Long Approval Poems
Long Approval Poems. Below are the most popular long Approval by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Approval poems by poem length and keyword.
5/21/11-5/22/11
I rule over the night
undaunted with all my might
I have time to spare all I can bare
Watching the hand chime
tugging…pushing…shoving
through whirling toil
that feed the spoil
Perplexing strife
refusing to give up
Power and torment
We are too caught up in our own power
and ruling over each passing moment
each passing night…destroying the twin towers
Who’s doing all the blaming?
Who’s choosing our faults?
I’m tossed…shifting around with uncontrolled anguish
Zipping…tripping over rambling bolts
spiraling into a mad house
Don’t enchant your intolerable voice
I see no love dwelling in this household
Do you seek for your power…
you insufferable traitor?
Seeking our upcoming doom
brewing strife in the heap of ruins
brewing strife while we still leave room
to obey and remain under power
You are assuming the worst
father…mother…
rule over the passing anguish…circling around
stumbling around…not aware
Hey you! play fair
Behave and stay awhile
before you feed the fire that holds sheer vile
Allow love to not be thrown away
into another pile
I grasp no love engrained
In our giving garden
that plants ceaseless approval
Pardon my faults
I was far from comforting sleep
Dread is driven mysteriously
Through an endless night
Moving on the tracks
Forming into an alarming train
Who’s doing all the blaming?
Who’s choosing our faults?
Who did the labor suitably?
worthwhile father…pleasure-seeking mother
Don’t enchant your intolerable voices
and expect us to listen sensibly
Demanding us to do labor
and assist our displeased neighbor
Why do you melt the delight away?
Throwing away a flavor of ecstasy
and put us to glove-less labor
without putting our favor and opinion
into the overlooked pile
Burning agony
dries the buried glee
Saved for a grieving moment
Playing like a warped tune… unable to express
solitude that develops in the heart
raped by the ragged uncertainties
without taking heed of our pleas
These desirable moments
Cherished in the deplorable journey
They weren’t acknowledged by power
Love in those days were brand new
Do you have a clue?
they were cherished...
Bountiful…
stranded in a deserted past
in merciful beauty…caught under the spell
Where did that come to pass?
Where’s the love?
Who’s doing all the blaming?
Who’s choosing our faults?
I am whatever you say I am...
but, let's get back to reality...
Three short years ago, this room shined welcome mats across a screen of doldrums.
A place of unfamiliarity that screamed,
"You don't belong!"
Yet, a voice of reason spoke and said,
"Expand yir' roots. Venture beyond the comfort zone. Academia resides inside that room, but know you won't be alone."
Repeatedly,brainwaves declined what my wife and editor had told me.
I'd say,
"no way, I'm givin' up my soul for free, they read, they pay, like it's always been, the way it's going to always be!"
Unbeknownst to me one day, and with a slight of hand, my "Open Sores" were put on display and surprisingly more than a handful of great ladies and nice guys began to give feedback on what I had devised.
This interaction was something very new, helpful, and impressive. For a change, it was something real.
For years, those around me were quick to give praise with hidden reasons. Constructive criticism is amazing, and I welcomed being corrected or set straight.
Now there are those who choose to shut me down without explanation, and call me names.
DO NOT mistake me for sophomoric! These words bleeding from my guts have no style and need no approval. There is no thinking involved here, no plan. If you don't like it, fine...don't censor or bracket me in. So what if I am illiterate? If you don't like "street poetry" or the pathetic stuff I write, don't read it. If I offend you, tell me.
We should welcome those who are different than us.
Words of truth inspire movement, like fire.
I came to this room to expand my horizons, step outside the box, learn, help, grow.
There will be no apologies dealt for being different, or for being labelled as something uncomfortable to you.
This has been an ok room so far, but there is some clique trickanery going on.
If the dictionary must come into play, let me recommend looking up the term "Poetic License."
True, I may not be the writer you prefer, or aspire to be....but tread carefully my friend, for you have no idea of my profession. I've made a fine living, for a good long time, spewing words onto paper. I came from nothing, and may still be nothing to you...still, I do what I love, have no boss.
