Long Bestir Poems
Long Bestir Poems. Below are the most popular long Bestir by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Bestir poems by poem length and keyword.
The saddest hour of a gloomiest day
My happy heart had ever in life known--
The high tide that seemed to come with promise,
And the low, sooner did come all but gone.
They came heralding to my hopeful heart,
Both of them-- the waxing and waning kind,
The waxing kind came clearing all the dirt,
The waning one not too much far behind.
Yet, whatsoever life may to me bring,
Be it sad, glad tidings called joy or gloom,
Not tossed aside in due time if, gets stored,
Needless to clutter my life’s Spartan room.
If happy hearts, hopeful life were to lead,
There has to be room for pleasure and pain,
Nigh like tides, let them both come and recede,
Or else, the life’s no boon, but rather bane.
The saddest of my life’s most poignant hour
Of which my cheerful eyes had ever seen,
It came to furnish a fleeting picture
And vague, it vanished ere I intervene.
My saddest day's most miserable hour
Of which my curious ears had ever heard,
Alas, no lasting impress could bestir,
For, cruel time had all its sound bites blurred.
But what about my mind-borne memories?
They too alas met with similar fate—
In luck, same fate would face all my worries,
Soon or late, both to meet their destined date.
Well done my heart, you’ve made me mighty proud,
Life comes to all, no gloom to inherit,
Let miseries no more mental space crowd,
Sans gravitas, life’s closer to spirit.
________________________
Musings | 04.07.2009 | life, spirit, quatrains
In a temple Floria I see,
Clothed in radiant white from head to feet,
Soft pale hands and Bible on one knee;
Her smile beams on each who take a seat.
Within the room is finest polished wood;
All is clean, and walls reflect the light
Of purity, which sought, is understood,
For here abide the honest and contrite.
Peace resides to blot the worldly strife
Left outside, and solace eases pain.
Many here reflect upon their life,
For godliness and solemness do reign.
In the temple I envision her
Once the Spirit does her heart bestir.
July 12, 2020
for the Strand Completely New(9) Any Form Any Theme Poetry Contest
I marvel how touch touches deepest chord,
That rest of senses scarce can ever match,
Time heals old wounds, touch stays on for long stored,
And leaves a sign, a lasting mark to etch,
I marvel how touch deep feelings does fetch.
Take the feel of mother's hand on forehead,
A garland of hug never going cold,
The feelings linger as if lifelong made —
Say of a first-born in father's arm-fold,
I marvel how touch retains its rare gold.
A touch is no feel of a naked skin,
Nor yet is it beastly in her raw rage,
It springs from emotions welling within,
The spirit as if on a pilgrimage,
I marvel how touch reaches no old age.
Touch is no friend to a feel-not inert,
As no melody bestirs a mute soul,
Touch touches heart, a feather can cause hurt,
Mere hand on a shoulder can hit the goal,
I marvel how touch plays its given role.
A grave error, a grown-ups' touch if gross,
A touch of flesh soothes or be great sin—
Intent alone holds up a Sacred Cross,
One knows if touch is malignant and mean,
Yet, marvel how touch stays forever green.
It’s nigh but same— a man embracing wife,
Or in fond love, his daughter or sister,
Intention be the edge as if of knife,
Head causes a hornet’s nest to bestir,
And marvel how touch should so much matter.
Should I feel down and out in life ahead,
I need floral fragrance nor rich blossom,
Nor have I use for a thousand words said,
Give me a tender hug, a warm bosom,
To marvel how touch may deep set chords strum.
If no more than a bare touch can suffice,
Wary I am of an invading face,
A touch can be warm, colder else than ice,
Unwanted foothold in my private space,
I marvel how touch can command such grace.
Rain clouds in hot summer and bright rainbows,
A soulful melody, smile of a child,
Butterflies on flowers in vast meadows,
They touch my inner soul ever so mild,
Yet marvel how touch can be so defiled.
________________________________________
Quintain (Musings) |02.09.2007| touch
You are the totem, simply told,
In man and mountain lore
Pillared tall, your spirit thrives
Where myths and legends soar –
Among the ravens where they fly,
With creed held fast in hand,
You speak the language of the earth;
You sound the depths of man
And grasp the wisdom of the pearl
Fashioned in the sea,
Calling for the conch to voice
The truth you know to be –
A monolith of latitudes,
With grace not undermined,
Lamenting as the deaf and dumb
Are handled by the blind,
You wear the scars of battles waged
Across the centuries
And grant the bearer of your wounds
The marks of history –
Where now you stand, you now arise
To face the rising tide;
You see the quiet burning sun;
You hear the ocean’s cry
Raise now your silent, muted voice!
Lift up your hooded eyes!
Let loose the chains that time has forged
Where truth and beauty lie –
Exalt us with your noble height!
Bestir the waking land!
Totem, in your boundless grace,
Call forth a better man –
you usher me
with the allure of your muse
on drafts of featherless wings
through the breadth of night's air
away in the distance of dreams
i am swept
into the depths of imagery
that bestir my imagination
and arouse my ardent desire
wrapping me
in a blanket of verse
that becalms my weary soul
as words fall down tenderly
encompassing me
with the caress of thoughts
that trace the edges of my existence
with the whispers of your voice overheard
as i read each poem scrolled
i lose myself within the lines
as i send wishes adrift on stars
on the drafts of featherless wings
and fade in the distance of dreams
If I see balmy bliss more than bane,
Every leaf filled with fresh new wonder,
Each cloud an omen of copious rain,
The new world would nudge me to ponder…
The dismal would still bestir my brain,
The bizarre would give me boundless joy
To muse if I were a child again--
A wide-eyed wonder-struck little boy!
