Long Captioned Poems
Long Captioned Poems. Below are the most popular long Captioned by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Captioned poems by poem length and keyword.
"Our nation needs to prosper,
"Our people deserve to thrive,
"But the old ways do not foster,
"The betterment for which we strive!"
These words erupt at every campaign
And that part, at least, is true
But truth erodes with each subsequent claim
On which candidate would be the best for you
The faces emblazoned on every walls
Captioned by grand promises they've made
They set themselves on high pedestals
They stand with virtue banner waved
They promise liberty and peace
To build a better future for us all
They preach of security and justice
With them at lead, we'll never fall
"So, come, raise your voices," they implore
"Your trust in me would make us great
"And our opponents; oh, how we abhor
"They hinder Progress, deserving our hate,"
Then comes the day to cast our votes
That would pave way to a new era
Then the elect must honour their words
To realise their promised utopia
And we would wait with bated breaths
For the victor's name to be declared
The verdict, to some, befell like death
While others rejoiced with much fanfare
But 'tis no time for celebration
For the journey's just begun
Will the five-year duration
Be enough to get things done?
Perhaps we've all underestimated
How quickly time goes pass
And then the process gets restarted
With much still at an impasse
Yet we are hopeful, and so we wait still
For a leader, pure and clear of blame
Who would one day rise up and fulfill
The words they have always proclaimed:
"Our nation needs to prosper,
"Our people deserve to thrive,
"But the old ways do not foster,
"The betterment for which we strive!"
This quiver of my lip, is such a gift,
He shared his eyes to see his brilliant sunsets,
Reflecting up from cherished memory,
So many hearts a common muse away,
Most things they don't ring true, but a few can pierce veneer and move to that
moment,
We swell and weep sublime,
Visions soul, the song, the captioned paper screen,
Is such a gift to give and get,
Times are few that vision touches you,
In that blink the doubt of God and house and heart,
Flee beneath the clarity of genius,
When poison catch jingle, single pornographic faint,
Ficades and numbs most poignant sensation,
I still love because I think of them who give to us so vividly,
The sunset in their symphonies.
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What happens when Franz Kafka’s existential dread meets the ancient wisdom of the Oracle of Delphi and Indic philosophy? This tongue-in-cheek sonnet sequence explores the absurdity of the human ego, which often morphs our inner anxieties into a creeping cockroach. Ultimately, it offers a witty reminder: to the true witness consciousness (Sakshi), whether we wake up as a bug or a butterfly matters very little as these two tongue-in-cheek sonnets, jointly captioned, Of Bugs and Buddha, says Aniruddha.
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Sonnet 1: A cockroach nor a butterfly
As a man’s often given to despair
That he, nor what’s his Self, exists at all,
Or he, a human only short while ere,
Has morphed unto what a cockroach we call---
Laid flat in bed upside down on its back,
Legs, all the six, wildly flailing in air,
Oh, what a Kafkan dilemma to crack!
Perchance it’s no more than a dark nightmare.
A man in him finds what he represses,
Be it hatred, envy or jealousy,
They undergo a metamorphosis,
A cockroach inside him, no heresy.
Now, if what he calls ‘I’ is mere witness,
Cockroach or butterfly, it matters less.
Sonnet 2: Let man be an escape artist
Cockroach or butterfly, it matters less
To witness, man’s divine identity---
Truth that dissolves man’s every ugliness.
Yet, ego is man’s mundane entity---
An escape artist in circus called life.
Two inscriptions as engraved at Delphi,
Apollo’s temple, seem sharper than knife:
‘Know thyself’, and ‘Nothing in excess’ try.
That, extremes to be avoided is clear:
Hell and heaven, cockroach and butterfly,
Whatever the nightmare, there’s naught to fear,
Life’s miseries emanate from mind nigh,
And so is an early morning’s nightmare,
If only man’s not given to despair.
_________________________
Musings (tongue-in-cheek) |22.09.2026 | bugs, Buddha, butterfly, despair, nightmare, truth, Sonnet
Braving the cold air
For the moment it takes
To stroll to the end of my driveway
Wearing but a wool sweater
I bow
To the mid-afternoon
Picking up
A popsicle of morning bound newspaper
Straightening up
To the miles and miles of blue sky
As if I am the stranded man
Under one palm tree on the one island
Captioned in a New Yorker cartoon
Hand on my hip
The other holding a salute
Surveying the exquisite sheet of sunlight
Snapped over this frozen ocean of white
Pretending to believe it’s a trick on the eye
To see a picket fence of tree trunk shadows and candy stripes
Flattened to the snow
Disavowing all property lines
As the caw caw caw of a crow
Crackles a warning hello
His black body a shark eye
Staring sideways
From the skull of a stoic Oak
Down to me
Then back to the snow
And a trail of stitched holes
Melting and gaping from the feign of heat
Evolved
From the paws of an overnight tomcat
To that of a deer
To now
The plucked boots of a man.