I am not an aspiring writer who dreams of a life, I live my dream. In conclusion, I must wish you luck in finding what you peddle poetry for. Until then, keep
I also feel blasé today February 19th, 2024
Linkedin to being lax,
and shirking house cleaning tasks,
which negligence cost us
(yours truly and the missus)
a golden opportunity
to relocate to Hillcrest Village
in Boyertown, Pennsylvania
another HUD subsidized property
under the aegis of Grosse and Quade,
one of the larger residential
property management firms
in the Delaware Valley.
Physical unwellness
(insync with racing heart) arose
because Kathleen Bergen
the new property manager
here at 2 Highland Manor
voiced absolute zero positive feedback,
upon taking lock, stock, and barrel
of appalling living conditions,
her blistering vocalization
(from wuthering heights)
translated as a foregone conclusion
against our hopes
pinned on moving into
two bedroom apartment
referenced above topmost lines.
Said plummeted disappointment
(courtesy blunt admission
out the mouth of
(humpty dumpty sat on a wall)
frumpty recent hire
identified in a previous poem
as new warden)
verbosely predicated upon
gross appearance of living space
immediately dashed cautious optimism
citing unkempt state
within no crater than
moonwalking unit b44,
whereby we wished to skadaddle
far away from obligation
to be mindful of rules and regulations
codified within a binding lease.
Unlikely home ownership
will ever come to pass,
nor the lesser prospect
to rent more spacious domicile
larger than a one bedroom apartment,
no bigger than a bread box
den me and the missus,
(a hen pecking spouse)
might befriend Bugs Bunny,
who might guarantee
adequate sized rabbit hole
constituting large enough wonderland
receiving stamp of approval
courtesy Alice in Chains
subsidized lodging money back
plus additional warren tee
granted by Mister Michael Fox,
who took me back to the future,
when the pace of life
plodded along at leisurely rhythm.
Only within outer limits
realm of twilight zone,
where dark shadows
inch along edge of night
(while two thumbs and index finger
belonging to separate good sports
grab hold the furcula
(or wishbone) structure
formed by the ventral fusion
of the right and left clavicles
and the median interclavicle
silently mouth invocation)
holds at bay, the inexplicable phenomena
moored, harbored, and docked
awaiting lucky recipient,
whose merrythought bestowed
upon he/she, they/them.
Everyone hates my poetry
Because it doesn’t wear makeup.
Because it stares too long,
or not long enough.
Because it mentions the body
like a room that remembers
every man who left his name in dust.
Because it’s too sad,
too loud,
too holy,
too raw—
because it does not ask permission
to bleed
where others would politely weep.
They say I should whisper.
I scream in stanzas instead.
Line breaks like broken bones —
each one healed wrong on purpose.
I rhyme “fxxk” with “forgiveness”
and call it a sacrament.
I flirt with ghosts.
I give grief a seat at the table.
I write what I can’t confess.
And then I press send.
And wait.
And wait.
And wait.
?
Go your own way, they say.
But I was never theirs to lose.
I won’t be your throat,
your mouth,
your Sunday-quiet muse.
Dance in the avalanche —
I’ll be drinking full-blooded wine.
You butter your toast,
I’ll bleed ink and call it divine.
I’m Dracula,
you’re limpets —
clinging to shores of should.
Sinister mercy monsters
with teeth made of wood.
You won’t take mine.
I’ve bartered them
for metaphor.
For myth.
For the kind of flame
that never asks to be understood.
I sit on a throne
shaped like an electric chair,
burning truth until
only the bones of beauty remain.
You?
You live in living rooms.
You collect pretty things.
I braid your betrayal
into a lei of lunacy —
my madness in bloom.
Say I’m too old.
Too female.
Too much.
There’s something in the water.
Damn right.
I am the water.
I merge with ocean light.
The moon kisses me goodnight.
Why do I need your approval to feel seen?
Must just be a throwback trauma dream.
Your eyes — not galaxies,
but black holes,
sucking the light from my becoming.
I offered constellations,
you brought collapse.
But still—
I orbit my own flame.
Still, I rise in ruin’s dress,
sequined with scars.
I chew the fat
with better men than you,
men who don’t flinch
when a woman burns through.
