Long Comparable Poems
Long Comparable Poems. Below are the most popular long Comparable by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Comparable poems by poem length and keyword.
The people surrounding me keep asking “why are you going back and forth uneasily on the empty stage shedding crocodile tears, and telling the stories of negative effects on others, though you are not of a man of faculty who is even able to produce a theory comparable to 'Blind Will of Universe', one of worst hypothesizes a man can think of.
It’s because though,
when a worldly-minded snob shouts from a podium
“you should have a positive attitude,” while displaying
his resume proudly with the title that is little-to-do with his personality,
his limited academic background that barely conceals the lack of intelligence, and insignificant accomplishment with somewhat concocted experience hiding his real being and thought, he receives respect from the audience who fascinated by every movement the snob makes in the form of applaud with standing ovation, I was always treated badly from audience, fed only by unwelcome astringent fruits of rejection and drink bitter tasting water sprang from unwanted rotten roots to quench my desire…
And that’s why the course of my reasoning became negative,
and, as a natural consequence, no matter how often you may say
to the audience “you ought to be a person of positive attitude,”
since there are more negative aspects surrounding us than
the positive elements, and that’s why I was accepted by
others negatively. More importantly, I was treated negatively
from others simply because reality goes before me.
Although positive thinkers boast themselves as if their thoughts are
sound and healthy, by saying that the water in a cup is half full;
negative thinkers sigh with a defected air and say that a cup is
half empty. However, it doesn’t make any difference how you think,
men’s thoughts cannot surpass the physical phenomena
and, therefore, a half is a half, no more nor less than a half.
In the boundary and limit is as such, whether you like it or not,
men have to go on the path of their own destiny.
Then, why does everyone has to have a positive attitude? I suppose,
that is, not more than a writhe of the men who won’t admit reality
in desperate agony. That’s the self-gratification of men
who are not able to face the facts as they are.
[The irony is, nonetheless, man is able to bear and raise a baby
by an act of self-gratification. It’s amazing, the world is a place
full of wonders.]
Your most recent interest in observational truth in laptop monitor
Gave you an ultimatum today.
He , as she, in he, as she again, grabbed you in all kinds of tree ,
remnant there before serenity
What is poetry, in the end?
Thinkable pedagogy, is , for the most bizarre reason, telling you
That this is comparable prepositions, with positionality
And the fruit of loom, or something relatable, there.
I felt a bang , and got a downsizing pounding sound,
Between, Jerusalem, Nazareth and prepaid Jesus to pay
More and more for a daycare say.
For a sip from the cup of the finest exported loose leaf tea
Are you a mere sip there, or you started to travel there, onsite
Creating all kinds of copyright issues, as the illegibility
Never declared you anywhere, in norms, in mother’s winter coat
Exactly how much was fatherly charm there, and how much there was a mere setting warmth
As people learn to happen in alibi as there is no straightforward way to find a definition or vision
Your cat was unthinkably your budget failure key, as they mew and sigh
But they were there, truly, with your most delicate caring try.
I think it is a joking endowment
As it will be a mere lump some .
Your rides and ride share with the knight rider storyteller
Only comparable to Little Red Riding hood
Changing the destined persona too, irreversible and altogether
I do not blame , judge , or juxtapose, there, I never pity too
But Bangla, and exactly 21 years long stay on this territory, with often heavy Bangla
I think I dreamt you last night, where you , as a soul and Clover, in a body
Did happen as the most charismatic duo! With a Zulkarnine monitor truth in!
Licking on the other side for hours and hours in longer duration
Will lead nowhere , exactly nowhere , other than, this, mortal life
Is a conscious choice between claim, proclaim and proclamation
I am a reluctant reader there, trying to look through, even beyond allegory and alighieri
You do not hold them accountable for your compositional hype for a dirge
That does not act linearly with your issue room, tissue room, and culture vulture too!
All you can say should stay there, for ever.
