Long Corners Poems
Long Corners Poems. Below are the most popular long Corners by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Corners poems by poem length and keyword.
There's an inimical solemnity
dissolving the loveliness
of the last day of spring;
I sought solitude and awareness
from the very beginning,
but this farewell won't depart from me!
Along the the shady and dusty road so solitary,
I pick ripe strawberries so fragrantly dainty:
these are precious gifts of Mother Nature held out
to my grateful hands...never wanting to stop!
Gentle butterflies swirl in frantic swiftness
to land where I am standing;
I step aside to let them in,
allowing them to savor the same sweetness!
Winding paths lead to emerald and vast meadows,
guarded by a brilliant sky scented by daffodils...
there the fragrance enters freely into the nostrils;
there only the sultry and mysterious night of June
can hide its frightful shadows
under the translucent gleams of the argent moon!
From the corners of a small island
alienated from the human mind
and ever overlooked by the haziest sky,
voltures hover briefly,then descend abruptly
to feed upon a wounded,wriggling deer,near death,
unable to fend himself off!
Distant gallops take a quick rest
as targeted rifles line and blast,
shrieking creatures plunge down,lifeless,
into the weedy grass...
as their helpless,drooping wings
and expiring eyes
strike the thristles with their bloody heads!
The pitiful predators lie moribond in exile,
to show their bleeding wounds...
of imprudent eagles
to the wild!
It wasn't dad who giuded me
down my path when storms suddenly raged,
it was sweet mom indisputably...
I ran to those warm arms and felt very loved!
And these are some of mother's wisest words
I still reflect on, " Son, don't do foolish things...avoid them."
They warned me of dangers around blind corners...
and would I have been so safe, If I handn't heeded them?
Any other son would have shunned them with resentful ingratitude,
laughed hard at his mother and headed for the wrong road
leading to disaster...as my buddies did, not foreseeing its magnitude;
yes, mother's wisest words were as shining as a warrior's sword!
No disgrace has ever befallen me by honoring them with dignity
and they never shook my confidence, but made me stronger;
how fortunate and happy I am to have heard them, never
surrendering them to foolishness, but refreshing their memory!
.
Certain scenes can be taken for granted,
Like clouds blanketing, our sunny sky’s,
Intuition gut feelings, cannot be ignored,
Suspicions important, not vacant denial,
Where contrasts fade into each other,
Fuzzy bits, become more difficult to see,
Hidden foundations, prop up our planet,
Shoreline mountains, form under the sea,
Black and white blend, greying each other,
Cutting corners, saves bundles of time,
Rules can be stretched, til finally broken,
Yet some laws so vague, they intertwine,
Today enjoyed eating a big juicy apple,
Til chomping soured, on a rotten core,
Doesn’t mean, in future I’ll slice all open,
Just to guarantee, I’m fooled no more,
Two people hold hands, in the distance,
Appears innocuous, such a loving display,
But hold on, let’s look a little closer,
It’s actually a child, being taken away,
Vagaries of life are insanely disparate,
Harmless to you, but curtains for me,
One ingredient, not printed on the packet,
Tiniest interactions kill, yet build reality.
By
David Kavanagh
Warm your heart with what’s left of summer, warm your heart and put on a thick skin for winter, open all the resorts and hotel all over the town and fill them with tourist where destiny is bound.
Fire and storms will come, twister, tornados, typhoon, hurricane, cyclone will take you up to the moon and when the earthquake levels everything to the ground you can find solace on the other side of the town. When the fires burn the hill, just look up to the skies and keep still, it is purifying the land so the next generation can sing a happy song.
Warm your heart with what is left of the summer, warm your heart and dine with me in winter. I will give you discount on every suite and I will give you half price for a table for two to romance in the breeze. Get the whole family and come and have some summer fun life goes on for the battle that is not yet won.
Many businesses are down and total devastation is left in the town but somewhere in the middle of the ruins, there is hope. You can clear away a spot, set up a mobile kitchen, an entertainment corners and bring the caterers in.
The tourist bus will arrive in your town and they will greet you without a frown, the ships will come too and you will have business for the rest of the year so don’t fear.
Warm your heart with what is left of the summer get your friends and family and join me for dinner, Aunt Jane cannot come because her grieving is long,
She cannot get over the loss of her entire family. Three boys, a husband and four dogs perish in the fire. She was away when the fire started; she is inconsolable and she is vulnerable so we visit her from time to time to tell her that life is divine. She will always have a seat at this table.
Warm your heart with what is left of the summer and let’s go shopping, before winter, we will get something’s from the gardens store because we are going to do a big barbecue outdoor.
You must get some household gift, kitchen counter and table items. You will go to the electronic store and buy many things galore; business is very slow so you will bring some people in the town and have blowout sale all year round.
Warm your heart with what’s left of the summer, take a trip to Japan, China or America, just let it all go and get ready for the big show.
Winter is around the corner so enjoy what is left of the summer; just warm your heart.
