Long Beholders Poems
Long Beholders Poems. Below are the most popular long Beholders by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Beholders poems by poem length and keyword.
Why does love come with crying? When its totality settles in and the sacrifice is known, how else could it be? Love, so happenstance, making itself fodder for blues music, and it will break your heart! Serving as the culmination of something larger than ourselves and making our lives worth living for. Just ask all those who have gone before us, those who have found its sublimity and those who haven't. It is what holds this world together. Boats and warplanes are named after loved ones, as the pilots might not see their loved ones again. Since the dawn of man, because of the importance of children in their lives, making love even that more iconic, it has ranked up there with wars in the eyes of the beholders, and its final beating will come with the crying of all those who loved its owner, left with but the memories of its grandeur, a simple kiss, and a heartfilled look in the eye!
Giant Sequoia, king of all trees!
Standing mightily against the breeze.
Home in California USA;
Inspiring beholders to this day.
Growing more than 300 feet tall;
By living volume, reigns above all.
Some are over 3,000 years old;
Their wood resistant to fire and mold.
Yet, forest fires help maintain their ranks,
As does huddling near moist river banks.
Evergreen trees with lovely red wood;
US Parks protect them as they should.
The largest among them in terms of mass,
General Sherman, in its own class.
Waterfall Tree has the greatest girth,
And Reedwood is the tallest on earth.
No matter what the type of measure,
Each tree is a natural treasure.
Viewing their presence oh-so-stately;
Centuries ago or just lately.
It started with blurry eyes and misconception, judging thoughts and giving cold shoulders,
It was all about looking away, not looking at all, using deception, for we knew beauty was
in our eyes as we’re the beholders.
Started with losing time amongst shared friends, it started with losing ourselves amongst
those we both blend,
Started with watching from across a room, started with a rose that hadn’t yet been in bloom,
Opened up a book to which hadn’t been read, to thoughts now out there that had never been
said.
Opened up a heart to which had always bled, to fix its wounds and take it back from the
dark depths it had been lead.
To lay in wait, to sit and listen to his heart rate, to pound and beat, to skip and leap..
To listen, to coincide to just lay here by his side..
To lose my words, my breath and speech, to lose all feeling from what I preach
Form:
You may not be a star
But your face shines very bright
If you were floating in the atmosphere
I would see you late... at night
You may not own a fortune
Or drive a fancy car
But you're rich and full of kindness
And that will take you... very far
You may not be intelligent
But you have a thoughtful heart
And that is more important to me
Even more than... being smart
You may not be a princess
Or a princes lucky wife
But to me you wear that crown
Because there's beauty in... your life
You may not have a shapely figure
Or walk with sex appeal
But there's something sexy about you girl
Must be that you... are real
Whisper, whisper, ear to ear
creaking boards and hushing winds
Bang on the door that once was Poe's
With deep dark secrets
In the thick black night
There is more loss of blood
Then there was a loss of mind
Through the pounding boards and matching heart
That drove him out of lies
Or the heavy velvet curtain
In the room of death of red
Amidst secluded ball of masks
Chased to the brink of one last breath
Finally, he reaches the pen point
The end is in the beholders eye
Not often that of anothers
Take the bird of prey from sight
He may hear it mock forever
Yet eye will see it, nevermore
For Poe!
when correct spelling eludes you write a different word
stay true to the anarchy poetry form make it up as you go
a haiku is just a Japanese limerick and a tad bit shorter
conceived on delicate sake rather than a stout Guinness
once the tongue is loosened and the audience plastered
any syllable count deceives what is meant to be voiced
at the end of a pub crawl harp and zither sound quite alike
shamisen and all strings attached resonate just the same
true to the nature of art what pleases with passionate sound
sometimes refuses to be squeezed into reverend lines
if one looks at some ever so famous writing one wonders
what kind of mushrooms inaugurated such magic outpour
on a more sober matter poetry is in the eye of beholders
dysphonia on steroids is a natural remedy for logophobia
one man’s incoherence is another one’s mythical calling
but courage is bravery however you wish to pronounce it
there was once a young man it Haikushima
illiterate is what he was called by Mama
who’s whiskey lacked lime
did not give a dime
when he spent a penny someone stole his thunder and drama
green fields and butterscotch clover
fragrance of Irish Oak blossoms -
lost for words the weather staid speechless
in case of any doubt in the mind of the affectionate reader
this poetry form is part of the extended self-critical monologue
style currently still in its experimental encrypted stage which
in its naive but raw and expressionate timbre is meant to confuse
03rd March 2021
All flowers bloom to face the sun -
a stage of their growth bound to stun.
Each bud blooms with magnificent glory
til’ death ends their story.
