Long Completed Poems
Long Completed Poems. Below are the most popular long Completed by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Completed poems by poem length and keyword.
... Let's use our logic to determine
- - It's long overdue - -
We need to open the borders
It's time for business to thrive once more
Tourism definitely experienced suffering enough
- - Let's lobby for this - -
Lots of people will be reunited with loved ones
Schools now functioning in full force
Simple shopping trips completed quickly
- - Government, Get it done!! - -
Trucks no longer need to pile up in queues by the border
Goods delivered more quickly to distributors
Citizens smoothly flowing from one county to the next
- - We're without much sense - - -
To think the virus won't return in some dimension
Undoubtedly it will worm its hideous germ in further from here
Possibility of complete suppression is ridiculous!
- - The cure is nigh, don't worry - -
Together, our country will see brighter horizons
Indeed, the entire World will see heightened benefits
Of the sensible policy to reopen closed borders
* * 'A' Lipogram * *
27th August 2020
~A Graduation Day Poem~
(Acrostic)
Happy Graduation Day to you!
At last you’ve completed this journey.
Preparing for a long time you've
Pursued what you've dreamed for and now
You are going on your way up
Greater things are waiting for you and
Really you are on your way now
And there’s a more in the future for you to do and your
Dad and your mom must be very proud of you
Use your talents well and be the best you can be, remember
All that you have done to get where you're now
This is not the end but it's just the beginning for you so
Inspire others you meet on your way out to do the same and
Open the door of your heart and
Never quit dreaming but hold on tight to your hopes 'cause
Day after day there are more things to do and learn from
And remember to be honest and true to you because...
You can make all your dreams come true one day too
Happy Graduation Day to you!
:)
Dorian Petersen Potter
Aka ladydp2000
copyright@2009
March.14.2018
-'Kindness is a language which the deaf can hear and the blind can see.'
- Mark Twain -
Mother Nature Cries
Mother Nature cries now her deep tears of true sadness,
For all the years of Man’s sad shame and utter madness.
Man has brought this lovely lady quite often to tears,
By his poor and pathetic care of our Earth over the years.
Mother Nature’s been with Man now it seems forever,
And he does nothing at all and always tells her never!
Man’s climate sins are so tragic and always most telling,
And all he does is ***** and moan, and keeps on yelling!
Man’s span of existence is short in our Earth’s long life,
And all he’s done is corrupt, pollute and caused her strife!
Mother Nature cries at this sad tragedy Man has thus wrought;
She knows his life on Earth may be short, and learn he’ll Not!
Mother Nature will adapt and evolve over time with no problem,
And she knows Man’s adaptability to change may be a problem.
Perhaps Man will learn this sad lesson here before all is too late,
And seek climate harmony in all he does and make positive his Fate!
Mother Nature cries—yet this can change with Man’s redemption,
If Man becomes Earth’s Good Steward and lives by God’s direction!
Gary Bateman, Copyright © All Rights Reserved - May 3, 2015
(Rhymed Couplet)
*Originally completed for my new book on February 12, 2015.
I looked for the hero in the story
it appeared, there might be none.
All the rhetoric of history in its glory
slipped to dark shadows, tumultuously spun.
I read the introduction ushering steps that entwined
of a mystery still hidden somewhere in the misidentified.
On the pages, lines drew me in the narrative benign
until the marked crescendo of the expose' was denied.
The hero had no purpose in this writer's mind
villains, vampires, gluttonous politicians, shepherds all died.
The tombs remain unmarked, with history's ill recorded find
provoking little courage as each embrace the lie.
They held their breath, still the mind and beating heart,
cleanse every question and every thought conjured,
then quietly accept without the courage to start,
fact and truth, deception, outsmarted and squandered.
In the shadows where light fades around the corners
slow and precise, the hero steps slow, then unseen walks away
though the story reached its climax in tears and wails of mourners
heroes, completed tasks, allows the braggart to have his final say.
The Clock
to Barbara with all my love Frank
By Franklin Price
1/26/2016
The clock stands in our living room in a place where it should be.
It represents my love for you. It's there for all to see
Walking past I hear it ticking, for our lives a metronome
The pendulum is swinging in the place we call our home
I ordered it, without a word, in 1982.
It says it on the brass plate that declares my love for you.
It's a limited edition; fifty-one its numbered place
Chimes on the quarter hour; has the moon upon its face
When new it showed the phases, as the lunar month went past
The moon's no longer going; don't know when it phased its last
All else is still working. The hands still tell the time,
And every quarter hour, the clock still begins to chime
When the hour is completed, it is counted with a gong
If there's an hour we don't hear it, we know there's something gone wrong
Usually need to lift the weights; their falling moves the hands around:
There are three of them to keep the time, the chime and the gonging sound.
The clock is representative of the married life we've had
When I hear that it's still working, it really makes me very glad
And every time I think of you I hear the chimes and still the gong
For me the moon's still going, phases moving right along
I think it's really wonderful that the pendulum still swings
And that upon our fingers are still our golden wedding rings
And every quarter hour that I hear that old clock chime
I'm grateful that you are my wife and the clock's still keeping time
My favourite song years ago was a play on words.
Just one word was emphasized.
Every other thing said in the song arrived at that word.
There was a chorus, two verses, and a bridge.
Similar to the activities surrounding one's goal.
Similar to the hope to still revolve around that goal.
Now, whether one achieves it, or not, is another story.