Do not send help reaching out there, never there
Simply a one liner truth for falling short from a papyrus poem, anyway
As this must be helping to internalize, more than anything than that.
We forget we are like trees, our roots run deep, and far they reach
Unseen they mostly are, hidden out of side, so deep
Some forget them, and their histories and from where they came
Their mothers, mothers, mothers name
And their fathers, fathers, fathers name. These roots our foundation, have many names
Without them, we would not be the same.
And much like the tree, we need nourishment to grow
The right amount of food and water must flow
In and out of our body it goes, like that of the trees trunk in which it helps feed
The trunk is our body , which came from a seed ,that was you in your mother’s womb she like grass that covers the trees seed.
And the soil in which we grow. And then seemingly leave
Seemingly invisible connections, unseen roots still connect us to she.
We grow and we branch, bearing many a fruit, attempting to reach our father in the sky, but never quiet reaching that high,
But still high enough, as the light is clearer here, before we were children, like the little tree, under the cover of many higher other canopies.
Our family and friends, ones that came before, much older than me, but now I am equal in height to the, some them now, stand beneath me. much like one day, the smaller younger trees of today will be equal to me. Children are these trees.
As life is, the seeming passing of things .
The gentle breathe of wind that strokes the face of me, is comparable to the wind that gently shakes her leaves, her canopy sways slowed like a woman’s hair blows in the breeze
He stands in storms,, hail and snow. Nothing will stop his potential growth.
The storms, hail and snow, for us are like the world affairs we undergo.
For it toughens us and makes us stronger, after its low.
For if rain is sadness and sun is a smile .
Then surely, we need a little of both, to understand the balance, like a rivers flow.
For with constant sun, it would always be lacking, needing rain but nothing passing .
As with only rain, it would need sun, either one alone and the tree would stun.
The ups and downs, as it sees the sun rise tall every day, before it falls, only to repeat the journey on a never changing its course.
They were never the tree, that was simply a temporary home, now they return to ether, to nothing, their original home .
We forget we are like trees, our roots run deep, and far they reach
Unseen they mostly are, hidden out of side, so deep
Some forget them, and their histories and from where they came
Their mothers, mothers, mothers name
And their fathers, fathers, fathers name. These roots our foundation, have many names
Without them, we would not be the same.
And much like the tree, we need nourishment to grow
The right amount of food and water must flow
In and out of our body it goes, like that of the trees trunk in which it helps feed
The trunk is our body , which came from a seed ,that was you in your mother’s womb she like grass that covers the trees seed.
And the soil in which we grow. And then seemingly leave
Seemingly invisible connections, unseen roots still connect us to she.
We grow and we branch, bearing many a fruit, attempting to reach our father in the sky, but never quiet reaching that high,
But still high enough, as the light is clearer here, before we were children, like the little tree, under the cover of many higher other canopies.
Our family and friends, ones that came before, much older than me, but now I am equal in height to the, some them now, stand beneath me. much like one day, the smaller younger trees of today will be equal to me. Children are these trees.
As life is, the seeming passing of things .
The gentle breathe of wind that strokes the face of me, is comparable to the wind that gently shakes her leaves, her canopy sways slowed like a woman’s hair blows in the breeze
He stands in storms,, hail and snow. Nothing will stop his potential growth.
The storms, hail and snow, for us are like the world affairs we undergo.
For it toughens us and makes us stronger, after its low.
For if rain is sadness and sun is a smile .
Then surely, we need a little of both, to understand the balance, like a rivers flow.
For with constant sun, it would always be lacking, needing rain but nothing passing .
As with only rain, it would need sun, either one alone and the tree would stun.
The ups and downs, as it sees the sun rise tall every day, before it falls, only to repeat the journey on a never changing its course.
They were never the tree, that was simply a temporary home, now they return to ether, to nothing, their original home .
