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Long Garden Poems | Long Garden Poetry

Long Garden Poems. Below are the most popular long Garden by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Garden poems by poem length and keyword.

See also: Famous Long Poems

Long Poems
Long poem by Gerald Dillenbeck | Details |

Bending Nature's Bow

The way of Heaven, and health,
for that matter,
Is it not like the bending of a bow?
The top comes down and the bottom-end goes up.
The extra is shorted, the insufficient is expanded.
(Laotse, "Bending the Bow," pp. 305-6, 1942, Modern Library, Lin Yutang, ed.)

The way of economic paradise,
is it not like the bending of a therapeutic bow?
The top comes down as the poverty-end goes up.
The fattest are shortened,
as the insufficient expand.
It is the way of Beloved Community
to take away from those upstream, with too much,
by mutually investing with those without enough downstream.

Not so with human nature's way:
We take away freedom and power from those without BusinessAsUsual value
And give them as tribute to those with too much.
Who can have enough and to spare to coredeem the entire world?
Only Wisdom.
Therefore the Sage acts and transacts,
but does not possess or dispossess,
Accomplishes but lays claim to no credit or deficit,
Because he has no wish to seem economically or ecologically superior to 0-soul value.
(Adapted from ibid)

Bending this permacultural bow of bilateral boundariesin time,
between host and client,
the bender and the bowed,
rich and poor,
stimulus and co-response,
self with eco-other,
YangYes as NotNotNo YinYin,
Left in sacred solidarity with Right,
full summer's incubating copassionate heat
with deep winter's decomposing cold compost,
until all four Seasons equivalently fulfill,
diastolically complete health management
and co-arising equitable investment,
trough naturally and mutually integrative functions.

When seen together,
through Left's "both-and" ecological
as Right's "not-not" logical dipolar landscapes,
through life's therapeutic/pathological seasons 
preferring well-fired water and airy subterranean soil,
C through F closed-fractal 
as A through Guanine/Adenine RNA-regeneratively open pregnant octaves,
through annual win-win economic balancing life-health games
reflecting perennial win-lose ecological cycles
of (0)-sum slow revolutionary harmonic cosmic balance,
we can each and all shoot comprehensive conscious arrows
into fertile post-millennial enculturation,
drenched in eco-Earth's self-Ego love.

Living,
bow-hunting each moment as my Tipping Point last
and our more polyculturally inclusive bilateral last octave step
toward ego death's eco-ionic winterish rebirth.

This more fully organic mind-culture we are hunting
and farming and foresting,
a rich composting Holding SpaceTime
of (0)-centric positive polynomial values
appositively balancing,
tipping,
exchanging,
transporting negative not-not non-named,
ignored, neglected, dispossessed and undervalued Disvalues
of Anger and Fear of Time's Great CoArising Departure,
lurking behind our Fractal-Crystal-TransParent Commons
for recycling cognitive dissonance,
slowly pulling into enlightening days and Transitioning ReGeneration
to explore harmonies of scale and pitch,
and developmental learning stages,
proportional polyculturing designs and cooperative guilds
to optimize Positive Systemic Teleology
by diminishing eisegetical "unconscious" dissonance
from our global cooperative orthopraxis--
jump-starting universal co-empathy.

Dynamic perennial understory,
regeneratively reseeding germination of Healthy SpaceTime's
Zero-Sum eco-logical Four Seasons of growth and decay cycles;
too often confused with stagnant ego-serving Orthodoxy
degenerating Earth's gasping Business-As-Usual breath.

Time optimizes sustainable Ego-Yang's diastolic inhalation
through our Self-Subsidizing Eco-Yin-with-Yin cooperative exhalation.
Yin exhaling is Yang inhaling.
We find only 0-centric difference of identity.

