Long Contributor Poems
Long Contributor Poems. Below are the most popular long Contributor by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Contributor poems by poem length and keyword.
CHRISTIAN
Concern,compassion,comfort
CHARITY !
Commitment,consensus,concord
COMMUNITY !
Comunion,converse,counsel
CONNECTIONS !
Constant,candid,confession
CREED !
Conviction,contentment,completeness
CARPUS !
Contributor,curative,crusading
CHARISMA !
COVENANT ! CHRIST ! CHURCH !
Fine
words
it's
true
melodious
metrical
metaphors
mingle
in
alliteration
as
cadence
cajoles
with
verse
of
fine
verbs
and
adjectives
cojoin
to rhyme
in the
ear
drawing
the reader
near
and yet..
say
nothing
I
fear
WEEKLY WOES an alliteration
Miserable MONDAY
Torrid TUESDAY
Woeful WEDNESDAY
Terrible THURSDAY
Frenzied FRIDAY
Sorrowful SATURDAY
SUBLIME SUNDAY....carpe diem PRAISE THE LORD
CONCEPTS
Imagine,improvise,initiate
Create,co-operate,contemplate
Crucial Christian concepts
Contribute,combine,collaborate
Create,co-operate,contemplate
Cardinal Christian concepts
Share,support,participate
Create,co-operate,contemplate
Changeless Christian concepts
Meditate,cerebrate,celebrate
Create,co-operate,contemplate
Constant Christian concepts.
I watched the peaceful cattle stroll
around the pleasant field.
We gain from them both food and milk,
such benefits they yield.
However, when they eat the grass,
they digest all that stuff.
The gas produced from peaceful cows,
makes air a little rough.
But what about that lowly bug,
with termite as his name?
What he can do, with little help
can change the breathing game.
He gobbles up the wood and grass,
and does his worldly part.
Wet tears roll down my glist’ning cheeks
when I hear termites fart.
They pump their methane in the air,
not ending once it starts.
And all the people hang their heads,
whene’er the termite farts.
Termites are a major contributor of methane and CO2 into the atmosphere.
A site of nature’s appreciation
in wildlife and physical geographic beauty
blessed with a set of spoken identity
having over a hundred and twenty limbs
of which the Bantu stretches the longest of them all.
It is the creator’s Museum of human history;
its song of natural pride and general patriotism
is unbelievably shared with two of its neighbours
as its existence feeds on a unifying regional government.
Habitat to the globe’s largest and most delicious crab,
preserving the world’s largest and intact volcanic caldera,
a site for its continent’s highest and lowest points
and the continent’s largest and deepest lakes.
A major African contributor to the allied forces of world war two
and prides in the most expensive hardwood in the world.
With such a wealthy history and enviable reputation,
its still stuck in the major challenge weighing on the dark continent.
The inventor of the number system and chess;
the originator of algebra, trigonometry and calculus;
with the globe’s largest railway and postal network
and second to none in the height of a bridge.
We speak of the largest government of, for and from the people.
Beats Israel, Egypt, Mecca, Rome and Greece
in the number of religious visitors attracted to its shrines.
The circumference of its seasonal experience
is well partitioned into six segments.
It is the major contributor in giving the world some spicing,
its currency and sharing are very big antonyms
while Meghalaya is confirmed to be the globe’s tongue.
Even with these medals and accolades,
it still struggles to give women enough warmth and comfort
After Dad's Sunday softball games,
all the kids would run the bases.
Then we'd skip over to the River Inn Tavern.
Players would gather in small sweaty clumps.
Guzzling life
Playing pool
Devouring cold cuts.
Rehashing the scent of the game
The dirt on their uniforms,
was pure, blue-collared art.
I collected bottle caps in those days.
Had a secret agreement with "Chops."
The team coach and tavern owner.
Every time the cash register rang.
The richer he and I became.
Big George was the first baseman.
Power hitter and power drinker.
He was by far the biggest contributor to my collection.
My favorite bottle cap was a Genesse Cream Ale.
It was a pretty pale green.
It reminded me of a quiet mountain lake.
Or the eyes of the little blonde just down the lane.
Many bottle caps later we would leave the River Inn Tavern.
Dad's heart brimming with dirt and diamond.
My pockets jingling with tiny mountain lakes.
Both of us stinking of beer and bargain cigarettes.
That was a million Sundays ago,
Chops, Big George, and my bottle cap collection have left the batter's box.
My dear father is on deck.
Don't know what ever became of the little blonde down the lane.
BUILT, NOT FOUND
someone who can build a home,
not a competitor but a contributor and a builder
if she can compete it’s also okay, a shoulder to a man,
a person who can also bring ideas,
above all built on a Godly foundation
am not looking for decoration.
am looking for architecture
ink-stained hands, steady-eyes.
Not a spectator in my life stadium, but a co-engineer.
Someone who does not stand behind me in shadow,
or in front of you blocking the view, but beside me. Shoulder aligned.
Vision aligned.
A woman who can build a home
Not just arrange furniture, but construct atmosphere.
Not just cook meals, but nourish purpose.
Not a competitor
But not passive either.
If she can compete, let it be the healthy kind, where iron sharpens iron and both rise.
A contributor
Brings ideas.
Challenges thinking respectfully.
Adds strategy, not noise.
A shoulder to a man
strength, emotional maturity.
