Long language Poems
Long language Poems. Below are the most popular long language by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long language poems by poem length and keyword.
Now you are talking to me, your words so tight are now unbound,
In whispers of dusk, where lost echoes are found.
A symphony silent, yet pulsing with sound,
Drawing our spirits from dark to light.
Now you are talking to me, in this fleeting hour,
Your voice like a breeze through a garden in flower.
Each syllable dances, a waltz in the night,
Casting away every trace of our fright.
Now you are talking to me, with truth in your tone,
Breaking the barriers we’ve long outgrown.
In the heart of the stillness, where secrets once slept,
We forge a new language where dreams are kept.
Now you are talking to me, as stars softly gleam,
In the hushed conversation of soul and dream.
A moment eternal, where silence has flown,
Now you are talking to me, and I am found.
Nobody will ever know the real person that you were
That glint of magic in your eyes, your giggle that warmed your families hearts.
You chose to care for others. You chose to put people first. You stood in front of a virus for which you were ill prepared.
Your government scoffed and scorned on the words your profession had to say. They chose to clap for you and your colleagues dying every day.
You had so much to give. You cared for everyone. No matter what language they spoke no matter what colour their skin.
Your government expected more and used your caring nature to plan their blame. They expected you to act like soldiers and give your lives fighting this thing.
We will remember the sacrifice you were made to make. We will remember you, your profession and you people sacrificed for political sake.
Each language has it’s own beauty
perhaps that’s why people travel the world seek them…
I imagine they are just like me
and would someday like to speak them…
But there is one language we may never speak
it is a culture without words
It’s one we step outside to seek
in the trees, the sky…the birds.
It’s a language none of us can recreate
as it remains, to us, unknown
because nature does not translate
a language all her own.
When rain drops fall upon the ground
seedlings immediately know…
as the water reaches them without a sound
they hear…it’s time to grow.
And when the sun’s rays touch that soon-to-be flower
as it awakes from its womb
the silent sunshine reveals its power.
when it whispers…time to bloom
The wind invisibly rushes out and in
We try to comprehend but we have no chance
for we only know where she has been
as she invites the trees to dance.
We know all living things talk to each other
We know they’ve found a way
We know they’re listening to their mother
We just don’t know what they say.
But that’s OK with us…for each day
we can enjoy their music and their dance
without recognizing all the words they say
Like when we visit Italy or France.
In a way it’s like we’re in a foreign land
Nature’s land of trees and fish and birds
and tho their language we may never fully understand
we can enjoy the rhythm of their words.
FLICKERING CANDLES
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
the flickering candle
stands alone on the table,
a small sentinel of warmth,
its golden glow spilling over its edges.
the air thickens around it;
within its amber light
time slows,
each shadow a memory.
this flickering beacon,
this symbol of hope,
speaks in the language of light
and remembrance.
the flickering candle takes me back in time,
reminding me of evenings spent in laughter,
of the scent of cinnamon and pine, and
the echoes of voices long since passed.
I watch in reverent silence, entranced,
as the flame leaps and sways,
a tiny sun, defying the encroaching dark,
reminding me of all that was, and all that still is—
I wear my smile on the outside of my face for a reason.
There are so many who need to see it.
Unless it becomes a sarcastic smile.
I hope I do not have one of those.
But we never know how people take things.
There is a belief in my head and my heart about love.
I think that is why God put us here.
To instill hope, love and confidence in others.
Not just our family and friends, but….
Strangers, teachers, clerks in stores.
I think our language should be love and hope and peace.
Call me Pollyanna because I like it!
Call me child-like for Jesus appreciated the children.
The child will lead, is what he said.
But do not call me childish, for I am not that.
Listening is as important as learning.
Maybe more important.
I think listening, learning, and living are why we are here.
I do all three in great measure.
With enthusiasm and excitement.
Are we true all the time?
How could we be considered "good
person", if we didn't hide the truth once and for all
when....?
"If the pain and sadness on the face were stamped",
we would be ugly, horrible... there is the simulation,
the pious lie, the polite, political language.
The social rule of good manners therefore consists
in not propagating how much good we think
of ourselves, and how much evil we think
from others...
If we were completely honest, we couldn't
live well socially.
In this case, living well socially consists of,
hypocritically dissimulate with all security
and tranquility what we really think...
We will thus be perfect for socializing, being
imperfect... If we were pure, there would be no
think so well of ourselves and so badly of others...
We wouldn't have defects... but that can't be
here and in this world....!
Just wanted to say a very big thank you to all you amazing poets who took the time to comment
on my last post ‘Sunny Horizons’
I would have loved to thank each and every one of you individually, but as I said before –
‘Time waits for no Man ‘and has a way of running away from me…literally.
To my constant support from the time I joined and still… Demetrios and Silent One - I have learned so much from you
two amazing poets, spiritually and poetically. Thank you for all the help over my poetic journey.
To my dear friend Victor Buhagiar, keep writing, never ever stop. Who can forget your stories, especially your poems
with the twist - I adored them.
Paul Callus, you also have helped me so much along the way, especially with your attention to detail and your
encouragement - thank you my dear friend.
To my Love and Light brother Winged Warrior, you are truly amazing.
I don’t think anyone can write internal rhyme like you do. Keep spreading your light.
