Long At least Poems
Long At least Poems. Below are the most popular long At least by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long At least poems by poem length and keyword.
When we are young…just starting out…as little girls and boys
Why is it important for us to feel happiness and joy?
Why is it important at least one time every day
for a child to feel joy as they run or jump or play?
Because when we get a little older…there may come a day
when it is a little harder for us to run and jump and play…
On these days when we try…but our bodies are betraying
we can close our eyes and remember
the joy we had while playing.
On these days when we try…but our bodies may be slumping
we can close their eyes and remember
the joy we had while jumping..
On these days we will realize something altogether stunning
when we close our eyes we can remember
the joy we had while running.
I had a love, I swear I did;
I know it must be true,
Because my soul still bears the mark,
The imprint of her hand.
In desperation, before the mirror, wide I rip my shirt,
And search, with manic eyes, the reflection bared therein.
Surely there must be a trace, a mark, a sign,
An inscription, a signature, anything at all
Upon the space above my heart.
Maddened, I scan the breast endlessly.
Nothing.
I had a love, I swear I did;
I know it must be true,
We shared our selves, our life, our love,
One body, mind and spirit.
I know that she was mine, I know;
She told me it was so.
But here I am, where she is not,
Mumbling like a crazed and sorry fool;
And sooth, I know that she is better off without me,
So tell the truth now,
That at least you owe yourself;
At least that motley sum;
Look in the mirror once again, no flinching, hold it steady;
A prize I ain’t.
So at least pretend to be a man,
You sniveling little bastard.
I am bound to admit that I had vizualized her with olive skin and warm brown eyes
Imagining eleven silver bracelets on her arm and eight finger rings- at least one lapis
I pictured her office a parked gypsy wagon, lit by the glow of a campfire.
The older lady with burgundy hair clipped short was a complete surprise.
Where were the twirling tiered ruffled gypsy skirts? The crystal ball to trap us?
The runes? The tarot deck? The crystal skulls? The ambiance to admire?
She was not a typical fortune teller, this darling with pretty sky blue eyes
We put our money down which this elderly anomaly did but naught snap up
Why have you come? She asked in a gentle way with a sweetness, all desire
We pointed to each other and laughed that neither knew the whys
She fed us thick bread with homemade marmalade, a treat for me and Capus.
Let me suggest what might have brought you to me to hire...
You want to know your mission, the reason you fell from the skies
Capus nodded but I held my chin, staring at her earrings which held lapis
She told us of a dangerous zone and we listened to her play her lyre
Her Roma cat sneaked in and gave me a sideways glance with his yellow eyes
She told us of wonderful times ahead and it sounded like pure happiness and bliss
We went back hundreds of times, to her up-lifting presence we never did tire.
What is it about our species that makes us special?
There are millions of other creatures on this planet.
Are we the only beings that can become emotional?
Maybe there are others we haven’t discovered yet.
We know that other creatures can communicate,
But in a language that only they seem to know.
The question of intelligence is open for debate.
Once we open our minds, will we continue to grow?
As a species, we seem to have taken control,
And placed ourselves high above all of the rest.
Our lack of forethought on this planet may take its toll.
Maybe we aren’t as smart as we’d like to suggest.
We look to the stars for other worlds to inhabit,
But we don’t even take care of the one we live on.
The planet will fight back, and it will never quit.
The war will continue until we’re all dead or gone.
Have we passed the point of no return…are we too late?
Will we ever understand our planet’s value and worth?
All we can do is try to mend the wounds and wait.
At least we’re smarter than those foolish creatures on Earth.
One day (I don’t remember when), but I
could see the moon quite clearly in the sky.
It made me feel like things had gone awry!
Silly thought, I had one – could moon then be the sun?
Was sun now on the run – no, sun had well begun.
I wish I could recall the time of day
when old man moon seemed so well on display
or if the sky were bright or a bit gray.
The facts gave me a feast - this much I found at least:
well after new moon's ceased – the sun sets in the east.
The sun and sky give proof we can't deny
and show when moon is seen by anyone.
In daylight, one should not the moon survey.
If it is full, then we have all been fleeced.
So many things go through the mind
at any one time a million thoughts
clinical wisdom required no doubts
whatever comes out cold or hot
At the present time, I've many things
filling my grey matter so full
need to put them in the right order
not allow any to overtake and rule
Thinking of PC even now is good
but still, need regular checks be sure
one can't be complacent at this time
making sure stand strong and endure
Full of thoughts of new kitchen
wallpaper has to be off the wall
so many coverings to tear down
at least don't need to do the hall
Then thinking will all be well?
be still and calm truly content
good will answer to my concerns
because it'll be just as it's meant
(PC: prostate cancer, which I had treated last year.)
I hope I would
find a difference
between cooperative masturbation
and making passionate love
if I could
I wonder if I should
recognize ego's fulfillment
as more leftbrain secularized
and the other
as Old Green EcoSchool sacred
and red-blooded.
I hope a brief career
as a prostitute
was brief because I could not produce
a sultry fascinated look
for commercial leftbrain purposes.
I would not
because I could not
and perhaps it is not a flaw
in character
that the issue of should not
never co-arose.
