Long Convenience Poems
Long Convenience Poems. Below are the most popular long Convenience by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Convenience poems by poem length and keyword.
I have these manly hands,
Not pretty, not soft.
They hold firewood well though,
A fall from my child, They'll stop.
These hands are feeling tired,
Once again learning the land.
In suburbia tools are accessible,
Easy to come by and less elements to withstand.
There is home in the bush for me,
The open skies call my name.
The ease and the convenience repels me,
Leaving me in debt, emptiness and shame.
A real woman, I feel within me.
Whatever my definition is.
She uses muscle and heart,
Holds faces, smiles and finishes with a kiss.
This woman within me,
She walks up hills and creates life,
She nurtures and toils,
Prays for seedlings to flourish in sunlight.
I forgot how sacred she was.
Her beauty, it glows from the inside.
Unable to be seen by the empty,
When in process she tends to hide.
She stews in her fire,
Her brain hot and her hands clenched.
Ripping out the unneeded,
Hair behind her ear, sweaty, opening a beer while sitting on a bench.
What a woman she was,
Not everyone's cup of tea.
Despite all of the attempts to run,
This woman came back to me.
We mint our saints in neon now,
Their cheekbones cut from screens and static,
Golden calves with fiber-optic veins,
Hoofed in convenience and applause.
They learn to glow before they live,
Learn to bleed without a wound.
Once, holiness arrived on fire—
A thorned voice cracking the ceiling of the skull.
Now it trickles through notifications,
Thin as milk diluted with promotion.
Even martyrs have brand managers.
Even wounds wear makeup.
I kneel before the altar of updates,
My thumbs in constant prayer,
Scrolling for a sign that still has teeth.
Every miracle is sponsored.
Every resurrection comes with terms,
Small print stitched into the shroud.
The dead are louder than the living.
We canonize in real time—
A tragedy, a candle, a trending hymn,
Then on to the next immaculate disaster.
Grief has learned to multitask.
Ash is archived.
Our saints no longer starve in deserts—
They starve in crowded rooms,
Feed on echoes, likes, the clean white crack
Of being witnessed without being known.
Their halos flicker in algorithmic weather,
Shorted by irrelevance.
I want the old ferocity back—
The kind that sears a name into bone,
That does not vanish after thirty days
Like an unrenewed subscription to sorrow.
I want a holiness that indicts me,
Not the soft-focus mercy of forgetting.
We write our sacred lives in disappearing ink,
Hagiographies that refresh and vanish—
Lives reduced to captions under flame.
We are all relics in plastic cases,
Handled without touch,
Venerated without trembling.
And God—if you are still here—
You must be exhausted by our mirrors,
By this choir of self-lit saints
Singing through glass.
Even you, I think, would crave
One unrecorded miracle.
Why do you stand to stare, old man,
Over these fields of grass,
It must be a terrible boring time,
There's nothing here to see.
No, nothing now, but I look with inward eye,
For twenty thousand years did pass
Since I meditated upon this place.
Then was a time before
Mans convenience held sway,
All life bowed before his blade
Of Ozymandien ascendence.
See the mighty herds
Throng all the plain,
The rapt hunter
Every tendons ardour,
For intention, evolutions need.
The air dances under
Gossamer wing, sun delighting
In the dazzling ferment of a
Million colourful insects,
Each a miracle, in
Their congruent niche.
Stand present and see,
Be part of the paragon
Of flight, that is the swift.
Its display of perfect harmony
Brings joy to the soul,
To know life is beautiful
In its own completeness.
Life has come from
Millions of years to bless.
Each form, a piece evolved
To fit the jigsaw of existence.
The mountains rise and fall
In time beyond human mind,
Following on evolutions train.
Infinitely complex are the
Relations each to all and each
To their conditions of life.
But the barman calls time
And Lil will not look up
To smell the roses.
When I get home from work
There's kids to feed,
They don't keep themselves clean,
Who goes to the shop,
The endless miles of
Tarmac don't cover themselves
In little metal boxes.
When do I get to
Have a good time.