Eldest daughter – I Praise
Twenty two years ago
December twenty second,
two thousand eighteen
"star student" born
this papa (and most
likely thee birth mother)
initially felt ecstatic,
dramatic (yes frenetic),
and careworn
as freshly minted parents,
but gifted with a daughter,
whose existence far
more precious
than any Earthborn
rare widgets, gewgaws,
gems, et cetera, despite
evoking unsolicited,
unpleasant, and
unmanageable forlorn
communication "dirt poor"
living (at least ten years
of wretchedness at 1148
Greentree Lane) unable
to toot your horn,
cuz unbearable, undesirable,
unforgettable, et cetera,
and manifold challenged ,
when beloved Shana
Punim evinced inborn
developmental delay,
(which severe electric
koolaid acid test
patience of this father),
much more difficult
than playing krummhorn,
now after tendering the trials
and tribulations, an
amalgamation of
poignant affects,
whereat your
permanent presence...
(must never NOT precede mine),
cuz..., I would definitely mourn,
your absence, thus felt the timely
opportunity to dash off
a birthday poem to you
in tandem with sharing,
(while comfortably numb
and figuratively licking war
torn psychological wombs) - torn
and ripped, queued,
peppered natty psyche
pockmarked with scorn
from self, (and those lives,
this dada immediately
impacted) particularly
your person roar'n
with cumulative anger toward
this insightful fellow,
(who claims to know
what thee feel toward me),
especially when ****
hours of valuable
time, now caught
(say, eh...approximately, fraught
upon the half life of rare Earth
element Eden), not
just strictly naught
heard thru the grapevine,
but forcing Math (hew)
analysis, via meditation, poetry
writing therapy, et cetera.
Hence...I apologize,
asper unasked for pain wrought
thee, sans being unemployed,
demeaning "mother Abby,"
bumbling, horrid house
keeper (Hagrid himself,
would turn down invitation),
plus Facebook fiasco,
imbroglio, and locomotive -
complicit in behavior
comparable to pedophile,
yet please let me conclude
by admitting total lack
of wherewithal.
HAPPY BIRTHDAY DEAR DAUGHTER!
If the courage still exists to do so in our age of political correctness, many of us could ATTEST to the fact that America and the free world have been and is one of the greatest experiments known to mankind since the creation of the nation of Israel in Abraham's time. People of such loyal and patriotic blood are prayerful people who have mindsets of "Thrivers and not Survivalists". But let it be known that to do so requires more than a little NUANCE and a big step away from the normality of politics, whether liberal or conservative. One must have a strong and matured PROCLIVITY for 'outside the box' creative measures of change founded on time-tested principles rather than the latest 'feel good' philosophy. Sometimes, depending on the gravity of the times, TEMERITY is not only appropriate, but it might very well be the last rash act of sanity left for the preservation of a nation. Perhaps the real climate change that is more likely to bring the world to its knees is not taking place in the atmosphere of our environment, but in the sanctuaries of churches, on the streets, and in the halls of Congress in countries the world over. We can pray and do our due diligence as citizens and see a sea of renewal and revival, or not, and watch this fertile land turn to a BARREN desert, or we can stand idly by taking pictures on our cell phones as we watch the sad SAGA of a free world too painful to record. A world unsupported by the prayers of its people would be comparable to, if not worse than, a loss of MARROW in our bones. At the Alimo, those last brave 200 freedom loving Texans, when given options by Mexico to surrender or die, replied with cannon fire. Help never arrived in time for their rescue nor was there to be found an APERTURE pointing a way for escape. However, like the sons and daughters of Abraham at Masada, they never surrendered. This is no time to hate, to horde, or even for survivalists to head for the hills as the world in the valleys go to hell in a handbasket. Regardless of where our native soil might be, we owe it to our homeland to pray and lift up our pens and voices till the children of the earth become children of God or until the King of kings and Lord of lords establishes His Great Kingdom upon the earth.
10262018PoSoupContest, Eight word challege-9, John Hamilton
All hail thy – sweet – small – courtesies of life.
For smooth do they make the road of it.
