Long Clay Poems
Long Clay Poems. Below are the most popular long Clay by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Clay poems by poem length and keyword.
Our ancestors
Of those of the mankind
Which irony is but
Has had discovered
A clay is hardening in fire
Where they threw their game
Into the fire covered in the clay
With this a cookware had appeared
And a boiled food
You are, consuming boiled carrot
Acquire better beta-carotene
Which good is for your VIEW
Apparently THE you
Were meant
TO be discovering this trait
So means this that
You were meant to be discovering
The food have to be boiled
In order top extract
The beta-carotene
You were meant
TO be discovering the cooking
And nutrition
Value
Yet value of the foods
Is different from that of the the entertainment
However not if this isn't a cooking show
WHAT IF THE WORLD WERE BLACK--
What if the world were black;
I mean every single person all nationalities;
All they could see would only be tan, brown, bronze black;
How would you react?
Would you close your eyes, only if you’re prejudice?
Would you say I am yours only if you loved me so?
What if the world were all brown;
Would you stay around;
Does the color of my skin, send you running
Toward me to wound or kill
Or running away cause you fear;
If it were a matter of fact and we were all colored black;
How would the Klan, fair…
Would they even care;
What about all those different religions …
Guess what God is no color God;
Does it matter to Him at all?
Does your spirit soul have a color?
What if the world were black;
I mean every single person all nationalities;
All they could see would only be tan, brown, bronze black;
How would you react?
Would you close your eyes, only if you’re prejudice?
What color are the angels, are they like us;
And what about Jesus?
Take a look at yourself, look around;
Judge no man understand we’re all just clay;
Made by Gods majestic hands…
Breath of life colorless it’s about the inside not the out;
And what about Jesus?
Take a good look at yourself?
2/28/19
Written words by James Edward Lee Sr. ©2019
-----From forthcoming anthology “Reality Realm”
I meander wistfully- -
eyes tracing a panel filled with orange stars
as toes of flowers bend in choreographed waltz,
my element alights through midnight hours
tasting the breast of moon.
And in the stillness of dusk
when all boughs turn to virtues and sins
I will find my own presence in a caravan
of pinned roses in the shade---
till darkness swallows the fog, distilled
while in a collage of framed moments
I inscribe my own name, a signature
which marks the territory from fertile clay;
waltzing not, though flowing in a natural rhythm
like a rare petal..for there's just one of me,
as I meander wistfully - -
End April Standard Contest
Sponsored by Brian Strand
In the depths of my soul, an ocean of tears struggles,
Walls of thoughts collapsing like sandcastles,
I look at myself in the mirror and see a shadow of what I once was,
A landscape of melancholy that knows neither rest nor respite.
This world, a carnival of masks and blinding lights,
Where truth hides beneath thick layers of false smiles,
I feel like an actor playing a role that doesn't belong to me,
When each day becomes a scene of a tragic play.
I try to break myself, to reform from shards,
To mold myself like clay, to transform into something new,
But how to rebuild when the material is pain,
When each fragment bears the mark of an old suffering?
I am a traveler on a never-ending road, without a clear destination,
I hide from the world, I hide from myself,
For only in solitude do I find a temporary refuge,
A place where tears can flow without judgment or fear.
Sometimes, I feel like I'm drowning under the weight of expectations,
A complex mechanism, yet without purpose, keeps capturing me,
And every time a hand reaches out to me,
I tremble, for help is a stranger that stirs my anxieties.
I wish to believe it's just a passing "sometimes,"
That one day I'll find the light at the end of this tunnel,
But until then, I continue to wash my face with tears,
And play the role of silence and smile.
Maybe one day, I'll succeed in reconstructing myself,
To break the walls and let the light in,
To be me, a new me, formed from the ashes of the past,
But until then, I only dream and hope, in the silence of nights.
To make money do what you may
And let no rules come in your way,
Capitalism blares
As laissez-faire declares
Wild ways to thievery,
Packaged nigh cleverly
For robber barons of today,
Who should look in mirror
To reflect on error
And ponder, made they are of clay.
____________________
Happenings |19.11.2024|money, business, mirror
Poet’s note: US, who has charged an Adani company of financial misdeeds, needs to look into its own history of capitalism. The first two lines of this ditty talk of what laissez-faire was and still largely is. A list compiled in 1934 named 26 robber barons (a German term for knights who charged illegal tolls from travellers along with other forms of thuggery). The list includes Andrew Carnegie, JP Morgan, and John D Rockefeller-- who later turned philanthropists and promoters of art to earn rubber stamp of public approval. The country reminds us of a cat on a pilgrimage:
Upon killing hundreds of mice,
A cat is out to wash her vice,
On holy pilgrimage
To pop up her image,
Poor mice paying her laundry price.
