Long Assumption Poems
Long Assumption Poems. Below are the most popular long Assumption by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Assumption poems by poem length and keyword.
However long can feelings be pure?
How long we have endured to survive?
So much things we learn to adore
To only have so much left to die
Too much assumption became life we knew
Always too eager to judge before even an outcome
If to believe… will life we know to be real?
Must we all learn contentment if age shall run?
Some grew too old to embrace
Some too young to achieve lesser then to understand
With time… moments given to face
Will there always be a helping hand?
Irony endures… because we need people to judge
No matter age to even determine what’s left
A world left… building to leave only as such
Money’s worth… is it worthy for life’s theft?
Every one way… did we not seek out?
However long we have endured to survive….
Achievements abandon for tomorrow’s doubt
Did we ever have so much before to die…?
The red-bellied woodpeckers
and wood thrushes of Central Park ...
hanging in majestic oaks
and shady dogwood trees,
woke up early to greet
the glowing sun from the East,
and unable to speak
in the human voice...
they used their melodies
to send us this message,
"There's sorrow lingering
in the September warm air;
summer is ending
and fading out
like a distant star;
from a short distance
tragedy will strike
to shake everyone up
with horrendous fright...
death mocks life
with a foul laugh!"
When peace dominated over
the still and peaceful
New York Harbor,
Manhattan found itself under
clouds of debris and dust
and the stifling,black smoke
could be seen from each County...
to dispel the wrong assumption
that it was the safest city!...
And this act of terror
stirred up much contention
to have struck it so unvaliantly!
Manhattan under dusty clouds,
never before we heard anguish in voices...
as fighfighters raised the American flag
on a pile of smoking rubble:
they were so courageous and didn't tremble...
what was so pretty,looked so sad!
Those swelling and blacks clouds
haven't vanished yet
in the drifting winds,
they are stil rising...
unable to be forgotten
and many would have given
their own lives to prevent
all that from happening!
We silently stood there so helpless,
crying and praying even for the strangers
who couldn't fight
the smoke and flames
and live to tell their story,
which others will write
for their country to be read aloud,
but many will relive that tragedy!
Manhattan under dusty clouds,
the greatest city under siege...
putting away its prestige,
but calling out to the Nation
not to resist the deed of mortification
and become vulnerable to more attacks!
Manhattan under dusty clouds
in a month when daffodils and lilacs
made it beautiful...waving in grassy meadows,
forcing the broken spirit
to leave that spendid Paradise
and face a crude reality and weep!
Manhattan under dusty clouds,
but the flag still waves with pride,
and anyone counting its stars
knows that they are intrepid...
truly inseparable by those
sharing the same fate and beliefs!
When I was young my parents would read me story books
filled with Fairy Tales, fantastic adventures…and more…
I assumed t bringing our family together and putting children to sleep…
that’s what books were for.
As I grew a little older we’d talk about the stories…
I’d ask questions and then we’d talk some more….
I assumed stimulating healthy discussions…
that’s what books were for.
In school…inside the classroom
reading children’s books no more…
I assumed teaching math and science and literature
that’s what books were for.
When I started reading books I chose…on subjects I wanted to explore
I came to a different assumption as to what books are for:
To stir up our emotions …to make us think and question life a little more…
to help us understand who we are and who we want to me…
that’s what books are for…
Here is something I have learned I wish more people could know…
books provide sustenance for our souls,
nourishment for our brains and encourage our hearts to grow…
If I am right…and this is what books are for…
then I wish more people would understand…
all that we are giving up…
when even one book is banned
The sage green wall had worn a blank look
until, slightly askew, with a tilt to the left
dangling helplessly, without a complaint
is the pride of an artist, who lacked all constraints.
He dipped into his paints with no sense of restriction
hung it in place without hesitation
giving the viewer a crick of the neck.
It hangs precariously, for an eager assessment
without circumspection, neither yes's or no's...
No hemming or hawing just helter and skelter
Instead, a take me or leave me,... is the quick estimation
Conforming was no issue, just pure bold assumption
Excitement exploded from two eager hands
that thrust it in place, with assured restless haste,
hammered a nail with pride and conviction
and planted it there, with pure ardent fervor
Sharing a warmth of a seasonal decade....
this amateurish, yet delightful landscaped intrusion
sings in the sunshine, and smelling of springtime
shouting with color, and sprinkled with lavender
flavored with turpentine, and oil-painted rainbows
In the lower left corner, is an array of dahlias,
bursting with crimson, never changing or fading
never thirsty for water,
barren of a single, silent, dried up weed
and free of decay, dismay or mold
The amber was gold, the umber was bold,
rust to rust, dust to dust......ash to ash
With him he took all the pride that he found
...still holding the brush stroke of a satisfied smile
___________________________________
For Anthony's Contest: Favorite Artist
Dedicated to someone special in my life R.I.P.