Investing in Ego-reducing praxis for ContinuousQualityImprovement,
Bucky's least dissonant way to improve failing systems
is to optimize their environmental ecosystems,
their ecological balance and holistic harmonious potential flow streams,
especially their root-systemic perennial enculturation environments
to grow more effective year-round economic health nutrients, 
collateral correlational evidence for Positive Teleological Value,
and less cognitive dissonant Ways and Means toward profligate hope,
Truth and Consequences for regenerating inclusive faith,
in The Good Life and Death of synergetic coredeemer love,
a graceful co-messianic incarnation
of post-millennial Tao ReGenesis.

Balancing dia-praxis,
including comprehensive eco-consciousness dialogue,
grows from primally rooted regenerative fractal systemic health-practice.
Positive practice intent is not even possible to grow therapeutically
without a Positive Teleological Assumption,
too often attenuated as merely enthymematic empathic-wish fullness.

People harboring insanity, depression, opposition,
sociopathology,
high stressed over-populated anxiety,
are less well-oriented to Positive Teleological Orthopraxis
due to a lack of sufficient health-equity practice
unveiling contenting implications within contentious dissonance,
therapeutic relationships of mutual basic co-empathic attendance
and cooperatively active mentorship.

The way of Beloved Climax Community
and Communication,
is it not like the bending of a Full Four Season
permacultural bow facing bilateral namaste
for life as death reborn?





Copyright © Gerald Dillenbeck | Year Posted 2015


Long poem by Terry Trainor | Details |

A Moment of Hope The Invisible Man 30

Sometimes I have the courage to think of the things that made me what I am today,
My memory takes me back to terrible things far away far off into my bitter past,
My mind like a maze of dirty black alleys that smell of waste, loss and disgust,
The losses, the drink ripped away, not happy until it was all gone respect as well.

Invisible thinks of a garden where roses clustered with lilies scent on the breeze,
Bees found stores of honey in the petals of a thousand and one different flowers,
Lovers walked hand in hand along its winding path a beautiful dream of the man,
Bright with the embroidery of nature where children played in new myrtle flowers,

As Invisible thinks of this garden it is neglected but flowers can grow with weeds,
It could put a smile upon his face, a face that had never known any joy recently,
He hopes a gardener can covert this garden get rid of ruined waste, back into Eden,
Tending all the beautiful flowers that spring up with the weeds and smell gladness.

If he helped the gardener in his quest a hand might hold his and guide him through,
Maybe a hand would go around his waist to support him as well as guide his hand,
Dare he wish that the guiding hand and the support would be his angel from heaven,
A dear person to help him clear his garden and walk down the winding path as lovers.

An angel that would smile at him maybe hold his hand and squeeze it so very gently,
Would the angel talk to him and tell him that one day they would be together again,
Her beautiful grace shining warmly as she looks up to him, to her he is her hero,
Not a drunken mess that cannot cope, not a dirty vagrant, but her knight her love.

The tenderness of this beautiful scene in his poisoned mind became real he smiled,
He grinned as she sat down next to him as close a she could get then wriggled closer,
Warmth from her body not only warmed him but gave hope this what he has waited for,
She whispered sweetly she loved him and would be waiting for him and they kissed.

Invisible woke with a start and was she not by his side, was she ever with him,
A dream another heart wrenching let down and how could he have dreamed the dream,
It was so real he still felt the warmth, the impression of her hand holding his,
But it must have been a dream his own mind conspired to deliver the hardest blow.


Lost in a grief so deep, his loneliness complete he talks to Sam his imaginary friend.

These days get worse Sam they really do please help me,
I need to change but I need my drink more what can I do,
But I need to change so desperately Sam can you help?
My world has cracked and I've fallen into the crack,
But what I don't understand Sam that I was once good,
If I had any courage Sam I would be laying in my coffin,
Why does life drag you along with it I don't want to go,
Just a bit of icing on my cake Sam it is freezing cold,
Did you know this is where I was brought up my friend,
Did you know that most of the people that walk past I knew,
Sam! I know many of there people but they don't know me,
Why do they all walk past I wish somebody would help,
Maybe when I have drunk more cider I might feel better Sam,
I can remember being happy but not what being happy is like,

As Invisible sits drinking shoppers give him a wide berth and they look at him with hate.

