Long Wring Poems
Long Wring Poems. Below are the most popular long Wring by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Wring poems by poem length and keyword.
".... could not stop for death - he kindly stopped for me -
the carriage held just ourselves and immortality." Quote by _ Emily Dickinson
We vanish when the cosmos goes black.
Days are too brief to slip on the one-way track.
We're sporadic and fleeting as a July breeze.
It sneaks in and doesn't even shake the trees.
If breath is life, not merely a way to survive,
Even the most powerful soul can't stay alive.
If that's the case, then why do we even exist?
Are we void shells with no clear value to resist?
When a large tree breaks, the earth will shake.
Even the most powerful monsters must quake.
The tiniest sound can be heard deep in the forest.
As people sigh a fallen titan, we are the sorest.
Beyond the reach of distress and suffering.
There, in the darkness, lurks an awful wring.
Still, time remains a formidable adversary.
I continue to be unwavering and not scary.
Farewell, age, and time have taken their toll.
I must leave; infinity is my ultimate goal.
Where I'll find what's beyond those crimes.
The apex of eternity sea swallows all times.
In a zone where the moon has no influence.
No one can stop the stars or the unending day.
And the night's obscurity will vanish whence
Where neither the poor nor the rich stay.
I've had both quick and lengthy trips until today.
Some think I'm perpetually young, others sway.
As I near the lunar scope, a sinking sun appears.
And my journey ends just as abruptly as it spears.
1St Place Contest Winner
Writing Challenge - C Quotes - Poetry Contest
25th May 2023
Sponsored by: Constance La France
Lady Folly
He did not kiss me when he said good-bye;
I let him go, not asking why,
Self-reflection
But I knew why, today I am taking a break
To reflect on myself, on this blessed Palm Sunday
What do I really want, what do I really needs?
Somedays I think I know,
especially then I fall back into my mode
I see things others don’t,
my muscles contract each time
he rolled over, and touched, another,
even as he spoke kindly, I always knew
It's not cheating for him. Somehow for me
It's an invasion of one's privacy
As I feud within: I shattered mirror,
Of myself, this can’t be love it's not real:
Even though,
I’ve learned it is far better to lay in an empty bed
Then to lay next to someone who makes me feel empty(quote)
In my case, I am experiencing a folly of a woman
When Lovely Woman Stoops to Folly
WHEN lovely woman stoops to folly,
And finds too late that men betray,
What charm can soothe her melancholy,
What art can wash her guilt away?
The only art her guilt to cover,
To hide her shame from every eye,
To give repentance to her lover,
And wring his bosom--is to die.
Oliver Goldsmith
URL: https://able2know.org/topic/6894-1
Poetry can be therapy, poetry can be therapeutic,
These past memories, months of longing feelings,
I need the touch of his hand, his voice I can easily retrieve
The path of my writing is a path of truth,
I am the one that contributed to this madness,
I am the one with the poet's keyboard and pen
I am the one that should have just stayed friends,
I am the one that hate all men,
I am the one that loves, hates, and then love again,
Emotions, emotions, keep taking me in the wrong direction,
I want to go back, to my safe place, called loneliness
My heartbreak hotel
The Hurricane was Harvey
By Franklin Price
8/31/2017
The hurricane was Harvey, what an unassuming name
Left the western Yucatan. across the Gulf he came
Building up his power to a category four
Slammed into the Texas coast with wind, and rain, and more
Coming into Rockport with winds one thirty some
Evacuate or hunker down, to damage he has come
He leveled many buildings, and shut the power down
He sent his rains to Houston, to sit there and to pound
Houston, a large city, fourth largest in the land
Rained so hard, in hours, was no dry place to stand
Rained a record fifty inches, that's the Roman numeral L
Overflowed the bayous, made life a living hell
Few had evacuated, of six million people plus
Would have been impossible, a traffic jamming fuss
Bumper to bumper everywhere with auto, truck and bus
Would even make the best of us, wring our hands and cuss
The water rose, it did not stop, covered roads from fork to fork
More area than the cities of Chicago and New York
No one quite expected Harvey to sit and pour
Until the first floors flooded and headed for the second floor
Water, many places, flowing fast and overhead
Rescue workers needed or thousands would be dead
Boats and trucks and copters came to do the work
Reminiscent of the rescue, of the soldiers, at Dunkirk
The heroes came from everywhere, left their families and friends
To risk their lives for others, and the rescuing begins
Hour after hour, from rooftops, trees and cars
Stranded ones were rescued by strangers from afar
The Cajun Navy from Louisian, the governor called the guard
Florida sent their Fish and Game, rescuing long and hard
Soon more than thirty thousand were brought to drier land
Rescuers so exhausted that they could hardly stand
Still they kept on going on helping all of those in need
And took them to the shelters where they could sleep and feed
Some died in the effort, not all in need were found
Some rescuers gave their all, and no longer are around
This is what life is all about, the way that it should fall
We should respond to others' needs, for the better good of all
Think about your fellow man, in all you do and say,
Don't be the Harvey victim, be the rescuer today.
Not something sad but a frothy
float to nowhere to start the day.
I'll take this page to the window
and ask the morning to infuse it
with little light. Or maybe enlist
some joyous music to seize
a stanza and lift it high
on a happy note, or waltz
a word or two towards a soaring
ending line.
I really don't know where to start,
whether to just let go and hope
a happy spirit takes hold, or rummage
memory for a joke, find something
brightly coloured with a red nose
that would bend a reluctant mouth
into a smile. Trouble is that I am already
stuck halfway between a giggle and a tear,
balanced high on a tightrope and looking
down, trying to wring a chuckle
from a throat dried out with fear.
Here by this lake, the willows weep;
Dawn light awakes from deep dark sleep.