4/16/14 Revised for Anthony's Contest
3/25/01
FUTILITY FOCUSED
On unimportance
Perfection is put off
Till tomorrow
4/3/01
these shelves
have been emptied out
memories of a love
incinerated
all past tenses
blank name tag,
blank face serves
as testimonial
loneliness
****
On a personal note 4/10/01 my first birthday out of prison and my dreams are being realized…
Furthermore I have completed my first painting and have plans for two more my life as an artist is beginning to flourish and my hard work is starting to pay off and the lone thought resonates…
Praise God!
Two poems for mom---01
[snakeskin/ picture of fall]
Mother
As ancient time is not anxious
Of humanities youthful squabbling
You permitted my discourse
Allowing for the conclusion
(Mothers are wonderful in that way)
all the while operating
under the assumption
that serpents molt and
trees shed leaves to grow
Hermit
How many shells
Has this hermit
Discarded?
Growth is deemed necessity
And the shells,
Of who I used to be
Litter the beach behind me.
4/15/01
Lean
Lovers
Hover
Close to each other
While I have grown fat
And my Coffee time-thick
The complements we have are each other
Pine needles whir
Like birds in a thistle
Words flow from my tongue
Like the whir of a whistle
Porch side
Pool table
Reminiscence
Slightly awakened
With spring warming
My essence
Cool wind
Blowing white caps
On my skin
Ten thirty
Two coffees
Sundays about to begin
The last trailing tendril filaments
of moon beams nocturnally trace
fashion an illusory gilded chariot Ark,
whence upon celestial runners,
the approach of dawn's early light
illuminated terrestrial space
which nebulous solar city flanges
revisited since time millennial
hubbub of human race
nsync with Zodiacal constellations,
which appear to shift
as planet Earth axis place
alternated in accordance with
inexplicable universal teenage
mutant Ninja turtles joint pact
with power rangers assumption
sans quotidian playstation remotely
controlled by aliens upon
oblate spheroid figurative stage
set whence commencement nudged
village people foment quiet riot rage
and rant against
uncontrollable catastrophic frenzy,
when cosmic creator
rehearses another page
from playbook, which
color coded cobbled Bible
emanates with radiant hues
of yellow and osage
nonetheless, no mortal adept to predict
(only within plus and/or minus
some marginal variance of error).
oft times punishing atmospheric phenomena
incarcerated, pistol whipped
(if anther incorrect),
whiplash unleashed, oppressed, imposed
challenging condition testing ground
flora and fauna could thrive,
whereat most hardy
plants and animals didst abound
linkedin upon terra firmae
murmur of orchestrated
organisms devising fitting
evolutionary survival traits
plentiful glory vis a vis L'Chaim;
gnome hatter outlook required
sprinting thru uber vanguard,
where zero sum game pitted
disadvantaged Feng shui
living things poorly sparred mismatched
against itching attired egghead,
kickstarting netzero beastie boys
indeed emulating hotmail prodigies
holding greensward ground.
scrimmage fostered, elicited,
dictated, commandeered nature
going full throttle with pings
across biological labyrinth
positioning glommed, peeved,
mis tweeted seeds of life, and white lily,
within soil lent green grubby business
whereby herb and woody stemmed
recalcitrant proto flings
wrote toe rooter bakers
gave Gaia a run for her money
to buy Buffalo wings
chasing miscreants nimbly
outwitting, out-rigging
outsmarting nettlesome stings,
and sage protuberant fungi,
released messengers where rise home
spore ports left nada mushroom,
though symbiosis wood
bark a roll a cord.
How do you do, Point of Exclamation?!
We love your disposition of hooray,
We bask in your uplifting sensation,
Without you words would dry up in dismay.
“Oh thank you, I’m fantastic! Awesome! Great!
I thrive indeed on fulsome words of praise,
My final punch is not to punctuate -
My one and only goal is to amaze!”
You sure run on a brighter sunny side,
One mark and we jolt to your vivid vibe!
What would ameliorate your cheerful pride,
And turn your tone into a jesting jibe?
“Oh Boy! I fear my joyful cover blown!
Oh well! Though I appreciate the wit,
I hate when used for monotonous tone
With an assumption that I can fix it.”
You stand alone but carry so much weight,
How do you strut your stature straight and proud?
