Long Blunt Poems
Long Blunt Poems. Below are the most popular long Blunt by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Blunt poems by poem length and keyword.
The Bible is my favorite book.
It's filled with so much wisdom.
The book was written long ago,
To teach Mankind a system,,
Developed long before The Lord,
Created Time itself.
We really shouldn't leave it there,
Just sitting on the shelf.
The Book of Proverbs is quite blunt,
About the things it says.
Control yourself and watch your mouth,
And even how to dress.
It's filled with common logic,
No fiction, just the facts.
Be kind but don't be foolish.
When speaking use some tact.
It tells you about business deals,
And how to run your house.
It tells you how to find success,
And how to choose a spouse.
When seeking self improvement,
It really is a must.
Who else can one turn to,
If Him you cannot trust.
The stories written in this book,
Are not to entertain.
They're object lessons, give a look,
They weren't put there in vain;
For many more have red this book,
It's really not so lame;
For those of us who read it,
Can swear it keeps us sane.
Incineration of Love God Madan (Cupid) 21
Originally written in Hindi by my late father Dr. Amar Nath Kapoor
1899 to 1994. The work was written in Hindi somewhere around 1965-70.
Editing and English version by Ravindra K Kapoor.
Hindi Title ‘Madan Dahan’ 21
The infection does not reach
Due to that strong protection,
It would be able to burn,
This great infector of temptations.
Effect of anger made him blunt,
He got his third eye open
The burning rays of penance
Passed through eyes and fell.
Cupid's body began to burn,
Created by the cosmic fire of Shankar*,
Destroying the charms all around,
The delusion also disappeared.
Ravindra
Kanpur India 12th May 2012
To continue….
Protected under the copy write provisions of Poetry Soup as per US laws.
Shanker* - The other name of Lord Shiva.
I just watched the olympic opening ceremony
from Paris.
It was sad to see how the stadium booed
the American team and vice President.
(NBC muted that for you sensitive Americans).
Let’s wax poetic - wax on..
They celebrate our country's wreck,
the beggary of brats who delight
in the cheap satisfaction of ignorance
and take their oath to the corrupt king
despite the felon’s many malicious
practises against the state
oppression feeds upon such souls
They delight in his
blunt and graceless style
and churlish superscriptions
that alter every hallowed surface
What fool forsakes friendship,
respect and alliances for enmity?
They could not be the base slaves of
a meaner party - for is there a serpent
with less good will?
wax off..
.
.
A song for this:
Auld Lang Syne by Susan Boyle
My babies loved the cats,
through the ages of the naps,
in the pages,
in the clasp,
on the floor,
atop a mat,
I pull it out and flip a bat-
let a lover free the band,
so I may rebuttal and unleash some wrath...
Because just one tap on the blacks,
leads a lover to the back,
just like one Cambridge man of the past-
holds a drink,
and chats your gas-
shoots your lore back at the boss-
holds your cross with MS DOS,
dances slow,
without a flirt,
dances slow,
and acts the jerk,
wounds the birds,
with sailing lurch,
corrodes the curbs,
with wheeling verse,
feeling verve-
eats the skirts,
while doing peddles,
and bronzing metals,
mutating meadows,
while racing against yellows,
seasons those fellows pollinating in the bellows-
of an R1 while you're having so much fun...
Being a beast while you're facing the gun,
in the rip of time between going home and burning the buns,
focusing on the fever that got you your lump some.
Such a heavy rain
Where is my mom and dad am
scared
As I woke I locked my windows
Never having in mind of such
rain
Cold feet and hands with shocks
and gloves, with phones
chatting friends on the couch
The skies are heavy but we
never felt any weight on, tho
the wind can blow you away if
he decides
So much can a blunt do, cuz
you always think deep. As the
cool sweet breeze caress your
mind
No sounds, no noise is heard,
only the familiar rhythm of the
rain.
As the lighting and thunders
introduce there presence
unannounced
On your own authority
restrained by the rain, a natural
rule that you don’t stay outside
the rain, except the stranger in
moscow.
On those long days
when it was too hot to ride
or run, a boy would find
an island of cool beneath
a tree and sit there
with his pocket knife
to whittle away time
and a piece of wood.
A good blade could shape
the hull of a model boat
or thinly peel an apple
or carve a name clean
into the smooth bark
of a spotted gum.
There was a world to make
with a pocket knife,
mine a pearl handled beauty
with two folding blades,
short and long.
