Long Caution Poems
Long Caution Poems. Below are the most popular long Caution by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Caution poems by poem length and keyword.
"Masters, grant to your slaves justice and fairness,
knowing that you too have a Master in heaven.”
Colossians 4:1
Clearly modern-day applications
support chapter four, Colossians.
Direct verse one to fellow man
people where slavery has been banned.
Ministers share this word of caution…
honor your fellow "Colossian".
Our God honors us - with justice
with the goal folks can fully trust us.
"Trustice" a lifestyle Christians employ
with worker or stubborn schoolboy,
any client profits from this tool -
a sharper view of Golden Rule.
Jesus' teachings will crystalize
as forgiven sinners realize
our Savior saves us to think like Him.
Purpose: we won't sink if we swim.
The year long in the tooth, the crops have been gathered;
Forests’ autumn cloak lies mostly torn and tattered.
Cool fall evenings replaced by the late season gust;
Winter steals in as a cold betrayer of trust.
Slowly, yet steadily, the mercury recedes;
Dormant grass more fortunate than the dying reeds.
Geese leave the fields, heading south for another;
Water frozen like its terrestrial brother.
Then the snow descends upon us in a fury!
Sunlight not penetrating skies gray and dreary.
Wind-swept snow reshaped like dunes on a beach;
The warm allure of summer now seems far from reach.
Sub-zero cold arrives with its dangerous bite;
Giving pause to travelers, especially at night.
Sidewalks and drives shoveled, we seek shelter indoors;
Hot chocolate and marshmallows are winter’s s’mores.
Month after month we tire of the polar vortex;
With sad folks, burst pipes, and winterkill, among its effects.
Deer and wildlife who couldn’t escape its icy snare;
Lay where they fell, a caution to others who may dare.
Inside we hunker down while the sun is just a glint;
While outside signs of deliverance give us a hint.
Dripping icicles signal water starting to flow;
And remind us of the life buried beneath the snow.
Ice dropping from trees shows winter melting away;
Anglers and kids enjoy final days of ice play.
Winter’s part of the cycle of everything;
Its waning days beckoning the promise of spring.
I walked down the alleyways of London
Early one edgy Friday evening.
I am a touring, curious resident, mind you.
The sun was shy and was sinking breathlessly and
With the hushed melody of frazzled fog.
I headed towards a snaky road, cobbled to fractured
Heels and hills, and stumbled upon
Oxford Street, famous for all manner of glitz
And devoted heartbreaks.
It was nearing winter, but not yet wintertime.
Autumn, hoar with age, and damp,
Was about to swallow her pride and go away —
And go the way of all flesh—
Leaving nothing behind but her gathered and swept-up
Wreaths of browned, aged, haggard leaves.
Oxford Street, the world's loudest bazaar,
A fattening roofless museum of couture
That runs on a long, broad and sinfully perfumed hall,
Peopled by men and women, ancient and modern,
Fogeys and hipsters,
Held fast to its deafening sound and picture of glossy, sexy lipsticks,
Redder than deer blood,
And assembled pieces of mascara,
So charming, so flimsy, on glass trays and wooden hooks,
Each selling much more than a fragile penny.
I inhaled and exhaled, culture dragging my feet, cloyed by
Sensations strongly adhered to by hissing smells of now and then.
I was shocked by the magic of flitting lights and fleeting senses.
Shoulders rubbed each other with shuffling, dragging gaits,
The rush needless and lacking in manners.
Should there be a fall from the height of Stevie Nicks' platform
Shoes, the grounds would rumble, ankles would dislocate, ‘HELP! '
Would be screamed beyond Beatles' decibels.
On Oxford Street, it's go your own way—beyond Fleetwood Mac.
I followed in the footsteps of only those who walked with caution.
Litters of shredded London Evening Standard smelled differently, rolled and
Spread out, reminding everyone, resident and tourist, of the
Elegance of the English alphabet, the fine fonts of printed almanacs.
