Long Choppy Poems
Long Choppy Poems. Below are the most popular long Choppy by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Choppy poems by poem length and keyword.
Lakes and oceans have a potion
A soothing calming lotion
Waves turn into ripples when closer
Figuring things out getting closure
Quietly sitting feeling cheer
Special sensations flow eliminating fear
Anxious vibes
With tension due to corporate tribes
Worrying about truth and the honest bribes
It is the power of the outdoors
When the wilderness takes the floor
Ending the choppy surf
That was delivered by a tie with a white collared shirt
Breathe in the fresh air
It is nature way of saying ‘I care’
Then take a dare
Encountering luring creatures reminding what’s fair
Prowling the darkness providing the scare
An ocean and a lake have a tranquil tease
When experienced it cures the anger disease
Pack up the car or RV trailer
Explore new words like a sailor
Not a professional failure
Do not fold
Be bold
Vacation weather is here
Bright sun without glasses could shed a tear
While the moon will shine
Overseeing the campfire tales made up in the mind
In reality the creative chime
Came back from the publisher declined
Discard these miss management decisions
Confessed by a few as ‘doing their missions’
Forget about the fax
Take serious the prescription ‘to relax’
Then think about those controlling attacks
When trying to keep things on the right tracks
For it’s a healthy holiday
Served on the tourist tray
That builds inner strength
If of course it has the proper length
The traffic is ridiculous.
It feels like cars and trucks are angry – flashing headlights, loud horns, slamming brake sounds.
Red and raw brake lights.
Starting and stopping.
Yelling and screaming as only lights and horns can.
I watch the traffic slide in and out of itself,
Like a snake, but in a choppy, non-graceful way.
No one is giving up their space.
I slow down and let an impatient truck jump in front of me.
Two cars slide in also.
Amazing as it looked like barely a space for one.
My brakes slam without any conscious thought from me.
I am watching the dance, glad that my feet are smarter than I am.
I start feeling irritated. There is tension in my neck now.
I am getting a headache at the top of my neck, in the back.
Something upward catches my eye.
A hawk, gracefully floating, soaring, enjoying her life, gliding.
God’s creation.
Reminding me that I am not alone.
God is watching the traffic also.
This changes my entire mood.
Streams of purple flow on your skin,
While waves of white stamp your smile,
And your top is a choppy ocean of love,
An unmanageable free sort of wild,
Then you create a beautiful soft and a smooth,
You create a bubble so clear,
You create a tender all over my skin,
With your perfectly colourful sphere,
And the fragrance you leave, aroma of pure,
The perfume of absolute clean,
Leaves all of me feeling honestly new,
Like a candle lit night of serene.
You’re my perfection of soap, my most intimate block,
My closest to being a flower,
That I hold close to me, my most cherished of moments,
Whenever I’m having a shower.
These people, they’re not worth much,
They think they are more liquid than water,
They shine before those who envy them,
They wear beautiful expensive watches,
These people think they’re better than God,
Better Than hedgehogs, seagulls, trees,
But they don’t have their qualities,
The choppy lake makes me forget them.
These people, they’re not worth much,
They despise Montaigne and La Boétie,
For evenings at the village restaurant,
They mock the villagers of Tarascon,
They have arguments on every boat,
Sail when the sea rises suddenly,
They shine only to humiliate people,
To satisfy their sense of vanity,
These people, they’re not worth much,
They take you away from distant lands,
They take you away from the genius of Claude Monet
Meditation in front of blue landscapes,
They take you away from the goodness of the trees,
From Time that stops on Lake Como,
These people, they’re not worth much,
They keep you away from the people you love.
Ces gens-là, ne valent pas grand-chose,
Ils se croient plus liquides que l’eau,
Ils brillent devant ceux qui les jalousent,
Ils portent de belles montres couteuses,
Ces gens-là se croient meilleurs que Dieu,
Que les hérissons, les mouettes, les arbres,
Mais ils n’en ont pas les qualités,
Le clapot d’un lac me les fait oublier.
Ces gens-là, ne valent pas grand-chose,
Ils méprisent Montaigne et La Boétie,
Pour des soirées au restaurant du bourg,
Ils moquent les villageois de Tarascon,
Ils ont des arguments sur tous les bateaux,
Appareillent quand la mer monte soudain,
Ils ne brillent que pour humilier les gens,
Pour satisfaire leurs sens des vanités,
Ces gens-là, ne valent pas grand-chose,
Ils vous éloignent des pays lointains,
Ils vous éloignent du génie de Claude Monet
De la méditation devant des paysages bleus,
Ils vous éloignent de la bonté des arbres,
Du temps qui s’arrête sur le lac de Côme,
Ces gens-là, ne valent pas grand-chose,
Ils vous éloignent des gens que vous aimez.
