Long Born Poems
Long Born Poems. Below are the most popular long Born by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Born poems by poem length and keyword.
A Banshee wails in back of your mind
and you start to wonder if all's fine.
For strapped to a gurney in a van
all you can hear is that awful whine.
There's flashing lights and blaring sirens
screaming an emergency on-board.
And despite traffic they rush you through
as you're jostled about pleas ignored.
Each bump that rattles the ambulance
stabs at your belly like a dull knife.
And a stranger attempts to calm you
by touting the miracle of life.
Contractions warn the baby’s coming
as towels are placed under your tush.
And instantly sweat floods every pore
your legs are raised and you're told to push.
Breathing labored you gasp in rhythm
as a head emerges through the strain.
And when your baby enters the world
feelings of joy override the pain.
As trained hands restore your dignity
the air is split by a piercing cry.
And that high pitched imploring sound is
hard to ignore even if you try.
Hugging your infant close to your chest
your heart melds with this precocious child.
For chasing fate it’s eager for life
born both unpredictable and wild.
Boundless sea power
Turns over and over
Almost unsurpassed
In the ground that it covers
Saplings shed leaves
With a clockwork quite rhythmic
Precise magic timing
Fall to earth that had misssed it
Middays chuch tower
Yells out in song
A symbol for lost ones
Whose lights but all gone
Majestic strong heart of a
sun so sublime
Streaks its beams
Across cool crystal sky
A force of nature
Tall waterfalls bash
Born again they capriciously crash
Vast potent hurricanes
In chaotic design
Sent by gods who are all out of time
Wonderus, yes, but eclipsed and outclassed
When you are near
My heart races fast
Mysteries evaporate
Riddles are solved
Organicaly cosmic
She broke the mold
Unmoved heart centre
Surrendered to you
One look my way
My loves always a new
Mental Terror
Man is born to be a man. God created this principle
God created his image. His image. The human
Intelligence, free will, imagination, and the ability to act
We are the material fantasy of the God. His livings
The part of nature in our life. Of our life with God.
I love life, God. Mental terror blocks my life from God
A human is independent. Must be. God derived way
My way is not clear, disturbed by evil kinds, and misty minds
My life has been crossed by psychology. A mist in England
God created humans. He created them as pure beings
God gave commandments. To live the life. To get life
For life. Noble way. God didn’t create a foggy psychology
I lost my original life. I am a victim of psychological terror
I am a victim of a nazi mentality, I just wanted to live
I was a Bible reader, a nature lover, and a photographer
Foggy monkey donkeys live in our lives. Killing or lives
These psychological monsters drive our lives, the human lives
Foggy's psychology ruins my life. I waiting life
I needed life
I lost my life
Far from my life
I needed lives
English psychology
The Mist, The Fog
The mist killed
Destroyed
Lives, loves
Kids
Gone
English psychology
Well-paid watchers
I am alien
English psychology
I don’t need mental terror
Must destroy
The nazi
Mental terror
She had the face of melody and a name like Angelica.
She wanted to dance with Pat, saying, "My name is Poetica".
It was hard to resist the melody, but Pat said, "No. I can't dance".
If it sounds like music and feels like magic;
If it sleeps like silver and dreams like gold;
If it muses like visions with scenes of imagery;
If it questions like puzzles and answers without riddles;
If it touches with love and embraces you like a blanket;
If when weak it makes you strong and compels you to go on;
Liberate the words; let the muse create and make its own rules.
Don't say you can't because you can, and it's written deep inside of you.
So Pat, is it really true that you don't know how to dance? I tell you. With
a name feeling like music touched by the moon, what's there to know?
So. When Poetica requests a dance, get on your feet and the words will fly and soar like an eagle. There's poetry inside of each of us, and a poem craves to be born.
042322PSCtest, POEM ON POETRY MUSE, Beata Agustin
Life is a playground
We are all players
Conditioned since birth
Trying to reach the top
We all struggle
Without peace
If we stopped playing
Became aware
We would realise
We are a dot in universe
We just cannot excel
Without cooperation
All that we gain
Will die with us
Aim not to play
but to enjoy happily
every moment of stay
Be conscious of life
Act thoughtfully
Aim is not to win
But to end this game
eternally continuing
To know the self
To get out of playground
Ruled by our ego and senses
We just go where they take us
We don't ponder deep
Merely wanting to prove
We are better than rest
Endless is our quest
Ending only at death
We don't realise
We are soul not body
We belong to another realm
A world sans ego
No competition
No play
A place where we
mindfully exist
Blissful every moment
To win the game of life
We need to end our ego
Restrain our senses
Control our thoughts
Realise they belong to body
We are soul
Then try to see ourselves
Look within, for light of Lord
Our soul, the real us
trapped in body
Seeking emancipation
That is the goal of game of life
Those who succeed are winners
Others are born-again
Another play ground
New set of rules
A new game
14.06.2021
Written for Playground contest, LN. Shreya
*Image of The Spiritual Gift by Pixabay.
