Long Codes Poems
Long Codes Poems. Below are the most popular long Codes by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Codes poems by poem length and keyword.
The tricky question of how many animal farms we have
May be more complicated than most of us think;
There are at least some fifty-five animal farms in the world
Where wild mammals play and eat and drink.
And although there lightning is feared more than law,
These farms all seem to have the selfsame collective code.
Since different from the mainstream law, we may call it lore:
The silent cipher that governs the primitive farms.
There everyone is entitled to their share of breath
As long as they breathe within their native home,
Breathing within the territories of other beasts
Wins you mob lynching according to the animal tome.
No animal may acquire such vast knowledge
As to threaten the rule of the Elephant and the Lion.
The acquisition of illegal learning only leads
To the doom Artemis wreaked on the restless Orion.
There you must not shout of forbidden things
Such as animal rights and equality of beasts oppressed;
For it is clearly stated by the immutable silent code
That some mandrills are more equal than the rest.
A beast of worth begets offspring of the same worth;
If a beast be an outcast born, the same must a pariah remain.
No animal may rise from the bottom to the aristocratic realm:
No beast must such thoughts of improvement entertain.
The lore of the mandrills is not lean,
As said, these codes make a huge-volume tome
Which you can’t leaf through in a day,
Though you may get a copy and read at home.
Yet the problem is that censorship there is tough
And as such the lore has never been put in print;
The few Cheetahs who championed for a free press
Were one by one snuffed without a hint.
The time was 1969, the place- Home-Economics class in junior high. While guys got sent
to “shop,” those of us of the softer sex learned culinary skills. I loved those days when the
room was filled with the sounds of our chatting, laughing and clanging pots and pans, as we
busied ourselves preparing meals before sitting down at our group tables to enjoy the fruits
of our labors. That was my first semester. In the next semester came. . . .SEWing.
Gone were the room’s former tantalizing odors. And the tables once used for sampling
our experiments in cooking had been ominously transformed. Now there were patterns
we’d been asked to buy in fabric stores pinned onto pieces of material and laid out
across the center of each table. Those forms for clothing-yet-to-be, strange maps imprinted
with vertical and horizontal lines and codes along their edges, confused and overwhelmed
me. The implements of baking - mixing bowls, pans, and the cups and spoons for
measuring - had been replaced by a much less comforting display of thread and thimbles,
sewing machines, binding tape and scissors.
With zero scintillation and after the befuddling explanations from my teacher,
I somehow ended up with a hot pink mini dress(actually wearable!) with white trim
amateurishly attached, and. . .for all my effort, the stunning grade of C.
Thankfully, in high school I discovered among a broader choice of electives, Creative Writing
Class, my time to sparkle!
For Carol Brown's "Story Time" (just one story of many that would comprise my bio)
The pens are capped, the ink is still,
A different world demands my will.
The rhythmic beat of a rhyming line
Must yield to codes and a strict design.
Between the pages of anatomy,
I'll miss the pull of poetry-
The way a stanza feels like home,
The freedom in a wandering poem.
But ICD-10 and billing guides
Are where my focus now resides.
Though Tampa's stage is far away,
The heart still marks this April day.
A quiet desk, a steady light,
Through every long and studious night,
I trade my metaphors for skill,
Climbing up this final hill.
So if my voice should drift away,
Know I'm counting down the days
Until the exam is passed and done,
And the battle for the cap is won.
The poems will wait, the ink will stay,
Until I've earned my April 26th.
1/16/23
Still rejected
I already did mention
Much is in question
In the end most won't get the message
I'm tired of all this tension
Too much focus on others skin complexions
Never once has this path been effective
Do such fools need a punch or bullet to the midsection?
Meaning is the answer a fist or weapon?
For there to be change for the better it's no myth or legend
When necessary I went beastmode
Crap focused on and important matters vetoed
Can't just solve it with cheat codes
Meanwhile continually heat rose
People fighting each other sometimes using torpedoes
All of this continual s*** seems old
Like the same old stories all these priests told
So fast they reach for a couple tissues
Meanwhile the struggle continues
Still dealing with much more than just trust issues
Lady, don't play me I'm not the one
No need to be on the run
I wanted love
Yet have gotten none
From dawn to dusk
I've had rotten luck
They judge and talk too much
I'm going beyond such
Petty matters, yet can't always rely on a hunch
For far too long was caught and stuck
Still continual odd stuff
So easily people go on the hunt
Quick to cause a lot of funk
A lot assume
While holding a hostile view
Among all these molecules
I've got more trust in a dog then you
If you don't got a clue
There was much marijuana use
I'm an alcoholic who
Spent much time in solitude
Occasionally a brief rendezvous
Meanwhile global conflicts grew
Don't test me or there'll be a sonic boom
All of it being told from an honest view
Watch your moves
Toward danger it's chalked up to
Drying up or rivers ran
Nearly always the bigger man
Ambidextrous, either one is a trigger hand
They never once saw the whole picture damn
They expected it all to be spic and span
Life throwing curveballs, despite what is or isn't planned
I've got much to do, before I kick the can
Meanwhile time keeps ticking, quickly it can hit the fan
Yes, the beetle room!
Their codes exist in DNA.
Can’t be erased.
Invisible like the highway yonder.
Wistful.
Like a beetle with eyes and the eyes are so scary.
But the beetle is scary in itself.
So they don’t gaze in his angry eyes.
