Long Be born Poems
Long Be born Poems. Below are the most popular long Be born by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Be born poems by poem length and keyword.
A fetus is a person,
A life within the womb,
A tiny, growing human,
A blessing yet to bloom.
Though small and barely formed,
It has a beating heart,
A soul that's pure and warm,
A precious work of art.
With tiny fingers curled,
And little toes to wiggle,
It's a wonder in this world,
A miracle and a giggle.
It's a life that's in transition,
A journey just begun,
A precious little mission,
A race that must be run.
The fetus is a person,
A being yet to thrive,
A soul that's just emerging,
A being that's alive.
It's not a clump of cells,
Or just a piece of flesh,
It's a person, can't you tell?
A life that must be blessed.
The fetus is a person,
A gift that's from above,
A being that's soon to blossom,
A symbol of pure love.
It's a life that's worth protecting,
A soul that must be cherished,
It's a future that's worth investing,
A promise that's not to be perished.
So let's give the fetus a chance,
To live and to be born,
Let's embrace this tiny dance,
And celebrate a life that's sworn.
For a fetus is a person,
A human being to be,
A life that's just beginning,
A person, you and me.
That's all we have when you come right down to it:
little pieces of life, random moments we dare call--
memories!
But what are these fragments, these snippets of the mind?
Just sort of, kind of bright flashes in the pan lighting up
the brain, rolling into the mind willy-nilly, like freight cars
abandoned by the locomotive?
All life's experiences, both sweet and sour, remain only as
touches, wisps brushing 'gainst the soul, memories as
promise but always as promises unfulfilled, unkept....
For the only reality we have lies in the moment, every
single moment, in each breath we take: everything
before or after the moment is mere illusion, a coloring
of the lost past or a fantasy that will never be born.
Life is like a fine bespoke suit until some madman comes
by to cut it up into myriad bits and pieces we so bravely
call-- memories....
My Mother Land
The place where I feel my life in every limb
That is my wonderful Mother Land Bengal.
Highest mountain as cap : Ocean washes feet.
That is my spectacular birth place Bengal.
I feel proud to breathe in air of my birth place.
Always prompt to serve my Mother Land Bengal.
Where blooms lovely lotus to purify soul :
That is my beautiful Mother Land Bengal.
Where selflessness always gets priority :
That is my graceful Mother Land Bengal.
Where unique integrity runs all along :
That is my glorious Mother Land Bengal.
Where great personalities guide and inspire :
That is my gorgeous Mother Land Bengal.
Where sacrifice surpasses entertainment :
That is my birth place most respectful Bengal.
Where plain living and high thinking are to follow :
That is my most charming Mother Land Bengal.
Policy of '' My life is mine " gets ignored. :
That is my beloved Mother Land Bengal.
Where none is alone, we are for each other :
That is my most caring Mother Land Bengal.
The place where I have my heavenly haven :
I bow to my peaceful Mother Land Bengal.
I feel fortunate to be born and brought up
in this sacred place renowned as Great Bengal.
I am well nourished by all the resources
of this blessed place ! My Mother Land Bengal.
The land that aims to live in peace and love
I boast to show my reverence to Bengal.
Funny, here comes another Red Moon cycle April 15th tax day
Like the trumpet of St. Michael something is heading this way
So many prophecies now fulfilled and so very few now remain
But it is all what God has Willed for all else would all be vain
The Savior has been sent as said in Bethlehem He will be born
And thus the reason He was sent and suffered through so much scorn
Not one of His bones were broken and they then pierced His side
Two more prophecies spoken like the Resurrection 3 days after He died
But now back here to the present when Israel again became a State
And what that 1947 cycle meant but still for Jerusalem we had to wait
Then finally in the year 1968 Jerusalem and Israel were once again connected
And for the second time in 500 years to date it was a red moon that now reflected
On April 29th President Obama has a demand to enforce a United Nations sanction
To give back some of the Israeli land and President Obama said this must be done
The third red moon cycle in 500 years is now but not even a month away
Myself I have absolutely no fears but for the lost souls for whom I will continue to pray
It was the last Sunday of the month,
when Providence opened its secret door,
and my longing was granted.
I walked through marble corridors
into the heart of the Vatican Library,
where time breathes softly between the pages.
I asked for only one treasure:
the Vatican Virgil,
that ancient manuscript of immortal verse.
And when it was placed in my hands,
the air shifted—
the walls dissolved—
and I was carried upon the river of centuries
into the Augustan dawn.
There I beheld him—
Vergil, the poet of Rome—
clothed in the fragrance of eternity.
I bowed and said:
“You may dwell in the past,
but your voice still sings within our present.”
From the shadows stepped Pope John Paul II,
his lips reciting verses of Latin fire,
and Vergil’s smile was the echo of ages.
