrath of a walnut is to embellish a multicolumn of static electricity. Wow. Mish mash mush then. Hahahaha the dancing in the bathroom door hahaha mixed-use mixers mingling mangy mincemeat. Xxxxxxx prese tart structure Paden tar xxxxxxx invertebrates z Z Z Z Z Z Z Z Z Z THAT;
Form:
Even Dawn Cried About Death Of The Poet
They that see dawn in softest crimson glows
Having sought to embrace the golden moon!
They that ink paradise as a true gift,
Sings praises of the gentle month of June!
Whilst feeding at midnight the hungry crows
Sometimes with iron, and with eager breath
Oft each stands alone, watching dark world turn
Then she that inks paradise as a gift,
With compassion, romantic flames that burn
Wrote faithfully, even unto her death!
Dawn that foretells of living and true love
Helplessly seen as the poetess died
Cast its brightest rays to heaven above
So angels could see how too few cried!
R.J. Lindley, Jan 25th, 1987
*******
Dare We Pray, Humanity Wakes To Be Redeemed
From blacken hills into magical woods we wade
Where golden mushrooms ring shrouds of ancient trees
Praise God, that this earth and humanity he made
Although from great divine wrath it so often flees
In morn's mist, airy shadows rise and slowly fall
'neath hopeful promise of resplendent future state
Whilst those ever beckoning hills heed Nature's calls
Same as man bows to ravages of horrid Fate.
Therein comes immense pleasures of paradise dreams
Too often laced with folly of human schemes
Were it not that love may gift that which hope redeems?
Aye. Love and pleasure are as candy to a child
And thus sweet blessings flow unto those meek and mild
Whereas thistles and thorns pierce deeply those too wild.
Dare we pray, humanity wakes to be redeemed
From evil wickedness, that mankind daily schemes?
R.J. Lindley, March 6th, 1987
Rhyme
*******
From The Virgin Light Into The Dark Mist
There within such immensity of solitude
Rests a billion threads but a sad solitary thought
Of life, earth and barest naked soul therein nude
In worldly prison, dying entity thus caught.
Oh but, tis not that tragedy our daily bread
Fodder for rampaging fires eternally lit
We but sacrifice for those gods long ago dead,
And bawling mass for Hades and its burning pits?
Tis not mankind a true enigma and a bit more
Far, far more than a fallen fly in the hot soup
Once stuck down below but by own hand now can soar
Risen up by vicious might in one dark fell swoop ?
Aye! One may fear to such reality admit
As it leads backward, to thoughts of hot burning pits!
R.J. Lindley, March 22nd, 1987
Rhyme
Warrior of Strength
Dealt a hand from the heavens, steeped in shadows’ embrace,
A warrior born from the ashes, a heart marked but not erased.
In the quiet corners of childhood, where innocence fades away,
Lurking specters, familiar faces, stole the light of day.
A father’s absence left echoes, a mother’s love turned cold,
In a world that turned its back, the silence grew bold.
At thirteen, trust shattered like glass underfoot,
Betrayed by hands once held dear, where darkness took root.
Fifteen came with a whisper, a dream turned to dread,
A boyfriend’s breath on my skin, the warmth now a thread.
A god brother's intrusion, steeped in violation,
A cacophony of trauma, a heart’s desperation.
Words like daggers, another fight,
Thirteen years of torment, where love lost its light.
A fragile baby cradled, in hope’s gentle hold,
Flickered and faded, a story untold.
Distance may dull some pains, but deceit’s blade cuts deep,
Manipulation’s shadow looms, even while I sleep.
Yet amidst this tempest, a flicker begins to glow,
A spirit forged in struggle, a strength only few know.
At thirty-seven, the weight still feels grim,
A new label emerges, like a fate turned dim.
But within every battle, every wound borne and faced,
A warrior is rising—each trial embraced.
When will this end? A question so raw,
But love does brew from the chaos we saw.
Through the valleys of sorrow, and the mountains of fear,
There’s a strength intertwined with the pain that brought tears.
So let the world see—the scars are my art,
A testament to resilience, a warrior’s heart.
For every hand dealt poorly, every burden I bear,
I rise from the ashes—I’ve grown stronger, I swear.
In the wreckage of hardships, my spirit reclaims,
The power of voice, the strength in my name.
Through the shadows that linger, through each twisted path,
I’ll wield my own story, embracing my wrath.
For in this new chapter, as I stand head held high,
I’m more than the battles, I’m the strength to defy.
With each breath a reminder, in the face of my plight,
I’m the warrior of strength, born from dark into light.
Inspired by my life so far. Always felt like I was dealt a bad hand but now I know I was dealt the warrior's hand now 38 years old, I now deal with one of the most painful mental disorders when will the pain stop.