Long Comparison Poems
Long Comparison Poems. Below are the most popular long Comparison by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Comparison poems by poem length and keyword.
So I sit here and self reflect going through the lessons I was taught and forced to
spit out the right answers I disagreed with and now have the chance to say Hitler
was the victim
and in Vietnam there was no hero but a cleansing of getting rid of thousand of
serial killers desperate for the love of an abusive god they didn’t know how to
stand up against who wanted someone to blame
When we write the next history book of lies about today’s liars and propaganda
and confusion
And if I could sneak into the history pages
What lessons would I try to teach the students of a continent to say you don’t
have to have church in school for there to be a god
Look at me look at me
Figure out my riddle
If you’re that brave but write down the wrong answer or you’re in trouble
And then wait to find like-minded individuals
What lesson would I teach the world using all of the world’s actors?
Me as everybody’s fool
So the spiritually impoverished could study one chapter of history and walk away
with their hands full of gems and spiritual crowns and realize
they now have a test of psychology to figure out all the pieces of their world
to under stand the script we have written for them
and who amongst them are false and true prophets either playing along or who
knows what domino is going to catastrophically going to fall
What’s the perfect act for my actors with me to carry them into history?
If I could just sneak in
But how do I get in there?
How do I show them history doesn’t care if you’re skinny or fat?
Ugly or beautiful
Stupid or smart
Do I care what essays the might write about me in the future if I was to make it in
comparison to our politicians
Would there be a whole course in school called figuring out the world’s scripts
101
I could change the world if you let me
And in all honest as I protest some things here and there
You are another domino
and a piece of my claim to my fame
and maybe one day it will be someone else
but 27 years of serenading me and stealing my dreams
Id rather have lived my hell on earth for a reason of where vie cried for the world
and had the confusion as to why my names are songs to be for good
then to be jealous of a man who spent three days in my shoes and was crucified
for trying to live a lie
But ignorance is bliss
Deep within Earthen bowels
immensely distant from sheltering sky
amidst a thick fog enveloped landscape
with here and there a projected
craggy, derelict chasm
precipitously crooked
rocky claws pointing toward
an infinitely wide yawning abyss
dwelt kindred spirits
comprising soul asylum
where grateful dead (albeit marked,
via weathered tomb stones)
hermetically sealed
once vibrant corporeal mortals
betook their eternal slumber.
One among their number
included a misanthrope
who sported long straggly hair
bushy eyebrows shield
ding cold eyes of steel
straggly bearded clammy chin
in tandem with a hairy body
which when alive (long time ago)
upheld upon unshod feet, a severely
hunchbacked cretin
Within dense pitch-black terrain
(Mother Nature enlisting
a menagerie of life forms
accustomed to hellish environment)
awash with unrecognizable
alien sights and sounds
mollycoddling bewitching warlocks,
mailer daemons, trolling trojan horses
imps of the pervert chieftains, fiery
long and fostered Golems
who called underworld
their private demesne
also alluded to Marcy's playground
holding hostage Alice in Chains
Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles,
The Beastie Boys, Culture Club
The Human League, and
Village People a Crowded House
Emitting wisps of ethereal matter
appearing a small medium at large
chat snap ping, flickr ring
indeed joyus minions
exalting piety good and plenti.
Prone ounce sing proud purgatory
promoting protean phantasmagoria
hideous hulu hoop dancing holograms
highly distorted grotesque
silent 10,000 maniacs screaming
sinister semblance to banshees
slithering across escarpment.
Echoing one end of universe to the other
putting to shame initial big bang
ranking as a mere whimper
that original primordial blast
which cosmological exploits
generated heavenly sphere instantaneously
comparison viz Krakatoa times Googleplex
essentially reduced to insignificance
albeit on the analogous tinker toy
premised conjectures of brilliant minds
could gander feeble educated guesses
asper extraordinary natural phenomena
mortal mankind could never approximate
as belligerent threats punctuated,
via nuclear warfare
merely rates as a flickr
amidst uber kindle snap chat ting
tinder blinks, extinguishes,
snuffs out one lowly
Beatle browed bipedal simian.
