Long Compass Poems
Long Compass Poems. Below are the most popular long Compass by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Compass poems by poem length and keyword.
Against the back drop of green leaf copses, dulcet bird chirp, and bubbling pavement fountains,
that dawning from the azure blue sky a silken whisper,
to follow street signs on my route to work with ample gusto and much verve,
each metal
pointer to destination a micro mirror on its surround,
stoic indicator of direction, that upright unique urban compass,
clustered by behemoth scenic grandeur at its mint spring zenith,
and surging throngs who sashay in brisk step patterns so diverse yet firmly focussed,
as I am whilst counting on that reference point, that fixed point usher,
that deep-dyed friend at each crossroad safe in the knowledge of arrival,
and in tandem with a spotless day’s heroic toil in bright prospect,
how symbolic are these pathway guide rails to one who warms to flagship growth,
in its august transit on foot slog pitfall strewn road of expertism,
pole mounted emblems, silent sentry solid, detail for me on daily passage.
I've said, "Leave me alone" when I didn't mean it.
Yes, I've said "Yes" when I wanted to say "No".
I consented to go, when I did not want to go.
I kept walking when I really wanted to run.
ET could not stay; so, he asked Elliott to come.
Elliot could not go; so, he asked ET to stay.
They desired deeply to be with each other,
But they could not give up the only world they knew.
"Come", said ET. "Stay", said Elliot. Thus is a portrait
of the inner conflict of two diverse species. Conflicts
involving people or persons of varying persuasions
are placed in a category known as 'Conflict Resolution'.
Inner conflicts suggest that I am alone with at least two
points of contention inside of me. It suggests that I have
a problem that I, not 'they', must fix. It's a civil war. Life
makes its demands, and by conflict, we survive, thrive, or die.
By inner conflict we learn to utilize whatever is served
at our table, as well as whatever cards we are dealt.
As humans, we have not been dealt the luxury of instinct
as our compass of choice. We are creatures of uniqueness.
We are distinguished and endowed by our creator with the demands
of choice. Quite often, the multiple choices within us conflict, and
we must resolve to halt the war and solve the unsolvable. A question
arises: Is there both a positive and negative charge inside of us?
081622PSCtest, Inner Conflict, Unseeking Seeker
“I wear the chain I forged in life,” replied the ghost,
“I made it link by link, and yard by yard; I girded it on
of my own free will, and of my own free will I wore it.”
— Marley in Charles Dickens, A Christmas Carol
“Why is the rum gone?”
“True enough, the compass does not point North…
it points to the thing you want most in the world”
— Jack Sparrow, Pirates of the Caribbean
f a m o u s for w-h-a-t
what’s friendship, when famous —
drip drip drip of diamonds
gold that clamors and clangs
like a Marley ghost
(the knockers froth)
a revolving door, an arrow
North
West
East
South
Cupid’s conundrum—
a whirring compass,
C-a-p-t-a-i-n Sparrow’s
birds spinning on a clothesline
dropping sans five and dime
w-a-s-t-i-n-g your time
in a party b-u-s t
white powder
angel dust
silk stockings posing on seats
s-m-e-l-l-s of feet
hair tossed like a Caesar salad
jaded olives, glitter dressing
and who w-o-n your underpants
nothing left underneath…
11/26/2019
There is a silence in the house now,
a gentle hush that lingers in the corners,
where laughter used to echo and
her soft voice called my name.
I move through rooms painted with memory,
each wall holding a story she told,
each window framing the world
as she taught me to see it.
Her absence is a shadow that follows me,
in the pale morning light and the drifting dusk.
I search for her in familiar places— the kitchen,
where she stirred soup and comfort;
a chair by the window, where she watched the day pass,
a book half-opened in her lap,
her smile, a quiet warmth that never needed words.
Now, the days stretch wide and hollow,
their edges frayed by longing.
I miss the wisdom she shared in moments
both grand and ordinary,
the gentle touch of her hand on mine,
her eyes shining with pride or concern,
always knowing, always present.
Grief lives in the spaces between breaths,
in the ache of remembering,
in the emptiness that fills my arms where
she once held me.
I speak her name into the stillness,
hoping to hear her answer, but only echoes return,
soft and unyielding.
Yet, in the quiet, I sense her somewhere beyond,
woven into the fabric of who I am,
her love a thread that binds me to everything good.
She was my Mother, and losing her was the saddest
time in my entire life. Even as tears still fall through
the years, I carry her forward, her memory a compass
guiding me, her absence shaping the depths of my
sorrow and the strength of my love.