These people Sam they look at me as if I have hurt them,
The people they are not our sort of people they hate me,
Has the world changed like I have but in opposite ways,
My life is full of sorrow drunkenness and dreams Sam,
Old sorrows wont go away new sorrows should take over,
So we have to face both the old and the new that's bad,
At night I try to close my drunken eyes it all returns,
Sam is that the same as you can you close your eyes,
Can you remember the valleys Sam the ones we used to play,
When we ran about all day Sam in the sun rolling in grass,
The old stream that twisted and turned, it had lost its way,
Floating lolly sticks watching them bounce away on ripples,
Buying bangers in November and throwing them into the water,
What I wouldn't do to go back for just a couple of hours Sam,
Just to feel the innocence and try to bring it back to now,
To enjoy what there is to enjoy and maybe get better Sam,
But that will never happen Sam we are lost on an island,
A well populated island but an island all the same Sam,
People are not like ships they don't bother to rescue people,
They just walk around or just walk away all the nice ones gone,
I remember my school Sam it's now been knocked down and left,
It has all gone, all gone no primroses in spring or bluebells,
Do you remember Sam the bluebells used to nod in the wind,
But they have all been built on, whats the use in talking,
Nothing changes from bad to good Sam remember that, eh Sam,

Still drinking his cider tears well into his eyes his nose runs and begins to quietly
to sob. He sits on the shopping parade seat, shaking as he sobs. His throat has a lump
in it so he stops talking to Sam. Invisible sinks his wet face into his overcoat
hides his misery from the people that walk past he just sat there lost and confused. His
greatest sadness an angel paid a visit to the maze of dirty black alleys that smell of waste,
loss and disgust,

Copyright © Terry Trainor | Year Posted 2013


Long poem by arthur vaso | Details |

The Library of Trust and Hope

The Library of Trust and Hope
The Bank of Trust and Hope

(Cant decide on title, so feel free to pick or suggest one)

She was all but four years of age
Birthdays were such magical moments
The cake was filled with candles
The balloons still in their package twelve on the table

Daddy daddy, I can not fill these balloons!!
They are not magic like you said!!!!!
Do not fret Maria, its daddy who is magical
I shall help you little one, let me see those balloons

Sure enough daddy blew up twelve white and pink balloons
Maria was in awe at daddy’s magical powers
She knew her daddy would fight dragons to bring her but a smile
Maria knew she was safe in daddy's arms, oh what a birthday this will be

Maria was now ten years older
Fourteen years old and already filled with so many happy memories
On this fall day, home from school
There was grandpa in the back yard as usual

He was tending his garden of roses
When she was younger, he told her they were magical roses
Grandma would speak to him in his magical garden
From the heavens above


Now at eighteen, daydreaming in a coffee shop
A stranger picks up a rose from an empty table
A smile oozing in charm, stares into her eyes
This is for you, beauty for beauty


She was swept off her feet, in a whirlwind romance
They danced and dined, it seemed all on her dime
Until the morning she awoke, completely alone
Both lover and credit cards did abscond


Now twenty one, and wise to the world
Absorbed in her studies, somewhat colder than one should be for that age
A chilly fall day in an empty library
A stranger comes, giving her a drawing of a red rose

Hello he says! I drew this for you!
Oh no she thinks to herself, not another one!
Politely she smiles and replies thank-you, but I am taken
This stranger smiles right back and says, the drawing is for you no matter

The next week, and the weeks after, the same routine
He comes to her with a drawing of another beautiful rose
She politely declines his advances
Maria knows that a rose, has a stem, and that comes with pricks

The twelfth week and here he is again
What is the poor girl to do?
She is curious, and she can not quite help herself
She asks, from what do you draw such beautiful flowers?