The next man I stumbled upon his shoulder, a reserved newspaper
Vendor, the age of an embryo, yelled, Blimey!
Hosting my bent thorax upon his bale of hanging papers,
He asked, pulling me up with his one unfettered hand,
His breath on torture,
‘First time on Oxford Street, mate? '
‘Last, ' I mumbled.
I want to write a poem about impulses
Why do you feel a rush when you do things on impulse?
Is it because it’s the unknown
The unpredictable, the wildness of it?
Don’t plan for it, my friend
You will ruin it
Lol
You will feel more in charge that way
And more alive
What? You don’t believe me?
The next time you want to do something
Just don’t think about it
And just do it
And see if I am right
You would take over
At that point
You don’t let reason think for you
You don’t let brainwaves think for you
You – think for you
By not thinking haha
Anyway, it’s fun
And you’ll love it
Make it a habit of doing things on impulse
Throw caution to the wind, will ya?
Live
The two boldly open passages
Below the frank eyesight
Smelling the dull and bright packages
Of things to bring delight
What a shame!
This human organ can't smell intent
To view heart's game
Which is buried and doesn't dissent
In the morning when eyes can read
The language of heart
To at least rent mind caution legs lead
Embracing not only the art
But also the themes
To understanding the subject matter perfectly
For mind in its creams
To get well rounded and nullify abruptly
Like the Barber that barb for apárí
Onígbàjámò that dress dàda
That no hairdresser dare loose its àsírí
As no barber dare cover kódáa
In the afternoon
When clarity is setting out
For the cool moon
To take care of blackout
Train my nose to loose mask
Of deceitful smell
Drawing my view to lost and bask
What passions compel
A military man to never be afraid
But at war be able
Even when it seems triumph lacks aid
How real later cum fable
In the night
When able eyes open blind
Useless is sight
When tightly closed is mind
Train my nozzle to purge ears
Of all word roasts
In the light of troubling staged cheers
Which coup toasts
No doubt, I will miss the joy
It brings so empty
Playing with off mind like toy
Used without acuity
I wouldn't mind to cry
For forgiveness is never deserved
Unless heart is wry
Then, revenge becomes conserved
No law; no war
No law; no need to double check
Law hardly restore
Forgiveness gets fights wreck
I wouldn't mind to cry
For forgiveness is never deserved
Unless heart is wry
Then, revenge becomes conserved
my body ache and feel so old
my soul torn and winter's cold
i've lived too many lives
they say, "teenage is the best years of life
but carelessness can bring you demise"
lost in the petty things of life
i lost a precious chapter of my life
they say, "care for each other, care for the poor
but care even more about your mother"
forgot to tell her how much i love her
i still cry thinking about her last smile
they say, "love is a game
you should play it with caution and care"
i let the insecurity clouds surround my world
so i lost one more embracing touch
i want to set myself free
to adrift on the vast sea
or fly in the sky like any bird
i've lived too many lives, i'm tired of breathing
In the realm where words take flight,
Let me share a tale, both wise and bright.
Of responsible hands that wield the gun,
An ode to the virtues, one by one.
Through misty morns and shadows deep,
Lies a world where guardians vigilantly keep,
The promise to protect, the ones they adore,
With caution and care, to even the score.
Responsible souls, they bear the weight,
Of freedoms preserved, an entrusted fate.
In skilled hands, a weapon, a tool to defend,
Against darkness that seeks to rend.
With knowledge profound, they strive to attain,
Mastery of arms, a resolute aim.
Safety their mantra, it echoes strong,
For loved ones' peace, they'd stand lifelong.
They foster respect, for life and the land,
Adhering to laws, with a steadfast hand.
Through discipline's forge, they shape their will,
To harness the strength, yet a heart that's still.
For hunters, a stewardship they embrace,
Conservation's call, a noble chase.
Balancing nature, a harmony sought,
Ensuring the circle of life is not forgot.
But beyond the bounds of woods and fields,
In tales untold, there are truths revealed.