Men who sip my fury like wine,
and still
ask for another glass.
You?
You watered me down,
then called me “too much”
for the mess you made.
?
And still I write.
With shooting stars’ blessings* beyond celestial, I praise God with all my heart
Since His assured sufficiency-goodness for me will never depart
I believe that He will grant each of my desire:
And everything that for His honour I earnestly aspire
To stay constantly in the center of His perfect will
While in His compassion-care I'll keep still;
To fulfill His assigned task for me He has uniquely designed
As in His satisfaction I serenely bask to which I willingly resigned.
Midst shooting stars’ heavenly presence, I'll worship the Lord by His grace
Loving Him with my spirit, soul and strength all the days...
Hence, I yield to Him, upon faith's fervency, my supplication-filled hopes
Knowing that He knows what's best beyond my mind's scopes:
The complete recovery of my loved ones thru His divine miracle healing
Also the full restoration of those who are spiritually ailing, falling and failing;
The remarkable progress and developmental milestones of my special child
As well as those undergoing therapy, rehabilitatively-styled.
Never bereft of divine shooting stars’ experience, I press on toward victory
Guided by the guidance of Christ I must exalt for His glory...
Therefore, to His approval do I submit my dreams
Verily aware that His omniscience can overtake my vision-beams:
Foremost is the realization of an ever-ready service-providing foundation
Benefiting mankind thru its effective welfare-geared function;
Another, though not actually impossible, is the wondrous visit to the Holy Land
Where my Saviour humanly resided according to what Sovereign had planned.
Along spiritual shooting stars’ glow, I'll serve my Creator midst challenges
Since I'm called to live for Him with His power-charges...
So then I cast to Him my worries and doubts for the future
In my faithful stewardship devotion He alone can nurture:
Fruitfulness of ministry-involvement despite hardships
Earnestness of my prayer-consecration thru heavenly partnerships;
Persistence in every discipleship-engagement
Diligence in labouring for His kingdom's advancement.
*Ephesians 1:3 Blessed be the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, who hath blessed us with all spiritual blessings in heavenly places in Christ.
August 14, 2019
3rd place, "Shooting Stars" Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Nayda Ivette Negron; judged on 8/31/2019.
Prince Jargo
was on a mission to
slay the evil green dragon
of the kingdom of
Wondrous Land
which consisted of people,
kindly dragons, dragonflies,
huffle-winks and the
mean-spirited green dragon,
his father King Andro insisted
it was time for young
Prince Jargo to be initiated
into adulthood and prove
his worthiness and valor
for the entire kingdom.
King Andro told his son
that he needed proof that
the green dragon was slain
by having him return with
part of its scaly tail and
heartless heart which would
be on display before all the
residents of their land to
celebrate Jargo's courageous
feat and the change of his
status to manhood.
The journey to the cave where
the green dragon lived was
perilous as Prince Jargo and
his white steed climbed carefully
several hundred feet high as
clouds drifted before them
obstructing their view of the
high-altitude lair making
the adventure more difficult
and challenging for the
young and nervous prince.
Suddenly, a fiery streak several
feet long knocked Jargo off his
horse making him dizzy with pain
when he realized he was attacked
by the fiery emblazoned tongue
of the green dragon whom he was
to slay or would he be slain instead?
Unshielding his shiny and diamond
studded sword, Jargo entered the
slimy and awful reeking cave in
which the green dragon lived and to
his dismay discovered that there wasn't
any sign of the dragon making him
wonder how it could hide since his
proportions being tall as several
stories would make it impossible
to do so.
Quickly, Jargo left the cave shaking
in his boots from a fear he had never
known just to become a princely man
for the Wondrous Land and his father's
approval of him.
Immediately, as he stepped outside,
he faced a stumble block----the giant green
dragon was on the ground and not moving
at all, looking still as if dead, so Jargo pierced
it with his sword several times to confirm
of its demise which made the entire
situation much easier for him as he sliced
off part of the tail and cut out its heart,
all proof was packed as he descended
down the steep trail to be welcomed by
King Andro as a courageous and manly prince
who slayed the evil green dragon.
