Long Choice of words Poems
Long Choice of words Poems. Below are the most popular long Choice of words by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Choice of words poems by poem length and keyword.
We always eulogize a child on his birth
We also eulogize a person on his death
On both occasions he is unable to appreciate the praise
At birth he is unable to understand the words
At death his ears are unresponsive to the sound
Why do we always say good things on these occasions?
Must we confine our eulogy only to these occasions?
A child doesn’t understand our words at the time of his birth
So it doesn’t matter whatever our words may sound
The logic isn’t the same for a person on his death
We have an innate fear that his spirit is hearing our words
We wish to impress the spirit by using words of praise
Why should we impress the spirit with words of praise?
There is a belief that the spirit will leave after such occasions
Some believe that the spirits are not influenced by words
Our fate after death depends on all our deeds after birth
All good deeds will be rewarded by the Creator after death
Fate is not decided on words irrespective of how it may sound
It is impossible to infer true feelings from how the words sound
We often pretend to please others by telling words of praise
These pretensions are useless when hearing ability ceases on death
But may be fruitful when spoken to others on different occasions
It is ineffective when the sense of hearing is undeveloped at birth
The generation of feelings depends upon how we express the words
Human relations depend on how we express our feelings in words.
Expressions, conveying different feelings, are said in a varying sound
The effectiveness is lost when conveyed to a child at birth
Damaged human relations can be repaired through words of praise
The appropriate expressions must be chosen to suit the occasion
Feelings and expressions must amalgamate in the occasion of death
One of the most solemn occasions in life is that of death
While expressing feelings we carefully select the words
The choice of words matches the vibes of the occasions
The speeches are characterized by a particular sound
On such occasions we forget our true feelings and praise
Ebullient feelings are aroused on the occasion of birth
The strength of a relationship is expressed by the identity of the sound
The effectiveness of the expressions rest on the choice of words
Alas! The only expressions a child has are cries at birth
When the sky is a
sequestered sanctuary,
and the clouds croon
for sinking star-beams,
listen to the euphoric hymns of silence,
for seething storms throned
beneath rainbow castles
shall never obscure the
crystalline colors of compassion,
amidst thickened fangs
of dwelling darkness,
constantly trying to
seize peacock pigments
within violet-blue seas
of sequined sentiments…
O’ beloved white rose~
perfumed in vanilla love,
let not the wolf-spider gaze,
mirroring envy within black widow hearts,
confuse your diamond vision.
It’s just another day,
enveloped in a warm sakura sunrise,
there the gales of greed
looming in ghostly flecks,
question the redolence of rivulets
behind your veiled vigor.
There’s no reason to fear
when hope flows and drifts
like comets flying as fluttering butterflies
across the butterscotch horizon.
Remember, when the sage sun
seeps into foggy crevices,
and deserted dunes
speak in ashen accents,
their choice of words do not define
the rhythm of your seraphic symphony.
Your merlot wine spirit is
the whimsical wand turning unspoken
tales into wildflower wishes.
There’s no need for an alchemist
nor a sorcerer to concoct
spells that rearrange constellations,
as your voice swirls in magical mists.
You and I, are every last thing
we need to conquer the bewitching
perimeters we truly deserve.
Tonight, when my lids rest upon the
dreamscape of daffodils and dahlias,
I see that look in your eye.
I ponder, is it me that you long for?
Am I the unfading ink
within your saccharine sonnets?
I yearn to be the one you talk
about in sweet seclusion.
This trembling canvas longs
for no other skin to caress the acrylic
edges of my aching soul,
and I do not need
the wind and water
beneath whistling willows
to write my destiny
in green and gold.
We don’t need shades of shadows
following our intertwined silhouettes,
yet I let these metaphors
merge with the heat of
your passionate presence,
as you and I break through
the landscapes of grief
with mutual attraction
like the mulberry rays
between the moon and earth..