Nature’s growth can stir beholders.
Flowers are truly smile molders.
The lowest spirits can be uplifted
by flora God gifted.
Flowers do face winter decay
but cycles bring no woe their way.
Blooms fully feel pleasure when in season
and know death holds reason.
Should no one gaze upon a bloom
it would still exist void of gloom
for all the creatures having need of it
fulfill each bit of it.
Decay and rebirth are the way
God’s seasons divinely display
temporary wonders for man's pleasure.
Joy holds each bud's measure.
Seeds lie in their bed of
packaged paper,
seemingly like bodies in a
coffin, dead,
waiting for a resurrection
when planted
into the warm earth with
springs
rain and warm sunshine
appear.
Reminds me of the bears in
hibernation,
sleeping but awaiting their
wake up call,
rousing out of a snoring
long winter
to baby cubs being birthed
and discovering
a new world for them to live
in..
So it is by faith, the faith
that worketh by love
our hearts never stop
wondering;
the urge to create that our
creator Himself
gave us of His very nature,
to plant the seeds
of our imagination, with our
paint brush,
our hands, our minds, our
quill
to bring forth beauty for the
beholders of our world.
Truly, love cannot work
without faith,
and faith cannot work
without love!
The love that propels us on
the journey
to bring forth truth and
magnificence that enriches
the soul.
Just as mankind wants to
perpetuate
their kind with
descendants, so our hearts
want to create and fashion
artistic
marvels that continue on
after we are gone...
Creativity is love, and love
truly is creativity!
You are beautiful, they say,
Your golden locks flow so naturally.
You are so beautiful, they croon,
Is it me that they are really talking to?
Each day I step onto my daily stage,
Prepped and pruned for the day.
I step one heeled foot at a time,
To be beautiful, is the only way.
I sit and watch as proper beauties go by,
I wondered if they think about me too?
Does a vision of beauty cloud their minds?
Is it something that to them that is true?
I am not beautiful, I said to me
I look nothing like a magazine.
I am not beautiful, I said
I am not like the image I have in my head.
I steady on in heeled toe shoes throughout the day,
Pretending with painted face and painted smile.
I make no fuss and no complaint, I can do this,
I will show the world, I understand its crooked way.
Once at home, my tears they do fall,
I cry out loud, I am not beautiful at all.
I switch off beautiful moving pictures,
And sink down to the floor.
He speaks the words I so wanted know,
Beauty is in the beholders eyes, He whispers.
I wonder how his words could ring true,
Beauty is in the beholders eyes, he says
If only beauty looks like you!
I smile and realise it's not in the eyes,
But in the heart, that’s where it starts.
You can only be beautiful if you have love,
Because true beauty starts in the heart.
I’m just having a good laugh while I still can dude before life takes its heavy grip
Until the community of clowns in disguise tie my tongue to their altar of reason
You think of a genius in the making but I just blew bubbles from my backside
Need some counter balance as not to think I’m off parity before the next photo
For the record I’m a bit sick of all those Rolling Stones songs on your play list
I can get satisfaction and you will be dancing to my tune as long as I tell you
Not yet silenced I am and you can’t always get what you want but will receive
What you need and moss could grow fat on that stone if you tried hard enough
I am your American dream or just pie in the sky for pi is a resolute number
And while I look like a young Einstein I favour the arts and a poet I’ll be
‘Baby’s got blue eyes holding back the pain’ reflecting the glow on your face
Give me face paint and Munch’s scream will look like Monet’s water colours
And those cute little ears I hear you marvel such fine complete composition
Soon they will find an audition of rebellion ignoring trite shallow advice
Craft verses and rhythm deliver fine words you never dreamt of hearing
The comedy will be shattering with a bit of existential philosophy in the mix
You can project dadada’s and incy-wincy spiders as long as the cows mew
I drink from a fountain of pleasure and spill ink on your canvas of conditioning
Think that I am overanalysing but that is what you do when I smirk and giggle
Canned laughter comes in Campbell’s soup cans and better Warhol than wars
Innocent facial composure lies in the eye of beholders and dreams are for real
Let me play for that is the best I can do when drama and tragedy loom so soon
I’ll have my dreadlocks in plaits and you must not be scared of Sylvia’s mother
Van Gogh had one ear but a writer needs only one incisive tongue to critique
My stream will be subconscious when I write about the meaning of imagination
When naïve contortions depict a world with smiles laughter and freedom
I will not change much from when the photographer took this digital image
Blue eyes stuck out tongue two ears one voice whatever you make of it now
25th April 2019
Written for contest: Baby Face What's You Thinkin
Sponsored by James Edward Lee Sr
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