Long Wreathes Poems
Long Wreathes Poems. Below are the most popular long Wreathes by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Wreathes poems by poem length and keyword.
You hit my hypnotic heart so very hard
it wreathes on the afflicted scattered shards
carried in the blue veins by the boiling blood
that turns into a torrent of unseen tears.
Don’t be scared, be assured, I won’t react
my mind forgets the sudden blow on the chin
for my eroded memory I’ve made so porous
it lets the sands of the past slip through.
My psyche recovered from the arctic sea
I will expose to your burning conscience
enfolding your inflamed spell of unfair rage
in the glacier of remorse your soul will freeze.
I will drown my resentment in the sea of pity
you will find a new placid me sailing on a boat
filled with the flowers of kindness to your shore
the beauty of forgiveness your will then perceive.
October 9, 2020
Contest : One On The Chin
Sponsor : Kai Michael Neumann
I see granite headstones,
wooden crosses, and wreathes,
Reminders of what once lived atop,
now interred way beneath,
As I walk through the cemetery
trampling upon fallen leaves,
Towards my parents grave,
to pay respects, not in grief.
A feeling of ambivalence,
as I approach their small plot,
Happy to be here, yet guilty
of the times I’d forgot,
Kneeling over their grave,
I lay down some flowers,
Tidy around say a prayer,
but my mind is overpowered,
Moment of clarity hits me,
never will I see them again,
It’s over our life together,
but I just can’t comprehend,
Finality, the finality dawns,
they’re gone, erased from time,
What’s happening, can’t think
straight, my brain declines.
Gaining composure slowly,
but bewildered in disbelief,
That shock of reality so strong,
I’m still weak on my feet,
Was this a message, from
beyond my parents grave,
Or a longing to love, see,
and hold them, one which I craved.
I turn to walk away, taking
a panoramic look around,
Other people are standing,
beside loved ones ground,
Same look in their eye,
that shook me to the bone,
Where intelligence meets reality,
so much is left unknown.
Some who read this might think,
O ye of little faith,
Whilst others maybe scathing,
life simply turns to waste,
But I’m in no mans land,
holding on to vacant light,
What I once took for granted,
I’m reduced now to write.
By
David Kavanagh
Long after its death where dipsomaniacs and dreamers
Have gormandized its spicy meat, its shell still breathes
Emitting a monotonous sound to wake-up babies, toddlers
Mothers, fathers, cousins and soldiers carrying wreathes.
The lambis exhales a sound of patience and resilience
It is a symbol (for Haiti) of hope, pride and perseverance
Haitians are born fighters. Haitians fall and get-up
To fight daily. Haitians, with a smile, will never give up.
The long monotonous squall of the almighty lambis
Can traverse the craters of the mountains and appease
The giant waves of the raging rivers. Listen to the sound
Listen to the bells of freedom, wit and liberty abound.
Copyright © December 2025 Hébert Logerie, All rights reserved.
Hébert Logerie is the author of several poetry collections.
You hit my lone heart hard
It wreathes, breaks in pains
Sends boiling blood in the veins.
My mind makes tears from blood
A river flows in my burning eyes
The tormented soul silently cries.
You be assured, don’t be scared
The vile torture my mind forgets
My memory doesn’t keep what it gets.
I’ve made my bruised psyche ice cold
It would touch your inflamed sense
Your soul would freeze in repentance.
The anger my mind would keep on hold
Kindness in plenty I would bestow
Power of forgiveness you would know.
You hit my lone heart hard
My mind makes tears from blood
You be assured, don’t be scared
I’ve made my bruised psyche ice cold
The anger my mind would keep on hold.
November 17, 2017.
Lady Autumn lies discarded now.
Her stick- like bones
are on the ground where they had blown.
Fiery colors of her leafy dresses
lie in brown, heaped on frosted icy ground.
Sparkling gossamer that held her hair in ivied wreathes
unraveled by the bitter winds--
almost as if saying
she can never dance again.
But promises of spring, appear
in tight buds on dry twigs
Blowing winds whisper secrets
of summer’s emerald green
Trapped within a stone-cold, kingdom's
dormant majesty.
As Winter makes his stormy presence near,
she looks to fading crimson skies
and feels her spirit rise
~1st Place~
Contest: Standard Contest No. 120
Sponsor: Brian Strand
Judged: 10/02/2018
Life Goes On
by Edmund Siejka
It was a wedding
Middle of December
Before Christmas
The hall was decorated in bright lights
And gay wreathes
It was a time to celebrate
A time of good cheer.
Seated at a corner table
The widow sat quietly
Watching and waiting
Alone for first time in her adult life
We were not related
They were my brother’s in laws
The father and I engaged in small talk during family gatherings
What the smart money would call superficial conversations.
They had five daughter and the family would laugh when I stumbled on their names
My wife said it was OK
After all we had two children
And their names were easy to remember.
At the wedding
The daughters were there
Attractive
Drinks in hand
Tight gowns
Boyfriends twisted on their arms
Dancing and dancing
In an uncontrollable frenzy.
