Long Assemblies Poems
Long Assemblies Poems. Below are the most popular long Assemblies by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Assemblies poems by poem length and keyword.
Caren, Caren, Caren,” the optimistic, positive principal said, shaking her head. “I’m sorry to lose you.”
I was sorry to go, but stay I could not for I had been reassigned to a dull building across the slew.
I had only been her counselor for a year, but we had buckets of fun, her and I. cute Dr. Mary and Me.
It was one of the best times I’d ever had in a school, and I’ve cartwheeled my way in schools of three.
She was fun, exciting, dramatic, and bang-whiz. Her morning assemblies were full of zizzle and sassy.
The best principal I’d been with for a big long time, I was sad to leave her in the midst of teachers, so damned mean-face-spirited and ass-y.
I never told her how mean some had been; but I would not have allowed a dead dog to take a spelling class from one.
White-haired skinny would target a prospect, ensuring their day, week, minute, and seconds would be absolutely no fun.
There was another, Sharp and mean. Behind her big back to my friends, I called her the Mrs. Sarcasm driving-sports--car-ridiculous-Queen.
Maybe I should have mentioned to Dr. Mary that no one could shut down the 4th graders as fast as she – their hopes, their dreams, and other things.
I went about the school doing my best to rescue the un-love-ables from teachers of MAD.
Mad Faces, Angry Hearts, truly so many bad.
I left Dr. Mary, there, amongst the low. The ones who cannot relate, the ones that are slow.
People go after people like Dr. Mary and me. For the goodness in the children they cannot see.
Some days I think I should run over to see, Dr. Mary, and we could laugh and squeal loud and glad.
I doubt she’s still there, as she truly loves children, which would make the ones she inherited extra mad.
Excerpts from "Cordoba"
by Allama Iqbal
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Withered Roses
by Allama Iqbal
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
What shall I call you,
but the nightingale's desire?
The morning breeze was your nativity,
an afternoon garden, your sepulchre.
My tears welled up like dew,
till in my abandoned heart your rune grew:
this memento of love,
this spray of withered roses.
Ehad-e-Tifli (“The Age of Infancy”)
by Allama Iqbal aka Muhammad Iqbal
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
The earth and the heavens remained unknown to me,
My mother's bosom was my only world.
Her embraces communicated life's joys
While I babbled meaningless sounds.
During my infancy if someone alarmed me
The clank of the door chain consoled me.
At night I observed the moon,
Following its flight through distant clouds.
By day I pondered earth’s terrain
Only to be surprised by convenient explanations.
My eyes ingested light, my lips sought speech,
I was curiosity incarnate.
Excerpt from Rumuz-e bikhudi (“The Mysteries of Selflessness”)
by Allama Iqbal aka Muhammad Iqbal
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Like a candle fending off the night,
I consumed myself, melting into tears.
I spent myself, to create more light,
More beauty and joy for my peers.
Longing
by Allama Iqbal
loose translation by Michael R. Burch
Lord, I’ve grown tired of human assemblies!
I long to avoid conflict! My heart craves peace!
I desperately desire the silence of a small mountainside hut!
Life Advice
by Allama Iqbal
loose translation by Michael R. Burch
This passive nature will not allow you to survive;
If you want to live, raise a storm!
Destiny
by Allama Iqbal
loose translation by Michael R. Burch
Isn't it futile to complain about God's will,
When you are indeed your own destiny?
Keywords/Tags: Urdu, Hindi, translation, English, rose, roses, withered roses, nightingale, desire, breeze, garden, nativity, cradle, infancy, heart, tears, dew, rain, rainfall, longing, conflict, tumult, peace, life, life advice, live, nature, survive, survival, storm, destiny, God, God's will, silence, Iqbal, Urdu, Hindi, death, destiny, chain, life, love, word, God, rose, wine, prophet, music, joy, song, soul
This is a decima poem. A décima poem is a ten-line stanza with eight syllables per line, typically following the rhyme scheme ABBAACCDDC. This poetic form is popular in Latin America and often deals with various themes, including philosophical, political, and humorous subjects. (Source: Wikipedia.com)
I sense a presence drawing near
beyond the reach of mortal sight;
it moves through assemblies of light
that softens edges of my fear.