Pagodas stand: twin radiant calm;
See bridge arch trend with distant palms.
The waters flow in slow cascade;
Sense a bright glow in fluid parade.
Picturesque view of small boats far;
Diverts my que from thoughts ajar.
The cast of light upon the lake
Now floods my sight with a new take.
Our moments here in strange tour west
Springs inner cheer that builds fond zest.
Sometimes a scene plays with sure heart
An unknown win that sparkles start.
These weeping vines that willows hang
In sad incline wring sorrow's pangs.
By lakeside verge, a thought finds me
Words that emerge to hurl and be.
Leon Enriquez
23 Mar 2014
Singapore
Streets are filling with needles, disease, and narcissists.
The airways are rimmed with demands for respect.
If you don't agree 100 %, they'll wring your neck
People U-turn to the outhouse to retrieve souls.
Not realizing until it's too late.
That they've flushed it all down the toilet bowl...
Grasping blindly through turds of madness...
Directionless.
They turn from Love and God into the blowhole
of influencers, YouTubers and TikTokers.
Pods of dolphin people flipping for clicks...
Looking to make a name for themselves.
Not through talent, class and hard work.
but through shock and crassness.
They fancy to blame boomers for failures and madness.
I once had a teacher (frustrated by our terminal self-centeredness)
who once told a bunch of giggling know-it-all kids...
" One day the world is going to scare the living hell out of you".
How right you were, Mr. Adams.
How right you were.
To call you a pansy insults the flower.
It seems you cried for nearly an hour;
your mother called to say she’d lost.
So ‘space to process’ at a cost
of fifty six thousand for the year
to cancel class and sip craft beer…
‘Buck up’ is what my mum would say,
but then of course she’d never pay
so I could breakfast with the dean
and wring my hands about well-being.
I guess I’m old; my youth is gone.
I’d likely say, Get off my lawn!
But hun, you life is going to hurt
when you discover things like dirt
and sweat and toil and grit and grime.
I hope that in some future time,
you’ll look back on Trump’s second win,
say, Man, I was a pansy then.
I’ve grown a mouth that’s so,
sharp.
Cruel.
When anyone gets near,
I bite with my quick words.
Leaving nothing but a scar.
It’s all I can give you.
And when you come,
And steal a kiss,
My teeth,
will only cut your lips.
And I wanted to so bad,
But it seems,
I only break pretty things.
I know you meant well,
but I’m not a vessel for your good intent.
I will only wring you dry.
Leaving you with nothing.
but your bones,
Brittle and cold.
I’m sorry,
I’m not what you’ve asked for.
But you need abandon.
All your stupid dreams,
Of what you wanted me to be.
You gotta know,
that this won’t last.
But if you’re blind to that,
I am fine with that.
Buildin’ Birds…
Your hands dart and weave
In, out, up.. then hover
Swoop right… then left
As simply as sight
Of a birds dreamy flight
Floating to perch proud on rocky cleft
Subtle magic’s paint
Concept, thought to Action
Life wrought from death
As eloquently as the Master
Reaches out from the hereafter
And grants the unborn gift of breath
Chaos now cornered
Seeks out surge, hands direct
And collar by will
And just as Angels acting
So precise, measured, and exacting
Leave scarce a ripple on waters still
Trumpet Grande Crescendo
Labors love ushered in
A diamond from primal smolder
A new winged gift to grace us
Snatched still in pristine stasis
To soar in the eye of the beholder
(Narrative)
I wrote this poem after peeping through the doorway of my wife Nancy’s workspace as she
crafted her beautiful bird sculptures. I was utterly amazed at the delicate movements she so
gracefully employed to wring creations that seemed to capture a split second of nature so
completely as to cause the beholder the illusion that she had somehow stopped time.
Literally, a hummingbird caught between the beats of its wing for one to marvel at. Of all
Nancy’s creative endeavors I still rank her “Buildin’ Birds” as her paramount artistic
endeavor.
Without miniscule inkling,
a violent thunderclap,
was ferociously unleashed,
torrid rain in iron rust buckets,
ensued devoid of clemency,
callous gusts growl,
sleek human impuissant,
shaken bone rattler,
deep shudder quagmire,
post murky midnight.
nocturnal deluge horror,
akin to hair-raising thriller,
why oh why,
blind doggedness of purlieu,
imposing heart of steel,
bludgeoned garment etchings,
on cavalier perambulator,
whose one meek transgression,
adventitious lapse in memory,
my usual weather alert,
I count on, that towering rock,
warding off gauche impulse,
ample pointer to habitual,
rambler’s urgent schedule,
and pitfalls perilous,
one bound to shun,
now torrential streams that,
wild disdained toxic lodger,
in my squelch and squeak,
boots of swim rush burden,
for off focus dereliction,
slips, omissions, oversights,
to compound matters,
my smart phone access code,
vanished in the ether,
momentarily I wish,
and my umbrella had wings,
if only it could transport me,
down a mud strewn lane,
in nocturnal time zone,
lightning zig zagged,
in menacing black ink sky,
home a swoosh-induced,
ominous trek,
four miles leg numb length,
an episode that splatters,
and sprays beyond remorse,
the elements a conqueror,
king of terrors,
nature’s beelzebub scourge,
ears soaked, hair doused,
damp clothes wring,
rogue rabid moon smirk,
as I topple over,
foot caught in sharp,
briar spike entanglement,
liquid frieze nightmare,
green plant pool blobs,
treacherous masked hazard,
by clumps of soggy moss,
rigged whirlwind trial by ordeal,
suspended sentence,
in torrential downpour,
waterlogged marsh prison,
a tyrant one can,
dream of ousting,
one vacuous dream inane,
in course of nightmares