MY FATHER'S GENTLE HANDS
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I remember my father’s hands as a plumber’s hands—fiercely strong, calloused, rough, knuckle-battered, and dirty after a long-day’s work. Those hands shoveled; unclogged drains and toilets; repaired leaks; and installed pipes, commodes, and bathtubs. Those hands provided.
I remember my father’s hands as a fisherman’s hands—perfectly patient, tenacious, self-confident, and unwavering as he held his fishing line and lure stabile, waiting for a fish to take the bait. “Keep your hands steady. Stay focused,” he prompted me when I asked him to teach me how to fish from his flat-bottom boat. Those hands fished longer than they ‘plumbed,’ rarely missing an opportunity to commune with nature, seldom losing a fish. Those hands fed.
I remember my father’s hands as a treasure hunter’s hands—firm, certain, and capable, listening intently to his metal detector’s tones learning to discriminate the sound a good coin makes compared to the choppy, broken sound a junk target makes. Those hands searched, discriminated, and found soulful answers to life’s complex questions and dilemmas.
I remember my father’s hands as gentle healing hands—kind and comforting as he wiped away the tears that sometimes streamed down my face. Without saying a word, those hands loved, consoled, and encouraged—always righting my world.
I remember my father’s hands—full of strength and hope as he took my trembling hands in his. Those hands gave me courage—the courage to reach up in search of everything impossible, leaving me with the unbridled sense that to do anything less was the greatest impossibility of all. Even now whenever I need courage, I can feel his hand around mine helping me to feel invincible once again.
In my mind’s eye, I often see my father’s hands—every line and every wrinkle. They told a story about the kind of man he was. I’ll remember my father’s hands for the remainder of my life. I’m grateful for him, for his enduring spirit and presence, which continues to grace my life despite his passing some years ago.
Dad's hands tell a tale
they did countless loving things
they touched and guided
they shaped and molded
they encouraged me to reach
they held the stars in place
they held rising sun
they sought deep understanding
they chased lonely moon
I’m a person of faith...so are you
Dying by comparison, to
Windswept cliffs
Water with choppy teeth
Baptismal pool?
Will it save you?
Pointing at the whiteboard
Hear the squeak of multicolored markers
In your head, dead
Points most of them
Feet are slipping, stones
Falling to a great depth
This is rather deep, tap...tap
Tapping your toes on shimmering faults
Your fault, my fault
Falling
Through loopholes, crying
Tears pelt the cyclone below
Stars so peaceful in the night sky
Fill your eyes with their charm
As your heels slip slowly as a snail
Hands grasping cold wet air
Can’t breathe in the end
Porthole from tower’s edge
Edgy flames spew you
Out like Jonah’s whale
Splat, splat, splatter
You see it all does matter
All of it
Faith takes a leap
But if you’ve no idea
Where your heading
Hint, South
Can a leopard shed his spots,
Though he scrubs them on the reef?
Relief
Who’s the balm?
Who calms the sea?
Who saves you from spiritual death?
Who created thee?
Thine, thee, we...words
Mean only what they seem to be
Flat
Except in Hebrew and Greek
the bible speaks
Clinging to the rock
Of my salvation
And you?
11/4/2020
Psalm 62:1 My soul finds rest in God alone; my salvation comes from him. He alone is my rock and my salvation; he is my fortress, I will never be shaken.
Romans 10:8-10 ...The word is near you; it is in your mouth and in your heart, that is the word of faith...that if you confess with your mouth, “Jesus is Lord,” and believe in your heart that God raised him from the dead, you will be saved.
yellow, orange, red, ribbons stretched across…the brilliant sun
the sound of a rooster..,a fiddler on a roof, above Anatevka
where roads are muddy and tradition is a foundation…milky
town comes alive…chop, chop, choppy…and doughy…fish
feathers…generations…heavy bundles and matchmaking
questions, seriously funny with portentous blessing…worship
peace and harmony interrupted by troublemaker, dancing
dragging his boots down muddy or dusty…near chimney
the bow strides across strings, pointedly…dramatically
the sky still in lullaby state, far above all…it sadly waits
God only knows what will happen next…
In shadows, we all, knowingly or in denial
cross the boundaries from the past to tomorrow
in our present, we levitate, our worries like birds
tomorrow will soon be our yesterdays, faraway looks
no one can traverse nor enter, perhaps lean into
but never mine…embrace not…feel sorry for
not their fault…the split of friendship…waving
bye bye, forgetting the punch line
God only knows what happens next
eventually existence ends and if we desire
we may know the why and wherefore
but likely we, gadabouts, will be checking out
the horizon that is His hem filling heaven’s temple
The merciless tide of time, keeps turning.