Meaning when storms hit, she doesn’t collapse, she anchors.
And above all, built on a Godly foundation.
when faith is the foundation,
Decisions are filtered through values
Ego bows before purpose
Love becomes covenant, not convenience
Conflict is handled with humility Prayer before pride
Growth before gossip
Character before charm
This can be built, but not found.
Admonishing against arrogance and apathy
Building lives buttressed with leadership brace
Caring for his children, blending compassion and circumspection
Daddy* dearest is decisive, determined, diligent, dedicated, disciplinarian...
Empowering with his enabling encouragement
Fatherly figure, firming up family fortress by his faith-fortitude
Godly in gearing, guarding, governing, guiding along grace goodness
Hoisting us toward holiness-height, happiness’ health and heavenly hope...
Instructor was Dad: intelligent and inspiring
Jovial while being just; amidst job-stress, jubilant
Keen in his knowledge kingdom for kindling kindness
Leading us to love’s light along liberating lessons in life...
Man of mercy and might, managing meaningfully
Nurturing so well with Mom’s nursing nourishment
Offering and opening great opportunities for optimization
Prayerful Dad propelled us to perform with best for progress
Quitting not in doing best despite qualms to attain noble quests...
Reverberating Dad’s legacy, worth remembering
Surely serving as steadfast statutes of strength’s stamina
Truthful indeed against trying times toward triumphant tasks
Unwavering since he had them exemplified by the Lord’s uplift
Values he did instill is us verily make us victors, vanquishing vanity...
Wonderful Dad, you have made us today’s winners
‘Xample you are to us, a champion , a hero of ‘xcellence
Your memory* lives in our hearts forever; yes, beyond eternity’s yon
Zealous are we to thank you, and we praise the Lord for your virtues’ zest.
*Proverbs 10:7 The memory of the just is blessed: but the name of the wicked shall rot.
Daddy Roberto passed away on January 2, 2019, as he was called to be with the Lord forever. Dad, by the grace and power of the Lord, left us - his children and his grandchildren - with a great testimony of a blessed fulfilled life as a husband, father, brother, church member, community contributor; indeed a virtuous life-builder.
December 10, 2019
ABC form with alliteration
6th place, "Memorial of a Loved One" Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Chantelle Anne Cooke; judged on 12/13/2019.
Written By: D. Collins 7/31/22
I am in awe of what you turned out to be.
And how God, let such a person come from me?
With that, I have no problem pinning stars on my chest.
In being a contributor in producing one of the best.
Through tough times, you've shown you have tough skin.
The kind of strong woman any man would love to call kin.
I am thoroughly impressed by the woman you've grown up to be.
It gives me such pleasure to know you grew from my seed.
Respect should be given while you're living period and a dot.
You are getting that from me, as your only surviving, OG Pop.
If God calls for me and my day increasingly grows near.
Every tear I've cried for you, are only Happy Tears.
Rosie Hammond went to a convention held in the town of Gig Harbor
With vacuum salesmen she would wine and dine while worrying about her daughter.
She was suffering from pain caused by the medicine she took for her insomnia disorder
Drifting off to sleep before the meal was complete she dreamt a UFO took her to the boarder.
Being in such dire straits to stay awake she sniffed a Listerine soaked tissue
Loosing their wits watching these tid-bits her friends asked, “What’s been bothering you?”
“Don’t get your spandex boxer shorts all out of sorts making lunar craters from wormholes,
You’re daughter will be fine just give her some time,” are the things that Rosie was told.
So they continued to taste the nuclear waste sent from the restaurant’s kitchen
And Rosie’s mind was free to let her be a contributor to the convention.
In the dim hour she listens for the water,
a woman whose name is missing from her badge,
who mends the city's veins the way you knead bread:
slowly, with warm hands, by one amber light,
so Ward Nine can drink when there is no rain.
Her sensor, taped in place, ticks against the pipe.
On the roof, where tomatoes climb a plastic pipe,
the fixers meet and trade in borrowed water,
their smiles as soft and useful as the rain.
They pass her work around and stamp it with a badge,
the way a moth wears the colour of a light
it did not make. They break it up like bread.
Each pockets a slice, still warm, like stolen bread,
then taps a wrist to a wrist beside the drip pipe,
and permits pass between them in a blink of light.
Their glow is not a lamp but a mirror, catching water
someone else carried. Every borrowed badge
shines like a puddle pretending it is rain.
At dawn a drone chirps VALUED CONTRIBUTOR, and its rain
is two vouchers: one laundry hour, one day-old loaf of bread.
She does not ask whose name is on the badge.
She is already listening to a pipe
that coughs beneath the street, a throat of water
choking in the dark, far from any light.
On her walk home, the public screens throw light
across her face. There they are, taking bows for rain,
their faces blooming like weeds that drink the water
meant for wheat. The crowd applauds. Warm bread
goes up to the stage in baskets. Beneath her, the pipe
hums on, not caring who wears which badge.
She kneels. Her knees are her only badge,
the pavement cold, the stars washed out by screen light.
She lays her ear against the cracked pipe
and hears it breathe, the way a field hears rain
before it comes, the way a child smells bread
before the oven opens. She tightens it. Water
moves on, wearing no badge, falling like private rain.
The screens burn borrowed light; her unseen hands are cracked like bread.
No one will thank the pipe. Everyone drinks the water.
By Dr Padmashree RP