Long Confer Poems
Long Confer Poems. Below are the most popular long Confer by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Confer poems by poem length and keyword.
I am vulture
My soul case may be repugnant,
However, I have every sawbones decimal
On my speed dial
Before any croacker decrees justice
On a soul case,
They confer with me
My logbook contains a docket
Of every Golgotha and slaughterhouse on the planet
I am on first name basis
With every casket maker, mortuary Steward and proprietor
I am the fiend no soul case wants to see,
Hear or dream about
My name send's shivers down the spine of mortals
I am a friend in need and indeed;
I am the curator in every country
Where war and conflict thrive
No one thinks of me
And no one want's me as a pet
I am the dark one; the dark continent
I am vulture, the patient one
"recently scenes of early life have stolen into my mind, like breezes blown ..."
Quote by _Samuel Taylor Coleridge (from his writings)
stored
moments
soothe bleak hearts
as vintage wine
ease and wipe out painful situations
confer confidence to confront summons
they're saved bankrolls
induce smiles
on your
face
PLACE : 3
Tetractys
Writing Challenge - Past Memories - ''T'' Forms Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Constance La France
Date: 03-10-2022
Dawn hurls once more
A brand new day,
Here by these shores
A touch at play.
This seaside world
Where light shines bright,
Moist sea breeze swirls
Sheer salty sights.
We loiter here
To tan our thoughts,
In carefree spheres
Wonder finds lot.
A brisk walk treks
The sandy beach,
Treasures of cracks
In saline reach.
Watch curious crabs
Dart here and there,
Look out for scraps
In measured care.
A chalet stay
Now clusters much,
Look to this day
To confer touch.
Beloved dear:
A mindful way
Brings peace that cheers
Our simple stay.
Words need not be
A heavy load,
We come to see
Our happy road.
Leon Enriquez
12 October 2017
Singapore
INTERVIEW WITH A DYING TREE-
I stand erect I embrace we
You cover me I am under you us
Grounded together we two
I am of you, we both stand in the wind
Both sprightliness, yet of skins
I die daily, my skin sheds
We gather this meeting we hug a conference created beings
In examination whose evaluation our dialogue audience
Exchange canvass the 3rd degree who said you’re a dying tree
I shed skin you shed buds and leaves daily
I speak life, live tree I speak life into me
You’re created-higher than the grounds
You’re created to cleanse the air
So that I may breathe the breath of God
You’re confer with
You’re pollinated
You’re survey you sound out ascertain the opinion of doubt
You shall not be disease nor die out I speak life I decree
I speak life, no you shall not be hewed, nor are you diseased
I speak life, you’re not said a dying tree
6/24/23
For “The Interview” Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Anthony Biaanco
Poets have multiple aims, modes, reasons to write,
Which may match what readers want downright.
Some poets are simply lovers of words and language.
How they twist and turn, and meld on a page.
Some readers love the sound of words that beat,
A tune where rhyme and rhythm softly meet.
Some write to teach, profound knowledge to bestow,
They search for answers that readers need to know.
Some write about love and how it feels.
To find words that only love brings in appeals.
Some write about puzzle in spins and loops,
To answer questions with hoopla hoops.
Some write of myths, to stir and inflame,
the gods, ghosts and ghouls you can name blame.
Some paint lovely scenes in colorful hues,
The beauty of nature to embellish and infuse.
Some write with fire, brimstone in hand,
About war and fighting bedeviled be damned
Some inspire awareness of unnoticed things,
Of storms triggered by flaps of butterfly wings.
Some write of very personal things in their life
that others may confer with their joys and strife
Some write to bang, jangle apathy awake,
with the strange arranges of clangs they make.
Some herald their beliefs, faith and devotion
to God, and the worship they want to set in motion.
Some write in vague smokes, mirrors and screens
To deliberately confound, confuse you in teems.
So write what you will, read what you must,
The outcome, when all is done is the line in the dust.
I remember the day my daughter was born
Like she had been here before, but now reborn
Through the terrible two's she behaved like the rest
When she came to mingle she had a different zest
She spoke so young and observed all around her
She would talk to herself in private confer
Then along came school with it's different surrounds
She became more outgoing as if on common grounds
Her early teens came she was like a stranger to us
She would recite ancients scripts and bring us to cuss
Feelings I felt having never known her at all
But the day I followed her, scrawling on the church walls
I see her scribing, ancient symbols and satanic verses
As she turns to me with Latin curses
She looks at me her eyes black that were green
Your no father to me my real fathers to be seen
My daughter my princess she falls to her knees
Her back rips open she smiles as if appeased
A black fluid appears, next a bulging mass
Dark wings unfold as I stare and gasp
She turns towards me again I can see pain in her eyes
Her eyes are now green and theirs tears in her cries
Daylight is now darkness, dancing shadows on walls
Black winged angels ringing humanities death knoll
Where my daughter is kneeling buildings are collapsing
The arrival, her father, as his black winged angels sing
I run to my daughter, masonry falls all around
As we collapse together on natures hallowed ground
She was never his daughter although she had been here before
For her eyes turned from black, because she loved me even more
We lie bloodied and bruised on natures battered floor
What happens when were gone, we have gone before
!^!
