Long Comprises Poems
Long Comprises Poems. Below are the most popular long Comprises by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Comprises poems by poem length and keyword.
I mentioned I am thankful for my house, my friends and how important they are to me…
Today I’d like to add how I’m thankful for my family.
I’m thankful for my parents, my brothers, my children, my grandchildren…my wife…
I’m thankful they have miraculously found their way into my life.
There are some people who mistakenly think the traditional family has been disbanded…but as for me…I like to think…its definition has expanded.
Divorce brought our two families together…and though at times it can be complicated…
when our two families joined…a new family was created.
It’s not the ‘traditional’ family we were brought up thinking of…
but it’s a family, like every family…built on trust and fueled by love.
Consistent…unconditional love…which is not always as easy as it sounds…
but it is what makes the family flourish…what makes the world go round.
If this type of love and caring a family comprises…
then it stands to reason…families…can come in many shapes and sizes.
Parents can be together, divorced, single, young, old…even the same sex too
which means families can be traditional, untraditional, extended and come in different hues.
I think as time marches ever onward…the definition of family will always be changing
never constant in its makeup…but constantly rearranging.
To those of you who think the family is dead and no longer the way your God designed it…What if the family is thriving and your God just redefined it?
I am thankful for my family today…for their love and all the things their love can do…
and I know tomorrow…whatever my family looks like…I’ll be thankful for that too.
Perhaps, one day, we won’t care what a family looks like…
what parents we’re assigned…
which makes me wonder if, all along, that wasn’t part of God’s design.
A friend corned an expression that arrested me. I had heard something similar before, but not exactly the way he said it. I have not been able to get away from the depth of its meaning. In my heart, I was saying, "Wow, I have for the longest time felt that way, but now I have words to express it. In a class that my friend was teaching, we were speaking of issues that sometimes defy comprehension and often leave us in a state of wonder and questioning. We often feel alone in an answer-free zone.
In this mystery zone, God is there, but we are challenged by life's adversities, illnesses, and by walls and roadblocks of the theological variety. In this mortal life that comprises thrills of victory and agonies of defeat, sometimes we are only consoled by the words of my friend, "Eternity is the great equalizer".
Is it just me, or do you also feel that our prayerful pursuit for answers, truth, and understanding, often fall short of genuine satisfaction.? We feel that we have a right to know the rhymes and reasons; that we deserve to understand the times and seasons; that divine healing is our portion of 'the children's bread'. We feel that our God has given us the keys to unlock such doors of mystery. So as his dear children, we do not feel any way defiant as we stand
upon what we perceive to be His promises to us.
At the same time, if God chooses to leave us in a state of, "What, why me, how come and how long, who, where, and when?", our love for the Father and submission to Him and His Sovereignty must become and or remain standard-fare.
Yes, our hearts are pure and our prayers are genuine. Yet, sometimes we are left with a sense of, "If I must drink this bitter cup, it's okay Lord, it's in your hands, and I will always keep faith with you, trusting you no matter what to the very end because you, Father, more than myself or anyone else, know what is best for me". Yes indeed, my dear friend Bob said it best. "Eternity is the great equalizer. Therein, we find closure.
05302018cjPSSent to Bob61918
You promised to come back soon
Instead I received your letter of love
You had gone away to hunt for a boon
I am dying to be with you, by Jove.
The message from far away that you sent
Nevertheless fills me with an anticipation
It excites and spreads in air your own scent
In my otherwise forlorn, empty damnation.
Now, in the morning, bright flowers blossom
And in them, I breathe your sweet essence
At night the twinkling stars look awesome
Reminding me of our secret acquiescence.
The distant melodious tune jingles in me
An overpowering presence of you deep inside
The magic of your sweet words maddens me
Tears of joy gush down my cheeks besides.
I forget myself and in the trance of your love
I believe that I am in your strong, safe arms
I belong where you are, as if a hand in glove
My heart only beats for your love and charm.
I am thirsty and your love’s elixir I want to sip
My world now comprises of only waiting for you
Before my patience gives me a big bang and slip
Come soon and embrace me, love, I beckon you.
Date: 6.8.2014
In an hundred years...
Everything around us will be changed,
And everybody will be dead,
Yet, something will continue...
