Long Collector Poems
Long Collector Poems. Below are the most popular long Collector by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Collector poems by poem length and keyword.
a girl - a word picking storyteller, a writer of dripping emotions
a poet - of penning poems of sadness, of nature and of my life
a sketcher - of nature, of birds, of swaying flowers and trees
a painter - with hope that practice, practice will improve my skill
a photographer - cannot resist zooming in on all things I find
a spiritual - ethereal, unworldly, fragile girl, unique, and unforgettable
a collector - of vintage or anything old like jewelry, dishes and books
a daughter - mom and dad, are you watching me from above?
a granddaughter - grandma you said write it and I never stopped
a mother - to a baby boy who never saw the blue azure sky
a wife - to a name engraved in stone, a love death cannot destroy
a sister - family is everything, and I press them close to my heart
a friend - devoted, in me you will find loyalty, trust and love
a gardener - from seedlings, to plants, to my tiny garden of bright
a dancer - of jazz, hip hop, zumba, and twirling and whirling to music
a survivor - how many times have I crawled out of dark pits of doom?
a thinker - a solitary, introvert, who goes deep within on purpose
a believer - in meditation, in faith and hope and kindness
a seeker - of the present and the future (Is there a Heaven?)
a weeper - of the past, the joy, the sorrow, the decay, the memories
a pet owner - I remember each one, each gift from God a treasure given
a worrier - that at the end of time, of my poetry will be tattered pages
a resident - of beautiful Canada, a vast land of water, forests and life
In my poems I paint pictures with words,
and then, let them fly away birds . . . .
___________________________
April 28, 2020
Poetry/List/I am,
Copyright Protected, ID 20-1247-204-03
All Rights Reserved, 2020, Constance La France
Written for the contest, I am, A list Bio
sponsor, Andrea Dietrich
First Place
I'm known as the fixer
The collector of broken dreams
Setting the pieces like a puzzle
I put gold between the seams
All your thoughts within my reach
I look deep within your mind
That's where the hopes and dreams hide
What I seek I'm sure to find
Dreams you thought impossible
Abandoned to yesterday
Come to life with a single thought
With a whisper I show the way
I truly am the fixer
The repairer of broken dreams
Setting the pieces like a puzzle
I put gold between the seams
You don't need to walk away
This dreaming's not a joke
If you choose to give up faith
Dreams will surely turn to smoke
When you're lost within lifes shadows
And you're feeling coloured blind
I'll open up the door a crack
So that light can flood your mind
Because I am the fixer
The repairer of broken dreams
I see your puzzle pieces
I put gold between the seams
Now you have possibilities
When you start you must follow through
Living your dreams is better
Just believe and they'll come true
I'll help you find the answers
Those gems hidden within your soul
You have an important part to play
It's time to take on your role
For you too are a fixer
A repairer of broken dreams
Setting the pieces like a puzzle
You put gold between the seams
Setting the pieces like a puzzle
You put gold between the seams
On the street corner she stands
So scantly clad
A lady of the night
Her background so sad
From a broken family
Abandoned and lost
She grew up on the streets
No matter her cost
The only man in her life
Is her mentor and pimp
Her collector of fee's
Where he makes his mint
There is no care
For her or others
If they ever complain
It's oxygen smother
To a bedsit she retires
As her business unfolds
Another stat on the bedpost
In another unloving hold
Soiled and used
Once again
If we could see in her heart
Could we ease her pain
The door closes
As she heads back to the streets
The patch where she walks
Where her clients, she meets
Another night over
As she turns in for the night
While he counts his money
From this lady of the night
http://www.thehighlanderspoems.com/life-5.php
"Let me tell you a story about a girl
who was used and abused.She had
so many mishaps in her young life.
Self esteem she had none. Don't talk
about courage, it was very foreign as
well.Until this beautiful lady(collector)
came into her life and told her about
self worth. The first thing she got rid
of was low self-esteem, and replaced
it with confidence.Then she let go of
fear and replaced it with courage and
bravery. Next she got rid of hate.You
may say why hate? She carried around
a self hate for years. She let go of hate
and she found love. The special lady
(collector) taught her many things. But
thing she taught her the most was it was
okay to be herself. For she was a garbage
collector of a broken soul".