Gift Of A Lifetime
Fortuitous rise o'er Heaven's Gate, Grace courtesies with thy breath,
Gift of life crafts thy mercy being tis naught origin or edge about such,
Therefore, gratuitous deeds innately born to thee from thine inception,
Thou art generous in thy spirit proffers a chronicle of what thou hast giveth,
Performing thy contributable legacy to prompt giving without want in return,
Anonymity's art submissions to Heaven an accounting of thy kindness,
Thereby, thy heart art cleansed for naught soliciting any earthly rewards,
Yielding a part of thyself by donatable acts revises the Book of Life in thy stead,
Blessed art His name for thy breath of life He hast giveth thee,
~~Charitable fulfillment thou surrendereth.
2019 October 15
*2nd Place*
1st Corinthians 13:13 Inspiration
~~Regina McIntosh: Judged 2019 October 24
*HM*
A FREED VERSE
~~Brian Strand: Judged 2022 December 30
Wabi-Sabi 12-21-23
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Wabi-Sabi
Empty the mirage of perfection
Whose shadow wears scars
Of perpetual broken rainbows –
Cracked rose petals –
Gilded edges joined by hibernation and spring.
A pilgrimage into amnesia
Timeworn victories fade into badges lost to time
Moonlight swallows the waning heart of morning
Sunlight gobbles up unfinished faces of the moon
Storms inhale fragments of sunbows.
Out of exploding ephemeral stardust broken beauty
As galaxies toss and turn creating quasars
Like waves sculpt eroding sands
In the orbit of perpetual opening ceremonies -
A journey into morphing excellence of golden seams.
And love grows to bloom then scatter rosehips
Into time’s silken wrinkles
Star born magma bows with gratitude
For unexplored shapes crafted on new shores
Where only eternity lasts forever.
The Storm of Ages
I was given a taste of something... sweet.
Innocence reborn a new,
I... am... born... again.
While some celebrate,
others cringe and cry.
They try to mock and separate,
what is truth and real?
Yelling openly,
and not the same...
How can it be said
man refused his maker.
Desperately...
living a stunted life,
holding onto the afterbirth,
of their own existence.
With both hands...
clutching for power and gain,
worth and value,
gold and silver,
hearts and souls.
"They" are here.
"They" have always been here.
Since the fallen dared to mock His steps,
turned to bodies of swine,
to die and die and die.
In dropping to my knees in repentance,
my eyes have been opened wide.
The Light has cast away shadow,
and He walks before me.
I humbly follow.
The Jubilee is upon US(a).
Tonight I learned that I...
am also a Citizen of Jerusalem.
I feel a need to return home.
I am impassioned by the desire,
to change all that I am for all that can be.
From the roots of my being,
to the hopeful heart of my own soul.
The turbulent times are upon the world.
The beginning of the end has passed,
as we are far into the thick of all that...
has been, is and will be. (reverent tones and quiet bells)
The mark is already being used,
in companies around the world.
Keeping track of everything they can.
You can see everywhere as well,
by cam, most live and streamed.
Echoes of prophecies,
Angels gathering,
and prayers lifted desperately,
constantly and consistently.
"Here US(a) Oh Lord!..."
Mom in teardrop
Memories on cheek
A moment in movie
Moving emotion
d
o
w
n
w
a
r
d
I need those tearjerkers
I need to feel the past
Not merely leave it
All behind
My mom’s not in the ashes
She’s in my heart’s cache
Dreams and reality mix
A cross upon my mother’s chest
Have I left that room
I have room left for joy and sorrow
An elixir I drink during the holidays
f
o
r
w
a
r
d
Dad’s legs move him
Once again in someone else’s car
He goes where he doesn’t want to
But he’s still glad to be with family
Is he still back in hospice
Waiting for Mom
To die
To kiss her one last time
To collect her rings
Which he pleasured to give her
When he proposed and married her
Did I tell you, he proposed on the railroad tracks?
It’s Christmas Eve
Time stops us in our tracks
A baby born, a Son executed, our hope
Our
h
o
p
e
My mom’s middle name
The village where my father was born.
After many years
Still has not changed
Except that electricity has arrived ,
The road blacktopped has deteriorated,
And thatched-roof houses are hardly seen.
Yet what I wonder is
As I saw in my childhood long ago,
The village road today is still lonesome,
Cactus and wild bush plants ,in that quietness
Are still growing here and there by the roadside.
And the sprawling paddy fields are as calm
And beautiful as they were seen from the road long ago.
The aged banyan tree standing in the meadow
At the roadside is still in its grandeur.
Under it, I saw my grandfather cremated,
Consigned to flames
When I was a boy of about 10 years old.
My grandfather during his youthful days
Sometimes might have been resting
Under that banyan tree
Tired of wayfaring or working in the paddy field.
Sometimes he might have been waiting
For somebody he loved beneath it
Wearing kurta ,dhoti,and clogs .
My father died six years ago
And I today am an old man
Yet whenever I visited the village
And see the lonely old banyan tree
I remember the days I spent there during my childhood
Particularly the day my grandfather died
And cremated beneath it.
The old peepal tree ,
Growing at the gate of my residence
By the busy road ,
Often I collect its fallen leaves with a broom
In the winter mornings and burn them.
Yet never ponder about its long past.
12th August 2012