Reached the panicle of an older state;
faced body rugged, as stone or slate;
I must reiterate, I am not old, but great;
I'm imparting of an older state;
A family that no longer calls;
An aged person whom new crawls;
Though, they sometimes may fall;
you won't find me shopping at the malls;
I am imparting of an older state;
It's about to rise;
You have to get to where I'm at;
you have to live life close to reenact;
I am not just an artifact, in fact;
I am part of an older state;
I know the beginning all ends;
I live now for God He's my true and only Friend;
Fifty is the new teen;
Sixty is the between;
Seventy most never reach;
Eighty is close to heaven's gate;
I'm not old but just wait;
age but a number, a member, I'm in fact an older state;
Call me Elder, Senior call me old;
]When time is done my stories told;
No illnesses, No arthritis, Alzheimer's;
Neither money gold nor diamonds;
Flight of stairs, bronze, golden, grey white hairs;
Multiply wrinkles on the left right corners of both my eyes;
I'll be the one singing my grandchildren's lullabies;
Once left my foot toward the skies in youth;
Now can hardly walk crow the street but in truth;
the youth have strength in part;
But aged are my spirit, soul, mind and heart;
I am a senior to those under me in age;
but I am not too old and not too frail;
For I am full grown matured and great;
I'm in fact an older state, it's about to rise;
you have to live life close to reenact;
I am not just a n artifact, in fact;
I am part of an...
OLDER STATE
(by James E. Lee Sr. from 'Intergenerational Poetry Slam "Elders Track" University of Nebraska Omaha Poetry to Bridge the Generation Contest'
(c)2014
A turn of key looking into eternity
A twist of soul a hard shard of light
Splashing onto a dark shore
A spray of mist, as the sea rolls
Dark corners of my minds tower
Like heads of thunderclouds
Things locked deep n out of sight
In a sea of endless night
Slicing through hard
Radiant and blind, light
Burning the eyes
Till darkness is infinite
The waves crash n roll
Out to sea the thunderstorm tolls
Lightning dances, n plays
In distant memories display
So bright, the night flashing out of sight
Going to Chrome as a key turning
Looking into eternity
Twisted Soul, a shot into the night
Slicing, the deep depths of twilight
The color of my mind, my inner sublime
Listen to the sea roll
Into the corners of my mind
As the thunderheads build
Lightning boils, the wind brings the rain
The eves of the house moan
As I go blind into the endless night
Baseball’s beauty lives not in stadium lights
but in the wild, unclaimed corners of childhood~
in a stolen field behind a weather-worn house,
in a cracked bat wrapped with hope and duct tape,
in the laughter of kids who believed
a pasture could become a dream.
It lives in the courage to trespass into wonder,
in the dust rising beneath running feet,
in the way a ball soaring through summer air
can feel like freedom itself.
And sometimes its beauty is found
in the moment a child realizes
that every field has a keeper,
every dream a cost,
and every mistake a chance
to grow into grace.
i sit in silence
taking stock of this novel
that is my face its ruffled corners
and frayed pages written line by line
a faded cover aged and worn out in spots
old-fashioned dedication to the human race
some pages tattered wrinkled some even torn
but a worthwhile read perhaps for whomever
is willing to take a bit of time to look inside
the invitation’s there laying unopened
a story behind each tiny wrinkle
earned year after year
outrunning
age
age
age
age
age
age
age
age
age
age
age
age
with
charm
as well
as grace
AP: Honorable Mention 2020
Submitted on February 11, 2020 for contest STRAND SELECT M sponsored by BRIAN STRAND - RANKED 1ST
Birds On A Bucket: Picture of Art
Birds of a bucket
That's what I thought about
I was having morning coffee
As the thought of birds came around.
The idea came first preserved in my mind
It came with such a pleasure, indeed.
I was pretty amazed too: you see;
These birds of thought of mine; to be!
Conceived: first by a thought;
Then came they, out to the paper.
The pencil just lying there
Ready to twirl and swirl corners, dare.
The capture: preserved in my psyche;
It needs an image, something to anchor on, behind.
And on this piece of paper: they were born
Life to those birds of thought; came to adorn.
As for the artist;' he sits and looks on
For another "picture of art;" to form.
She still lives somewhere behind the ribs—
that teenage girl, all sharp corners and questions,
knees pulled to her chest in a room
no one ever really entered.
You can see her sometimes
in the mirror’s hesitation—
in the uneven chop of kitchen scissors,
in the stubborn black box dye
that never quite holds the same shade twice.
In the tattoos that blur at the edges,
inked like dares she made to herself
just to feel something stay.
Now there are dishes in the sink,
a phone buzzing with reminders,
small hands or heavy expectations
reaching for her—
asking her to be solid,
to be steady,
to be grown.
But she’s still learning
how to stand without shaking.
Some mornings,
the sun feels like an accusation—
burning through eyelids
that bargain for five more minutes
of not being here,
of not remembering.
Because memory is not a story—
it’s a weight.
It’s a fog that clings to the lungs,
turning breath into labor,
turning simple things
into mountains with no paths.
And her brain—
it does not sing or spark
the way people say it should.
It hums low,
flickers,
runs on survival settings.
Feed yourself.
Keep them safe.
Make it through today.
Everything else is static.
Still—
she shows up.
With chipped polish and tired eyes,
with love that feels clumsy
but is real in its persistence.
With a voice that sometimes trembles
but still says,
“I’m here.”
And maybe that’s where she’s found—
not in some grand revelation,
not in becoming whole overnight,
but in the quiet, stubborn act
of staying.
Of being both the girl
and the woman
at once—
holding her own hand
through the dark,
whispering to herself
like no one ever did:
we’re not done yet.