To my amazing poetic sisters Cecilia Crasto, Susan Ashley, Connie Wong, Carole Duet and Besma - You ladies made my
day with your comments, they are worth framing, believe me.
Robert Linley, Vijay, Tom, Arturo, Faraz, Craig Cornish, and July Morning, Martin Williams and Charlie Messina...
I will always treasure your comments.
Judy Stickles and Akkina, a big thank you to you two lovely ladies.
Thanks for being in my life
Sunshine Smile, Darren White, Teppo, Chris Green and Word Hobo, the very first poets who welcomed me
into the Soup and made me feel so welcome…Thank you.
To Heidi Sands, Brandy, Eve, Sunlite, Warren Doll, John Gondolf, Joseph May, Mike Gentle, Michael Wise, Raw Thinker
and to the poets who have come and gone and had supported me…
Thank you all too.
You are all truly amazing poets, forever let your golden ink flow.
Lastly let me leave you with these parting words …
Keep your passion for poetry always for as W.H.Auden once said
A poet is, before anything else, a person who is passionately in love with language. ? W.H. Auden
Before golden opportunity
(goes no argh hue mint
the way of Long John Silver)
doth fade and dwindle
not necessarily cuz the missus
did (NOT) bribe and swindle
an ambition (for nor rhyme nor reason)
arose to kindle...
Affectionate communication
employing (figurative) gambol
probably testing your patience
to decrypt me trademark ramble
essential crux of matter after
ye prune thorny verbiage,
metaphorical berry good bramble.
Methinks yar psyche slid into funk
cuz usual upbeat gregarious disposition
of late (June 26th, 2020)
analogous to reclusive monk
whose nonverbal body language
shrieks "LEAVE ME THE ƒµ©* ALONE"
lest recipient (in this case yours truly)
receives judicious suckerpunch
finding him landing - ouch
on his buttucks - kerplunk!
Nevertheless as one
mister misanthrope to another
who could pretend cavorting
as asinine make bull heave brother,
(or undergoing extreme makeover,
and stretching imagination voila
one garden variety generic beastie boy
rendered into... yup, your grandmother.
Hoop fully no unpleasant memory
doth suddenly unfold
linkedin to said very old
boot (moost likely)
long deceased family member
turned to dust commingled with auld
Lang syne amidst weathered tombstones,
markedly intact skeletons absent
any flesh o'the rear
some etched with hands folded in prayer
mausoleum enshrining even in death near
(think grim reaper kingly leer)
still provoking jeer
profligate (yet prolific) paperback writer heir
housing generations ghostly forebear
comprising your family tree, once... dear
father, mother, sister, brother, et cetera
who profusely guzzled beer.
No intent to induce fury if playful banter
loosed psychological trip wire
merely harmless ambition to deliver mirth
lobs strike out as decided
by just now summoned umpire
on the ball punning away without tire
greatly flattered if literary antics inspire
ye to pen memoirs,
which become New York Times
bestseller, thus countless clamoring demands
to serve as ghostwriter hire
prompt ye with fame and fortune
before thee doth exhale last breath and expire
when moments prior,
I while impersonating a squire
wished ye a cheery bon voyage.
Yet where there were curses , you will find scars, Where I found my secrets, you will see my quiet lies. What pain hides, it also still shows, Its fact hoed through ruined trails, it snares.
In shadowed dark, a fire still gleams, An ember bright that even pain redeems. The knives that gut are mirrors, clothed in mourning, Reflecting strength once buried beyond understanding.
We learn to draw a sharp edge by hand, To forge a shield of what one cannot stand. For shadows whisper stories, dark but bright, Of powers found where light is scarce and slight.
Behind the door, the soul finds light turn up, In shadows' tales, it learns to rise for us. The night is long, through wounds won, a future breathes, Where time’s embrace, in life, lays true to its sheathe.
From hushed hallways where voices of shadows call, A symphony of victory rings with thrall. The heart that braved each bitter eclipse. Now throws its dreams on dawn’s gentle lips.
Law Writing in Time
The Consequence of business interaction and government without consequences is all ways of being in discussion without terms.
Lined accounts and records differ in possibilities as possession. Yet movement and momentum will not cross nor intersect. This function of non overlapped life embodies trial.
As physics observed outside of time, body a, b, c, and further, space conceals vast amounts of matter.
Matter without volume has constraint, x.
Matter in volume has derivative(s).
The interaction of both fixes cannot comingle.
As a thought a parameter may be experienced while another matter is finite.
Seeing account outside of parameter from fixed account and record travelling in time, velocity is observation of law broken.
Objective journal is duty of space in filled report
Seeing account outside of parameter from fixed
account and record travelling in time, velocity is
observation of law broken.
Objective journal is duty of space in filled report
Initiation of free speech from coordinate of non
poverty is broken law
Justice is blind
The blind repeal is a closed file of argument in
finite language as origin of law
No defense of law exists
Liberty prevails
Overture 1 of Physics
Poverty Reference
Peace Time Rank of Geneva Award
Without Honor, A Cap Is Raised
Conclusive Evidence
Has been recorded beneath Geneva
As Democracy has faltered in hands
natural to remain civilized.
Thank you!
For contacting the International Committee of the Red Cross.
We will respond to your message as soon as possible