And for sure, I was just so of late--
As one hopes to be in his eighties,
Lovely did the world look, worth a wait,
Were I bestowed brand new pair of eyes?
A new stance has taught me how to see,
What so far was tunnel look to me.
____________________
Sonnet | 15.03.2017 | child, life, lovely/beautiful, world
Note: Set in anapaest tri-meter. And it was so despite my glaucoma-caused constrained peripheral vision.
Written: September 2nd, 2023
______________________________________________________________
In the depths of one's mind, foes reside.
Within oneself—a war cannot be denied.
Refers to individuals—their internal strife,
Struggles and spurs that shape their life.
In the realm of views and desires so deep,
Fear and doubt bestir—akin to demon creep.
Inner blows waged in the darkest nights.
People tilt with doubts—their inner fights.
Self-fuss, the first foe fated and faced,
Wariness whispers, leaving hearts displaced.
People may be snared by doubts so real,
But in besting them—true strength they reveal.
Inner demons lurk, negative impulses arise,
Anger, jealousy, and addiction—their disguise
Moral dilemma salient constant scrutiny of will,
Still, culling what's right or what's usable, still.
Emotional turmoil, a storm within the soul,
Grief, guilt, and gloom are taking their toll.
Complex emotions that can't be ignored,
A salient casus belli that we can't afford.
Dealing with this zeal is a joust to be fought.
But it's in facing the slam—that swell is sought.
Solitary sabotage that is self-saboteur.
Bewitching in behaviors that baffle our allure.
Success and well-being, they strain to impede,
But by owning the patterns, we can succeed.
The battle within, a constant struggle each day,
Enduring our inner demons, we find our way.
Through the depths of our minds, we forgo,
Facing gloom and letting pure selves show
In this inner enmity, we find sheer strength,
Conquering our fears, extant to any length.
No matter the challenges we may face,
We have the power to rout and embrace.
So let us defy our inner rogues with might.
And loom victorious, shining with core light.
So let us face our fear, doubt, and desire.
And ignite the fire inward that will never tire.
In the abyss of our souls, we hold the scope.
To rise beyond moils and let bloom hope.
From Poland hailed your Uncle Max, who in matters of manners was a bit lax,
While from France came Aunt Belle, whom I thought was really quite swell.
Next up from Russia was Cousin Boris, whom I always confused with Nephew
Morris;
And then from Germany came Aunt Gitel, whose fingers fairly flew o'er
her fiddle.
After that from Lita came Uncle Beryl, whose fistic prowess put enemies
in peril.
Of course, from Ukraine came Cousin Emma, whose soup was the crème de
la crema.
It's our duty to recall Uncle Saul, though no one knew where he came from
at all
And finally, from Prussia, poor Aunt Masha, who subsisted for years on
potatoes and kasha.
What's this? You say you don't know any of these relatives at all?
Neither their names nor those of their children can you recall?
Then furrow your brow and bestir your brain; just don't be appalled:
Uncle Max may have been from Krakow, but his skeleton was prematurely
interred by the Nazis at the death-camp of Dachau.
Cousin Emma was from a wealthy family in Vizhnitz, though her fiery
cremation was reserved for the ovens of Auschwitz.
And pretty Gitel, who grew up in the small village of Dulmen, was gunned
down in the caverns of Bergen-Belsen...
So much for our family tree.
Had grandpa not fled to America by sea,
One of those dead branches above
Would surely have been me.
HOLOCAUST MEMORIAL DAY -- 73RD ANNIVERSARY -- APRIL 12, 2018
NEVER FORGET!
Leaves hang limply from thirsty tree branches
No breeze dares bestir them, foul is the air
The grass lies dying, a faded sere brown
No bird his song warbles, flies thickly abound
Tired pups on streets lie, their tongues hanging out
The sun cooks their fur, miserable drought
Empty the parks, no sounds of kids playing
Rancid garbage piles up, its stench dismaying...
Affairs of the heart, they no longer flower
Humidity drains all their vitals' power
While the sun burns lovers' walks by the beach
The hazy sky's brutal---blood-sucking leech
The dog days of summer extinguish romance
Unbearable heat just won't give it a chance
Iambic Pentameter
Inside a temple Jean sits quietly,
clothed in radiant white from head to feet,
soft pale hands and a Bible on one knee;
a smile she beams on each who take a seat.
Within the room is finest polished wood;
all is clean, and the walls reflect the light
of purity, which sought, is understood,
for here abide the honest and contrite,
and peace resides to blot the worldly strife
they’ve left outside; sweet solace eases pain.
Each soul here can reflect upon his life,
for godliness and solemness do reign.
It’s in the temple I envision her
once the Spirit does her heart bestir.
Note: Jean is my mother's name.She is a very
spiritual person who enjoys the peace of the temples.
March 4, 2015
For the Pick a Subject Contest of Shadow Hamilton