He smiles kindly and replies
How about next week, I show you?
We can have a coffee, and discuss art
Hesitating she just can not say no to this simple gesture of kindness

They are walking along, and surprisingly she finds herself
Quite intrigued with the ease of their conversation
He takes hold of her hand, and says I live over there, the house in red
She has no time to object as he pulls her forward to the backyard

She stares in absolute shock and awe at what appears before her
Why its the most beautiful, wonderful, enchanting English garden she ever saw
You? she stammers, you made this?
He smiles shyly and says; well now you know what inspires my drawings

Now Maria is eighty and filled with both happiness and sadness
Her husband of all these years has passed on
To be with all his precious roses in the heavens waiting
She sits in their garden, remembering a life time of memories

She picks a single rose, and inhales its fragrance
Contemplating the wisdom's of life
I miss you so much my love
You taught me trust is earned and not given
	Your love was my blanket of happiness, wait for me my love, 
		I am yours eternally





Dear Reader

I was lucky in life to have had a good upbringing. My daddy, showered me with love, but most of all he taught me that gifts were not objects, balloons were not magical, nor was he. I learned that what was magical is the time and effort he took to love me, and protect me and those memories I so cherish, but they also he showed me the values I hold dear in myself and those around me. 

Then there was dear old grandpa. His garden was his passion, and I suspect that if I could have had more time to spend with him, it was really grandma’s passion, and after her passing, this was the activity that kept him close to her soul. In that respect, I guess it was truly a magical garden. Whenever he saw me, his eyes would light up, he would pour lemonades and he told me such wonderful stories. Unlike many though, he listened to all my troubles and told me, that in life I had to learn some things the hard way, but that he himself knew for a certainty that I would find the love and happiness, that as a young women, I felt would be lost to me forever.

I re-tell my story for all the people out there that have lost trust in others, or have lost hope in humanity. You may have your heart stolen for awhile, someone can bring you sadness, but never let them steal your soul. Learn that trust is earned, not given, and never punish the rest of the world, for your bad experience, for ultimately it is you who suffers most. Be giving, kind and generous, with a strong will and mind. If someone does not respect you, then they shall never earn your trust, and that’s how it should be. Be wise, be prudent, be safe, but most of all be open to love and kindness

God bless
Maria Sefue

Copyright © arthur vaso | Year Posted 2015


Long poem by Cyndi MacMillan | Details |

SUNDAY SOJOURN

                                                                                                    July 2000



It’s early morning, Sunday, midsummer. I have the kitchen to myself, and I decide to make an omelet from the brown eggs and farmer's cheese that I bought at the market, yesterday. The house is still, save for the sound of the fans and the occasional squeak of a floor board. I consider turning on the radio, but change my mind. How often do I allow myself silence? 

Tea is steeping, a blend called Nile Pearls, and the aroma of pineapple fails to overshadow the black currant. I’m still in my nightshirt. Day can wait. The view from my window makes me smile for my herb garden has gone quite riotous.  I decide to make my simple dish more flavorful. 

Pushing open the screen door, I pause, stretch and lift my face to the sun. The thermometer is sure to climb over 30 today but, right now, it is comfortable. Stepping off the deck, my toes are grateful for the coolness of the grass, the absence of tight shoes, those self-imposed feminine trappings.