It brightens what I hold most dear—
a vastness widening my view,
a clarity that feels quite true,
a depth that widens what I see,
a grace that listens to my plea,
and keeps my spirit rising new.
If I could sing a song of furtherance,
There would be a score and a door;
Demonstration would exemplify,
What we learn and store.
Appropriation would be reason,
And rationality would be king,
People-centred values would eschew,
Those bad characters who writhe and sin.
The road to freedom would be broad,
Paved with happiness and concern,
And justice would always return,
That which you deserved, did earn.
There would be a Named Person,
For every child in every family,
Who saw growth as a societal thing,
And not as a household anomaly.
Liberty would be understood,
To have come from the two world wars,
And information and data would be accessible:
Some personal, to others it would so have bars.
School assemblies would be humanistic,
Promoting people-centred values;
Love would be the foundation,
Of differently able equals.
Free speech would uphold the many,
Who unquestioned identities would scratch,
And valour would also be defined as,
That one-another acceptance match.
Evolution would offer hope and respect,
Set our friendships and kind way;
And all society would accommodate,
The progressive changes of the day.
Well as your school life approaches an end, as you prepare to hear the last dismissal bell, as the memory lane transitions into a new beginning, I wish you success and achievements in all your current and future ventures.
Blackboard, chalk, dusters, benches, chairs, corridors, assemblies, shared tiffins, friends, fights, fun, jokes, copied teasing, syllabus, praise and punishment, rebukes and rebuttals – with all these memories, I presume you must be standing at the edge of something that feels like an ending.
Somewhere between all that hope and all that distance, a truth that had to be written and an honour of that threshold, the farewell note awaits your attention.
This year kept throwing us into each others paths as if coincidence had grown fond of our collisions and this time, when I saw you again, the other day outside my school's gates, on Children's day, I didn’t look away the way I always did. No sly retreat or stolen glance sneaking to the floor. Perhaps it was one of the last unplanned crossings before your pursuit of distant horizons pulls you far from everything familiar.
And in that stolen gaze, I noticed the little changes time left behind. The mole on your nose, once dark as a drop of midnight ink has softened, almost disappeared as if it grew tired of waiting.
And I thought of the mole above my lip, new as last year’s monsoon, a watermark that appeared without warning… maybe the universe felt our uneveness and decided to give me a mark to match the one, time was erasing from you.
I respect your gaze because the moment they find mine they hold on, unwavering, as if breaking eyecontact would break something in you. Because everytime our eyes meet, yours refuses to look away and every single time you look at me it feels you forget to look away like its the only truth you don’t know how to hide.
From being strangers to becoming strangers again. I thought to end by quoting my favourite Mr. Tharoor but didn’t find an apt one, so just a few random lines with a Ruskin Bond flavour:
“You may stop coming to school, but you will never stop loving the days you spent at school.”
P.S. find the paper stars and decode the meaning
It is the last week of school.
Children all over America are going
On field trips, having assemblies,
Parties, and water fights with their teachers.
Teachers who have not smiled all year long
Are pulling out all the stops. They are scrambling
Into their Laura Ingalls Wilder long dresses and
Bonnets, to wow the children.
They are becoming human, something they
Dared not do all year long. The children are
Learning things they did not know - for example,
Mrs. Fanning is married, Mrs, Seabroke has a
Daughter and six sons.
The teachers’ walls are coming down, and in a big
Way. They are laughing, grinning, high-fiving each
Other. We made it another year, they are saying to
Each other. We made it! We survived! And they
Did; another year, with another class. They are ready
For their summer break.
And the saddest part of summer break is this. The
Teachers who don’t allow themselves the summer
Break, the ones who teach summer school all summer
Are usually the ones who needed a summer break
Most of all. But they have shopped too much
Which increases anxiety, which not only has created more anxiety
But has forced them to work all summer during summer
School with children who also needed the summer break
The most of all.
Do you know who signs up first for summer school now?
It is the A students; they love school. The bottoms, the ones who are
Mandated to go are the least likely to sign up until they
Learn that not going means being in grade 3 again next
Year. That usually does the trick.
What I have never figured out is: how do we think
Six weeks of summer school is going to be able to
Teach what nine months of school did not?
That’s what
I really want to know.