He turned to me and asked,
“Which of my songs has pierced your heart?”
With trembling breath I answered:
“The Aeneid,
your epic of exiles and destinies—
it is the star that guides my nights.”
He laughed softly,
like an oracle who knows the burden of genius,
and whispered:
“Do not seek to wear my crown,
for I cannot be you,
and you cannot be me.
Walk your own path,
and poetry will be born in your footsteps.”
Then the vision faded—
a librarian’s hand rested on my shoulder,
and the manuscript closed its wings of light.
He looked at me, bewildered,
for my eyes were still lost in eternity.
When they asked,
“When did you become a poet?”
I could only answer:
“It began in the Vatican Library,
and each time I write,
I remember Vergil.”
I’m fully out of my slumber,
now knowing poems aren’t born in dreams,
but from a mind dipped deep in ink,
a brain awash with quiet resilience.
Yet in its silent agony, the paper stares blank—
befuddled by the jargon the nib dares spill,
deepening laughter in the sponsor’s folly,
rejoicing with the writer’s block
still unperturbed within my brain.
But there’ll be no excuse for defeat’s glare to scare;
so long as my mind stays sane and sound,
my “impossibility” shall be read as “it’s my possibility.”
Just give me time—and my fears will flee.
So fill again the pen that refused to write for glory.
Where is that page that once denied my excellence?
Within its belly, a masterpiece lies full-term,
ready—aching—to be born.
Take strength, my weary muscles.
Flee away, all stubborn sleeps—
for your absence shall birth my excellence.
I was freed today the birth of a regent a new colony
I was created in Freedom birth of land from Liberty
Free from Injustice persecution and religious domination
Resurrected Liberty's captivating setting us free
Oh how I long to be born in the land of liberty
Oh how i come to be running from that place I don't want to be
All free me Lord old free me God I want to be
Born in the land of liberty
Never had freedom ring nothing but domination
Now I see I have away to be born in the land of liberty
I crawl I walk I run from the ravishers
The captivators conquerors Kings tyrants the nominees
Oh how I long to be free freedom is Freedom was freedom is from above
I walked the new land with arms held out and raised
Happy now that I have a choice in my new phone voice
A day of Liberty and freedom come
Blessed happy birthday America
April beauties waiting to be born beneath the warmer soil
every spring flowers sing the praises of the seeds before
Applause them, for they are brave to return with petals
full of bloom, time and time again just to scent our garden
They show up with sheer delight looking all so pretty,
in their bright petals of red, yellow and purple too;
April showers ever so generous with their water works
refreshing the air with sweet petrichor they drench us to the core
We all know that after the rain, rainbows are never far in toe
Streaks of color bringing promises of hope and renewal
I for one am glad that April is finally here,
we should go out and plant a seed, now that the winter's gone away
The End.
It was a busy night in Bethlehem,
Visitors arriving by the score,
Since Caesar had declared a census,
To tax the people more.
A Jewish couple arrived in town,
Searching for a room to stay,
But there was not a single one,
To be had that fateful day.
The woman's name was Mary,
And her child would soon be born.
Her husband's name was Joseph.
They were both so weary and worn.
They were led to an empty stable,
Where their donkey and they could stay.
Then Mary went into labor,
And Joseph began to pray.
The Son of God was born that night,
A manger for His bed.
No pomp or glory was offered Him,
As the world lay slumbering instead.
Angels appeared to shepherds,
Lighting up the sky.
"Glory to God in the highest!"
Messiah, God's Son is nigh.
The shepherds with their sheep in tow,
Set off on their lofty quest,
To find the One of whom the angels sang,
Until then they would not rest.
They found Him lying in a manger,
His mother and Joseph near,
The shepherds knelt and worshiped Him,
The angels' words remaining clear.
This holy child was Jesus,
Sent from heaven above,
Sent to redeem us sinners,
God's greatest gift of love.
1/9/22
i ran from all my troubles i ran to hide all my fears
i ran to be rid of this anger i ran to shed my tears
bottled up inside me the hate for all my foes
locked up inside this small dark room where only the anger grows
crucified by society on jesus's i am the thorn
i didnt ask for this way of life i didnt ask to be born
"our father who art in heaven hallow be thy name "
i prayed to you for forgiveness but what did i gain
have i found someone to love me have i found someone to care
i prayed to god in my time of need but our lord wasnt there
and so i walk these streets at night i walk down by the dock
lost inside these thoughts of mine i fall over a rock
i curse the name of everyone its everone i hate
to end up a lonley bitter man seems to be my fate
to walk the path of many men to throw my life away
hello depression my old friend are you here to stay ?
isolate myself from the world ignoring all my phone calls
no one understands my pain no one but these four walls
so my friends whos reads this do the best in all you do
cos no one likes to be second best
no one does DO YOU?
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