The calling gull leaves her nest
her wild magic cleaves the nimbus.
An avian aerialist suspended aloft
she sails on tapered feathers of cirrus silk,
ruffled sea breeze ironed ‘neath her lustrous wings.
A wind witch, she defies and defines the w-i-n-d…
a weaver of worlds, knotting strings of stories as one wampum belt
in union with the sea’s connection to land and air.
She steals the sough from the surf and the sigh from my sinew;
my guide to a mindful haven. This nurture-maven
glides among bouquets of pink-peony-cumulus.
She; my blue-sky-muse in celebration!
She; my compass rose, mediates my meditation.
I unfurl fresh wings, a night-to-day tern, and claim my turn with the wind
no longer a granite stone asleep on sand. I soar
from the glacial-age strand and lift through fog.. brief my tryst
with mist. Eyes blessed by the crest of a humpback’s breach.
I distill myself, my will; a droplet, tear, a sphere free of guise.
An ascendant of moon-magnet tides yet a descendant
from stratus to stratum, I settle upon the cliffs along the coast
in union with my soul’s connection to body and breath.
In the cup of my hands I hold the sun and drink its yolk,
white-cap breakers below chant a soluble sonnet.
From my inner dark, a flint-spark flares as I find what I lost.
My heart, a wild cranberry, reborn from the womb of dawn.
I inhale the moment. Red clay cliffs, lifeblood, fire-skies merge.
Windswept pitch pines croon as I grow roots for my tabernacle,
cosmic beams stream through stained-glass-eyes.
The calling gull rests. A distant, silent witness to my quest.
My pulse a psalm as I emerge; a cathedral lit by sunrise.
Home is where . . .
The heart and reason mould into one and the same mirror of harmony
. . . the Golden Mean and centre of gravity as long as life’s turns spin around
. . . where dents in the mind do not mind but care kindly about gaping gaps
. . . when time juggles dis-synchronous consolation in the face of chaos
Memories and anticipation caress the wayward traveller into the harbour
. . . the ancient light house guides pirates of doom into tender submission
. . . where hidden treasures are felt beneath a dented compass’ rusty needle
. . . when jubilation overwhelms caved in darkness at the point of confusion
Vision and hindsight blend ambiguity and opposites of fragile consonance
. . . the myopic lenses lead the way from afar towards what can be touched
. . . where shattered glass causes new puzzles and chards for luminous mosaics
. . . when an empty canvas is shredded but gives way to a collage of dreams
Deafness and laughter combine to a symphony of understandable voices
. . . the auricles are pierced and adorned with truths and rings of delight
. . . where an ear for an ear is not an empty promise but sharing the way
. . . when the few want to listen to an old man’s attempt of feeble wisdom
Bones creak on the spiral staircase and master the voyage downwards and up
. . . the attic hold enough trinkets and memorabilia for a flea market or two
. . . where moths in the cellar feed happily in symbiosis with trodden dust
. . . when paradise is being in love and sharing glow worms and outlooks
Home is when the Self is good enough and life’s companion is gratitude
A Golden Mean happy to eat from enamel plates one spoon and a tin whistle
Light shines through cataracts of wild water and cascades of living surprise
Nostalgia is a way forward on the path one step at a future step in the making
Shades of eye sight observe perceive reflect condense highlighting the soul
A child’s whisper registers more deeply than cacophony of ubiquitous hatred
And the bones of one’s hands can still read a book and write the odd poem . . .
17th April 2019
Tomorrow, Tomorrow, Where will I be?
I'm lost and I can't find my compass, you see
Also lost time, the sun's setting low
The day is at end, Oh where did it go?
Tomorrow, Tomorrow, I fell today
Can't see where I'm landing, cause you're in the way
Will I land softly? How far will I fall?
Will the sun rise at the end of it all?
Tomorrow, Tomorrow, Are you chasing today?
It's dark and scary since you slipped away
Time stands still between dark and light
I don't want to land 'til you come in sight
Tomorrow, Tomorrow, you came and you left
Your net did not catch me now all is a mess
I'll pick myself up, my direction unknown
Destiny uncertain, now that you've flown
Tomorrow, Tomorrow. Don't let me down
I'm depending on you, to bend up this frown
I'll find my compass, keep an eye on the time
Just roll a little slower, 'til I get things in line
Tomorrow, Tomorrow, really never comes
I won't waste one minute, watching the sun
Never put my problems on the back shelf
If tomorrow arrives, it will take care of itself.
an original poem by the "poemdog" Daniel Turner
My poems are words with soul - Silent One.