Soupers might have noticed that from about one year I am going on in translating Dante's Hell in english with rhymes. Why I am doing this? First of all because Dante is a genius of about 700 years ago and has founded the italian language after latin, called "volgare" (which is for "common"), but to a poetry level which is extremely high. My task is to try to repeat, in the limits of my known and with the help of internet, the magic sound of the original "Divine Comedy". I know that there are many translations in english done from people of english speech, for instance the Longfellow's masterpiece with no rhymes, which I consult some times to find the english appropriate terms in tough situations, but my version differs much from his. It looks like Longfellow tries to avoid any rhyme even where it would spontaneously come in. Other translations are excessively free, losing the original Dante's spirit.
What I am trying do is not to lose this spirit, maintaining somewhat the italian style in the english language.
I have to acknowledge the enormous help I receive from google translator although I have much to apply criticism in the choice of words and maybe not always I succeed. Moreover, I use write rhymes.com and rhymezone.com.
A problem apart is that of syllables: in italian, syllables for terza rima are 11, but the rule is that accent has to be on the tenth syllable of the verse, so the rule is on sound. In english most words have the accent on the last syllable and, as a matter of facts, most words are made by a single syllable. While composing verses I am trying to obtain verses of ten syllables, but sometimes I find a better sound with nine or with eleven. No strict rule seems to be the best, at least for my perception of sound.
Finally, I am open to criticism of soupers. In the future I will try to improve the quality of my translation if I have enough time. I am eighty years old and my life is not going to last much, so this translation is some sort of will I leave now.
In the multitude of counsellors there is life,
Running away implies stabbing yourself with your knife.
I’m inside a cyclone, you think I should run?
You even went on to tag my stagnancy as dumbness,
I’m not a fool you know. Positioned myself in its centre
For I know that in the eye of a cyclone there’s calmness.
You feel I’m off-guard when I actually feel like I’m in a venter.
My birth canal is in the vertical, where I’m not impaired of my view
I fix mine eyes to the heavens where I know there’s my breakthrough.
In the midst of drunkards there’s sure a fog of immature diction.
Engaging means emigrating from the principle of lingual timing.
Words are powerful entities, they can unveil people’s identities.
When your mind is pixilated, the words you speak can intoxicate
Your persistent entity, your individuality. Even if it may be a while
There’s just some hostility about it and what if it compiles
In the long run, leaving your choice of words forever numb?
In a bad company is a formed aura of non-believe,
There’s a rapid leakage of faith with slim chance of retrieve.
The Bible is on point, “bad company corrupts good character”
It is said that character is the you that exists
When all are gone and you have only you in your midst.
Now think, external injections are depriving your character cells nutrients.
The torture is aimed at you, once activated there is severe suffering.
But, you'll have to bear the yoke alone when your God's desired character
Starts to haunt you!
There's fullness of joy in the presence of the Lord
And for those who really seek it, life is never really odd.
A story about a young boy and his father,
The boy was smart, diligent but hot tempered,
When vexed he has no choice of words,
He is careless even if that gets you annoyed.
One day he realized he had said something bad
So he walk straight to his dad,
'I know I hurt you' daddy am sorry, says the son
He sheds and tremble as to the other end he tends to turn.
"To say you are sorry is one thing son,
But that does not mean the pain is immediately gone,
There is something I want you to practically learn"
Says the father as he shows his son the packet of nail in his hand.
Take this packet of nail, says the father,
When you sleep, eat, play it must always be near,
When angered and you can't control,
Take one and nail it on the wall.
The first day, on the wall he nailed three,
Realizing he hurt no one, he knew his soul he is setting free.
He continues day after day
Nailing on the wall the same way
Daddy, the nail is finished, the boy said
That’s a great thing to hear says the dad
Now here is what I want you to do
Whenever you say SORRY go to the wall and had a nail remove.