I also wonder about my brief career
as a model.
I could not produce
the gift of an impassioned smile
for commercial purposes,
or at least not a smile
photographers found resonant,
nor sufficiently resilient
for longer term consumption.
Again, I would not
because I could not
force what my rightbrain felt
should co-arisingly
responsively flow from wealth
of safe and co-relational health,
secular and sacred.
I had a not brief enough career
as a commercial writer
for human development,
childhood
and young adult
and cooperative community development
agencies
for more warm than polite
politically empowering agency.
I could not fail to notice
how commercial professional fundraisers,
also known as competitive Executive Directors,
could not resonantly replace original founders
whose hearts co-empathically arose
with compassion to serve
and live in personal
and familial,
even tribal and global, solidarity
with all poor in spirit
disenfranchised from Earth's sacred nature.
I retired
when I could not fail to notice
I was a white male privileged
commercial writer
for a straight white privileged
corporate culture
no longer even dreaming
of non-commercial solidarity
with those we were white privileged
to serve with increasingly secularized
mediocrity
of indentured servants
rather than rightbrain co-empathically committed
to robustly co-relational
co-passionate
cooperative attachments
Within EarthTribe's unprostituted
organically whole
yet spiritually open
co-empowering relationships.
I wonder if I would
find a difference
between codependent political masturbation,
between Trumpian self-serving administration,
and founding democratic Fathers
making passionate non-commercial love
multicultural compassion
if I could
and should.
Where I was Born
by Bob Moore (c) 2017
I am a product of where I was born
long ago on a cold winter’s morn
my father and mother are part of me,
and their loving faces, I still can see
The sky was often dark and grey,
but that could never stop our play
we’d be outside in rain and snow,
play football, or any game you know
Lancashire my county, of hills and dales,
I’d ramble the Pennines, and camp in Wales
Manchester the city, was home to me
and Gorton the suburb, where I would run free
With Belle Vue Speedway, and Circus too
this was the life, that we all knew
it’s where we thought we’d spend our life
have a job, and children, and find a wife
My school, my friends, not far from home
never thought one day, we would roam
across the world, to another land
on a ship where we were treated grand
To a place of sunshine, and sandy shores
look out Australia, here come the Moore’s
we’ll make our fortune, then leave for home
and never again will we have to roam
But years went by, and we stayed here
got used to the sun, and the ice cold beer
became an Aussie, the certificate says
but kept many of my English ways
At least that’s what my friends will say
and even my family, think that way
but they understand, with pride it is worn
this being a product, of where I was born
How I used to be
Is now old news to me
If I said observation is the only way
Someone should ask did I observe the universe today
Or am I able to observe the observing of all things?
Particulars and universals will never exchange rings
If I said life is meaningless
Someone should ask does that statement have meaning?
If so I need to do some intellectual cleaning
I have toys in the attic
My thinking has become static
That is problematic
If I said there is no absolute truth
Someone should ask is that absolutely true?
I should become a sleuth
Or at least a tailor to mend something borrowed
with something blue,
and something old with something new
You can't put new wine in an old wine skin
You can't re-enter the womb to be born again
Pointing the way by Ithuriel's sword
Reanimating you by God's [S]Word
So truly the truth will set you free
If God will grant it to thee
While He is yet near.....seek
As the Holy Spirit does quietly speak
An almost stillness came about
as she strode into my door,
like breath itself refused to move,
fearful of touching her mysterious beauty
But her obsidian eyes betrayed her.
Sharp and gleaming,
with a silver sheen
she looked at me,
and I knew…
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Molten lava spilled forth from her mouth, melting our clocks—
eighteen hundred nightmares compressed in two hours.
Long hand moving forward, as the short hand moved backward
How can memories persist in such an acrid life?
She spoke of a beast in the guise of a man,
one who ravaged innocence with the flick of a click
A coward that collected milk teeth for hardened bones
of other horny beasts with no spine
That throaty tenderness when she spoke
sprinkled crystal seeds of frustration in me
She says he loathed him, denied she loved him
but her obsidian eyes betrayed her
There she was, a bud he plucked from the nuns’ garden
He grafted then he pruned her,
spreading her pollen, wafting her scent
yet folding her petals to himself
Caterpillars feeding upon her leaves,
she lets them devour her,
yet once they are wrapped in their cocoons to sleep,
she stabs them with her thorns.
Tears then slid down from her midnight lace eyes
and it was all I could do to catch them
She said she was weary of curtailing butterflies,
of tearing their wings before they can even fly
I had to ask, how many… how many winged gems?
She lifted her sleeves, and showed me her scars
One ugly mark for each innocent child plunged deep,
my heart getting slashed at least three hundred a beat.
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A certain stillness came about
as I strode into her door,
like fear itself refused to move,
letting breath touch her mysterious beauty for the last time....
Her obsidian eyes had betrayed her.
Sharp and gleaming,
with a silver sheen
I looked at the knife beside her.
Maroon-mapped sheets, a stunted womb.
Strains of Bon Iver’s “Flume”
flit past the sighing air like a butterfly,
and I knew…
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