40th Marathon For 70 Year Old
Almost in disbelief, I reread the headline of this one particular online piece of news….
A 72-year-old Retiree Just Ran His 40th New York Marathon, screams the title of this news…
Reading on, Dave Obelkevich, he has done the most consecutive New York City Marathons…
For his 40th milestone run, he professed his training has been less than ideal ahead of this marathon..
For this sprightly distance runner, even a hamstring injury and a calf injury were no deterrent…
He aims to again complete the world’s largest race, this hugely popular New York Marathon run..
“I won’t run fast but I know I can finish”, he simply declares soundly his mission in this latest marathon…
Being realistic, he hopes only to finish within a set time to extend his streak of finishing marathons……
The visuals that backed up this news article showed runners amassed in numbers, nothing fake…
Of all shapes and sizes, the news article did state, runners local and foreign, they are here to participate.
Smiles aplenty, hands waving and high fives were in ample evidence of how times have changed…
From little band of dedicated runners to one of a huge big family of athletes and of amateurs….
Reading on, Mr Dave kindly elaborated, today the runners are in running more for the finish…
A great many more are there just to be in the running, never mind how you finish, so long as you finish…
I could feel the exhilaration and the stupefying elation of a successful run should I be there to finish…
I should think the exhaustion pales in comparison to the euphoric sensations when the run is finished..…
After 40 marathons and miles after miles of pounding the tarmac, Mr Dave is still a sensation…
With his spirit, zest and thirst for marathon runs yet unquenched, he awaits for the next edition..
How I wish one fine day, I too can meet Mr Dave the Marathon veteran of 40 New York Marathons…
Like he said, everyone wish to be there and to take in the sights while running the NY Marathon…
I know I will not be able to keep up with such a running veteran, never mind his ageing years…..
But just to run beside such a veteran over a distance, wow, what a privilege to be there….
Just a tribute to a genuine running man
http://www.star2.com/people/2015/11/03/a-72-year-old-retiree-just-ran-his-40th-new-york-marathon/
I. Theory
She is dark and her darkness frightens you. But as closer you come to her, the lighter the darkness becomes. How bright the light were, if a thousand suns would rise in the sky at once, but even such unbearable light powerlessly pales in comparison with the darkness of the one who scares you so much. The whole world, from heaven to hell, from black holes to snake’s ones, from the purest aspirations of human soul to the dirtiest pores of its flesh, is soaked with darkness like a sponge... Speaking of which, who is a class monitor today? The blackboard after the lesson should be virgin clean.
so don’t be afraid
come close and take the final
step toward yourself
II. Practice
Blind, hands in front, moving forward slowly. Or walking around. Direction no longer mattered. Time too. The last memories of light have long been left behind and now only darkness surrounded me. Alas, I wasn’t alone here. Fear didn’t leave my side, and its chains, clanging out there, made me nervously laugh. As instructed, after laughter pain comes, and soon there were three of us: a fear, a pain and the echo, laughing in the dark. It was all a bit sad. It all meant I haven't met her face-to-face yet.
endless loneliness
in everlasting darkness -
that's what she looks like
III. Exam
The human mind turns any abstractions into anthropomorphic forms. She had cat eyes, and in her vertical pupils I saw only eternal gloom. The weary moans of a woman, giving birth in pain; a newborn’s first cry; a girl's tears over the baby bird that fell out of the nest; a red-nosed widower’s choking sobs; an old man’s death rattle; the multi-billion groaning of the planet, being devoured alive by the black hole - that was the voice she spoke to me. Fleeing universes; cold, red, giant corpses of once living and hot stars; lifeless stone balls, spinning in the void - that's what I saw, having come close to her. All that could be said was said; all that could be lost was lost; all that made sense, became senseless. At last I was alone, alone in the literal sense of this word, but even loneliness requires clarification. "The noun, the inanimate, the middle genus," I clarified, and at the same moment I understood the meaning of the lesson, which had previously eluded the one who always was
the unthinkable
inscrutable complacent
dazzlingly bright nought
Life does not necessarily mature into timeless love,
just as yeast is not the entire evolutionary journey for bread,
and the Way may be part of, but not the entirety of,
the Beloved Community.