my clean feet wet with dew – warm breeze
There is a feeling of sanctity, here. My garden is raised, built into a small hill that provides privacy, yet swallows yard space. I pause to sniff the lavender, let the week dissolve into soft, purple splendor. Pointless, really, to even try to ignore the rhubarb. It is a tyrant, defying borders, refusing to compromise its position. Enormous leaves rustle and I grin as a chipmunk streaks for the cedar hedge. I close in on the herbs, consider my options and snap off several long, verdant spikes. Close to fields, we have had our share of visitors, small frogs, grass snakes, rabbits, red tailed hawks, the occasional raccoon. Nature is taking back the encroachment of suburbia. I rip off a mint leaf, finger its fur and a movement catches my eye.
through thyme a snail inches towards my sundial
There is no artifice in dawdling. Often, I think that my small plot of land is enough for me. No adventure to the far East, no sabbitical on a windswept isle off the coast of Wales. Pleasure, riches, surround me. Perhaps, I will never see the Louvre, but then, in small ways, the Louvre visits my plain home.
a spider's web and my clothesline tangled
The neighbours tolerate my brown thumb, our patchy lawn and my horrid bird calls. They have witnessed the earth under my fingernails, encrusted knees , those afternoons I spent coddling seedlings. One keeps gifting me surgical gloves, a nurse who fights weeds with an antiseptic resolve. The gloves pile in a drawer, unused. I gaze at my roses, notice the gnawed growth, wonder who thinks them delicious. Smart wee beastie. The street is stirring, and my sojourn will end, soon.
the widow next door refills her new bird bath - empty nest
I search for a cloud, find one so far away that it appears otherworldly. Peat and black soil perfume the air. Inhaling, I accept a gentle invasion, a piercing that brings a deep sense of purpose and peace. For just one moment, I feel that I am not walking the earth at all, but that somehow, as impossible as it seems, the Earth just began to move within me. *written May 2013. I miss my herb garden!

Copyright © Cyndi MacMillan | Year Posted 2013


Long poem by Joyce Johnson | Details |

Rapunzel Really Ruby

A pretty girl in a long ago time, was out in her garden one day when a handsome prince rode by on his big white horse.  She liked horses and was gazing at it with admiration, when the prince saw her.  He had never seen such a pretty girl and wanted to meet her.  So he he rode up to her boldly and asked her name.  She was flustered and told him "Rapunzel".  That wasn't her name but her mama had told her not to talk to strangers and of course never to give her name to a stranger, so she said the first name she could think of at the time.  Her name was really," Ruby".

The prince said "Thank you" and rode off .  The next day he came by again and called, "Rapunzel, Rapunzel", but she kept right on hoeing because her name was "Ruby".

When she told her mama about the stranger who had called her "Rapunzel", her mama asked, "What did her look like"? When she described the handsome prince, her mama knew who he was and told her daughter that it would be alright to talk to him.

The next time he came by, Rapunzel (really Ruby) was friendly and answered him.  Time went on and the two became friends.  The prince fell in love with the pretty girl and asked her to marry him.  When she told her mama about the proposal, her mama said she should tell him, "Yes".

There was an evil witch in the next town, who was in love with the handsome prince and wanted to marry him, herself.  She became very angry when she heard that he was going to marry Rapunzel. (really Ruby).

She came to Rapunzel's garden.  (I am sure the pretty girl has told the prince, by now, that her name is Ruby, so that is what I am going to call her from now on .Anyway the witch grabbed her and locked her up in a basement.  The prince came back to see his Ruby and she was gone.  He knew that the evil witch had something to do with her disappearance so he went over to the witches home to look around.  Ruby saw him from the basement window  and waved him over.  Then she ran into a corner while the prince broke the window and went into the little room, where she was and took her in his arms and jumped out of the window with her.

The witch was even angrier than she had been, so she mixed up some bad brew and was going to offer it to Ruby.  Ruby was so nice that she would have thought it impolite to refuse it, but the prince was well aware of what the witch was trying to do, so he took the brew from Ruby and grabbed the witch and made her drink it.

The witch lay in a stupor and Snow White's friends the elves came along and found her. They thought Snow White was sleeping again so they tried to revive her by feeding her bonbons.  The witch did very well under their tender care and a frog came along and asked her to marry him.  She knew the frog thought she was beautiful and the prince was lost to her, so she said, "Yes" to his proposal.

Ruby and the prince forgave her and they had a double wedding.  Ruby went to live in the prince's palace, happily forever after and the witch and the frog went to live on a log in a bog and I guess they are happy too.