I am a son of God, that lives in the Assemblies of God
That’s not too far, but very near and clear
I have no fear, no worries, no doubt, it’s clear
He sent His only Son, to bring me near
Which I believe On Christmas Day (in which we celebrate) I receive
That Gift from God, which set me apart
It’s not that odd, and not too far
For you too receive, and to become a son of God
He’s not from Mars, nor Jupiter, gnaw Pluto
Not Venus, gnaw Uranus
He’s brighter than the morning star
As the sun stood still, the moonshine bright
For a full day, it didn’t go down.
Behold; Look! He brings again the shadow of the degrees,
Which is gone, down in the sun dial of Ahaz,
Ten degrees backward, by which degrees it was
Gone down, the voice of him that cries in the wilderness
Prepare the way for the Son of God
Bringing many sons of God, to all who past the test
Given His best, to all who must confess, and come into His rest.
I’m sorry for my flaws
I appreciate everything you do for me
I wish I could always smile at passing children
I wish I felt better about myself
I wish I saw the light you provide for me
The light I voluntarily turn my back from
The light I’m suppose to drink
As if to keep hydrated.
I’m surrounded by quarters and unfinished books
I read because I’m searching for affirmation
Quarters for clothes to be kept clean.
I’m divulgent
I parade my flaws
I hide, trip, and reveal my flaws
I am in constant concern of my own being
And a stillness of thought for a mind to be kept clean.
The world is a messy place
Our mind the raking of leaves
The leaves of the world fall and we rake
The leaves of the world fall and we rake
We fall and awake and fall again.
Love is warm, harmless, and stamped
Inefficiently weak by the assemblies of faces
Swept up by the world’s business of cold linear time
Moving like a sad and brutal train.
I sit at the station
My fingers interlocked pressing against my face
Peering through the thicket of my spirit.
Hours later, maybe, I am looking up the hill
Pulling my elephant.
Children circle around my small progress
Skipping and laughing.
(They don’t care,
They just like elephants.)
Though, last night, I dreamt I rode a killer whale
And so here it dawns on the weakened spirit:
That I am the Whale Rider of the Phantom World
Wandering through 10th Avenue
My flaws in our wake
My fist pumped high in the air
In the name of a Life Authentic.
This all dreamy and wonderful
While in the world of machines and mass movement
The elephant keeps his slow, tugging gait behind me,
Ignorant of dreams.
Crying
Fix the damn house
She done
Paid to me
Ain’t gonna happen
When rent come?
Please don’t drag the pope across the
Carpet irish boy
Nana
He lying
Born military
Gonna die military?
Email a senator
Rejected by electricity
Suffer disgust
While Americans die
In poverty
Free speech from there
Doesn’t eclipse
Guarantee of unapproachable
Red tape
She’s sold
In the molded
Masochists lens
Her told
Isn’t the curious benign
On the frame
Her busty leers
Can she blame
Back inside her encyclopedia of
Money
The costly renting
Community
Centers far out
Over abandon
She’s reliant
Got abbreviate
No fun in the front
Haunts of runt onions
Inside of heartless women
These is a newsless people
Know vermin
How about out loud
The bystanders
Leaving her in predicament
Bonds
Plagered still fun
Nothing but notice paper
Sequestered another time mommy
Machine
Holstering significant beauty
Bandidas
Local feline populations
Is constantly strangled
In upholstery lining
All remaining astrological
Assemblies of alter girls
Tend to skip and bounce
Neander region
One and all
On board salute
Farewell Misspelling is horrid
Out of hindsight
The meaningless
Plummet
Un find the meaning
We’ll not
Lose another
I have
Sundered the cause
Lept the harps
Disgraced against
The masters
Creating
Abominations stains
Here
I
Leave you
To unlearn
What?
This is you best
Adjacent profits are gained in purchase of information
Non profit lobby hides, assemblies
And congressional lobby laborers
Caught in data shortage
Corrupt a report purchasing shares of
Corruptible budget items
Obstructing legislation
Creating false pretense for arrest
Arrest of defined confine
The hide
The title
The bonds ageing interest
Non profit
Must eat here at specified time
In thousand oaks California
Only at eves Arch, after days end
In Ventura at Catholic charities
The food reception is all day Charity
And none are required
Available coordinates for investigative
Journalists
Publicly available languages