Long Composing Poems
Long Composing Poems. Below are the most popular long Composing by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Composing poems by poem length and keyword.
Viva la Difference!
What women love the most about gentlemen
Is not just that they are heroic,
But that they ARE men.
For, in the company of women
she is reminded she is the same -
A daughter, a mother, a female friend...
While in the company of men,
she is reminded she is a woman -
a different be - ing, the feminine one.
And this difference is eternal,
to be respected, appreciated, loved.
Viva la Difference!
Genesis 2:18, 22 - 24
Woman=ishah=female man.
(Composing poem on feminine women having spiritual "manly" qualities,
and men having spiritually gentle, nurturing qualities. : D)
10/20/2023
Those tanned, shapely legs of mine,
where have you gone?
No longer have I the ability to run!
Nor feel the glorious, salt water spray,
from my beloved, San Francisco Bay!
That kissed my sweating, dawn face.
Those foggy morns, the busy hands of
time have erased.
Some other body now, in its place?
This ghost of a runner,soulfully does state.
Who took away my youth in a dream?
If so, nobody heard a scream from me,
For now…left with joyful memories.
I am sitting here, composing soulful poetry.
Is this really how my life ends?
Stationary, on an internet device?
Prefer to be the woman on the run.
Than enduring ….no earthly fun,
Return me, please, to the “Bay to Breakers Run!”
Mother Nature breathes new life
to all of springtime’s world.
April comes to waken seedlings
sleeping in earth’s fertile womb.
Her song rains down upon their heads,
and then she brightens them
with sunshine from luminous blue skies.
Poets too join in – composing odes
as overtures to spring, elatedly and enchantingly.
They conjure imagery resounding with
the essence of effulgence
yearned for in the winter’s icy grip.
Melancholy flees before the scent
of oleander blooms and lilac sprigs.
Nothing quite inspires
like this wonderful yet transitory time
when poets’ hearts and souls
echo April’s song.
April 15, 2021 for the April Poetry Contest of Regina McIntosh
I received a novel item in the mailbox today.
It wasn't the usual bill or another political survey.
'Twas a letter! A letter, mind you, from a friend of many years!
A hand-written missive so rare that I'll keep it among my souvenirs!
What a pleasure to receive cheery news on the written page,
When e-mail messages that clog my computer are all the rage!
'Twas good to see splendid cursive writing from his fluid pen.
I hadn't received a letter via slo-mail since I don't know when!
The computer is a marvelous contrivance and has so many uses,
But using it for the personal touch, precious intimacy it reduces!
Nowadays, communicating with cell phones and texting is so fast,
That I fear the art of letter writing may become a thing of the past!
I must admit that I find communicating with the computer opportune,
When with family and friends I wish to expeditiously commune.
But when love or sincere condolences I wish to convey,
A letter is more appropriate rather than a computer screen display!
In the not too distant past, I wooed my intended the old fashioned way,
By composing saccharine missives sealed with a kiss almost every day.
I'm not an arbiter of such things but I think it is always in good taste,
To send a letter rather than use the computer to cut, copy and paste!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(© All Rights Reserved)
Unaffected by the external, you ask?
But no, that is impossible. However,
our insides can be lubricated with the Holy Spirit.
The Holy Spirit brings consolation, peace and joy.
Holy water, brimming with fire, light us up from the inside,
warm and tender. When we know
from whence our hope comes from —
from the life, death, and resurrection of Jesus Christ —
we surrender. Joy bubbles up, composing our exterior,
not without the existence of tears but alongside them.
How do I know? I witness the life of faith.
She mourns with harp and prayers,
her ear inclined to the needy, praying for them
as they pray for her.
He smiles, yells out car window,
“Praise the Lord!”
Later I see him in church —
one of my friend’s legs is gone.
Her countenance glowed,
unafraid and steady
through her husband’s long illness.
Three examples. Many more.
May we be the tears that light up the souls
of those looking on, standing
in the shadow of the Lord, whose blood,
sweat and tears were shed on Calvary.
Our Lord’s joy as he spoke It is finished.
Imagine a pageant of pregnant grapes
brimming with juice — joyful and fruity.
The score of heaven in
thankfulness and Hallelujah!
2/11/2021
Contest: Joy Continuum
Sponsor: Unseeking Seeker
The first thing I learned was that even stone remembers its root,
and the forest,
hearing my hesitation,
offered me its voice
not one voice but a thousand,
braided loose as a river,
each syllable arriving dressed in leaf and light.
A barbet corrected a hornbill mid-sentence,
wing brushing wing,
while termites conferred low along the ground.
I knelt to that murmuring parliament of ground,
and felt, beneath my palms, the old committee of root
debating slowly what the rain had meant.
A wing grazed my shoulder not fear,
just courtesy and a voice,
mossy and unhurried,
asked to borrow my light
for a poem she'd been composing
since before the river
had a name.
I said yes, and watched the whole river
lean in to listen,
its current pooling like held light at my feet.
Somewhere close, a fig tree's ancient root shifted,
made room,
the way an elder makes ground
for a newcomer at table.
I had never used my voice
so gently,
or been answered by so many kinds of wing.
A kingfisher settled its blue accounting of wing
and told me the local word for joy was river
agreeing with a stone.
I gave the moss my voice
back, changed, and she thanked me,
returned it to the ground
gently as compost,
gently as a root
released at last from wanting nothing but light.
Evening came down in long coins of light,
and every creature folded its particular wing
the way a sentence settles after its last root
has been spoken.
I understood then: this river,
this whole exuberant congress of ground,
had never once withheld its voice
only waited for mine.