I didn't ask for us
To plough the fields and
Scatter death upon the land.
Didn't Abraham give the
Animals of the field, the
Fishes of the sea, the
Birds of the air,
To do as we will.
But that was after the flood,
Edens memory still stands
Of before man came to the plough.
The mono crops of human farm
Evolutions ecology cannot bare.
Evolution is life,
Mechanism and result.
Without the one
There is no other.
Divergence is lifes creed,
Not mans, that occupies
All natures space.
The clouds above me darken, as I sit here reminiscing about my past.
It's a challenge to invest in and build relationships that are not meant to last.
Some memories are pleasant, others not so much.
Recalling your last touch.
Indeed, I'm trying to learn from my mistakes.
No matter how long it takes.
I've seen it all before, we've decided to go our separate ways.
In a matter of minutes, in a season of rage, the decision is given.
Shall we find it in our hearts to one day, be forgiven.
How did we get here, replacing hate with love?
Touching the sky above.
Unknown it is to me, the fantasy of a happy ending.
Maybe we were both pretending.
It all only exists in fairytales, played during innocence.
I no longer have a guilty conscience.
We both failed, each other, staying out of convenience.
Yes, people experience pain and love, at times, together.
But today I realize that nothing, lasts forever.
Soaring above the troubled waters of braking,
become the song in courage taken.
Whispers of hope turn to the cry of revelation,
sensing the purpose driven legacy to pure sensation.
The fear of ridicule or embarrassment in effect,
when the shallow ideal is in the self-image detect.
Take your wings of courage to action,
acknowledge the word in self of truth to attraction.
Legacies of antiquity are the memories of invisible wings,
more then any words become the treasure of things.
The starving intellect entertains its view,
supremely blessed is the poet with its muse.
The strangest comfort in every state attempt,
when convenience at hand is the best friend.
Mercury the winged messenger in to and fro between the ears,
maintains the flattering of empathy and self pity with tears.
The self-righteous storm takes the flied to accident,
the wounded pride pointing to the world in evidence.
How can it be that niceness is the spirit in deceive,
taking phoenix ego to higher abundance and relief.
While the wings of compassion see the other shore,
nature’s basic law in endless providence to adore.
The fickle mind with flattering words still in nest,
not remembering the still in the shell of test.
Time provides the wings of faith with its fills
when the language of words has grown to wings.
We want bigger homes
And a smaller family.
We want mountain tops and
Flowers in the valley.
We want more convenience,
We have less time.
We all have our hills and
Mountains to climb.
We want more degrees,
But no common sense.
We want things to change,
Yet, we are on the fence.
We want more knowledge,
We have less judgement.
We have more crime,
A glutton for punishment.
We want more experts, yet we
Create bigger problems.
We expect what we plant
To blossom.
We want more medicine,
But we're less healthy.
Everyone is getting fat,
But the wealthy.
We have been to the moon
And back.
We have lost our way,
On the wrong track.
We built more computers to
Hold more information.
To make conversation, we open
More lines of communication.
We want more quantity,
We get less quality.
We want equal rights, yet
Deal with equality.
We want a variety of fast foods,
We have slow digestion.
We want the first date
To pop the question.
We want to be taller,
We are short on character.
We want to meet new people,
Yet there is a barrier.
We want more profits, yet we
Have shallow relationships.
We want more friends,
But we have fewer partnerships.
Our garages are full,
Our homes are empty.
We want it to be colder,
We become more sweaty.
Turbo1904 ?
Play It Cool
A Cool Demeanor
Is A Novelty Form
Of Conformity.
*
Oh, I Forget, You
All Don't Hate That
Dread
Conformity Like
I've Been Forced
To Do.
Doodily-Doo.
Not Forced.
I'll Think About It Later!
*
I Haven't Been Normal
Since My Teacher
Demanded I Put Things In
My Own Words.
I'm Still Not Sure
What That Means.
NOT Gibberish.
I Just Pull A
Few Levers And
Hope For The Best.
Wahoo! Let's Take This
Uhhhh... Gfdhg Ride.