Written:4/28/16

Copyright © Joyce Johnson | Year Posted 2016


Long poem by Gerald Dillenbeck | Details |

Dark Pearl Persons

Dark cultures of irritating dissonant pearls,
pearl persons,
perelman,
decomposing zero-souled wisdom,
nondual dark beauty
wherein peace reigns beyond fear
of transparently codestined lives 
with deathly thresholds reflecting new moon delight,
dancing and singing bright bachanal
through fading dramatic
epic operatic
dreams 
of future adventurous advents,
co-operative eco-normic identities.

Co-gravity teaches and listens 
within our mutual messianic school of teleologic,
original purposes,
polyculture's balances
of polypathic polymorphing
beloved community design and development.
Time's revolutionary atmosphere evolves 
just-right warm within this womb
of deep learning.

Spinning Win-Win Game and Group smooth bi-folding theories 
of co-condensing Commons 
in-formating as SuperSentient eco-logos
absorbing ecstatic elational abundance,
death's transcendent throes of baptism
submerged in mythic golden strung elixer
flowing inclusive vigorous peace
and harmonically equi-resonant just interdependent diastatic ids,
ecomutual Basic Attending,
co-empathic.

These darker, shorter, days
events
transitions
invite decomposition,
brewing slow-growth heated silence.

No talking moods and seasons
exploring reasons to grasp,
apprehend
absorb my siloed suffering,
our species' lack of permacultural awareness
as cooperative economic co-generation
of therapeutic landscapes.

Stuff grows.
Life is Time for Love
as Death is Time for Diastatically Active Peace.
What could be more obvious?

Regeneration waits,
advents,
springs reconnecting life
sustaining primal root system therapies about every thing
monomial,
unitarian integrity
yet universal diversity.

Transitional climaxing community designs 
developing
incarnating
inhaling id-entity,
exhaling SuperEco's decomposing integrity
utilitarian purgation of angrypast and futurefear,
pay-it-forward cognitive gift investment
in Earth Tribe's diverse nutritional rainbow
of fractal frequencies and functions
reiteratively mirrord karmic arc forms,
Zero-sum ribonucleic ellipses,
dipolar bilateral DNA memory
of cosmic redemption's fusing/post-fissioned history
transgene-rationally echo evolving
resolving ecologic analogies
in keys of temporal paradox,
deep learning global optimizing economy
of healthy transparent humor as universal transactive relationship
and metasystemic polyculturing therapy.

Nondual transparently aboriginal permacultures,
innocently curious becoming, 
salvaging dissonant irritant pearls and persons,
decomposing regeneration's zero-souled 
bionic-wombed 
wisdom 
of Time's Tao-true 
co-gravitational 
nondually manifest destiny,
ConCave Octave Harmony,
breathing in
to breathe back out again to scale
to inhale reconnecting Advent,
ReVolutions of In-Formating Time.

Dark permaculture,
irritating dissonance
predicting confluent contentment.






Copyright © Gerald Dillenbeck | Year Posted 2015


Long poem by Robert Ronnow | Details |

The Burning of the Jews

It was a woodcut in our high school history text, Unit 4 Beginnings of the
      Modern World, that so disturbed,
from the Nuremburg Chronicles depicting "the burning of the Jews," flat
      perspective,
faces of the victims among flames, in no particular agony, not especially
      Jewish,
during the Black Death 1/3 of Europe died 1347-1351 alone. Although
you die together you die alone.
                                           Earlier that week
I had attended our 6th grade's performance of Fiddler on the Roof,
at first thinking
Coltrane should have recorded Matchmaker as a bookend to My
      Favorite Things
but as the play darkened
with the town's absorption into the diaspora, democracy
yet unthought of and rule of law a fig leaf for authority
Jasper, who played Zero Mostel, delivered his line well to the effect
you're just doing your jobs while wrecking our lives.

Anyway, nothing like that is happening here, is it?
The gardener planting tomatoes, the gravedigger finding skulls,
there is so much life a little death won't matter.
I'm reading Bloom in the Times, how
anyone who doesn't believe Israel should exist is by definition
      anti-Semitic.
Come to find out, I may fall into that category - not that Israel shouldn't
      exist,
but as a so-called Jewish state
any more than a Muslim or Christian land. To some,
Jewishness is not a religion, it's an ethnicity. You have no problem
with the Swedish state, do you?
Should the Swedes be expected to open their borders to the Finns?