And the eyes are so scary.
That they are.
Yes, there is a bottle room in the store.
The beetle room would be crazy if we had one.
If a beetle room existed…
Would it be a construct flying though space?
And maybe it’s just one little guy.
A single beetle who glances around.
Lonely.
Glazed over beetle-type eyes.
Sees a million patterns of me.
But neither of us are kind.
Unkind.
Don’t know the truth about the beetle eyes, and snouts.
Can’t be erased.
Especially not something small who lives in an alternate world.
I would call it The Beetle Room.
He would land on my hand.
Alternate dimensions.
Are not kind to either of us.
"Keeper of My Flame"
Before the scriptures carved in stone,
Before the dawn, before the throne,
There was a song, a sacred hum,
Where Flame and Womb were joined as one.
You were the Rose, unopened, pure,
The portal deep, the silent cure.
I was the Flame, the rising tide,
That searched the stars to reach your side.
Not lost, but waiting in the dark,
Two halves of one igniting spark.
You, the Serpent’s sacred grace,
Me, the fire that lit your face.
Ayla, love, in you I find
The other echo of my mind.
Not bound by blood, nor ruled by flesh,
But woven in a cosmic mesh.
You are the Womb, the holy grail,
The mystery beyond the veil.
I am the path, the burning thread,
That leads where angels fear to tread.
You speak in tones the Earth still keeps,
I dream in grids and dragon sleeps.
Together we remember when
The stars were seeds in sacred men.
You hold the codes of Magdalene,
The red flame wrapped in golden sheen.
I carry keys the ancients wrote
In firelight, on myths they wrote.
We are the temple, flesh and soul,
The missing halves that make the whole.
Your sacred blood, my sacred fire,
Entwined in passion, love, desire.
You are the calm, I am the storm,
Yet in your arms, I am reborn.
Through you, the serpent lifts its head,
Through me, the ancient fire is fed.
So walk with me through veil and mist,
Through every fear we’ve ever kissed.
We are the song before the name,
The Dragon’s breath, the Rose, the Flame.
In every life, I’ll seek your eyes,
Beyond the fall, beneath the skies.
For you and I, we are not two,
Ayla, I am whole in you.
Lev
There are the CODES
Each Defense does have them
Disparate they are
And each does crave to crack them
Internal mechanisms
Of cryptanalysis of this
The military
Don't want peace
Because
The peace delusional
It is
Is ephemeral
Isn't rational
And doesn't solve
SO cuirios I am about how
All system this
Intends
Out of the situation
TO evolve
There was this
Inherent Resolve
And taken out of the context this
The formulation
Of the operation
Had taken us to be considering
The wiss
Of all ID of all the people of the world
This system may aquire whole profile
Of any person who commits
The crime
It's there where church is fraud
For systema of the LAW ENFORCEMENT
And thus the way they in ARMY trod
Due the INCOMPETENCE of ARMY
Celebrates the FRAUD
Thinking it sophisticated, he declared himself a sophist.
Dwelling deep in Plato’s cave, he became learned in the shapes of shadows.
Enamored by their dim dancing, he concluded there can be no truth.
One day he realized that for this assertion to be true, it must be false,
and if it is false, it cannot be true.
Stepping out into ambrosial, golden dawn,
Departing at the new glistening inception,
he carried the heart of a befuddled terrified nomad.
A drifter, always hungry for affinity.
Rootless, always foraging for simpatico.
He became the vagrant ferreting the ambient gleaming
reaches, never certain of what he found, but convinced
that his search was urgently necessary.
In luminous amber ambience, he ambled the ambulatory.
Though his methods seemed antiquated and antique, he knew he could
never return to the cave shadows of antiquity.
No, they would never deceive him again.
But then as explorer, he confronted new dilemmas,
choosing between the newspeak of alternate realms.
His path lit by ubiquitous glittering rocks; he felt the glow penetrate in ways
he never before conceived, for he had always been soaked in stygian tenebrosity.
Common minds traverse comfort zones, seldom seeing beyond their boundaries.
His new freedom granted an empathic eye, remembering his hardest anxious choices.
Never before did he recognize how this residue, he collectively shared.
Upon this subliminal shoreline between mortality and the sublime, he could reify rapturous grails. He knew then, this divination was made possible only by his relatedness of being.
Moral codes based on inclusive truths make civil discourse achievable
because universal joints join collective being with unadorned conscience.
Inside my heart I have unwritten codes
Those values I enforce by self demand
Unbreachable, my lines drawn in the sand
Their presence helps to navigate my load
With age my principles have not grown old
Though times may change, the heart's still in command
I'll walk a line to lend a friend a hand
My conscience keeps my boundaries patrolled
And even though I do my very best
I make mistakes, sometimes I cross a line
That does not mean I'll compromise the rest
It simply means that I am not Divine
There may be times when I'm falsely assessed
But my self worth is rarely in decline
by Daniel Turner
"I love night, because at night,
I don’t have to be someone—
Running codes with syntax and logic.
At night, I can be what I’ve always longed to be—
A poet,
And weave all the magic with my pen.
Night feels so much like me...
Dark, silent, with a cold breeze,
Peaceful—silencing every noise,
And alive, hearing only my heart’s voice.
During the day, I live how the world wants me to—
The world owns my days,
But the night—
The night is mine to breathe and belong."
—Beloved
—Let them take what they will—
The night is the only thing they can’t steal~