07-14-16
For the contest, Garbage
sponsor, Anthony Slausen
If every tongue were stilled the stones would turn and sing
For as the Father has willed so too shall His only Son bring
Curing all the desperately ill, enabling the blind to now see
Eight Beatitudes from atop a hill as later He'll a calm a sea
Seeking out a woman at a well or a tax collector in a tree
They would then go to tell how the Lord had set them free
All those demons Jesus cast out like the one's here today
And yet people sink in doubt and don't even bother to pray
He walked on that turbulent sea and commanded the wind
Dying to set us free as it was only He who had not sinned
Just the power in such a voice and such a love in His Heart
Look at how His People rejoice in knowing they are a part
He changed hearts, minds and ways He can change you too
You owe him all your praise despite the conclusion you drew
Changing water into wine such a transformation that's true
Pickled by an earthly brine is not what He planned for you
Fancy finds me so many flings:
Things of beauty that sure time brings.
Curious fancy seeks fond allure:
This and that see precious and pure.
Greet new keepsake in subtle stuff:
Mellow wit takes beyond enough.
Zesty notions of weird flavours:
Fine devotion in bright colours.
Touch of finesse in hues and tints:
I am witness to silent hints.
So much to add to keeper's code:
Trinkets make glad in buying mode.
Miniature books in special norms:
Library looks a dazzling form.
I keep in mind my sacred finds:
Trust fond align for keepsake kind.
This vast hobby in lovely books:
Tomes now lobby for reading looks.
I sit here now with fond content:
Read truth's endow in clear intent.
A book in hand is my best friend:
Thought motion sends an affluent trend.
I collect things that talk to me:
Beauty now sings to set me free.
So many things to dazzle me:
Heart pulls the strings to let me be.
Leon Enriquez
13 July 2014
Singapore
Now that December has descended
with it's roots of ice and skies of snow
our timber fortress is a sanctuary of ethnographic enlightenment
and embassy that entreats the exchange of craftsmanship,
lately I have been preoccupied with my etymological research,
it is important to President Jefferson, an anthropologist
that we discover the origin of the natives through their languages,
he is obsessed with understanding the diversity of the human race
a bone collector of civilizations and shaman of scholarship,
Private Sheilds, through his blacksmithing expertise
has allowed us to barter iron for corn without which
the Corps of Discovery would either lose vital quantity of provisions,
be reduced to malnourished paupers, or even engage in unscrupulous raiding,
there are still a thousand arduous miles to go
from all estimations, before reaching the Pacific,
as is, the Elders, especially from the Hidatsas
are suspicious of our motives
because of the 18 foot high pallisaded fort we have built adjacent to the Mandans,
so mistrust is suppressed well with an open door policy
and liberal trade of battle axes,
knives, weapon and tool sharpening, kettles, needles and so on,
January 1805,
the new year has introduced 40 below zero weather, syphilis and fists fights,
to stave the ills of boredom we routinely go on hunting expeditions
through the gruelling grip of winter's madness,
another activity that warms the soul are the spectacular jamborees
that conjure the whiles of instincts
and reminds us all how the heart seeks it's deepest expressions,
Cruzzatte plays the fiddle like a tempter of lunatic love
while Silas Goodrich thumbs a mandolin into the dreams of romantic heroism,
the squaws often coo with eyes of diamonds
arms outstretched with fingers swaying like wind blown wheat,
York is a sensation with the Indians
they have never seen a Black Man before
describing him as the black clay of chaos,
they believe there is magic in his skin
touching and rubbing him constantly like a healing stone,
J.A.B.
I’m drunk, but you’re beautiful,
a line I used to rehearse.
The Dreamers’ artistic longing felt noble,
but it came with a curse.
I bought the ticket when I didn’t know better from worse.
Now I’ve got a tale of rebellion,
and I’ll share it in verse,
it all changed one Star Wars Day,
when my thirst reversed.
May the Fourth, and I felt matured.
No Padawan—now Jedi Master,
just a little unmoored.
Met some friends inclined for chilled wine,
drinking enough to feel ruthlessly divine.
That hazy day, glazed in the usual sway.
That familiar vortex, melancholy perturbed.
Soles stained deeply by the absurd,
fermented grapes, chaos,
and the dark side assured.
The dark side calls as we sit with the thirst,
but Skywalker’s force starts thinking first:
“Unlearn what you have learned.”