I was born in May, my nest was in a hole of an old tree. Mother had made
the nest warm and cozy with hair, fur, and dead leaves. I often wondered
where she got the hair. I had seven siblings in the beginning. Our home
was in a boreal forest in Northern Canada. I soon realized I liked the cold.
Of course, in the first days of my life I was helpless, mother and father fed
us. But, by eighteen days I had sprouted wings and was flapping them a lot.
I thought I was ready to fly but mother would push me back into the nest.
Mother's songs were so beautiful with trills and whistles, soon I was singing.
Sadly, I lost some of my siblings to predators, owls, hawks, even squirrels.
I am a Boreal Chickadee, a songbird, I am sure you have heard our songs.
I forage on confer branches, probe the bark. Our home is in trouble, it is
being cut down, and we are dramatically threatened. I am afraid of where
I will go. For now, I forage the boreal forest with a small flock of friends.
we sing sweet trilling songs
that drift through the trees for miles ...
as snow gently falls
Poetry/Personification/Haibun/Boreal Chick-A-Dee
Copyright Protected, ID 11-1596-571-09
All RightsResrved, 2023, Constance La France
I remember the day my daughter was born
Like she had been here before, but now reborn
Through the terrible two's she behaved like the rest
When she came to mingle she had a different zest
She spoke so young and observed all around her
She would talk to herself in private confer
Then along came school with it's different surrounds
She became more outgoing as if on common grounds
Her early teens came she was like a stranger to us
She would recite ancients scripts and bring us to cuss
Feelings I felt having never known her at all
But the day I followed her, scrawling on the church walls
I see her scribing, ancient symbols and satanic verses
As she turns to me with Latin curses
She looks at me her eyes black that were green
Your no father to me my real fathers to be seen
My daughter my princess she falls to her knees
Her back rips open she smiles as if appeased
A black fluid appears, next a bulging mass
Dark wings unfold as I stare in agasp
She turns towards me again I can see pain in her eyes
Her eyes are now green and theirs tears in her cries
Daylight is now darkness, dancing shadows on walls
Black winged angels ringing humanities death knoll
Where my daughter is kneeling buildings are collapsing
The arrival, her father, as his black winged angels sing
I run to my daughter, masonry falls all around
As we collapse together on natures hallowed ground
She was never his daughter although she had been here before
For her eyes turned from black, because she loved me even more
We lie bloodied and bruised on natures battered floor
What happens when were gone, we have gone before
http://www.thehighlanderspoems.com/dark-2.php
A week passed, yet no words drifted in my mind
I feared I'd become numb and poetically blind
so, I gave up, went to bed and turned off the light
but in the very next moment I screamed in fright!
"Procrastinator!" My Muse yelled, in a huff.
"You are made of much stronger stuff!"
I slid beneath the covers; she threw back the quilt.
"Oh no," she fumed, "you'll not fill me with guilt!"
I pleaded and cajoled, but she bought none of it.
She pulled out my desk chair and said, "NOW SIT!"
I obeyed and sat but nothing worthy came to mind.
I felt her staring at my back, 'twas of the evil kind.'
Desperately, I tried to conjure rhymes that would do.
She sighed then she asked, "What's wrong with you?"
I turned my head to look at her so we could confer,
but she shimmered away in a wavy transparent blur.
I called to her, and reached out trying to pull her near
My arms grasped only air, for she had disappeared.
"Come back, please. I'm sorry I've not been writing,
but thoughts you've offered lately are all about fighting."
She reappeared smiling, and before she took flight,
whispered in my ear, "Just pick up your pen and write."
I'm the sleeping child in the ribcage of civilization
Forgot that I need to wake up for absolute time
It's time, yes, it's high time to write poem
It's time to write a letter of poem on yellow envelop
It's time to write poem on the fallen leaves by new born dews
It's time to write poem to know you and to make know you that-
I'm a poet of catastrophic world!
It's time to write poem on the broken wall of the world fate-
Where everyone warns each other about the manhole
But after fall in the manhole none comes to rescue;
Where everyone warns each other about covid-19
But after contaminated by it everyone leaves alone;
Where all leaders confer and conscious about global warming
But after completion of the conference forget all manifestations
It's time to write poem on the tombstone of the departed hope-
Where the expected great life is written in humanitarian white paper
But human life akin to puppet, for the atomic power exhibition by war;
Where everyone is called for the prodigious unity on hidden graveyard
But unity becomes the bargaining products in the market of superpower;
Where every child takes birth to touch the ultra-developed science
But at the end inhumanity makes them the modern child of violence
Oh it's time to write poem to know me and to know all that-
I'm a poet of catastrophic world!
© Mahtab Bangalee
Chattogram
26/10/2022