It is so interesting, for a nondualist at least,
that a profoundly radical Jewish teacher
would say He is the yeast
while We are the embodied bread;
He is the Way,
yet We are the Kingdoms and QueenEarth Shabbats at hand.
Then the men turn it around,
get it all dualistically, cause-effect backwards,
while the women probably knew this Messianic mentor
as bootstrapping our evolutionary fulfilling birthing process
of incoming and oncoming and ongoing cooperative co-messianism.
The patriarchs,
with theo-means not-ecological words in hand,
were too invested in their post-revolutionary need to distance themselves
from the then-powerful elitist threat of Judaic cultural power,
at least by comparison with their post-revolutionary
dualist-fundamentalist Either/Or departure
into before-Christ/after-Christ messianism-already-fulfilled
by the One
who taught himself as the intentional mentoring leaven,
and not the entire cooperative organic co-salvific loaf;
as the only Way He could speak of and for,
but not our entire EarthTribe Garden
of cooperative ecotherapeutic
co-redemptive messianism at hand.
Too bad the wives and mothers,
the nondualist gatherers and not so much the dualist hunters,
didn't have the education,
or perhaps even the verbal communication skills,
to write down their creolizing nondualist fulfillment narratives
of cooperative nurture,
to recall and cast a nondualist Messiah
who did not come to kill YHWH's Chosen People,
or His own culture,
the regenerative history flowing through his humane-divining
mindbody,
but to leaven with these Elders,
those who had no ecopolitical Win/Lose self-centered elitist hypocrisies
like the Pharisees and Sadduccees,
those who were not over-invested in the competitive change of Caesar's coin
from useful for cooperative consuming health
into iconic value-only for producing disembodied hoards of wealth,
and to leaven within us
as one continuously multiculturing
multigenerational
nondualistic-BothJewish/AndChristian
organic creolizing mindbody
of regenerative intention
and vast ecopolitically radical compassion;
like yeast evolving divinely humane bread.
To the authorities, your hands may be clean...yet to those who matter most...to those
looking up at you now with welled up eyes, your hands drip reddish black with my
blood...the children catch a glimpse of your sly victor's smile...quickly you hide it
behind a newly saddened facade, feigned and fabricated. The price of your happiness pales
in comparison to it's cost, woman...you just don't know it yet...
In this life and the next, I shall be your dark shadow...I shall haunt you without mercy.
Though you won't see me, I will be there. I will be the cold breath on the back of your
neck...the sense of impending doom that pushes down on you. When you hear a noise in a
dark room, it will be me, crouching in the corner with claws out, watching you in your
trepidation, whispering your vile name...I will be the chill crawling down your wretched
spine...the catch in your throat when you can't breathe and I breathe anew...
I will be all of these things for you, Rita...this is the least I can do to repay you.
Tell the children what you will about their father...the painful truth will be reflected
back to you every time you look into their confused, mournful eyes...when they stare off
and you try to catch their tears, oblivious to the waves of sorrow inside. Your victory
will become the wolf disrobed of the sheep's clothing. I will be the puppeteer of your
remorseful conscience, as it wraps it's hands around your gargoyle throat and ever so
slowly, takes your life.
Though my thoughts became my fantasies, I never had your murderous resolve. Tell everyone,
tell the children that you never wanted to keep them from me, that I could come by
anytime, like you always said after months of painfully endured reality...no one will ever
believe you. Everyone knows, Rita...especially the children. Pray for my words to unetch
themselves from the forefront of your demented mind...still I will dangle them in the
background. Our beautiful children, your little pawns, your poker chips with a
pulse...will come to truly know their mother.