Every rotation, carves a new groove,
until the visage becomes a road map,
through death’s stygian waters.
Time is a vicious taskmaster and
betrayer of all women and men;
no one is exempt from the cuts of its blade.
Sailing through mortality,
the waters are sometimes choppy;
other times, newborn-skin-smooth.
Starboard, life’s tasks can feed our souls;
on port, the unexpected challenges,
may require decisions made in haste or desperation.
Sailing through time’s ticking-bomb waters,
is always a double-edged sword and
the finest sailors have succumbed,
to its darkest hour.
Finite mortality blinks and humans turn into antiques;
the dinosaurs that fade into oblivion.
Curiously, time never drowns the infinite soul;
energy lives on forever in, immortal realms.
As the tides roll to shore,
so must the mortal cross the waters, of River Styx.
Charon’s boat is always waiting.
I stood on a gigantic branch that hangs over the great big ocean
that spans across the depth and width of this earth and stretched forth my
hands. I reached towards the heavens and cried out to the almighty
God to save his people from the terrible wrath to come.
It was not a cry for vengeance; it wasn’t a cry of pain,
It wasn’t a cry of bitterness or anger, but a cry for pardon
and mercy that sank deep within my guts,
resonate throughout mountains, valleys
and plains then filtering into thin air.
Series of cries rushes through the leaves;
They evaporate in the atmosphere and filled the clouds with rain.
I could hear voices thundering in the ocean,
Beating and riding upon choppy waves.
Voices of the young and old rushes through the air
Voices of the motherless and fatherless, triggered desperation
Voices of starving widows weep for compassion
Voices of strangers and wounded warrior crying out for help.
I could not see them, I could not touch them but I could hear them.
I walked towards the last pinnacle on the branch,
And remained silent while staring at the clear blue sky,
when suddenly I felt empowered by a strong presence that stood beside me.
It held me by my hand and took me across the great big ocean and seated me upon a rock .
It pointed in four directions, and cried out in a loud voice.
Then places its hands upon my head and said
“child I have seen what they have done, and I have heard your cry,"
you are under my covering and no harm will ever come to you.
From now on you shall be my head, and you must go wherever I send you.
You will take my message of mercy and forgiveness to the four corners of the globe.
Those who persist in their evil ways will perish in their own wrath,
but those who will repent of their evil ways will be granted pardon and mercy.
It took me back to the tree and cut all the branches,
the only branch that remained was the one we stood on and hangs over the ocean.
It says pardon and mercy cry out in the deep,go and see to it my dear.
It places a book and gold pen in my hand then disappeared.
©2014 Christine Phillips
The night was dead silent and my body was on fire, sweat start rolling from my head leaving a pool of water in the middle of the bed; my tee-shirt was soaking wet and I was gasping desperately for breath, I thought I was coming down with the flu but that was far from the truth, the external temperature had risen and it felt like a crucible was moving around in the heavens, and so I went outdoors and felt myself drifting towards the shores. I didn’t know how I got there but I was sitting on a big ship, with loud music on the deck and people moving around in duplicates with beach towels wrapped around men bodies and women parading in bikinis. For one moment I felt out of place as the ship move from place to place, through choppy waters and the music gets louder and louder. Waiter and waitress were moving around serving all forms of beverage for extra tips with sliced lemon on the edge of the glass; I knew that the journey would last. I did not plan it, I did not organize it but I find myself in the middle of it. No one was serving me, for they could not see me, but I was silently enjoying their company. More people were coming from inside the ship, and the scene suddenly changed into a carnival mood, and everyone start taking off and tossing their shoes and dancing to the carnival rhythm. The ship kept moving around dropping off and picking up people around cities and towns. I got off at one of the stops and that was the ship’s final stop. The crowd was so thick, and everyone was doing their own thing as they join the carnival rhythm. I felt a deep premonition, but I could not tell what was transpiring on the inside, my body was still hot and something was dripping from the ship that docked beside the board walk next to the crowded bench. I kept drifting from crowd to crowd, until everything was spaced out, something was getting hotter inside me as I made my way towards the edge of the sea. Everyone was having a good time, but something was bubbling up from the inside; the forces were so strong, that it emits a strong energy that exploded in the ship. People were running and screaming and stepping on one another. I woke up from my sleep and realized that I had drifted in the deep and was traveling in my sleep. I was still hot and water was dripping from my back, and the rain began to fall.