Grace and beauty – they cut so deep not unlike a knife -
They beg all inclinations toward love at first sight.
Yes, ‘tis those courtesies which let the stranger in.
And those tones and mannerisms, they too have a meaning.
Oh - ‘tis a blessed thing,
One for which I could lose myself
To the honor of my aching.
I fear a heart which bears all to itself.
Oh yes, open – ‘lest it shut it all out.
So I ask, “Are not my eyes the scout
For which my heart journeys?
That vision, is it not flowing through my arteries
Bringing my heartbeat’s rhythm in tune?
Oh, let that beat be mine none too soon.”
With that said, she laid out her arm in front of me.
Taking hold of her fingers in my one hand, I aptly
Apply two fingers of my other hand to her wrist -
Firmly - and begin counting her heart's throb.
“One – two – three – four,” counting out aloud
Measuring each heartbeat as it happens –
Hoping to find the art of her fever.
I close my eyes as I continue to count – thinking –
There is no occupation in the world comparable
To feeling a woman’s pulse.
And when I had counted to twenty five
I looked up into her eyes and
At that instant I felt her pulse quicken.
She clutched my fingers tighter in the one hand
While pressing the wrist of her other hand
Harder into my account.
Is it possible for two to become one bone and flesh?
If that is true, what is everything else to become?
Sometimes yours while at other times the other has it?
All the while to be generally on par tallying up the score
As each of us permit the other to share in ourselves –
At least in as much as a man and a woman need to.
Not unlike a bag full of pebbles which started out jagged
And rough, with very little gleam.
Only ‘tis after being years in the bag together
Do the stones, having had many amicable collisions
Wearing down their angles and edges, do they
Become well rounded and smooth with the brilliance
Of their combined luster.
Nothing to either could have ever been
Accomplished alone.
She looks back into my eyes as she presses her wrist into me
and asks,
“How does it beat with you?”
Placing her hand on my neck I say,
“Feel for yourself -
‘Tis an improvement –
‘Tis my evidence.”
Learning when/how to close seat then...
flush... the toilet with good frisson!
(alternately titled long windedly
using lower case letters:
no matter tidily bowled over based
upon real events, perhaps subject devoid
of literary merit and/or taste
no embarrassment, cuz
I got nothing to cover
despite precious time going to waste).
Analogous to constipation,
constitutes full term pregnancy,
perhaps umpteenth or first,
which former offal bodily function I durst
mention, said subject doth stink,
yet... exercising bowel
applicative, constrictive, effective,
exhaustive, gesticulative, instinctive,
massive, oppressive, qualitative,
quantitative, significative and unitive
(beg to differ if ye think me perverse)
both scenarios prone to stress and strain,
difficulties can arise evacuating bowels
gluteus maximus muscles severely pursed,
radiating sharp stabbing sensations
behind junk in trunk quarters felt
until bulging temple veins ready to burst,
where piles of hemorrhoids
foul rectum tortured and accursed
necessitating Judas Priest well versed
to issue last rites while
appropriate official dull livers worst
news to missus, whose
inconsolable sympathies nursed,
nevertheless bit torrent of sorrow
honor alone time with grateful dead
subsequently finds medical personnel disbursed,
privately newly minted widow mourning
tears for fears immersed
bemoaning sudden permanent absence
gone fore e'er foremost farter figure first
instance obliterated, when posterior
uproariously (actually not funny)
inflicted hemorrhage emergency,
die hard ludicrous poet (me) experienced
all expense chauffeured ride in hearst
aforementioned purportedly roughly comparable,
courtesy hearsay, when
hypothetical woman with child,
(here, I metaphorically paraphrase)
as maven ready to take aim giving birth
(nine months after satiating
hankering call of the wild
buzzfeeding miracle worker whipped thirst,
and temporarily appeased
inherent maternal yearning
to beget offspring, then... off to races
sprinting at greased lightning speed
amazingly enough slightly protruded womb,
(among other fledgling
and/or practiced moms avid runners
all touted as winners relay race crossing
finish line simultaneously
comprising distance measuring more'n verst.
