Long Context Poems
Long Context Poems. Below are the most popular long Context by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Context poems by poem length and keyword.
Let's take the world as it began. First, there
was Earth, animals, and then man. Let's finish
this case: then came the human race--people of
the human face. Where did all these human laws
come from? They came from them who are us,
along with fun.
Then came sex to complete the human deck,
given to life to promote more of it. Sex is not
only a physical thing. Sex is a feeling that's in
every human being.
Be you straight or gay, sex is as real as night,
love and day. There was a time when the same
sex made love under the heavenly stars above.
This was before the laws of man; it happened
over and over again. And, of course, there
was sex between man and woman or wife.
Who made the laws of what's wrong and what's
right? What was the issue what was the fight? If it
was right then, then why is it not right now? Laws
were made by who where, when, why, and how?
Okay, no answer needed for that. Let's go to where
it's really at.
The ***** gives life and gives love; it was given to man
from God above. Well man needs love, like woman too.
Maybe that's what the ***** was made to do. This may
knock you on the floor. Perhaps the ***** is the key that
opens the locks to love's door. Perhaps some men can't
feel love before it is felt. Just think about that to yourself.
And maybe the same goes for woman too, except
they can also make babies too. When this is put into
context;makes one wonder what comes next? Well, the
world seems to lack the love it needs, instead there's
hatred, pain, suffering and greed.
They say God is love and love is God; without that love
the world gets odd. Now, I'm not saying what's right or
what's wrong. I may be asking the question, where has
love gone? Very little of it exists today. Maybe it's because
we have not allowed the other way.
Man is master under the sun; he controls what is and
is not done. But what happens when man has lost himself?
His suffering is felt by everyone else. Now, in the beginning,
there were straight and gay. Why can't it still be the same way?
Some may say the animals in nature don't do that,
but you are not a dog or a cat. Humans are on a higher
plane, animals and man are not the same. Maybe some
men do need love from another. Then it's good if that
love brings a love-starved world together.
Oddra was a little birdie who was locked in her gold guilt cage.
On the eve of her destruction she was too quick in throwing down her page.
Serendipity had led her to the most wonderful birdie carnival in town.
Little then, did any know, that soon would come WWE, Smack Down.
She spread her wings and danced and sang and flitted all about.
The she started out and shared a bit….OK…she shared a lot!
She was in her groove! Or At least that’s what she thought.
This is when the lines got crossed, causing the great confusion.
That escalated to pointing fingers blame and accusation of delusion.
Unfortunately, her listening was selective. So this is all she heard,
whispers, “What kind of bird is that, a loon, a coo-coo bird?”
“She looks a little parroty to me”. Writing on the wall read, “sitting duck”
Unwittingly she’d stepped on toes, as misconceptions flowed both ways.
She had no idea that some had known her from before, in better days.
She did not hear nor see them. Did not hear them rapping at her door.
The kept reaching out a hand to say hello. She appeared to just ignore.
Who’d be talking to her there? She’d never been there before.
She completely missed her half of her poor friend’s ironic one way conversation.
She shared again, totally unrelated, that fit in perfect context as brutal provocation.
After this, the demarcation line of friend and foe becomes a little blurry.
Each perceived the others actions as offensive resulting in actions of fury.
Hold a pen in front of you, from end to end, creates a line.
But hold looking down its barrel and it’s circular in design.
Both are true, and also both are lies. In the end they’re both the same.
Is an Oddra not an Oddra even with a different name?
Here’s my stamp, Divine Design; classic, tragedy and comedy. That was the only
mask.
Oddra, cursed the circled ones. The lines, drawn in the sand, doomed her as their
task.
The lines devised a brilliant plan: having placed some peas around a hole they’d
made in some ice,
“Apocapus”, as she’d been dubbed, “She has to pee sometime, When she comes up
to take a pea
we’ll kick her in the ice hole.”
There it is my friends. Oddra was Slammed dunked!!
This is just tale. I to this I will fully digress, I am a very Odd Duck!!!
There were those too, caught in the middle, undeserved bad luck!!
Form:
Cultural and Social Terms
Idol: In Persian poetry, often refers to the beloved, particularly one who is non-Muslim. The term carries complex connotations of forbidden desire and spiritual challenge.
Veil: Refers both to the physical head covering and the metaphysical veil between the material and spiritual worlds in Sufi thought.
Fate's Wheel: The wheel of fortune or destiny (charkh-e falak), a common motif in Persian literature representing the unpredictable nature of fate.
Character Names
Giti: A Persian name meaning "world" or "universe," suggesting the beloved encompasses all existence for the lover.
Saeed: An Arabic name meaning "happy" or "blessed," ironic given the character's suffering in love.
Poetic Devices and Concepts
Ghazal tradition: Though this is a masnavi, it draws heavily from the ghazal (lyric poem) tradition of Persian literature, with its emphasis on unrequited love and spiritual longing.