As a monotone morning sketches
charcoal trees under
smoke filled foggy skies,
rain casually falls,
sliding down slate roofs,
causing havoc for traffic
on bustling roads.
Red lights seem to shimmer,
shining through shades of grey,
as the sound of raindrops drip
against my BMW's black bonnet,
my mind drifts nonchalantly,
discarding beeping horns and FM beats.
I ponder
is it an act or is it an art
this thing they label as life,
living with a formula formed and forged
from a mix of experiences and emotions.
I begin to question myself.
(why do we do that?)
I seem to have adopted a sense of vulnerability,
fusing feelings of fragility,
since my hair infused into silver (yes I chose silver over grey) -
something my father warned against.
But I'm not as tough as him,
although he wasn't half the man I am...
Yet what I have seen and heard,
has ultimately made me who I am today
and in all the suffering I have
always searched for the light -
Rumi was right.
Maybe I'm too open minded,
too fair in this field of selfish spirits.
Maybe I'm not loyal enough to my beliefs,
which contradict my moral compass
and philosophical projections,
but I've never claimed to be saint.
My soul is telling me to shut up..
I've always wondered if I'll ever be understood..
At least I understand me - but is that any consolation?
It's not as simple as wisdom accumulating.
Sensitivity of a smile can never be underestimated.
You have to peer beyond the verbal,
non verbal - comprehend the action.
Sometimes I feel unloved,
many times invisible,
yet I seem to come alive in loneliness.
Would I be a plaintiff or defendant
in a court of your judgment?
I will always represent myself.
Words with speech have never been true confessions,
as my thoughts are too deep,
sometimes too unreliable,
that's why I never pen them down -
it scares my soul (who tells me again to shut up).
I wonder if I make sense. Soul calls it nonsense.
Green flashing circle says I can go.
An abrupt end to contemplation.
Sadly grey tones and
tints of tiredness remain.
Simple Musing
8 December 2023
We sail on the waves of celestial artistry,
with being as our compass- magnetic,
sensitive to the touch of love's poetic
instrumentality, as the sail catching windward
along the deep song of the triangle of eternity.
Love, the engine of the great ship,
that braves another world,
navigates through the airy boughs
of the Towers of the Angels,
where Vulcan Eagles dare.
In conjunction with Venus, flooding by zoom of moon
in fueling beaming in perihelion lens of feeling.
A magnified, looking glass upon a foreign shore,
reeling, Rocky Horror meets
Gone With The Wind meets The Gong Show.
A crowning laid upon rare earth, ceremony of surfdom before a royal berth, King of enslavement
of the willfully, scorched earth in correction
razed by it's folly of Auxilarating trump of bond,
inferno, of it's vagrant municipality.
Shall we pen of the words of that bewitching flame,
the Witches spell of Chapels Bell-twang or
Held hostage by forbidden let-in
beneath rainbows end game.
Marionettes by emotion's moonlight of puppetry.
Leviathan surfaces again,
lured, by hook and angle, bait with
dangle of amulet in the surf of the drowning pools amongst peaks, valleys and turf.
The empire of spellshaping one's
own prison-sanctuary-quagmire
and never calling the bluff of it's wall of fire.
The gambit
trumping all
principality purely,
with it's hook and it's lure,
of knowing, carnality, desire's calling card
a picture that sings of an Angel and a Gambler,
circled in fiery wings.
[Roll of the dice
Take a spin of the wheel
Out of your hands now
So how do you feel?
But you're not gonna win
You'd better go back again
Do you feel lucky
Or do you feel scared?
Take what luck brings
And the Devil may care
But you're down on your luck
What will the next day bring?
Adrift on the ocean
Afloat in a daydream
Or lost in a maze
Or blind in the haze
So what does it matter?
So why don't you answer?
So why did you send
An angel to mend?]
~Iron Maiden, "The Angel and the Gambler"
a backpacker
a slacker
a sight
seeing
eyes
squinting at
worldly sun
rises and
sunsets
getting
to see some
things that are
no longer am
ongst us
but i do
not see myself
as a low percentage
of folks that could have
choosen a different path for
most think binary left or right
seeing life east to west
following the sun one
began with a break
now that one will
end and begin
just another
night to become
another day over
and over again but
what about going in
a straight direction
or roll the dice and
take a part of one
with the part of an
other and go
northeast or north
south or if you
allow your
compass
to spin
as i soon am going
southwest as well
as equally walking
over the equator
taking off my
boots
looking in
to a different
sunset with you
adding to my face
new
crow's
feet
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