I raised my voice
into that generous,
undivided light
and felt it taken up by branch and ground,
by moss and moth,
by every migratory wing,
until I was only one more tributary of the river,
one more grateful,
ordinary root.
Now when I speak,
some small green voice answers on the wing;
I carry that forest's light home like water carries a river;
and gladly, gladly,
I give my ground back to its root.
It's raining again, grey neon skies,
washing away suppressed surfaces,
to reveal unhealed wounds,
to scars the eyes cannot see
sometimes they bleed.
Some say words heal,
but I resist to express them,
because I'm afraid of my vulnerabilities,
anxious about tears I've never cried.
You only see the smile,
no one remembers that naive boy,
waiting at the window
for the shepherd who forgot his flock,
and he was no black sheep
if only I could reach him now
so he would not grow up like he did not belong,
stop searching for something,
he did not know how to find.
Stop composing that melancholic symphony,
recycling emotions, he did not understand,
I would tune his piano keys,
repair his violin's broken strings,
but
there are too many silent secrets,
blood stained walls will never reveal.
You left me behind,
with an empty toy box,
taking with you childhood hopes,
so ensued a vacuum of darkness -
sucking me deeper into confusion.
I remember watching you walk away,
along a path of overgrown weeds.
If it was not for the gift of mum's marbles,
I would not have laid an alternative path,
creating my protective bubble,
so I could float away, from all the troubles
until I lost them too.
Tell me father,
how was I to become a man?
You pushed me upon my knees,
like a cherry blossom in the wind.
A victim of your sins,
struggling to rise in adolescence,
I kept faith in the path of marble,
grateful for the guidance of my bubble.
After years of silence
upon your final sighs,
watching you die without words,
tears exploded for a stranger,
forgiving broken promises,
forgetting your crimes -
cursing stubbornness and bitterness,
thinking maybe it was me,
not just you
questions that will never be answered.
Today I stand before your bed of marble,
no need for a bubble, I feel no emotions.
After all I am a product of my childhood,
and you were a result of your own.
Silent One
18 August 2019
The revolving season’s ever-changing sensitive facade
dons the new ambiance of hues designed by nature.
Autumn’s fiery foliage bursts with mélange of colors,
shines with the last golden glow as the wilted leaves fall.
The aureate leaves hear the December wind’s whisper
as they crumple with the rhythm of the attuned rustle,
composing the melody of the song of winter wonders
that beguiles me as the mist melts in the sapphire sky.
The defoliated trees shiver in the waves of arctic wind,
following its flow I see you return to me from the cold.
You melt the miasma enveloping my glacial memory,
enter the crypt of old times through the icy door I open.
The polar winds blow with chilled tunes across the clouds,
swans fly singing in the December sky on wings of winter.
The morning mist melts away over the sunrise horizon,
gleaming with joy spectrum of Christmas time in the air.
I feel delighted the warmth of winter sun you raise for me,
from behind the fog I see the ascent of a new dulcet dawn.
As I hold your hands, ecstasy defrosts the memory lane,
my mind wanders in the winter wonderland of December.
The morning with its scented fragrance stands up like giant in front of me and the rolling clouds in the skies stares at me from above and embraces me with sentiments of love.
I could see the footprints of time walking out of the clouds towards me and wrapping its passion around me; the color in the skies fill my heart with meaning and lights up my internal world with melodies from the deep, oh how much my spirit wants to weep.
It is the sounds that I alone can hear; it is the sound that is wrapped up in the atmosphere and bears its strength in the bosom of the sea, it sometimes traveled a thousand miles in the depth of the ocean and run a marathon in space and lights up a mission in outer space oh how I cherish this feeling, it is bold and it brings comfort to my wounded soul.
A sweet fragrance is seeping through the clouds and spreading a sweet aroma in the middle of the earth; bringing smiles to frowning faces that are sagging under the bewildering sun and set the rain clouds on the run.
The birds are flying merrily around enjoying the solitude of the pretentious morning, gallivanting on branches and composing melodious song. It is not the melody that you would like to hear, tis the melody that is mixed with fear, it is the rhythm that you hear when they are mating in the trees and the feeling you get in your chest when you are almost out of breath.
I can feel my heart leap and people are running all over the street as the fragrance parachute through the air falling on roof top and sinking in the earth and woman start giving birth.
Everyone is holding their breath and sweat is dripping from their face it is the fragrance of time that come back to haunt their mind. Pour the fragrance in the street my soul waits patiently for thee.
Not only a single Universe is existing !
Modern Science is predicting about Multiverses
Our whole solar system holds the same position
compared to a single sand particle in Satara Desert :
I am totally confused about my identity in this vast Universe
How can I tell about the world where I don't belong to !
Infinite number of worlds exist :
No idea, when or where or how to enter or exit .
Where are these worlds ! Onward - backward!
within Space - time boundary or beyond,
might be Spiritual realms in fourth dimension
above human perception !
It is simply impossible either to apprehend
or to imagine and then to put my concept
of another Universe, composing just a ' Free Verse.' !
My existence in this Earth is beyond my explanation.
I am born in this Earth through inevitable Evolution
and approaching Death on natural process.
I can't assess what's waiting in my 'After-Life ' phase !
I can neither assure about immortality of so-called 'Soul '
nor any knowledge about re -incarnation,
Yet I wish to believe in both.
Actually, no doubt that this belief to sprout
from wishful thinking of Humankind.
No human being can't think
of his or her complete extinction.
Continuous I am trying to solve this mystery
But can't get any clue :
Firstly I must be convinced about my
own existence and extinction in my known world.
Then and then I can imagine for another world
where I do not exist.