“By adding zeal and zest to what you state,
I smile, chuckle, grin and laugh out loud!”
Your punctual purpose clearly beats the rest
Where from you generate your spunky spark?
“Oops! My attention span isn’t the best!
Too many queries, ask a question mark!”
What does it mean to you
to be loved
right here
where you live and breathe,
eat and occasionally shower?
What value would you give
our investments of mutual regard?
Do you know
you can love
and be loved
for and as who you are right now?
And for that sainted sinner
you inevitably will become,
and for all those you have been
since first I laid eyes on you,
and smelled you,
and listened for your still small
and large voices.
Love cannot be reduced
and confined
to just one tense,
or even two
with those we are committed to
and for;
And best spreads across
all four seasons
of sacred change.
Love is limited
only by mistrusting imagination,
WinLose dissonant assumption,
reductions of sacred organic integrity
to secular strategic mendacity,
deducted images distancing us
confining what I know and feel
for you and us up to now,
Not disregarding
or over-valuing
past and potential future
wealth for what feels safe for us today
to believe and hope,
our reviving health
tomorrow.
When winters hand out plastic bottled lemon juice
and grieving onions
too long endured,
I would like to trade some for limes
and grateful southern summer garlic
if you have those
to share.
Together
we might make lemon-lime local aid
and add community's basic bullion
for regenerate harvest
building stone multiculturing soup,
green vegetarian
and redmeat simmering stews.
When life hands us lemons
and FixIt unpeeling onions
Earth invites rebirthing us
to re-imagine all four seasons
and three tenses together
our re-creolizing cacophany
with restoring beverage
of healthy re-changing choice
for loving peace as resilient ecojustice.
Love of who and what,
when and where,
and why until just us again,
revisiting community polycultural outdoor worship
during summer health climax
And on through fall harvest,
and yet another inevitable winterish lemon
of creolizing discontent,
stuck inside
liturgical long-range extended family garden planning
plotting sun and water worshiping community love redevelopment,
global song and dance sacred restoration,
healthy-wealth of peace
As integrity of love
for WinWin organic choices
changing four-seasons from above
as below,
without
as within.
How beautiful and bright is your mind
I wonder how God has thy star perfectly designed
How the winks of thy eyes smile
That each one has a different style
How gracious life has become
To set thy age in growing freedom
How great thy heart is
Hardly could my pen describes at ease
How mighty is thy pen's influence
Swinging humanity singing confluence
How love in poetry as a lovely art
Enacts love in thy audience heart
How glowing is thy face
Can anyone easily have thy age's trace?
How on assumption will I suggest thy age
Except poetry gives muse to my pen's gauge
How for long have you had poetry as thy tongue?
May be I wouldn't mislabel thy hood, young
How can I deny the face speaking 40+
Arguing you are on board in 50+ bus
How far you've been is unto thy birth
Do celebrate it in awesome mirth
How today goes with friends
The designs of how atmosphere transcends
How words classically cement history
Explains life ironical mystery
How name names your superimposing life
That each of your son wishes your photo-- a wife
How much better to define a real beauty
Whose activeness is in her connubial duty
Happy happy happy birthday, dear Shanti Harjani Williams
I see them in reflections - the orange juice glass at breakfast or my iPhone where they can pop, like notifications - I keep my phone face down.
They usually want to tell you something - how it was for them - their history. I discount these emotional messages - they come with the jester's assumption that I care - that I need the performance and will get involved.
“What are you doing?” My mom asks, as I’m taking all the shiny, mirror-like ornaments off the Christmas tree.
“The glare gives me a headache” I say, without stopping.
“Your Grandma does that too”, she says, wiping her hands on a Santa-themed dish-towel.
“Really?” I say, but I know that and I know why.
I started having nightmares, when I was in first grade. My mom thought I had an overactive imagination but when she described it to my grandma, she soon showed up for a visit.
Over the next few weeks my Grandma told me about our “gift”. About how we were both born on the same day, under a waning third moon, in Autumn. That we're both “Yins,” doxies (sweethearts) of the dead and that we could, at times, see and hear people who were between stops on their way to their after-lives.
That’s why the dead parachute into my unused moments from reflective surfaces. They can be anxious or in despair - when their death is cruel or sudden but I'm an adolescent - I'm in school - what can I do??
The presence of water discourages them - which is perfect - can you imagine seeing spirits in the reflections of your bath? EEUUUWWW! You’ll hardly ever see me without a water bottle or polarized sunglasses - which seem to break-up the images. I'll not be smothered in other people's afterlives.