Days past and again came the son
All the nails on the wall are gone
Daddy said "Let take a walk to wall,"
And tell me the lesson, it you have learned from.
I have learned that I say whatever comes my mind
When angered, vexed or mad
It as a result of me being idle
Says the son, and that why my temper I was unable to handle.
That is one but I want you to learn this today
Said the father as he moves to the other way
Nailing the wall represents the rude behavior and words you say
Removing the nail is the sorry you say.
Despite removing the nails there is still a hole
So don't see your 'am sorry' as an achieved goal.
Be mindful of what you say or do to others
For even after you say you sorry the hole lingers.
My mind my greatest bully
Constantly beating me up shoving me out the way
Steady trying to catch my breath
Try not to regret
The top half of my shirt wet
my mind cying from so much wonder
IF, an's, Maybes
I'm feeling a little shady
I'm in a relationship an when my heart races
Its screaming
"You cant erase this!!"
Your glowing skin
your contagious smile
Cute laugh
your quirkiness
Oh how I miss...
NO SNAP OUT OF IT!
My mind screams
"No that's in the past it did not last shake it off for it will not pass!"
A part of me wishes I never asked you out who knows where we would be
I cant stop my brain from wondering
I dont want to regret
Like every human
I want answers
It's for my heart
the one falling apart
I know I'm meant to feel more
Compare my heart to a toy
Throw it in the corner after it brings you much joy
Move on
I miss the conversation
I miss your intellect
The way you turned me on no matter what time it was or the choice of words you would say
My mind screams
"No that's in the past it did not last shake it off for it will not pass!"
Our time was cut short
I believe there was a meaning for this
What am I supposed to take in from all of this?
I want to hear you say my name again
If it has to end Let's end the right way have one more
Phone call
we can leave off on a laugh instead of hurt
Just like this poem I have been everywhere part of me pretends not to care
Why did we stop talking?
The path we chose we should not have walked nor even talked
My mind screams
"No that's in the past it did not last shake it off for it will not pass!"
AHH I just want to yell !!!!!
Play this back as if it was a movie reel
Recreate my start an end
I wonder if you still think of me they way my mind makes me think of you
Since the bloody Battle of Hastings
When 'Arold got killed by French Bill
We've seen an endless invasion of French
And I've just about had my fill
Don't we have enough words of our own
In this wonderful language of ours?
- To seek and find le mot juste
Dunt take much linguistic power
It seems using French has been with us forever
Passed down as a fait accompli
Have we ever really tried to change that?
Or have we always said "C'est la vie"?
But, to think that some long-dead bon vivant
With a certain je ne sais quoi
Used his chic tour de force to put words in our mouths
To me, it's a shameful faux-pas
So, I think we need a tête-à-tête
To form a clique, to mount a coup
Working together, en masse, as a team
We'll swap "Bonsoir" for "How Do"
Then (haute couture) won't be setting the trend
We'll watch racing, not the Grand Prix
No more art nouveau, or cordon bleu
And say "Enjoy your meal", not "Bon appétit"
I never have the soup du jour
Prefer prawn cocktail to poncy pâté
And I'll sit in a coffee house or caff
But never go in a café
Some say I should let it go and relax
Say choice of words is all laissez-faire
But can I stay calm on this bête noire of mine?
No, mes amis ~ au-contraire!
At British Wimbledon let's use "40-all"
Instead of being at deuce
And what's wrong with nil instead of love
Or am I being obtuse?
I know that we'll get nowhere
I sense there's no going back
That it's like being stuck behind burning sheep
Trapped in a cul-de-sac
But I suppose that it is nice to share
Good ideas and a word or two
Like Liberté and Égalité
And that feeling of déjà vu
And with le weekend, le booking, le check-in, le spam
And countless more, I say with a grin
That when we look at our counter-invasion
Even the French agree that we win!
Once whence the setting sun had sewn her brilliant seams into my eye's horizon,
I received a call from an unknown number on the phone I pay way too much for to Verizon.