My wife and I spoke to the widow
She answered in quiet words
But she was, as far as we knew,
In a place
Where memories patiently waited for her.
We left, not too early and not too late
My brother calling out
Take a wedding favor
A tiny gold bell
A keepsake of the wedding.
The bell is on my dresser
It’s tingling sound now quiet
I really don’t know what to do with it
For some reason I see the widow’s face
Etched in the gold metal
And I look away
‘Cause we all know that life goes on.
*A true story. If you don’t like this, please ignore, because I will delete any rude comments.
As the Christmas season approaches with the new fresh fallen snow,
And there are thoughts of pretty scenes, nativity and wreathes we know,
As well as Santa bringing happiness and joy to children all around,
And the colorful lights that hang with such brightness to be found…
There is news coming from the Durham New Hampshire town:
That only brings heaviness, with a solemn, very sad, frown
No more Christmas wreaths on the lampposts will be allowed this year
No more Santa riding on the firetruck on his way, will be near
No more countdown to the lighting of the town Christmas tree
All because of a few complaints from offended people, you see!
So like the Grinch stole Christmas, things are now stolen here
But sadly, these people will not grow a heart like the Grinch, I fear
Because Obama started a transformation of America, people came unglued
Determined to transform our meaningful celebrations, they pursued!
You wonder why we fight for freedom, and the values of our home
I say to all the offended, we will never stop fighting, where we roam!
Heidi Sands
11/14/19
Lost warrior
There is a grave where my heart was once in peace.
It has been used and consumed, taken piece by piece.
Now the hands that want to take my only happiness,
Reach into the black hole inside my chest.
They are searching for what remains of my soul.
They want every part of me, for then I will have to go.
They want to see me gone.
They want the last remnants; they want to silence my song.
To be a fading memory that people knew him once.
I am trapped in misery, for I have become undone.
This life I now live,
Oh this life and all it is;
This life, has been, no good for me.
All I have to give is that I give you my all,
But sometimes please I could just give it all up and fall.
I say I can no longer try to impress.
I have taken too much already I confess.
I can never be happy again, for I have no love to my name.
I only know of the same heart ache, the scars that flower my grave.
This stain remains where once there stood a mighty guardian.
The last believer in true love now stands alone in this garden.
Now all I see are dead wreathes and winter-bitten trees.
The weeds have destroyed everything that I ever held dear to me.
Life costs too much to ever pay for your mistakes.
My redemption fire is a taxation day.
There is no way to change for my train only goes forward,
Into blackness, life with no foreword.
I missed the stop, excuse my tardy arrival,
In this vastness of sea and sand, I am fighting for survival,
And the many dunes I have already crossed,
Show the gravedigger has already chosen my plot.
Devil on one shoulder, mute angel his reflection.
Cannot hear either of them reflecting on genuflection.
They give no good advice, a route to joy I cannot device.
So I crawl on my hands and knees throughout this life.
Screaming at the world, give me peace, love and empathy!
Nobody listens; listen to me!
The sound of the wind reads my fears in audible quotes.
A hopeful cry will be a silent sound, this lost warrior knows.
(C)2018 Aa Harvey. All Rights Reserved.
Charcoal cloud clutches the marooned moon
The sky stifles behind the dark shroud
The nubile night breathes the music of breeze
Rippling in the sound of silence.
The ocean wreathes with surging surface waves
The water at cold depth is fathomless serene
Respires the breath of dense darkness
Flowing in the sound of silence.
The tapestry of life torn by torment
Searches deep within for the lattice of quietude
The smothered mind soaks the breath of solace
Drifting in the sound of silence.
The captivating cacophony of materialistic life
Suffocates the consciousness of the absolute being
The secluded soul is suffused with the breath of bliss
Wafting in the sound of silence.
In the endless journey of the insensate essence
Across the seamless landscape of the ultimate reality
As we be breathed, feel the breath of Om
Vibrating in the sound of silence.
(Om is the sound of sacred spiritual symbol in Hinduism, signifying the essence of the ultimate reality, consciousness, or Paramatman. (Wikipedia)
August 19, 2021
Contest : As We Be Breathed
Sponsor : Unseeking Seeker
I never did see a more beautiful expression,
as if all four seasons had exploded,
Imploded, eroded all the somber.
A wonder so delicate...an art she exposed,
utterly unopposed is the dancer's heart.
Animations of vibrations move through her,
a Van Gogh of flow;
like aged, cellared Bordeaux.
Wreathes of wind, sun and soul weave
down around her roots through her being,
freeing sensations into the air
as if with Gaia, a divine love affair.
Eyes drawn and beating heart unconcealed
She wields her radical, energetic shield...
The power to heal, to breathe, to love
above the brilliant sun, the stars, the moon.
Oh, what an orchestrated art in tune!
Spirit calls out to her from Earth,
the birth of sound and soul unearthed.
Oh, what an art I've observed...
The true art of a dancer's heart.