Will it be, as my radical leftist brother predicts,
The final takedown of Western Civilization?
Will we all rise to pray and face east?
Will we all rise and face nothing but a cup of sustainably-grown coffee?
Will the common people be able to afford coffee?
What will have become of our words, penned
sometimes in ink,
sometimes in blood?
Who will still read us?
Will our great-grandchildren show old, unrotatable, digital photos?
What of those of us who have no children? Will our words survive, even a generation?
Will our poetry be sold, half-price, or clearance?
What footprints will we have left, who built no buildings, saved no lives, ended no tyranny?
Yet, I think we will survive for a generation or two,
For there are always a few who hope to feel something,
To know the grounding reality of shared human experience.
I do not pretend, they will be reading ME,
But, perhaps,
They will be reading US...
That shrinking crowd that comprises the body of
Our words made corporeal,
And one or two of us, they will remember...
I hope for nothing better than a sea,
And quiet waves that bear away once-me...
A good poetry emanates from the heart of the poet, vibrates in its rhythm that resonates in the mind of the reader. The form of poetry has evolved over the years with literary experiments on poetic expressions where the muse weaves tapestry of words. The traditional forms of verse use some kind of rhythmic pattern called meter (meaning ‘measure’ in Greek), a scheme of stressed and unstressed syllables. Each set of such syllables comprises a foot, the building block of meter. The lines of most of English poetry are like garlands that string together the foot, the individual rhythmic unit, the flower. The arrangement of syllables (stressed, unstressed) in these units in lines of a poem may vary, deciding its meter, such as, Iamb (a stressed syllable followed by an unstressed syllable), Pyrrhic (2 unstressed syllables), Spondee (2 stressed syllables), Trochee (a stressed syllable followed by an unstressed syllable), Anapest (2 unstressed syllables followed by a stressed syllable), and Dactyl (a stressed syllable followed by 2 unstressed syllables). The length of the line is controlled by the number of feet, giving the metric pattern to the poem, such as, monometer (1 foot), dimeter (2 feet), trimeter (3 feet), tetrameter (4 feet), pentameter (5 feet), hexameter (6 feet) etc. In this basic pattern the rhythm is how the words flow with the meter. Rhythm can be created by repetition of words that flow in metric pattern or by breaking up the flow with longer or shorter lines. A poem is indeed like a river that flows with words in lines rippling in rhythmic pattern.
In the mountains cascades the brook in glee,
water of the foothill river is free,
the feet of banks dancing ripples embrace,
the rhythm of flow wraps the river in grace.
Ripples may come, ripples may go, it flows
to the ocean, placid ocean it goes.
July 19, 2018
(The poem is set in iambic pentameter with rhythmic repetition of words in the last two lines.)
Paranoia
The man that stood next to me
Wore shades
Hidden eyes shielded by the taint
That makes light fade
Invaded space and feelings feint
His blatant eyeless stare
Sears through
With eyes removed to elsewhere
I withdrew
Silent whispering gazes that talk
Inwardly
I watch him vaguely like a hawk
Awkwardly
His mouth is moving with intent
About me
His speech comprises malcontent
Perverts my mind
He’s talking on his mobile phone
I’m being maligned
He moves away, I’m not alone
The talking lips
Proceed to drone upon my shoulder
Losing my grip
And disembodied eyes to make me shudder
He’s here
With shades and talking phone, to gaze
Upon my fear
And in my psyche, eyes and mouth that craze
There’s no escape
From entwined paranoia
And life insane
Paranoia
The man that stood next to me
Wore shades
Hidden eyes shielded by the taint
That makes light fade
Invaded space and feelings feint
His blatant eyeless stare
Sears through
With eyes removed to elsewhere
I withdrew
Silent whispering gazes that talk
Inwardly
I watch him vaguely like a hawk
Awkwardly
His mouth is moving with intent
About me
His speech comprises malcontent
Perverts my mind
He’s talking on his mobile phone
I’m being maligned
He moves away, I’m not alone
The talking lips
Proceed to drone upon my shoulder
Losing my grip
And disembodied eyes to make me shudder
He’s here
With shades and talking phone, to gaze
Upon my fear
And in my psyche, eyes and mouth that craze
There’s no escape
From entwined paranoia
And life insane
"Got your fluff again"
(for purpose of this poem
pronounce last word uh gain).