It was beyond the mind
to think it a weapon, only
a treasured possession
of pure utility, a tool
for hands to bring forth
a creation or to cut free
a form from its binding.
Finally,
years saw its blades become
blunt and spend less time
in my pocket, more languishing
at the bottom of a drawer.
It's still preserved with
a nostalgic reverence.
Nowadays, whittling
has become a lost art for boys,
pocket knives tarnished
by a new age and drafted
for duty in the service
of fear. On those long days
when it is too hot
to do anything much,
hands still crave to carve
things that substitute
for a piece of wood,
twitching away
in the cramped solitude
of an air-conditioned self.
We have disorientation among the high elite.
Could it be that Karma now rests upon their feet?
We are international poets, all gathered here as one.
A language foreign to you, may not be foreign to some.
The translation is simple, just open your eyes and look.
All poems are not in English, there is more than just one book.
Who are we to think, we’ve risen above the rest?
Arrogance will tell you; your language is the best.
It’s time to open our minds and let go of the want.
Humility is the way, I’m sorry to be so blunt.
Poetry is a language that very few will share.
Love your poetry neighbors and show them that you care.
THE SILENT LOVER
I knew well, you fell in love with me
Your eyes reflected ardent ardor
But it seemed blunt, not sparkling splendor.
Felt pity yet no weakness.
You were not the right person
Most ordinary version,
not my Mr. Perfect with desired intellect.
My blooming youth with promising present
and aspiring future was the prime truth.
Your eagerness to come close seemed ridiculous to me.
It was oblivious not to reciprocate!
On long journey of life, such trivial happenstances may appear
quite natural, I did not indulge and chose my own way.
Time passed by.
Now still static old age lying supine
on burnt ashes of dynamic youth revealing ruthless truth.
Lamentation of losing your modest lavender love
secreted nectar of amorous flow oozing from abyss of my heart
yielding a pearl of dolor.
Now no way left to adore you with my pearly passion.
07/07/20
Third Place
'The One That Got Away' Contest by Silent One
I reminisce -
My entering sixteen
Though looked fourteen
Full of perplexities of adolescence
More of vigor and less of sense
Thighs bulging out of my half-trouser-veins
Unsuccessful in hiding my protruding pains
Voice creaking, face pimple-filling
Shyness, blush, and anger aggravating
Avoiding my dear and near ones
And even the company of my parents
Reacting to the elders and earning their swearing
Yet needing someone loving and caring
Getting attracted to you, a girl of my age,
Undergoing the same feelings in a feminine-rage
And smiling at you again, again and again
Fearing what’d be your response, even then
Though you seemed well reciprocating
Yet stern-looking as though staring
Never daring to come closer to you
Waiting… waiting… waiting… to see you
At last fear-filled, confusion-lit
Pressing into your palm a blunt paper-bit
My first ever love-letter, with pleasant pain
Running away gazing at you again and again
Later, hearing your cousin finding it in your skirt
Putting it into your cruel-looking dad’s shirt
Getting spiritually half-dead
Hiding for many days in my bed
Later when I met you again
Finding you as though filled with pain
When you left home to a boarding-school
When I found myself in an all-boys school
Often my asking your younger sister
Whenever I could ever find her:
‘How is she?
Remembering me?’
Then -
You as you
And
I as I
Parting ways, and finding each other -
Never…
I miss you.
My tears are constantly trembling, reminding me that I am broken. Why would anyone ever love me anyway is a thought that runs through my head a little too often. I am traumatized from a childhood everyone dreams of never wanting yet I am still expected to stand tall as if nothing happened. And it’s hard! Okay, it’s hard to act like I am fine when in reality I am struggling to not fall apart. It is hard to put on a strong front like my blunt words aren’t a secret call for help that no one ever gets. I slowly lose hope that I will ever escape from an invisible prison of expectations that I can not meet. Expectations that fall dead at my feet because I am weak. I am never going to be the perfect image everyone is waiting for me to achieve because I am sick of being a puppet for everyone to beat. I am a person like you, you see? I have needs and wants and hopes and dreams. I have a soul, though you might not know what that means, I’m human. I bleed the same as you and though I might not get as much sleep, I’m human. I have emotions and feelings that can be broken because I’m human. And you may never know what I go through because I'm isolated and muted. So I don’t get hurt by the mutants that make you feel worthless with their patronizing dialect and outlook that is polluted.