*
I Make Sure To Make Sure To:
Don't Get Too Many
Detailed Ideas From
Anywhere Else...
Just The Gist.
Then Let It Roll
Out Slow.
Stay In Flux.
*
I Don't Know...
Why Hate All The
Alternatives Of Con-
Form-ity?
Dumb Trick.
How Do You Stay Impressed
And Always Amazed
With Random New-Found
Wonder If You Do?
*
I Can't Pay Attention
And Conform At The
Same Time.
It's Probably Just
A Convenience Again
And Everybody Else Is
Fine With It.
*
Cool With It,
I Mean.
Oops.
-Gray Squirrel
06-05-2025
I feel most at home
When I am beside you.
I am able to breathe freely & abundantly.
You speak kindly to my soul,
& nurture the points of direction
Which I grow.
My sanctuary of peace,
My birds eye view of serenity.
I feel most at home
When I am in view of your garden.
Offering the utmost
Of warmth & affection.
Make no mistake,
I am not there to simply pass time
Nor am I there out of the convenience
Of you.
Being around you takes me
to another world
& I am glad to share in the experience
Of you.
I am in awe at how you transform me
Into a moth, in terms of light.
I’ll follow you anywhere
(This is a fictional poem)
Three years ago I was shot five times by a robber in a convenience store.
My brain was removed from my dying body and I'm not a man anymore.
Surgeons put my brain in a robotic shell.
A lot of people think it's neat to be like Robocop but I think it's hell.
Now I fight crime for the police day after day.
I try to get rid of my misery but it's here to stay.
When the bad guys shoot me, the bullets bounce off and I feel no pain.
But it hurts to know that the only part of me that is human is my brain.
When this happened to me, my wife married another man after she got a divorce.
Now I've been consumed by self pity and remorse.
I can no longer make love or even taste food.
This shell may be very advanced but I think it's crude.
If I could still cry, I'd weep because of what I've lost.
I may live forever but I don't like what it cost.
Form:
The Antique store
Antiques she adored, a relic he was.
She had a special place for art.
Unfortunately it wasnt her heart.
I'm clinging on to the older things
the antiques of our time.
Sometimes they break or get lost.
I cannot replace them,
no one can replace them.
But I'd rather have an antique
than nothing at all.
At least I can say I enjoyed it at some point.
Teach me to make beautiful.
No beauty can I find.
Search me whole.
Tell only what thoughts appear to be mine.
First comings need an exit of least disgrace.
No one wants to be kept waiting.
For then their time might never come.
Trimmed antiques in dusty lace.
A whole world
Begging for
Change
Daring to dream
Endless altering realities
Figuring that the end
Generates a new start
Hinging on the application of
'I'
Just in terms of understanding
Knowledge of the self
Learning about the
Magic inside all of us
Nearing that
Ominous future
Persistent in the
Quest for a better tomorrow
Reach for it!
Stand up for it!
Teach the young to
Usher in their new era
Vestiges of ours gone
Without a second thought
Xenoliths of a different time
Yellowed antiques
Zealous youth to push aside our failures
When you don't need me,
you put me on a shelf
with your dusty trophies
you never really earned,
and antiques
you never took care of.
I'm up front, visible,
easy to reach
at your convenience.
But I know you would rather
take what you need from
your precious china cabinet.
Just know that when you fumble,
when you slip up,
and when you stumble,
your precious china will break.
But I will still be here.
I have gathered all time tellers,
grandfather clocks, alarm clocks, phones, watches -
to tell you that : I have all the time in the world for you.
It might not be the most sophisticated way
to say that I have an ear for listening and a heart for consolation,
but don't be too skeptical with my methods.
Forgive me, maybe, perhaps, if I can't be so bold and concise.
At least, now we've got all these antiques to talk about.
he is a lover of brokenness.
he likes antiques,
collecting little fragments of things.
he hates breaking them,
so he finds brokenness,
fixes it up a little,
takes a few pieces and leaves.
he's already taken a bit of me,
and unless I shatter again,
he'll leave forever.
By Aliza Kashmala Kiran