Jasper
was a beautiful ham,
big as Zero.
                  A friend posed
this question: must all states be melting pots like the United States?
I said yes
not because they should but since
it's inevitable. Let labor flow like capital!
I hate when people disagree with me.
I get angry.
When a plate breaks, it asserts another possibility.
America was the last word of the play and brought a tear of pride to my
      eye.

Immigration, exasperating argument re the Other.
How many's more than enough? 9 billion, a rational,
real number that exceeds or
                                       we're convinced
is within the carrying capacity of the planet.
Climate change is the new Black Death.
I like the Amerindian body type and face mixed in with the European,
      African.
The irrepressible economy rolls out reams of logs, ores of elements, bags
      of ice, fields of rice.
Embargo. The moon stares, bare, full of interstellar space.
Better a cold shoulder than a visit from our military.
The crazy Nazis must have felt themselves extraordinarily compassionate
      toward the mother, earth, the goddess, history, or some such
      abstraction and, thus, acted on a fraction of all they did not know.
Selfless soldiers just doing their jobs expanding the border or,
on the other hand, collecting fagots for "the burning of the Jews."





Copyright © Robert Ronnow | Year Posted 2015


Long poem by Robert Ronnow | Details |

Take the Ripe Plum

How far from nature and life it is
the gray clouds, airplanes in them
the night cooing and pigeons roosting
Sirma's garden gone to roses and seed

                        That airplane overhead!
                        pointing the way
                        pointing to war

War being an aggravated condition of what
we already know

                        Flowering beneath the noise
                        of yet another jet passing overhead.

              *                  *                  *

Why this much sadness in a world so beautiful?
We are sad for the weariness of everything, including earth
(that will go on tropically flowering long after we are gone)
we

            who are nothing
            in powerful time's
            grip

history, passionate history, coffee between
neighbors.

              *                  *                  *

            Enter into alliance
            With the sweet darkness, night!

            Night and day, day and night
            Everybody knows when the moon is bright.

            We dance by the light of the moon
            All night.

              *                  *                  *

We dance by the light of the moon.
We dance by the light of the moon and setting sun.

                                          We drive
                  we crow and call
three pigeons!
                  and make the world alive
                                          even bricks.

                                          Jets
two pigeons!
                  Milk-skinned doves
                                          enmesh

Two gray-skinned sharks, jets,
embrace in the sky, a blue green oil truck takes
the hill, cobblestoned, in low
steady gear.

              *                  *                  *

Zazen position
      to remain so
            unmoved
                  yet moved
                        by the stillness

the movement of the car uphill
      part of your system of beliefs
            unmoved by it, parked
                  necking in the front seat
                        hawks diving for pigeons' eggs

and so you are compelled to move
      by the force that created you. but
            you impose your own small order
                  departing from traditions
                        human history understands

                  a mutant

such as those currently developing
the human mind beyond its past capacities.

              *                  *                  *

                  Two straw sandals
                        blue jay call
                              two sea gulls

              *                  *                  *

The jets return
      flying low.
            Laying low

and breathing low
      mists
            of pure noise.