I ignored it, because get lost, if you don't know me you can go suck egg,
That includes you, Discover Card, who for bill payments from me you always beg.
Anyways, as I stood there inhaling the first breath of the evening's dark exhaust,
I saw within the corner of my eye a pixie or sylph who seemed to have been lost.
Fluttering about in her auburn, amber and umber skin,
I greeted her with one of my humblest of gentlemanly grins.
I said "Top o' the morn, you metaphysical creature of the light,"
Despite the fact that when I saw her it was nearly night.
"Well I'm a tool, I just assumed you're Irish and would appreciate my greeting,"
I said to her to excuse my imbecilic choice of words in this serendipitous meeting.
Quiet she remained as I tried to summon small talk to this little curious blur,
Who floated and hid in the corner of my eye when I tried to look right at her.
"Dear friend, please don't feel the need to be shy,"
I said, "For I'm honestly a friendly and stand-up guy."
Again, she said nothing to my desperate attempts at conversation,
Which I surely hope she did not mistake for a horny man's flirtation.
Curiously, when I tried to look right at this flying fairy,
She would not seem to in my sight directly tarry.
Then I realized that she who had been hiding in my cornea where in the eye's stroma,
Was but a squiggly line shifting inside the eye fluid of my early stage of glaucoma.
In her sixties, of Swedish descent, robustly built
and amply breasted, the girth of her thighs bulging
under her white lab frock like a Henry Moore sculpture,
her feet secured in high laced black shoes with brutish
square heels – the kind women wore in an earlier age.
Threads of blond hair still visible throughout her
gray hair loosely pulled back and coiled in a lazy
soft bun stabbed with a few pencils for easy reach.
Gold-rimmed oval glasses framed her pale blue eyes
that never stopped blinking like a faulty neon light.
And when she spoke or gave a talk as she did that
morning, a nervous tic appeared to a side of her mouth.
Yet nothing could have prepared the class that morning
when, giving a short talk explaining stalagmite formations
in a famous Kentucky cavern, she stopped abruptly to relate
an anecdote and with a perfectly straight face informed
the class that during the Civil War confederate soldiers,
for relief and recreation, would used the cavern – in her words –
God strike me dead – “to hold their balls there.” – What she
meant, of course, were “soirées” not soldiers’ testicles. The effect
on the class was like a lit match thrown into pure oxygen,
the class exploding into pandemonium of uncontrolled laughter,
the poor woman instantly realizing her wrong choice of words
and frantically pleading for calm in the ensuing mayhem, her face
pulsing like a dwarf red star near to exploding, her eyelashes
fluttering wildly like two moths trapped behind her glasses.
"The Thoughts Of The Heart"
The thoughts of the heart are the hearts of all thought
This is proven by every word that's ever spoken
The inner state is defined by the choice of words sought
They sound either whole or they either sound broken
This is proven by every word that's ever spoken
Sometimes what is said is often what should be not
They sound either whole or they either sound broken
Especially with the words from a negative thought
Sometimes what is said is often what should be not
A mean spirit could not care less what to say
Especially with words from a negative thought
It shows the inner darkness and a spiritual decay
A mean spirit could not care less what to say
It prefers the tint of shadows to the shining light
It shows the inner darkness and a spiritual decay
It makes the high noon appear to be the dark of night
It prefers the tint of shadows to the shining light
There's no knowledge that the heart is full of treasure
It make the high noon appear to be the dark of night
Positive words are the heart's truly honest measure
There's no knowledge that the heart is full of treasure
Words are either golden or they simply sound like tin
Positive words are the heart's truly honest measure
Defilement is what comes out a mouth ~ not what goes in
Words are either golden or they simply sound like tin
The inner state is defined by the choice of words sought
Defilement is what comes out a mouth ~ not what goes in
The thoughts of the heart are the hearts of all thought
WTA-IV 7/3/2016