So enjoy your foul, pyhrric victory...these six feet of cold earth matter not...the grasp
I have on you now is surpassed only by my reach, and like an unwelcome guest at your door,
I will be the puppeteer of your painfully reflective conscience...I will haunt you forever
in the darkness.
Form:
I woke up one morning in a world full of lost things,
with no recollection of how i got there.
They curled around me and taunted me, examined me carefully with their hands so that they could better see me.
And when they found my ears they whispered in voices so soft I could scarcely discern if they spoke at all,
and told me of epic lovers until we bled together.
They shared with me what it would be like to be a lost thing too.
So full of inaccessible power, of sinful yearning, wanton longing, so full of empty space.
And then they presented me with a second hand clock,
small and brass and on a chain for my pocket so that I may never lose it.
They showed me and told me "fill it."
Then they felt behind my eyes and turned my senses higher,
Made everything so bright and lovely that it caused me terrible pain.
But with it I made life. I made such wonderful oceans,
I fostered worlds and tried to use them to follow out what I had been commanded.
And when the hands on my watch no longer ticked beneath the weight,
I forgot there was ever anything before my silent command "fill it."
Their voices ring out like angels,
they still sing to me of lovers. I want to sing too.
But the next thing they touched was my mouth,
and from it removed all its memories
yet left and burned in it the faintest ghost of what it would be like to ever have felt.
So that in its efforts to resurface,
it forgot how to speak.
At night, though less over time, (and I had long since lost track of that),
the other lost things will weave themselves around me like slippery shades,
and nuzzle into my neck as a purring kitten until I let them into my arms for the evening.
They'd hold me down and keep me awake as they sang to me foreign folk songs.
Occasionally they would break their song, and wait for me to pick up their melody,
and when I would it sounded too conspicuously like wailing.
They'd be gone.
I am not ready and I am not even sure for what.
I think about deliverance,
but less so with every passing phantom tick.
It is beautiful here, or so I think. I have no comparison.
There are so many oceans.
It's a wondrous case of Stockholm I'm sure,
but nonetheless a purposeful one.
One of vivacious heartache, of my own design,
When the lost things, my strange companions, come for me again and find me,
and we find other lost things -like me,
And we make worlds together.
1971 (Hey Dude)
Hey dude, come in, come in.
Been a long time since we last smoked the peace pipe together.
Hey! I think it was during Hendrix’s set in Bethel, dude!
Here, let me move these Rolling Stones out of the way.
and the Taco Bell wrappers… There. Dude, let’s sit.
First, I need to change the record. Let me look here….hmm,
Iron Butterfly? Naw, too psychedelic. Blind Faith?
Naw, they’re too much like Cream. And I’m tired of them.
Hey, how ‘bout Led Zeppelin 3?... Naw, too new;
Ah! Let’s hear some very mellow Traffic music. This is cool dude!
It’s their second album…very trippy music...
Listening to this stuff makes me feel alright!...
Dude, Here you go. That hole there is like a carburetor;
Put your finger on it and draw in. Then, let go. Boom!
Dude! Welcome to the petrified forest, man!
Dude! I been kicking back here thinking about infinity, man.
My mind is constantly being blown thinking about how big the universe is.
Dude, we are so small, so infinitesimal, so minute,
in comparison to the absolute vastness of the universe.
Dude, here we are, riding on this huge ball of dirt,
turning through space at a thousand miles per hour,
and we aren’t even feeling it as we speed along,
like it’s not even happening, man!
You know, dude, we are so small, so very very small,
we’re all just a very small part of this vast solar system
with these humongous planets circling this huge ball of fire,
which are all just a very small part of this humongous Milky Way galaxy,
which is just one of billions and billions of galaxies in the universe…
Man, it makes my mind bend!...
Here, this purple haze from Michoacán will seal the deal, dude…
I also been thinking about God, dude!
We are all so small; we are all like spiders, just spinning our webs…
in this humongous garden called life!
So I must ask Dude:
What is God? Who is God?
I will tell you what God is! I now know! Dude!
Are you ready to hear what God is? …
Ice cream, dude! Ice cream!