Tavern: In Sufi poetry, the tavern represents the place of spiritual gathering and divine intoxication, not literal alcohol consumption.
Cup and Wine: The cup represents the heart or soul, while wine represents divine love or spiritual knowledge.
Dawn: Often symbolizes spiritual awakening, hope, or the appearance of the beloved.
Mystical Concepts
Fana: The Sufi concept of self-annihilation or dissolution of the ego in divine love, reflected in the lovers' ultimate union where individual identity dissolves.
Ishq: Divine or passionate love that transcends ordinary human affection, central to Sufi thought and Persian poetry.
Longing (Hijr): The pain of separation from the beloved, considered a necessary stage in spiritual development.
Historical Context
Persian Literary Tradition: This work draws from the rich tradition of Persian mystical poetry, including works by Rumi, Hafez, Saadi, and others who used love poetry as a vehicle for spiritual expression.
Courtly Love: The formal, ritualized expression of love that characterized medieval Persian court culture, with its emphasis on patience, suffering, and devotion.
____________________________________
Note: Many terms in Persian mystical poetry carry multiple layers of meaning - literal, romantic, and spiritual - simultaneously. This ambiguity is intentional and central to the tradition's power and enduring appeal.
I am who I am
Were you to ask where I’m from my past my tale my next of kin
the answer lies in who tells my narrative my twist what kind of spin
My autobiography is quickly shown in who I am will be in time
past present future blend in context and contingency overt and sublime
No doubt the product of genes and socialisation is rather pertinent
thus mixing and mingling draws frameworks but is also quite reticent
German ancestry Lower Saxon and East Prussian born after the War
struggling with Genocide Holocaust trans-generational down to my core
Grew up in Hamburg somewhat lonely understood by not many but few
too young in my school year a class clown a rebel a critic because I knew
Teachers could not reject or downgrade me since I got full marks in exams
so I carved out my niche opposed authority of Messieurs and Mesdames
A late child of the Student Revolution an exchange to California ensued
where hot love struck me like balm on my wounds with Gigi from Peru
After graduation I rejected being supported by my father and joined the Army
to gain independence yet the method to gain freedom now seems very barmy
Could not leave the Forces despite pretty vigorous conscientious objection
did my best to help others as a medical doctor in humanistic inception
My duties brought me to Wales by the Irish Sea with five children and marriage
country medic and farm house guiding my kids and then nuptial miscarriage
Depression struck no light at the end of the tunnel just darkness and void
too much drink downcast in my mental wheel chair and almost destroyed
Went to rehab in South Africa for treatment where God-incidence came
where I met my wife best friend lover soulmate who had suffered the same
Now I sit in the sun in South Africa stopped medicine write story and poem
reinvent my life some inner child stuff self-actualisation and certainly growing
New awareness novel perspectives pacifism philosophy and many questions
but the knowledge that kindness love and compassion are more than suggestions
My most intimate companion apart from my gorgeous wife is depression
both showed me my path journey and meaning my own life’s repossession
So few words about where I come from who I am will become and will be
so if you wish to explore more of my roots and my future please read my poetry
Friend, before life moves us to the parting ways
Let wisdom tell from rend of heart its lessons old
That you may take your journey springing praise
And mend with gladness dream and mirrored fold
One road invites the universe of man to dawn
The place we left in awe of sword and flash of fire
Stumbling from purpose and lapping dew for ire
Making the circle of return to the cradle of the fawn
It's two things the oracle challenges us to know
Where the road diverges into many different paths
What vision shapes the skill that need will show
To meet the tests that sever self from it thoughts
And lift the eagle to the pinnacle of brimming star
And say to soul you are worth more than you seem
In any dissection of the flesh or weighing of dream
The mantle is mask that pretends not who we are.
What if one branching path a wide lake must cross
What if another a snow-capped cliff must clamber o'er
And still the next has serpents slithering in the grass
And one stretch endless like miles of a sandy shore
Shall the swimmer charm the serpents, swim
The sands, and climb the mirror face of ice
Against a different purpose will his dream suffice
Or all mismatched paths not a meet a fate still grim?
O too many on the wrong path are embarked, too few
Their purpose know before the journey begins
The shipwreck on deserts straddle the sense as clue
Ignored ... self-blinded race, drowning in our sins
He who foreknew us predestined purpose too
Each tree is seeded after its kind, each man can
Achieve only what is set in the primordial plan
The broad way is littered with much too much to rue.
What use is choice unless some context tell the aim
For once and only once we choose the path to good
And joy, the river does not return, the sea is the same
Only at the rapids end. Not what I would, but what I should
Is all I need to know. It's not the prize but the race
We run is what we are destined for. Go now, friend
And wing the light and for mist of truth contend
The swift may run, but the wise the victory taste.