My children this is dad, whenever you are sad,
Talk to God, he will listen to you.
Think of something to say, to Him everyday.
At this age, that's what I try to do.
I can say this is true, He keeps his word to me and you,
Throughout my life he always did.
He spoke to my mind, every night at bedtime,
When I was a little kid.
You won't have a clue, when He's speaking to you,
His who, what, why, where, and when's.
When you spend so little time with Him on your mind,
But all day you'll it's your phone and your friends.
The One who took clay, to make humans one day,
Then gave us His lifegiving air.
But we choose to repay, by watching TV everyday,
To our Creator, we hardly even care.
The older you get, each day you will regret,
That you didn't give Him much of a try.
That question will haunt you, again and again,
As you lay awaiting to die.
I use to serve trays at the Bay Pines VA,
For some patients I was the last person they'd see.
They had regrets for the God whom they neglect
Saying, I hope he has forgiven me.
Family is important, so are people and friends.
You might not see God now.
But you will when your life ends.
Love Dad...
In the beginning this boat was bare,
Greenest with infant's sinless stare;
Before soles more selfish than sane
Had trodden its dreary derelict main.
First to blacken its still-tiptop form
Were kith and kin as is sin's norm;
For if brother Cain won't Abel kill,
Which other bloodier maniac will?
Then hopped wild neighbors' feet
Onto this boat's floor sterile neat;
And like schythes thrust to the hilts,
Hurt this bud that yet writhing wilts.
Nor were classmates' limbs and toes
Any kinder to this vessel's prior woes;
Hasty to sprain its ingenuous naiveté,
Sterner kilning did than fire dealt clay.
There finally was that first-ever flame,
Wooled to the wrist like a mild dame;
Which vulpine swill in flannels guised
Took I, and at last this boat capsized!
Ecclesiastes 3:1 [King James Version of the Bible]
To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the
heaven:
Prayer makes man human for in our innocence, we pray.
Knowing, that we're limited in sincerity; we seek.
Palm to palm, oft on our knees, childless, we of clay convey
the hope for healthy children to the Universe, we speak.
Our pairings blessed, our off-springs bloom, each yin seeks a yang.
Coupled moving forward walking hand and hand, yang calls to yin.
All we've known is but a part, a grain, falling from His hand;
adult children pray oft on their knees since, we are akin.
Around and round the cycle rolls in Universes untold
whether the parts know or seek the whole, still they grow, and go.
Yet, only the sentient pray and dream, eyes half open, behold
the Eternal wonder of creation, yet ... who knows, who knows?
Does the quark pray for a quark, does the sun pray for decay
does the Universe seek black holes? Who can say, who can say?
This is for your information
As well as for your inspiration
For your information
My Father, God don't make no junk
He formed me out of a hunk of clay
and this doesn't mean I have to stay this way
I was made a little bit lower than the angels
And promised me He wouldn't destroy the world again by water
Oh! saved and sinner man next time worlds end be by fire
This was left God promises us He shows us His bow
Up high in the skies and clouds
Let me give you the 411
Let me show you what God has done
He's my rock, my foundation my fortress
In Him I'm forever blessed
This is yours and mine
For your information
FYI
04/13/12
written by James Edward Lee Sr.
It’s such season. Even during those long and gray rainy days,
in the drought under the scorching sun, and in the storm that visited with the great flood; the bad seed sown in the springtime holds out till his hour has come with teeth clenched, it took the root in the ground deeply and clutched the high wind with its body, limbs, and twigs. But now, time has grown, and it has turned into red to ripen. And fallen onto earth with decay.
It’s the time of end with so much in need of need. For a flag of evil
torn by an abandoned wind has lost its way, and importunate vindictiveness
fades with the fallen leaves which were writhing on earth that grows harder
with the last breath to find a place to dig, nevertheless, there is not even
a drop of water to wet the chapped lips; nevertheless, no one comes
to help close the eyes which are out of focus.
It’s the wretchedness in the rain. In such a solitary hour that even
the setting sun lost its glory. The torn evil flag was going with reciting dirge
to blaspheme God, demolishes the thickened clay wall, struggles desperately,
and set down the coffin of the sorrowful vindictiveness.
It’s the season of tragic Hellenic mythology. There is no way to fill up
the space between wall and wall, and sick fallen leaves tramps through
the other fallen sick leaves, and the sorrowful maternity has to strangle
her own born child to death.
Nibbling a displeased fruit the rain is falling
and the fallen leaves under the foot are collapsing.