Do you want some vanilla ice cream, dude?
I have a gallon in my freezer!
Think of the millions of people in the world right now,
the people of India, South America, Australia and even in Dinuba, California,
who at this very moment, this precise second in time and eternity,
are sitting there, eating vanilla ice cream.
Hey dude! Be right back!
The Legacy
Teenaged girl of only eighteen years she was when
Hastily betrothed to a man who was twice her age then
By parents who were overwhelmed with fear and worry
About four daughters who they had to send off to marry
My Mother, she was the eldest of the four sisters
With the responsibilities to care for even her brothers
From early childhood she learnt the wearisome ropes
Which proved opportune training for her in future to cope
With a foreboding dad and a frail mum such as theirs
She had very little option but to take the reins in her cares
Persistence, sacrifice, self-denial were on the top of the list
Cleaning pots and pans in comparison was the very least
The man she was betrothed to had neither status nor treasure
His assets being mainly kindness and love in great measure
With the little money honestly earned, toiling together
Bonding and building each other, in preparation for a future
My mother was a self-taught seamstress and dad a talented tailor
When the days’ earning weren’t enough, they burnt the midnight oil together
Amidst complains and criticisms they humbly took their stride
In delivering their goods to satisfy their customers with pride
Their nest now filled with warmth of their love and happiness
Together they looked forward to God given marital bliss
One by one their off springs then came along
To dwell in this place called home, for years, to belong
The little that they owned in material worth
Became even less but we for sure, added to their mirth
Never a day went by when we were in want
Cause their love was abundant and that’s all we cared about
The Legacy they left was not diamonds nor pearls
But virtues and values which would hold us up in coming years
And the lessons we learnt over the hard times we went through
Helped build our characters, in retrospection I view
They taught us to love and care for each other
And also those less fortunate, who we ought to call ‘sister ‘or ‘brother’
Share whatever you have they would kind-heartedly say
God is watching and will send fresh blessings your way
So mum and dad though you are not here anymore
In spirit your constant presence surrounds us, your Legacy is right here
The three children you have raised are mirroring your ways
Mum, you always said, “It is God’s guiding hand in the first place”.
A poetry
is a collection
of words that expresses
author's emotion or idea
sometimes with as specific rhythm or rhyme
Poet uses a figure of speech
that makes a comparison
between two things
that are basically different
but something in common
The metaphor does not use
the words 'like' or 'as'
But some poetry has words 'like' or 'as'
that is called a simile
The two poetic techniques are almost always there, but not seen
Poetry is a feeling that author wants the reader
to understand
Sometimes a heart breaking arrow shattering
or even joyful sunny day like when you were born
Poetry is a gift that everyone can write
People use poetry in novels and narratives
Some lines have animals, objects or human qualities
The words fill the page with imagery
to give feelings
Describing the plain into special words
It uses the five senses
So that the readers can touch and taste
Readers can smell
Readers can see
Readers can hear
Poems are like crumbs of a cookie
All you just have to do
Is to select the right words
And make the reader sense
Feel the feelings that you've put into
It's like stars
They sing with heart
They try to send you a message
About their experiences
How they've felt in the sticky situations
Some poets uses words
that aren't in the dictionary
Those words might be sound words
Explosion sounds maybe spelled, "BOOM!" or "MEOW"
Those words are called onomatopoeia
Some poems are so still without them
It makes the poet feel not right
They feel like something is missing
That's what poets think about
Reading it over and find out what's missing to deliver
When poets give an animal, object, idea, or human qualities
That's called a personification
When words dances into your mind
Imagining the worded movements
Sometimes it's just so easy that you miss them
Some poems have alliteration
The fist consonant sound is repeated
In several words
In the same line of a poem like
Something slid solemnly stood
Poetry is a great kind of writing
If you're the kind of person
Who doesn't like that much writing
You might fall for this writing
Because this kind of writing you need time
Poetry is a great kind of writing
If you're the kind of person
Who loves to express your feelings
You might like this kind of writing
Because this kind of writing you need heart