Apology to the missus at nighttime...
first day of January
two thousand and twenty three.
While the wife then in the process
of leaving a telephone message
for our eldest daughter,
(on vacation, thus unreachable)
her cajoling tone of voice
beckoned, intimated, and _underscored
curiosity to discover
how romance blossomed
between first born
and soulmate of offspring
while both progeny and
Puerto Rican young man
both freshmen in the same dormitory
at University of Pennsylvania.
I unthinkingly blurted out
thy spouse acting nosy
triggering cascading denial
of marital transgressions
(quite brutish and nasty of me)
scoring invisible black barbs
upon tender flesh
seriously contemplating divorce
to implement bartered bride
blithely cavorting with bonnie lass
abandoning desirability, eternity, fidelity...
adopting following motto de jure
gather ye rosebuds while ye may.
How innocuous for spouse clamoring
to get low down how biological daughter
came upon midnight clear
acquainting, befriending, cohabiting...
eventual future linkedin lucky man
at least once upon a poem ago
aforementioned perfect match
(like two peas in a pod).
Seconds after the rather
sarcastic word (nosy) uttered
yours truly wished he never blurted
underhanded stinging rebuke.
Whether twas love toward the spouse
who approximately twenty seven years prior
yours truly pledged troth and vowed
to uphold sanctified covenant,
when me late father in law
escorted his "baby"
down the wedding aisle.
Nevertheless I blurted out
acid tinged comment
(as iterated above)
generated an after effect
recounting me being unfaithful husband
suddenly nauseous surge
induced gag reflex
synonymously tasting like bile
no amount of washing mouth out with dial
could affect comparable retraction
wanting to turn back hands of time
best recourse would necessitate
severing ties with humanity
and accepting nothing short of exile
(for questing, trespassing, violating...
acquiescence toward verboten fruit)
walking barefoot over hot coals
every last desolate mile
despite exhibiting weariness
qua swiftly tailored harried style
years later still experiencing
gruelling emotional trial.
On the dreary streets of a quaint but callus steadfast hamlet
A pearl in the bluster carries a handwoven sweet grass basket
The umbrella' d tinge of the tiny town was opaque and gray
As the girl in the blue dress out shined the break of day
A beauty comparable to the first hint of light after winters darkest night
Emerging from the black ashes of peril like a beacon in your sight
Walking a well beaten footpath to town that was forged by frequency
She seemed to float on the earth's surface with affluent translucency
With a quick cut through an alley she'd enter a market in the center of town
Where farmers, hucksters, and traders peddled their wares till the sun melted down
There was a hastening hum to the hurry and hustle of the bustling crowds
But she stood out with a deafening silence as does the sun amongst clouds
My ears quelled the chaos as my eyes froze the scene like a loyal horse waiting
She was the sole proprietor of movement in my eye's still life painting
From the first instant I saw her, many pairs of years ago
She implanted herself inside me as a seed with a need to grow
Her smiles were the rain that perked me up when I was wilting
Life is but a patchwork of blocks the gods must be quilting
And if the large design of life were sewn together pieces of fabric effigies
I'm the stitch in the ditch of the piece work that she will never see
When our eyes made contact It was the sunlight I needed to thrive
For I'm but the sapling in the forest fighting for some sun to survive
To survive the cruelties of nature is a feat far from a cinch
Formidable giants must fall for me to gain but an inch
Generations of time pass till the present season is all that I got
And one by one all the old growth must rot
And the timbering of my brethren in the past has been fine
But now I creek when the wind blows and I'm next in the line
Time cannot age youthful thoughts that are as sweet as honeydew
As my mind travels back to that pretty girl in the hand sewn dress of blue
The handful of times our hands touched strengthened me like the winds from the west
I'll never forget the girl in the pretty blue dress