The future hoped for is one of the things we want to be proud of.
The future in words;
The future in actions;
The future in prayers;
The self-timed confirmations,
And the self-timed re-directions.
The future might already be now,
The future might be tomorrow with a different approach.
So, even when the bridge become bridges,
I hope you celebrate your efforts.
Those efforts make up your song.
Everything you have done so far,
Whether finished or unfinished.
Those efforts have been pointing towards You.
Just like my favourite song was centered on that one word,
You are the main idea.
You make up those efforts.
You make up the future.
You make a reflection on that future you hope for.
My song is yet to be completed,
But I have put in so much work,
And I celebrate that.
I hope you celebrate as well.
**Future in a song: Just some nice words.
Red leaves cowardly fall from trees like arrogant men
The powerful wind creeps up steadily scattering them on battered ground
While caretakers gather them into bags and empty them into garbage cans.
The giant trees still hold their composure waiting for the winter band
Autumn chills and winter spills engraved in the soul of every man
Telling us that life is entering another round and hope is still alive.
It has been a miserable year casting doubt and myriad fear
The summer season could not stand up to the parching sun
Events after events stirring up the summer heat but now autumn is here
Blowing away the evil dust making way for the winter crust.
I drove out in the wee hours of the morning and penetrated the clear blue sky
I saw millions of shining stars embedded in the dancing blue sky smiling merrily at me
And the cool autumn morning whispering songs of praise emitting sparkling delight.
I long to wake up to the day when the grumbling and contention will cease
The war will be completed and mankind will be at peace
I longed for the day when families will reunite and communities will come together
I yearn for the day when countries will be delivered and enjoy lasting peace with their neighbors.
The seasons embrace life’s abundance
The seasons empowers pinnacles of hope
The seasons with its multitude of stars secured in the deep blue sky
And the red leaves scattered on the ground is a testament
That autumn will bring new joy and stunning changes all around.
©2014 Christine Phillips
The Sun has just reached it's nest
leaving the Earth in the twilight zone;
evening sky is hovering above
with a veil of gloomy pink colour,
silhouettes of flying birds in the West
only add to my melancholy,
the lurking depression again trying
to creep into my mind.
But the sky above never lied to me;
hundred of miles away from you,
as I look at it in solitude,
I can feel your every moments there;
this evening sky tells me
how was the day today for you...
when you caressed the roses of your garden,
or completed your last poem,
when you smiled carelessly
relishing our blissful moments;
as for now,I can feel that with a deep sigh
you are also looking at the pink sky there
as if to share our moment of love;
I must say again...
'Love thy name is Eternity.'
===============================
By:kashinath karmakar (28th Jan.2011)
I never fought in Vietnam…my parents never had to worry…to fear…to morn…for the simple reason my draft number was connected to the day that I was born.
I sat watching draft numbers being picked…wondering what I was going to do until my birthday draft number was finally called and I was 322.
As luck would have it I had a friend whose birthday was number 4….So I went off to college…while he went off to war.
A war that had been raging for 9 years…causing pain and grief and tears…
Sadly, the anguish and the agony of that war would rage on for 10 more years.
The soldiers who went off to fight…young men and women side by side…like any soldier in any war…they served, they fought…some died.
Over 58.000 young men and women died in that war…a number both sad and profound…some of their bodies never made it home…to this day they’ve never been found.
But those who returned alive from that Vietnam…found their war was out of fashion…they did not receive their country’s glory…nor their countrymen’s compassion.
It was a war that divided our county…pitting Americans against each other…
In the streets, to protest a war, we fought with our own sisters…our own brothers.
Yesterday we stopped at a park near a downtown South Florida neighborhood…where, to our surprise, a replica of the Vietnam War Memorial stood.
The wall was erected to memorialize these soldiers…whose lives went un-completed…with the hope the lessons from that war would never be forgotten…or repeated…
In a solemn, sobering moment I was filled with sadness…tears began to fall as I ran my fingers across the name of my friend upon that wall.
How sad it was to gaze out on all those names…trying to ascertain…after watching what Americans did to Americans this week…if my friend and all his friends hadn’t died in vain.
Wondering in the aftermath of a week where we ignored old lessons…where old mistakes were, once again, repeated…how many more people will be hurt…how many more lives will never be completed.
Wondering if it’s possible, as I ran my fingers along that wall…if there will ever be a time when there’ll be no wars at all…
I believe it is possible, without war, for people to come together, to compromise, to help their hate and anger cease…I believe every language has a word for this…
I believe that word…is PEACE
Abstract ideas flitter about in my brain
like butterflies navigating a stiff August breeze.
I try unifying them into something,
a patchwork quilt of grandiose dreams
showcasing profound thoughts
that I feel are worthy of sharing
with strangers and sycophants,
maniacs and mentally sound,
downtrodden and dignitaries,
paupers and princesses
in hopes of making a lasting impression
that will forever change their lives.
But before unveiling my work to the world,
I scrutinize the stitching,
then question the pattern.
Thinking that it’s not good enough,
that it requires additional refinement,
I tear apart the completed piece.
Quickly I discover that it can’t be resewn,
reassembled
or recreated.
What was once coherent,
vibrant,
profound,
now lies in ruin.
These scraps of doubt then entomb me.
Unable to manipulate the fabric,
I remain immobilized
by a misguided attempt
to cover my perceived imperfections
and bury my profound neurosis
so my frail ego
will be shielded from nonexistent ridicule.