The missus uttered
aforementioned phrase
as she pulled a clump of my hair
from out the clogged shower drain
for no rhyme nor reason lemme explain
how so many globs of these strands
linkedin to scalp courtesy hair follicle,
which hair follicle essentially
a tube-like structure (pore)
that surrounds the root
and strand of a hair.
Hair follicles exist
in the top two layers of skin.
The average individual
born with over five million hair follicles
in their body and over
one million hair follicles
on his/her head, and as I aged
about that many seem to
get loosed when washing then rinsing hair,
nevertheless more hair continues
to grow out of hair follicles
smaller in size than sand grain.
I surmise that if laid end to end
each hapless hair that got plucked
out me noggin since birth
would fill many a railroad car,
(extending from Schwenksville,
Pennsylvania to Ukraine)
railcar (American and Canadian English),
railway wagon, railway carriage,
railway truck, railwagon, rail carriage
or railtruck (British English and UIC),
also called a train car, train wagon,
train carriage or train truck;
a vehicle used for the carrying
of cargo or passengers on a rail transport.
Said locomotive boxcars full to the brim
with globs of hair (mine)
after lathering locks
(each filament evincing
fifty shades of gray fibrous)
composed of 95% keratin,
a fibrous and helical protein
(in the shape of a helix),
which also comprises
composition of the skin
and of all the phanera (hair, nails, etc.).
Synthesized by keratinocytes,
keratin insoluble in water,
thus ensuring waterproofing
and protection for hair.
"It's for the better", I whispered;
And yet I found myself-
Wondering about it-
Over and over again;
"Was it worth it at all?", I sighed in agony;
Through every cry;
Through every silent prayer;
They say,
"Make sure the people you choose will choose you too"
But who else is perfect in this world?
Everyone makes mistakes sometimes-
And learn from them;
And yet, I found myself-
Convincing myself that-
it was just a silly mistake;
They say,
"Right person, wrong timing"
But its just a human thing-
To escape from the cruel reality;
They say,
"Maybe in another life"
What an irony that comprises itself;
Like humans, negotiating their own words-
That they make up things in their heads;
They say,
"Nothing in this world belongs to you"
And yet, I lost them-
As if they belonged to me;
But where would I go now?
Once that felt like home-
Remains a fleeting wish;
And an unfulfilled promise;
They say,
"Loving someone is never a waste"
And yet, I found it utterly stupid-
How a person gets blind in love;
They say,
"If you are a lover, you gotta be a fighter too"
But how can a soldier-
Recklessly worn from human race-
Fight for a soul-
Who is hard to find?
"In the end, it's a war between you and your own self", I concluded;
"Oh, what an irony!", I exclaimed;
Everything lies in the head of a person;
They choose to perceive things;
Life is fragile and yet, beautiful;
And so are human souls.
Deep inside a tormented soul, where suicidal thoughts give birth;
Where the cost of what it takes to live hardly seems to be what it is worth;
Deep in the abyss of forgotten dreams and of a wasted, forsaken life,
Is faintly heard, the angel’s word, uttered in whispers of light.
In the darkness of despair; in the shadows of lost hope;
In the emptiness out there – at the end of one’s rope;
In the moment of willingness to abandon the good fight;
The angel’s song, starts growing strong, echoing whispers of light.
The stairway back to spiritual health often comprises many flights;
But, to help us go, we might first know, the angel’s whispers of light.
by Joe Flach, written and posted 2/17/14 for Gail Doyle's "Whispers of Light" contest.
Waiting for the light to change
(A busy urban street),
I noticed quite a gathering
Not far from my two feet.
Upon a sewer grate I saw
Some starlings pecking ‘round
Although I didn’t even
See a crumb upon the ground.
Their beaks dipped down, oblivious
To passersby or wheels,
Intent on filling up on what,
To them, comprises meals.
A couple flew away, replaced
By new ones in a flash,
Not plentiful as pigeons but
On city streets, as brash.
*the original title of this poem was "grackles on a grate,"
but when i googled to confirm that the birds i saw were,
indeed, grackles, i discovered they were starlings.
poetic license only goes so far...