‘can’t change your family but you are free to choose your friends’
Michael’s brother is demented and only remembers the distant past
his parents are long dead they died in a car crash at illegitimate speed
every now and then he visits their graves and leaves a Match Box car
instead of flowers and lights a joint for Peace just to annoy them a bit
illegal traffic is one of the burdens of modern society and transport
luckily for him he fathered three children who don’t know what hit them
when he is diagnosed with cancer but they promise to look after him
a fortunate story of love and the transmission of generational kindness
life’s hardships are relative and sometimes a concept of irrational thought
now it stands him in good stead to have followed a path of emotions
Michael has chosen his own relative friends at free will and he
cherishes them all in equal proportions and knows how to relate
the Liberty to decide when to give and when to receive
undeterred by strict norms and unauthorized obligations
a notion of Justice derived from virtues and a moral law
from within along fairness equity rectitude without fail
Honesty in all his endeavours as much as the very truth
to be spoken when silence and falsification where easier
unmistakeable Charity in the face of a self-righteous world
requesting nothing in return because he is privileged by birth
Communication in deeds and in words without anger or venom
because once acted or spoken it is difficult to retract a position
most of all he is only too well aware that Perspectives are contingent
as well as embedded in context but that he can craft from his own Self
he Reads Writes Feels Reasons and Stakes his claim at times Surrenders
connects what seems to be relative but does not change on his last journey
Michael’s brother does not suffer from the loss of engaging with his relatives
his parents died a pain free death at the crossroad of the reaper’s stark scythe
and his children will tell his story outlook and attitude to relatives and death
he is a blessed man and he keeps a small vial of morphine for when time calls
his compassionate wife who by law is not a relative will help with the plunger
02 November 2020
I said I'd bring the Brussel Sprouts.
My friend said that was fine.
But still I saw him questioning
as though I'd crossed the line.
He mentioned we had many things.
A meal for a king.
But then he said "Oh what the heck"
and on I went with zing.
I mentioned bringing cranberries.
To which he said "For beef"?
Then stated that I didn't care
and kept it just that brief.
Till finally bringing cherries up.
The Marashino kind.
Do tell; I'd brought his anger up.
He thought I'd lost my mind.
I said they're for the ice cream.
When he said "We have cake".
Then told him we could put them on
for something new to make.
He greeted me with smiling eyes.
His kitchen in a mess.
He'd cooked the meal the whole day long.
This man was meant to bless.
The table sat in waiting now.
A knife, a fork a spoon.
My friend next to the burners on
where he'd been next since noon.
We talked about the day we had.
complained of things unfair.
While turnips, carrots and potats
sat cooking on with flair.
The roast was last to finish up.
It cooked a second time.
It looked like we'd be waiting on
for pink to leave the Prime.
When finally all was ready now.
Each dish upon the table.
You couldn't have had a better spread
or find a friend more able.
The turnips shining in their juice.
The carrots basted glisten.
Potatoes mashed in pile of silk
for gravy left to Christen.
We filled our plates with everything.
Three inches piled high.
And kept them separate in their space.
Not more if we could try.
When finally it had come to change.
The cranberries coming next.
My friend conceded they taste great
with beef in it's context.
The Brussel Sprouts were perfect
as we both approved thier taste.
And ate as many with the meal
to keep them from their waste.
With everything we ate that night
included was our prayer.
For though we stuffed ourselves that night
we're thankfull to be there.
We walked it off an hour or more.
Our health in need of chance.
Returning for another round
of ice cream, cake and trance.
To which I mentioned sweetened cherries
to add a little flavor.
When placed upon the ice cream scoop
would leave us both to savor.
The meal ended with a scrape
that both our plates gave squeak.
but despite our prayer and being full
not one us could speak.
Today we celebrate Noah Webster and his creation…the dictionary…without them you might say we’d be speechless…we’d have no vocabulary.
For how important are words once they form within our heads…with their ability to evoke emotions the moment they are said.
A word, itself, is not beautiful or ugly…complimentary or demeaning…it’s only in the context and the way we say it that gives a word it’s meaning.
Words when spoken from a place of love have a musical refrain…words when spoken from a place of hate are meant to damage and cause pain.
Some words make us feel good and bring with them happiness…let me name a few…there’s freedom, laughter, joy, peace, love, compassion and family too.
Some words when uttered leave fear and sorrow in their wake…like Alzheimer’s, Aids, war, death…tornado and earthquake.
I remember when a friend informed us her doctor wanted to see…if cancer was growing inside her…so she ordered a biopsy.
Biopsy…now there’s a word with the ability to fill ones heart with fear…as you anxiously and hopefully wait for the doctor to say the words you want to hear.
It’s interesting that as word spread of her biopsy that was planned….words of encouragement came rushing to her from all across the land.
Words of love…of compassion and support…words easy to comprehend…drifted softly…blended together and landed on our friend.