Copyright © Robert Ronnow | Year Posted 2015


Long poem by Ravindra K Kapoor | Details |

Song Dedicated to Rape Victim of Delhi


 
A Song If this is My Country.. This Song is dedicated to the brutal Rape victim of Delhi and it’s a message for My Countrymen. The Original song is in Hindi on You Tube with Song Lines Text in English. The Song contains many situations universal and of concern of many counties of the world. The Photos used in the Song too conveys some message and I hope my friends on Poetry Soup would let me have their opinion. The original Song can be viewed on my You Tube channel or through following URL http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UJmf2pb0iP4&feature=player_detailpage A Song If this is My Country.. Part 1 If this is my country It is yours also Then why you are making Such a condition of this land. 01 The dreams which we had seen To make this country A land, dearest to everyone On Earth.02 Those dreams are weeping And crying, Whenever they see You or me. 03 Is this the way To make a new world for us By nipping and crushing The dreams and expectations Of each and everyone. 04 By making the poor innocent children As street baggers What an India of my dreams You have made O’ makers. 05 If this is my country It is yours also Then why the woman’s respect Is looted everyday on its soil. 06 Is the man of today is so helpless That those who rob the respect of women Are set free every day, So that, they may rob again What an India of my dreams You have made O’ makers. Then why you are making Such a condition of this land. 07 You and Me both have born on this soil And on its soil only We would part our last breath. 08 After centuries of long struggles We had received back Our Garden And After great difficulties We had started seeing Some blooming. 09 We could have made it again A garden full of flowers A garden on which All the seasons Would spread their splendors. 10 But what you have made Of our montherland A story on which The world would only laugh. Ravindra Kanpur India 07th Jan. 2013 Dedication This Song is dedicated to that Bold Girl Rape Victim of Delhi Who has sacrificed her life So that Other Rape Victims Of India May be saved. Ravindra My Channel on You Tube "RavindraKK1" When Rapes are increasing like a viral disease it is time we should find out the reasons, which are creating an atmosphere of such crimes against women all over the world. It may be a serious problem right now for countries like India but the day is not far off when, when those who are creating such viral through internet would be the worst suffers. My Poem and Video on You Tube on this problem is a very small effort in that direction….Ravindra K Kapoor Protected under the Copy Rights provisions of Poetry Soup.

Copyright © Ravindra K Kapoor | Year Posted 2013


Long poem by Samir Georges | Details |

Blind men

A child passes by 
So full of joy
Life
A friend by his side
Broad smiles smothered all over their faces, a veil over childhood ignorance
Together they play, tumbling in the grass of the gardens of youth
But before long, before every scent in this blooming garden is taken in, experienced
A thunder storm invades the scene
Shocking reality into their lives
Ravaging their ignorance, their innocence
Shattering their smiles
And with great earthquakes, the ground beneath their feet shatters
And the duo is separated into a quickly spreading mist
It enshrouds them, whisking away their screams, hiding away their tears
And with that sundering, friends of old are replaced by the mist, ever changing
Sharp blades of green dull under the weight of the dew as the mist rides on the back of time
Slowly, like the growth of wisdom, the mist withdraws
With every inch of that once promising garden that is returned to the sun
Another inch of realization is exposed to the world
And where once gleamed blades of green and welcoming rainbows of soft scented dandelions 
resided
Now sprouted weeds, thorns battling amongst one another for more room
They sacrifice the shrubs and bushes of sweet tasting raspberries that once covered the 
broad smiling faces of two toddlers
And from within the unrolling mist 
Strides a man in a suit
With every stride he takes, away yield the weeds, and dwindle away
Disintegrating, crumbling under his very air
And from the foot tracks of his military boots
Sprouts a structure breeding advances, great wonders to awe the world
And what few roses remained in this scarred haven
Are sacrificed, to make way for more boot marks, more wonders to awe the weeds
Now comes another being, out of the retreating fog
On his face is a contorted image 
A frown
He drudged along a weed ridden path
Tripping and tumbling over boot marks
Each sprouting small, developing structures, non-nurtured offspring of unthinking parents 
His tattered clothes, assaulted by time and thorny undergrowth
Hung on him like the shedding skin of a snake
But unlike that of the slithering reptile, this old coat shall not leave its master
Both wandered on, both blind to what was around them, what had changed
Till one day, they walked towards one another
And by some random act of choice, or the strict lines of fate, both blind men came full circle
And without a glance, they strode past each other as they had glided or tumbled past their 
ever changing pathways
As if the faces of their past where forgot

© Samir Georges
2008

Copyright © Samir Georges | Year Posted 2010


Long Poems