Date of entry: February 5, 2020
Contest: 'Let the Pens Flow'
Sponsored by Jenish Somnadas
An essence heard a heartfelt plea
meek, unconfident, not familiar
"Should I bother anymore? Please guide me."
His words hardly mist....
a response slices the scene
with the speed of a guillotine.
skittering over the asymmetrical
similarities of a snowy expanse
a messenger appears
cracks of icy dunes
produce precarious pawfalls
plaguing the vixen.
venturing further precisely
she plods over precipices
of ragged protrusions
desperate to achieve the comfort
of a smooth surface.
"Where you go is perilous!
I worry for your safety!
It can't be done, you won't survive!"
...cried the timid.
Her movement stops on cue
slowly facing the pupil
she teaches in silent syllables
floating on unknown frequencies.
" DAMN YOU NAYSAYER!
I have no time for the likes of you.
Say I won't survive? Come out alive?
I've fought through worse pain
finding sustenance to gain
morsels leaving one inspired
not feeling as if they're mired.
Search within your pores
find where you have hidden yours."
Dumbfounded - the novice stirs restlessly
"Perplexed, I see, you are mon cherie.
Hear what you seek before I flee.
When life's coldness surrounding you
leaves you writhingly wretched
don't feel so desolate and utterly dejected.
Deep inside lies the truth
albeit quite protected.
Bugger those scorning your worth
their eyes glisten shades green.
Stagnantly feeding ego's girth
pompous words - own to preen.
YOU are the Alpha here Jack
there is no need to whine
Condemn the disapproving pack
let your own light shine
Too much weight put into their drivel
making your inner child snivel
Buck up, put them in their place
other's ire force them to chase.
This be your nefarious impasse
faux approval merely to fit in
Always people of that class
saying anything to win
Lastly,
though I've said enough....
It's as you learned when a tyke
those times you fell off your bike
quit being a ruse
get back to your muse
keep working at what you like!"
Sunset facing her gaze
signals the quest resumed
Her protege audibly sobs
a simple seven syllable soliloquy stating:
"Thank you
I love and miss you!"
with a whispered (mom)
Tender tendrils of whispy wind
touch a cheek with a kiss
and a lasting voiceless return.....
"Forever, son"
Every time you walk into my space,
Everything that’s real about me,
Gets erased.
Somehow, it always ends up
My mistake—
Comatose I am,
to my own fate.
I have decades, years
Not knowing how--
Can I fix this ever,
If not now?
Every step closer, you’re closing in on me,
You say cruel things
And then say you’re “helping me”
There’s always Doubt— anxiety needs approval:
I’m still inside this hole and
You won’t hasten my removal.
Will you leave me stuck here?
I bend and bow, and
Bow and bend then try again, somehow-
try once more, again, to get “me” back on track,
Sometimes it feels like “me” is
Never coming back.
Broken me feels lost and helpless,
Ripped with pain,
Broken is still broken,
No matter who’s to blame.
You become a non-person
It happens slow—
you don’t deserve to be respected, didn’t you know?
Everything you say is questioned, your life is made a lie--
You broke their hearts, you nasty person, just lay down and die!
Suffering’s hard, and so is pain,
But there’s no one here to stop me, except me, and its become a game...
Of keeping tabs and hoping you’ll never see how broken I've become-
Yet your words against me are only lies, one day the curse will be undone.
One day, you’ll get a glimpse of your iceberg cold
Heart
The Deja vu police’ll
Catch up to you when speeding on a lark,
And ticket you for lying to GD, pretending--
You were only playing Peacemaker,
Your devotion neverending…..
Oh the Horror of admitting
You were in fact, Ego-sitting!
Then it will be plain,
It was YOU who commanded me to wear the Scarlet
Letter,
Not because I sinned, but because you needed to be
“Better”.
But until then, ‘dear’ Christian(s)
Who committed me to this
Hole,
You currently offer generous condolences to
Yourself, not me, the
“Infidel”…
Parading your mirrored mask,
Your friendly smile--now its on, now its off-- just like a faucet
While behind closed doors you
Spread derogatory gossip—
And there can only be an ugly end to this
Charitable epistle,
I wash my hands of them, and wait for their delusionary lies’ dismissal.