Yoda’s wisdom, unrehearsed.
I needed a change, something absolute.
Had to break old habits
and reroute my pursuit.
Flip the script, exit the Aristotle loop.
We can still have fun.
Still embrace the absurd.
Someone said, “It’s Star Wars Day,”
and a spark then occurred.
We found a weird café,
celebrating in cosplay,
and somewhere in that moment,
a new hope was incurred.
Arriving at the venue, a little out of town, we found the clan,
Princess Leia sold us tickets on the door deadpan,
no droids allowed, no stormtroopers,
but there was a sandman,
Inside were Wookies at the bar, slamming shots like my mum can.
Han Solo in carbonite poster hanging on the wall,
Kids having lightsaber fights with bar stools, humming bishoooom loudly down the hall.
Glass cabinets with falcons and dioramas were neat.
Cantina soundtrack playing curiously on repeat,
Grabbed snacks, Empires on screen, so we found a seat.
We wandered deeper past merch and collector cases,
through aisles of toys and cosplayed faces.
The type of folk draw to these kind of conventions,
You know the type without me having to mention,
They filled the room with joy beyond pretension,
I watched them just be, and I wanted that,
but I found I had to be patient.
I don’t have to keep falling for the trap,
it’s not just escape, it must be more pure.
I lost a friend that day, and yeah, it’s still sore.
He bowed out—boozehound chasing the score,
while I found experience, absurdity, and something more secure.
the Priest sucked in his Four Star Brandy
hoping that a drunken release
would help him with his conflict
in an alcoholic sleep of peace
the alky swigged his cider
vintage cheap and strong
the crutch to his addiction
making existence crawl along
from separate drunken corners
each in his own private hell
they were taken by the police
to share the same dingy cell
one having achieved the sought
but only temporary relief
from the stress and the doubt
in the strength of his belief
the other just existing
in his world of sleeping rough
which achieved a sort of stability
if he could only drink enough
one was given a caution
for any man can once fall
the other was jailed
with no sympathy at all
one preached from his pulpit
about the dangers of a hell
as the other spent that Sunday
Morning slopping out his cell.
in this world of contradictions
preconceptions can hold sway
as the alky and the priest were each
assessed in society’s preconditioned way
and the Charity collector
stood and shook his tin
pleased by the growing weight
as the passers slid coinage in
a cheap way to ease a conscience
that really didn’t give a damn
about the stresses and strains suffered
in this strangely unequal world of Man
There was a tax collector chief
Who lived in storied Jericho.
He gave the people scant relief;
His stature and regard were low.
Zacchaeus was his given name;
His job: to keep the Roman purse.
His title brought him little fame;
The people called him “dog” or worse.
See, Zacc lived off the people’s toil;
Collecting extra, he would snitch.
Their anger flared, their blood did boil,
For on their backs, he grew quite rich.
And then one day did Jesus stroll
Right through the town and on his way.
Jerusalem, his stated goal;
A greater debt there he would pay.
For out in droves, the crowds he drew;
As Jesus passed, they lined the streets.
Zacchaeus, short, begged for a view;
But they just scoffed at his entreats.
Afraid he’d miss this “Son of Man,”
This carpenter from Galilee,
‘Twas then Zacchaeus hatched a plan;
He ran ahead and climbed a tree.
Now sycamores inform the keen,
For they don’t grow inside the town;
The people liked their village clean;
These drop their leaves upon the ground.
When Jesus paused, looked up to say,
“Zacchaeus, hurry down from there,
For I must stay with you today,”
We know that he had passed town-square.
Then quickly, Zacchaeus came down;
With joy, received him as his guest.
This made the people grumble, frown
That Jesus would a sinner bless.
“A half of all my goods, O Lord,
I give in service to the poor;
Where I’ve defrauded, in accord,
I pledge to pay it back times four.”
“Salvation,” said the Son of Man,
“Has come right here this very day,
For you’re a son of Abraham,
And I seek those who’ve lost their way.”
And thus, the shepherd sought the one,
Revealed the kingdom in new light;
Salvation came as God’s own son
Pursued lost sinners, made them right.
Yes, Jesus entered Jericho
En route to old Jerusalem;
In a repeat of long ago,
The walls came tumbling down again.