Responsible hands bring solace and peace,
Uniting communities, as violence they cease.
In times of peril, a beacon they shine,
A force for justice, in a world that's unkind.
Yet in their hearts, a solemn plea,
To shun the misuse, that darkens what's free.
So let us not forget, as we reflect,
The essence of this, let us protect.
For responsible gun ownership does provide,
A haven of safety, a shelter to abide.
The little town is eternal or seems so as I come back to trace
my childhood down these sidewalks. Each house holds
faded memories yet, creeps back into my mind until once
again I live the mystic solitude of my youth. Those echoes start
to stir within me. I hear it in the mocking-bird’s song, the musical
notes that my youthful ears must have heard, and still rings in the trees.
From the songs of birds, I start my visit to the past, both joy and pain
Into my youth. On this day a curious man, trying to get close to the
THROUGH CAUTION TO WIND, of a boy. The boy and his bare feet
with a sling- shot hanging from a back pocket, the love of nature in his
heart and pent up energy busting loose.
I was that boy, roaming the streets and fields beyond. It is that boy that
whispers to me now, creeping up to my ear to let me live it again.
He sings to me in my solitude, a song with a thousand notes, all in
adventure, it is he that sings to me now. “Do you remember when we
were we together?”
“Do you remember our good times?”
“We were together then,” he whispered to me.
Yes, I remember, for I treasure every note.
More than once I trod down these streets and over the railroad tracks,
more than once I felt that hot summer breeze on my face,
more than once I saw that delta moon go down through the trees and
heard the cricket’s call.
He runs ahead of me pointing to the old church that I attended as a boy,
so many years ago. He awakens my own song, a sweet song of
old friends, some passed. This old church that traced my steps through
Vietnam, bringing me strength and comfort through the little bulletins
that brought me closer to home, if only for a little while.
The boy wipes a tear from my cheek, for his questions are ill timed,
but I have heard, him.
Now, at this moment, I am back for a thousand echoes are within me,
never to die. I was that boy and he whispers to me the words to our
song. He calls to me from the shadow of a big oak and from the
grassy fields with sights and sounds from the past. He blends himself
Into the shadows as I recall the shapes of old buildings and memories
flood my mind, things I nearly forgot. He frolics with me for old times
until I must leave. Now, as I say “Good-by” I hear him whisper the words
to our song, he whispers his farewell.
Do you know why bus rules are important?
We stop for school buses as they’re slowing.
Their yellow lights indicate take caution.
When red, the lights mean kids you may see going.
They might be going on the bus or off.
On two-lane roads, whether you are front or rear,
you have to stop, and the reason is
kids out of anywhere might appear.
Children can be hard sometimes to spot.
Around big yellow buses, please take care.
What of those on lanes that number three or more?
Those coming from the rear then must be aware.
Buses have been built for children’s safety.
They’re energy-absorbing, did you know??
Both economically and environmentally!
School buses for our kids are the greatest way to go.
The sun's rays come calling
Foreclosing on winter's frost
The sounds of life awaken
With the return of a season lost
Water lapping upon the shore
Shrouded by a misty fog
Nightcrawlers peeking out
From beneath a dew drenched log
Cloaked by dense green tules
In a boat solely manned
I am the stealthy fisherman
My rod and reel in hand
I can feel you gently biting
Nibbling my tasty treat
You strike with such accuracy
Then wisely you retreat
Hunger over powers caution
Snap! secured upon my hook
Let the scrimmage begin
Penance for the bait you took
Twisting, flopping. fighting
As I draw you to the shore
Your tenacity exudes maturity
You’ve played this game before
A desperate attempt at freedom
From your watery den you bound
Good lord I’ve caught Old Bassy
Your reputation is renowned
Fret not my aquatic friend
Your legacy is safe with me
A quick snip of my line
I most graciously set you free
Surely I will tell this story
But much to my dismay
They’ll call it a fishermans tale
About the one that got away