Long Conditionally Poems
Long Conditionally Poems. Below are the most popular long Conditionally by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Conditionally poems by poem length and keyword.
I Will Be The Better
*
To have left the world
Without making it a better
Place for ourselves and
Our animal friends,
What kind of a life was that?
*
To have left the world
With family and friends
Remembering me as cynical,
Sarcastic, and pessimistic
What kind of life memories were those?
*
To have left the world
Loving conditionally,
What kind of love was that?
*
In my next life I will be the better
For letting our world's
Flora and Fauna
Instruct me in the
Ways of stewardship.
*
In my next life I will be the better
For loving my family
And friends unconditionally.
*
In my next life I will be the better
For listening to the children
With my heart and soul
And let them guide me
In the ways of innocence and wonder.
*
And when I cross over,
I'll give a nod to Socrates
Who, once upon a time, said,
“The unexamined life is not worth living.”
And I will be the better
For having examined mine.
*
In those ways He just mattered He cares so for me
Illuminate light His love Embraces me
As I stand before Him I am made free
Elohim
Creator Father loves me
I'm alone instilled yet belong to a loving Father
His love for unconditionally everso beautiful
As I stand before Him
Elohim
My Abba, Daddy God loves me
While in my mess
He yet still blesses me
This man so devine love flows unconditional
Elohim
My Creator Father loves me so
Been redeem by His Son Father's promises never to let us go
In the arms of Our Father embraced for evermore
My creator Father, forgiving Father
In spite of all that I've done
He's forgiven me I'm conditionally loved
Written words by James Edward Lee Sr 2o23 (c)
I ask, "Do we not want to be informed?
May God forbid that we be conformed.
May God grace us to be transformed.
Even though some say, there is no better me or you,
Should we be in search of 'a better me, a better you'?
Others say, "Deep within, there's a better me".
Yet others say, "Whether surface or deep within,
There's not to be found in mortals, a better me".
Is change possible, or should we even bother?
Should there not be change wherever possible?
Are our flaws, stains, and ways even stoppable?
Is not The Blood of Christ still powerful enough
to wash away stains? And is not The Holy Spirit
still our Primary Helper for change?
Indeed, some things in our lives will remain,
but some things need never remain the same.
And perhaps all will agree that, conditionally,
There is a better you, a better me.
061923PS
I only be looking down now, looking inside myself now,
not head set in defeat but reflection, not the thoughts but the actual events that happened, wild flower child, yea right boom boy im a power plant, a quater-back serving audibles, wide-receivers run em in slants, run deep, swapping the rythym up, call it skill or pronounce them fiery darts of the devil, replay read a lot of fake words, deploy nothing but truths that carry troops, dead-zone drop-off swing wide scrape the danger, winged right there then, repairs upmost respected like I have a strong command of the english langauge, a strong sense of honor, PoW's plenty of wise men, plenty that u couldnt challenge on the battlefield, u better be ready to die when you walk in their battallion, Feel the valance the stealth, feel nothing feel what you feel wether its false politics American Goverment, I dont condemn my country, American people be the damn blindest, conditionally unseasoned , refutedly would he die in that war man? Well im a black speck in his eyes dying where ever it dont make a ****, you think a soldier gives a damn about being remembered, nah its about fighting your hardest, living longer, having your friends back, perfecting that last love letter, asking God for guidance, as waiting for it, Command given stretch the ammunition, permissions only to use your intuition, now i put a disatant on that idea's be balanced if you spot it u got it, six strikes 3 terrible battle plans, instructions be on a good heart. we life size- we realize it. we competition cams with a lope pulling deeper compression, true intentions blow up in your mind like mushroom clouds, like the repurcussion was a blast to the laws broken in an accident, cheap shells cheap never be Blaine c cheap s sweetlies b bashing breaking *****es, bullstrong. balls with the brillance, beautiful blows, brainstorming, bulls of bashan beaware the wheel of furtune turns quick ask me I slip out simple vibes I be on top soon. blanks broken hollypoints I keep one jax in the chamber, Bang baby I still hit hard with the power, bang *****es blaine me, can u blame me? Straight and narrow , not like in a false form, warfront back on a warhorse, back on the foremost thoughts of a man with a decision to make..
Form:
I looked at theirs in hopes I would find mine
The powerful example in their lives underlined
They showed what they know by their branches intertwined
Instantaneous, long lasting, molded and refined
Beyond futility, their hopes in God enshrined
I have tried to grasp love, hold it tightly confined
Malignant and ugly, not what I hoped I would find
For without a giving heart and a soul that was kind
Love kept from my grip and was trapped in my mind
So I looked to the heavens for colours extreme
What could this failure of mine really mean?
