Long Broader Poems
Long Broader Poems. Below are the most popular long Broader by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Broader poems by poem length and keyword.
I feel for gentle hearts in this loud world,
Ever suspect, dismissed and derided,
For long has been the shy a songless bird,
That Darwin dismissed as ‘odd state of head’,
Jane Austin gave shyness a broader scope,
Calling it a ‘moral, mental disease’,
And Freud, his fame fending for men no rope,
With sub-conscious cladding, a twist of his
That smelt of ‘displaced love of self-scored goals’,
A simple disposition framed as law,
Oh poking fun and scoring birdie holes,
In matters straight, cobwebs of gauze he saw,
And sensitive violets were on blame,
Poor things, shrunk with self-deprecating shame.
Violets shrunk with disparaging shame,
And shyness drawn from society’s unease,
Scarce unto standard mould can ever squeeze,
O get condemned— a jade that could be gem.
Though sensitive nigh to a gawking gaze,
Here am I basking still in benign bliss—
A shy soul, they say, more inventive is,
And tolerant the more to worldly ways
That mistake plane shyness as being cold,
Aloof, and worse still, somewhat arrogant,
And value those that be loud, neddless bold,
I’m happy now that they were ignorant.
Let critics bask under ill-informed bliss,
I marvel, how creative this bird is.
Creative, this touch-me-not kind of bird,
Or call it a flower called violet,
An introvert of an easy mind-set,
One blessed with fecund skills, a bit absurd—
Skills lacked by too talkatively inclined,
While some greats confess to ‘fainting with fears’
Ere giving speech to some so-called speakers,
Some loners lack the skills called social kind.
I know, shyness has no one ever hurt,
But self that feels cosy under own skin.
Let shyness stay forever verdant green,
Let it never make me an extrovert,
That I live in my own solitude proud,
Innovative, gentle in world so loud.
_________________________________
Two recent books set my thinking bird brooding over bashfulness: The Man who mistook his Wife for a Hat, by Oliver Sacks; and Shrinking Violets: The Secret Life of Shyness, by Joe Moran. These books advocate that the shy should get a better deal, for they tend to be more creative. Here is the why: musing over, these three sonnets (crown of…) materialized that made me feel a bit elated.
Crown of Sonnets | 01.03.2017 |
It’s over now, I am at rest
This is my little home
With my head looking to the west
I’m lying here alone
I’m done, but did I ever live?
Nobody gives a damn
I had to take, I had to give
According to some plan
I don’t remember the details
I had that great idea
About getting on a plane
To fly to you, my dear
But fortune swiftly turned away
My passport was returned
Without a stamp, they changed the play
This was part of the plot
They didn’t charge, but criminate
Deprived me of my rights
Forever grateful for this fate
I didn’t curse and fight
It could have been much worse for me
I’m glad they didn’t seem
To know that we were living free
Inside our precious dream
So that was it, until one day
And afterwards it went
A little humbler role to play
More letters to unsent
You see us clearly from above
And in a broader view
Those ashes know about love
Perhaps more than we knew
You say we’ve gone a bit too far
I'm back, my little man
You must remember who we are
And what will happen then..
Crayon Box Dreams started song of my life.
Song sung from carefree innocent childhood.
Mellifluous music, I couldn’t wipe.
That ran in prelude-interlude-postlude.
Childhood passed, entered in adolescence.
World extended, becoming brighter broader.
Life spreading scattering different essences.
Youth showing colourful spectrum in splendour.
Vibrant dynamic youthful days were gone.
Ran sublime serene seniority.
Lost importance in next generation.
Felt misfit holding no priority.
Crayon Box Dreams still calling in last phase.
But all obsoleted : Dragging dull days.
Changes can’t improve the present
Changes come to throw away
Things you like because you have it
Cheaper, than you could have paid
Changes, for the sake of nation!
Better take it as a child
Plays a ball, in pure elation
Happy with its childish mind
Who would need an extra worry?
Nerve cells can’t regenerate
Changes kick you with no sorry
Changes can rejuvenate
You’ve been feeling old for ages
Now you’re paying well to get
Changes, for the sake of changes
Don’t you dare to feel upset
You’re abide to old arrangements
Got to think a little broader:
Country can be saved by changes
From the chaos and disorder
Wave your flag and do the dance
Money’s evil, as you know
Changes can provide a chance
To get rid of all you own
Think how many times you envied
Little birds that fly so high
Rub your back, if it has winged
Climb a roof, and off you fly..