Those who stake their lives on
Crying Wolf may
Seem to have the upper hand,
yet Gd sees through their fake disguises--
and always remains in command.
Patiently waiting
with unseen surprises,
Blatantly ripping off
Their dark, dirty
disguises.
Two opposing warring factions, meet upon the AstroTurf
Battlefield, in the sporting arena of Victory or agony’s defeated,
Warriors of the pigs skinned javelin, tackle each other at the
White lines of collisions honor, marked by the numbered banners
Of the fifty yard kick off point, yielding unto the pillars of the
Goal post of champions!
In the heat of battle these heroes of gladiatorial games, called
The NFL, thrill and chill their fans to the inner bones of the
True sportsman living within all us, born in this great nation,
Known as the U.S.A.
In this victorious field of dreams, no illusionary visions exist,
For these powerhouse gentlemen, gain each footings sacred
Ground by athletic skill and sheer raw brawn!
To the meek goes the booing of the fumble, to the strong
The million dollar playoff championship, cheered on by their
Ever loyal crowds of adoring fans, whom are enthroned by
This sport of endurance and strength of will!
In this modern coliseum of champions, no touch down goes
Without a standing ovation, or Styrofoam’s thumps up signal
Of approval, in these concrete surroundings this is truly a time
Honored sport of traditions, to be remembered in the
Historical records of the future as a classical game,
To challenge the strongest of athletes!
Golden are the rings given as victory’s insignias,
But in the hearts of the players and their loyal fans,
The price of the championship game is worth the cost
Of every single ounce of sweat and exaggeration, shown
On this epic field of battle!
As the crowds roar, with excitements thrilling kick offs
Point of the triumphant, field goal point scoring, their
Human wave of appreciation, is set at the release level
Of thousands!
In the homes of America the volume levels of the cheering
Is off the ratio scales charts, as chairs go flying backwards,
And Bowls of snacks explode everywhere, for the winning
Play has just been committed, and the championship team
Takes the final center field of the victorious!
Hurray for the great sport known as football,
The American sport of champions has again earned
Another season of splendor in the turf war of victories,
Behold our favorite pastime, may this pigskin colors never fade,
As our flag shall forever wave, for this is truly the great
American sport of athletic skill personified!
BY: CHERYL ANNA DUNN
Chasing the man in the moon
When I was a child
all I wanted was a little warmth,
some love and maybe a smile
Not asking for too much I thought
that it could make my life worthwhile
The house was always cold
it never became a home
so I learned to be all by myself
always alone
Outside there was peace
away from the chaos
I found my solace
in the darkness
as the smiling face
of the man in the moon
shone down on me
I thought to myself
he is a kind and gentle man
always happy and bright
always waiting for me, only me
in the stillness of the night.
I was a scared little boy
looking up at the expanse,
of the eternal night sky,
always questioning,
always wondering...why?
Then I would see in the heavens
his smiling face of approval
and I felt for the very first time
that I was special to someone,
that someone cared about me.
Even though it was cold inside
the house, I felt warm outside
even in winter
as I basked in the warmth
of the smiling face
of the man in the moon.
As I grew older,
the days would grow colder,
and the nights were filled
with ever more gloom,
so I looked out my window
searching the night sky
looking for my shining light
my special man in the moon
When I bought my first car
I would spend endless days
and nights on the road
looking for some place that
would welcome me home.
Up above me I would see
that smiling face shining
down on me in the distance
always... in the distance...
He seemed so large at times
so close to to me
I could almost touch him
so...sometimes
I would drive all night
thinking somehow,
if I went fast enough
I could get closer to that kind man
but...when dawn would break...
so would my heart
as I could see
him slipping from my grasp
vanishing away from me
in the infinite horizon.
I've spent my whole life
running as fast as I could
but I see clearly now
that it's done me no good
I've wasted my life waiting
and hoping,
for my fathers smiling face
for his approval,
for his loving embrace.
The years have passed by quickly
and I see the end is coming soon
so...I guess I'll have to finally give up
chasing the man in the moon.
John Derek Hamilton
June 20.2016