I was baptized in the water of God's Holy Stream
With His gift of true Love this heart was redeemed!
"It's an about love thing". This all started with me not understanding,
Keith Papayrus posted his poem "It's Theirs" I didn't understand it.
Keith was kind enough to soup me a explanation which I found poetic.
His response led to me writing this poem. "conditionally coloured"
was part of his response to me and I thought it should be part of my title.
Thanks for the inspiration my brother of the pen.
Conditionally,
“unconditional”
comes with its
vast conditions,
don’t you agree?
we invest our love,
and all of ourselves
into the adoration
and dissection
of all forms
of muses,
who will,
or will not
be found
swimming amused
in each others'
minds,
in each others'
poetry;
we are a muse
ourselves, egregious
to the rules of iambic
and other rigid romping
rhythms and rites
to be righted,
that we daily play
dodgeball with ardently,
it's like ducking from
incoming magpies
guarding their nests,
circling their
small-worldly boundaries,
establishing their tiny
very tight territories,
they fly in at us hard
with their sharp beaks
and their spit, they assert
they are allied with the best,
those well informed
highly schooled scribes,
who largely mistaken in mind,
dunk others less than less, and wait
for the curs'ed to float,
but in the sinking
those curs'ed
drowned muses,
in that terrible
horrendous misfortune,
tied to their dunking chairs,
eyes now wide open,
find diamonds
at the bottom of
their damned pond,
as they swiftly pass
schools of wayward fish
with no clear direction in mind,
and other monsters
pulling out hearts
with their pre-prehistoric
saber-toothed grins;
hellelujah for those
who bespoke for you
freeverse from the ego
within the heart -
it’s the mind that cuts
without hesitation,
draws lines in the sand,
limiting us to couplets
in greeting cards
sans ampersand,
conditionally
"unconditional";
the curs'ed
eventually wake
and they rise,
spilling tea
stirring
sugar 'n spice
into the bland,
who eventually
open their eyes
and their minds,
unconditionally
“conditional”
sans ampersand
heart
mind
Candide Diderot. ‘24
Being taken for granted does not feel good. There must be an implied rule for men to advise women of the same lies. I have met the same man 100 times. When do I get to meet someone only once? Being hard is tiring but being soft is weakening. How do I be soft while also being strong? Humans kill ants without even knowing. Am I an ant? Because I can't be human. I get stepped on so much, it feels as if the person doesn't even realize it. Because if they realized it, why continue to inflict that much pain on someone? I have been told that I was better off dead, I have been told nobody will ever love me, I have been told I will die lonely, I have been told more painful than positive things. Sometimes I look in the mirror and see nothing reflecting back, as if I am a ghost. I feel ignored and only seen when someone is in need. Everyone loves me conditionally, when can I feel love unconditionally? When can I be catered to? When can I call on someone when I am in need? I can't and that's ok. Maybe one day, maybe not. Until then, I'll just continue to sit in this rain, waiting for the right sun to dry me up.
Three siblings sleep within a shadow-spun cocoon (while their children look on),
wrapped in generational trauma in their long winter days and freezing nights.
Mothers who dream of a mother lost beneath a shattered moon,
where Mother is the name for God in the hearts and on the lips of little children.
Wrapped in generational trauma in their long winter days and freezing nights,
they searched North Stars unconditional to call their own.
Where Mother is the name for God in the hearts and on the lips of little children,
unaware Her spirit walks beside them always there, quiet and unknown.
They searched North Stars unconditional to call their own.
One made a home, yet two remained in The Bardo, dark and deep,
unaware Her spirit walks beside them always there, quiet and unknown,
where their hollowed hearts forget how to live and they have lost the will to weep.
One made a home, yet two remained in The Bardo, dark and deep.
One found her way to Paradise Drive, shaking her tambourine.
Where their hollowed hearts forget how to live and they have lost the will to weep,
their Mother’s spirit remains possessing, conditionally keeping all their hopes alive.
One found her way to Paradise Drive, shaking her tambourine.
She played life for all its worth to break the spell.
Their Mother’s spirit remains possessing, conditionally keeping all their hopes alive,
to reach back through the cold where shadows fall, She pulls them to Her heart.
She played life for all its worth to break the spell.
Mothers who dream of a mother lost beneath a shattered moon.
To reach back through the cold where shadows fall, She pulls them to Her heart.
Three siblings sleep within a shadow-spun cocoon (while their children look on).
Candide Diderot. ‘ 26
“Mother is the name for God in the lips and hearts of little children.”
(William Makepeace Thackeray, Vanity Fair )