Our words were one way of showing her we were thinking of her…that we cared…one way to let her know her fear and apprehension was something we all shared.
And as we all awaited the results…hoping our world might realign…our apprehension turned to exhilaration when we heard the word…benign.
It is amazing how one day one word can cause so much woe..so much anguish and concern…and the next day another word replaces it allowing joy and happiness to return.
And so I wonder if Mr. Webster, the lexicographer, would agree…if we only used kind word from his dictionary…how happy we’d all be.
How words of kindness and love are an investment used to gather friends…and one day, when we need it…those words pay dividends.
For when I think of our friend’s frightening experience…it is the words of her friends I recall….leaving me to wonder if words of love…of support…of kindness…of compassion and of friendship…aren’t the most beautiful words of all.
Tis quite a beast of burden to bear atlas (shrug off not allowed)
Atlas shrugged an impossibility
tantamount to skinny dipping in the lock nest lagoon
Tantamount to shrugging Atlas off mine bony,
ill suited, widower wizened shoulders,
would take naked fat chance in Fountain Head of virgin waters,
eddy fied with huge boulders
which preliminary sketches to maintain pristine
(pure as Snow White's booty) kept in folders
when collaborative effort called, the fore mid able,
trio, sans state of the artists
(within their respective trades as writer
fictional hero, and architect)
Ayn Rand, John Galt, and Howard Roark,
who undertook resplendent measures
affected resilient as omnipotent cable
tub ring plenti kickstarting linkedin gatecrashers
to a snapchatting halt
instagramming, crowdsourcing, crowdfunding,
held at equivalent asper Bay of Pigs
viz Pay of Bigs
(in this context identified as
(vudu trained stalwarts, petsmart outlook,
incorporating literary, metaphorical,
nautical staff comprising fable
sea Crete cure metamorphoses abilities, as failsafe method –
i.e., physically, instantaneously, architecturally rendering
modus operandi capacity asper quick as blazing saddles
(ponied up by young Frankenstein)
kept in fireproof stable,
where at dextrous fingers ala hocus-pocus prestidigitation
which chiefly buoyantly ardently, and hardily drafted imp pier re: hull
rock hull impediment for shore also cast evil spells should
any foolish soul, who dared
to maneuver past the near blinding pier sing redoubt
to access blue lagoon like watery oasis
shielded via reeking poor Island
(where an atomic rooster gargoyle shrouded parapet)
buffeted the crashing waves against
the lock smooth as a glass table
whose wooden sea legs solidly affixed
to hip, hip hooray three chairs
inviting two story book heroes plus the author,
unfurling parchment scriptural roles invited ad lib flairs
since threat of category five hurricane
manifested took writer by surprise,
thus requiring her to utilize cognitive gears
which necessitated modification of original plot,
now bumped credos with religion
vis a vis engendering prayers.
From mouth to ear across a lifetime lived,
traveling strings tying lives together thread on thread.
Every one word building lifetimes;
bonded mud of bricks to house
our broken bags of trailing flesh.
We will hold each others heart,
we will hold each others head up high.
Better or worse for the word or two that has made,
will forever make, and always is,
the difference.
Speak this word or that, watch the matter of it all unfold,
past lives shaped and shaping now
in crucibles of all our conversations.
Words to bridge and touch this world,
like knives or axes falling,
slicing moments each peeled back,
revealing bullets spent and sailing
on to wounded tearful souls.
Comfort words,
words of love,
different shapes and sizes wrapped
in different voices heard.
Inflections, accents, whispered,
loudly shaped intense of spirit,
colored by emotion to enforce.
Chosen words of purpose:
dispatched, planned,
let fly in haste,
erecting endless layers to our waste.
Tools of our intention common to our time,
reserved and planned, chosen with meticulous care,
whose definitions matter more than when or where.
Piercing silent dreams,
floating on the breath of every God,
making mysteries of all we seem to be.
Mirrors made of silence once,
we soon are made of words that move us
through a doorway, joining into life.
Today, a workshop for the poet. Write about a cup.
Standing empty, purpose unfulfilled.
Imagination startled as I smash the cup inside my head.
A million shards of broken pottery lying on the floor.
Broken poems and promises lying on the floor.
Shards thrown out of context as are we.
Broken souls from out a shattered God.
Each shard, a refugee. You and me.
Metaphors attached to all the brokenness we own.
Cups of purpose seeking our fulfillment.
Joined to make a whole of all we hold;
become a cup our truth will then unfold.
What began as empty, filled with our life’s portion,
sharing, sipping, spilling all along the way.
Losing contents we may label dear
until the final tipping of a cup left upside down.
What words escape our pens that are not truth.
Whose content change the soul from which we bleed
Whether subject cup or love, or other siphoned dalliance,
at our finish will complete a lifetime’s cupping need.