At Aphrodite's birthplace stands a shrine, where men have worshiped Venus drunk on wine
And sipped the nectar not lent from the vine, of this world, Oh this world
From daughter unto daughter flowers unfurl, in this world, Oh this world
In this world, Oh this world
If Paradise was opening the Pearl, to find the grinding oyster of this world
To irritate to make a mate to hold, but hesitate to break the Siren's hold
Then in the end that strength becomes a burl, and ugly grows the nature of this world
Of this world, Oh this world
She comes unburdened by this careless world, too soon to labor neath those baby curls
Because all of the power in this world, rests on the broader shoulders of this world
Of this world, Oh this world
Of this world, Oh this world
The iron fist inside the velvet glove, would drape those lovely shoulders with fake pearls
And weight those shapely shoulders they would whirl, through this world, Oh this world
Through this world, Oh this world
Among the greatest voices muses blessed, one never had the chance to lull to rest
Never got to sing a lullaby, to the daughter stolen from her side
To the daughter stolen from her side
From the daughter to the mother of the pearl
Of this world, Oh this world
In this world, Oh this world
The vernacular language that I use
Slips into my writing also and can confuse
Those from other countries and regions
Sometimes my language is macabre
For I slaughter the English language
From the teachings of my upbringings;
And also from the family and associations
My language patterns have taken form.
I wish that the zephyr of higher learning
Could sweep across and saturate me
With a instant knowledge of a broader
Vocabulary and grammar so that writing
Would become an elogent and easy
Part of my life gracing me with flowery
Words that would bless each heart
That read my work consuming each morsel
An early morning sun was shining on the screen
I could hardly see the live play, but it soon was clear
that the U.S. team were losing to the Netherlands.
After the match, I closed my eyes imagining myself
as both the winning team and losing one
at this very moment in time.
An ecstatic rush of triumph lifted me
high upon the shoulders of the victors.
Then I placed myself in the shoes of the vanquished,
my mood instantly fell as a rock would
from a high cliff. Sadness, and disappointment
enveloped my thoughts together with
compassion for the young American soccer team,
so much hard work for naught -
and yet then came the deeper thought,
and I knew that that rock
was already being pushed up that cliff face
by shoulders broader than any physical measure.
Win or lose there are heroes,
Then I sat up straight and said to myself :-
"We'll whoop em another day boys!"
In times to come, heavy as steel that freezes stories yet untold,
The sky wraps itself in ash of thoughts yearning to be confined.
Silent streets converge towards a doubtful, mechanical horizon,
Where the sobriety of hope seems so chillingly sheer.
Man – a fiber vibrating between his hot, obsessive technology,
Seeks through the digital shadow, a sign, like the leaf searching for the sun.
A lost voice seems to slide between our relentless keystrokes,
Voice of a writer, a poet, burning brightly as a flame in the night.
Times will come when we'll yearn to understand,
The moment when eco-souls traversed by stars glimpse into being.
To see, through the storm frightened by our society, other paths,
And from the labyrinth of technology, to rise with wings versed in free dawns.
Poets will be asked to remember freedom,
Wordsmiths rowing against the current, redeeming the moment from fear.
Realities broader than these dark corners of precipitous walls,
Painting on the vault of the world landscapes of thought that might bring us a drop of hope.
Like the memory of water in a thirsty desert,
The poet, a sum of words, opens his soul at the gate of dawn.
Imagining worlds where freedom is not just a word, but breath and pulse,
Where the future is not darkness, but the sunny glade growing at the root of stars.
Oh, may those craftsmen of words come, filigreeing on paper uncut essences,
To write that better reality, with their memory unfettered,
Cherubim of imagination flying over unknown horizons,
To remind us, when darkness descends, that every star has a path, and every dream the right to have wings.
Let them come, to quench our thirst with oases of boundless stories,
In a future as bold as the uncharted seas,
Where the human ship navigates with the oar of poetry toward saved worlds,
To give us trust, to remind us that we can live, in liberty.
Fools dance among the moon lit harvest,
Celebrating dusk and all its artificial glories,
While speaking of their tainted loves,
They become motivated by unoriginal stories,
But only light can kill these storms,
And only love can make their blood warm,
They laugh and boast on what they see
When it is better to talk of what is unseen.
For surly there’s a day that’s coming,
When all cheap talk will keep men running.
Ignorance keeps all of them blind
Tears and screams are heard once left behind.
Remembering the ones they can no longer find,
Even though they were giving many warning signs.
They chose a path much broader than the divines
For folly’s darkness turned out to be unkind.
Unkind unkind with no time to rewind,
The fool finds himself left behind.
By: sabina Nicole
"Environmental suits all checked and rechecked. The chamber is sealed."
"PROCEED!".
"We're losing barometric pressure!"
"COMPENSATE!"
"Energy output is constant."
"The rift is stabilizing sir. Air pressure is equivalent to about 15,000 feet altitude."
"Spectrum analysis suggests a red star. That can't be right!"
"Still holding constant."
"EXTEND THE INTER-DIMENSIONAL LENS!"
"Lens breaching the rift."
"Looks about 3000 Kelvin. Oh my God!"
"WHAT?!?!"
"Something humanoid is looking back at us."
"THIS IS NOT AN APPROPRIATE TIME TO BE JOKING!"
"I'm serious sir. I'm switching to a broader view plane."
"No joke, Sir. I saw it too!"
"HOW COULD ANYTHING SURVIVE AT THAT TEMPERATURE?!"
"I did too, and it looked human."
"I've got more of them."
"The depth of field is very shallow, those behind it are blurry."
"What the Hell have we found here?"
"EXACTLY. DISENGAGE KEYHOLE NOW! NOW! NOW!"
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