What stranger would stomp in circles
Around my house and under a reading lamp
Like this?
Searching for meaning in day-old headlines?
But for a shadow
Let loose from his own wolf body
Tearing from what blocks the sun
Temporarily born from the dark to the light
To come and go as all in one.
Life of lifelong dance—
Of rainbow shades and fragrance,
And with bees romance,
Flowers, I envy
How ye manage this, tell me,
Asked a man in trance,
Yours too, Butterfly,
And O Honey-bearing Bee,
O ye swaying tree,
There’s no secret key,
They all said and in one voice,
From within flow joys,
Stop living in greed,
There’s enough for every need,
Look for ways to give.
Joy there’s in giving—
For its own sake, enjoying,
In selfish living!
_____________________________
Reflections |22.06.2021|
Poet’s Note:
No doubt, man alone lives for him. Nor is he happy in his own skin, nor can learn from nature, birds and beasts. From flowers, (as from all nature) he can learn a lot, but he likes to pluck them, makes a bouquet and put them in a vase as if he would do a better job. He is totally missing the point that if there is one lesson from all nature to learn, it is: ‘Joys of selfless giving’.
This poem is in sequence to one captioned: The Joy of Giving.
The six stanzas of this piece are actually a mix of Haiku and Senryu. It was classified as Terza Rima as the option of Tercet was not available in PS at that point of time. Now that it is, it's more appropriate to call it a Tercet.
Most of my Lix spittle
+ four additional anniversaries
since exiting birth canal
as full term newborn
re: minimally viable existence
post doc severance umbilical cord,
nevertheless yours truly
found himself figuratively
linkedin and tethered to lifeline
particularly in formative years
(primarily academically) adrift,
and malfunctioning blinker
analogous to a boat
without an ankh (clawing
away to stay afloat)
aimlessly bobbing -
and drowning akin
to a besotted drinker
just out of rest to be
rescued by Mister Rinker
sea ming lee without
any hook, line and sinker
despite being gifted with
an above average thinker,
(who calls Lake Wobegon
his birth place)
from without, where two
brown myopic ocular
orbs shutterfly, twitter and winker.
All thru academia
just barely passing grades
nsync with avocations
such as: jigsaw puzzles,
photography, playing piano
weight lifting with free weights
and other endeavors metaphorically
suffered from anemia,
and at my nadir,
thy prepubescent psyche
plummeted lovely bones
into grave state,
courtesy anorexia minus bulimia
mental health also linkedin
shot thru through with
healthy dose of dysthymia
captioned tinker tailor soldier spy
kept awake with insomnia
peppering cerebral
cortex with monomania
buzzfeed ding somnambulant
zombified condition
with a burning
desire toward pyromania
nsync with unmanageable
raging (red dee
and bull lush) testosterone
spawning (when libido
ran rampantly amuck)
satyromania, the above particularly
accentuated, and cresting
with accursed triskaidekaphobia
most agonizing, when
orbitz around Earth
demarcated ten plus three
month date on a Friday the thirteenth,
hence death be not proud
sought after utopia
pleading, longing, and hooping
if I Willoughby
able to sprinkle
cremated ashes across Xenia
after Dayton death.
Maybe a day will come, and it breaks my heart,
That the white coated men, will tell my mom we're apart,
That they tried their best, but it wasn't enough,
And now, I'm gone, in a world so tough.
On that day, she'll call, and I won't answer,
She'll text, but there'll be no reply to her,
Then she'll view a friend's status, and there,
My photos will be captioned, gone, not here.
So soon, we'll forever miss you, they'll say,
And momma will be all tears, as she prays,
Papa will be sobbing silently, in his pain,
For I'm no longer with them, it's hard to explain.
Then posters will come out, it's okay not to be okay,
But it'll be too late, to take my pain away,
For I'll be gone, to a place we all dread,
Leaving behind memories, of the life we once led.
So cherish every moment, and hold your loved ones tight,
For life is unpredictable, and can change overnight,
And when that day comes, and I'm no longer here,
Remember, I love you all, and hold me close, dear.