Long Countable Poems
Long Countable Poems. Below are the most popular long Countable by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Countable poems by poem length and keyword.
Money
A single metal penny or a piece of paper
I am countable with infinite power
I am ambiguous whether I can buy happiness
I can buy everything that makes one’s comfort
A share of mine can ease the house chores
A piece of mine can buy the joy of a toddler
A bit of mine can buy a rose for a lover
A part of mine can help to fly and dive
I disclose truth of people when I leave your side
With me you are powerful otherwise you’re fragile
I have many forms of luxury
that can make someone smile
Who says I can’t buy happiness
I am a moderator to buy forms of joy
Instead I can’t buy love with sorts of attitude of my possessor
I am that which you want to keep safe
I am the breaker and also ligature
That makes your friends and foes
I am a blessing to the poor
I can fill the palate of a hunger
I can smack a nation into dust
I can cover a body with cloth
With me you can get all articles
Without me you are nonentity in the world.
Messengers Of Hope
Our messengers of hope are leaders in the field, hardcore and always at the ready.
Our messengers of hope are here countable no matter their cause.
Our messengers of hope carry out orders without fail.
Our messengers of hope deliver support, like timely reinforcements they deliver!
Like the sun they shine bright even, when rain showers breath storms of hurricanes.
Our messengers of hope teach us, seeds they instill seeds of self love.
Our messengers of hope, they love themselves deeper than the entire earth.
Our messengers of hope carry the footsteps of one million voices, and inspire us with their strength!
Our messengers of hope are valiant, with a vendetta against malicious intent towards others.
Our messengers of hope carry on their backs the wings of grace, to which they use to shelter others from sea of storms.
Our messengers of hope lead their lives with an open heart, as open as the sky!
Our messengers of hope, they are the black dirt of nurturement our hearts yearn to grow in.
Our messengers of hope are the employees of the people of incorporated, as fortified in their cause as they are in their own lives!
Our messengers of hope have the desire to inspire positivity, and distill change in the hearts of others as well as their own!
Our messengers of hope do not once, not ever falter as the darkness grows, they show their hand of light!
Our messengers of hope we love them, and thank them with our actions for their relentless accountability, through their exemplary example we act to their accordance!
Thank you all Diane Ahrens and all the people incorporated here, from our souls to all of yours, bless them ladies and gentlemen!
~ B.L.A
I reduce myself into smaller categories
Speaking languages I don’t really know
Spreading my wings in different places
Multiplying myself in countable numbers
Just to do several things at once
Nothing is really done in the same time
But I do it in the same time of my life
I speak the language of Music, of poetry
Discovering and awakening the Do Re Me and Rhythms of fluency
I speak the language of Friendship and devotion
Spending my time with friends and devoting things I really admire
I speak the language of Disrespect and hatred
Of the many things I did, this I am not proud of
I speak the language of love and loyalty
Converting actions into feelings and feelings into actions
I speak the language of pain and enduring
Suffering the events, enduring the results
I speak the language of Eyes and spirit
Understanding things’ reasons and the connection with the soul
I speak the language of Revenge and right
I fight for what is taken, grabbing my right
I see through God’s sign
I think before I act
I speak the language of life…
When I was born
the light was in other people’s eyes.
warm hands coddled
spills of milky mew-shaped thirsts
dabbed at my whiteboard mind.
I began to wink the world into shapes;
as a new Loosely fleshed presence
I turned listless in the blood-warm bud.
Early things showed up to crowd my eyes,
back-lit beings leaned over a bar of sound,
spoke in warm froth.
Nameless images came and went
red and yellow plastic spheres and beakers
some had mouths to sooth raw and runty wonders,
all as incomprehensible as a wet nose.
Then that light-box of undeveloped things
fell apart only to come together;
I saw the garb of perception
arise from a fitting room floor.
A wind-tossed leaf entered my empty stage
green was no longer a shadow crossing
a white faceless backdrop.
There I was,
an early thing, gathering yeast
for an as yet un-kneaded brain
watching and sorting visions of returning caregivers,
and the nameless similitudes
that sometimes cooed, or that passed-by me
latter to be horded, made to be
countable.
The dress was going to be yellow—
sunflower yellow, the kind that hurts to look at
in full light, which we hadn’t had in months anyway,
just the gray sift of dust through shattered windows
and the orange pulse when the sky opened its mouth.
She would have been eight.
Eight candles we couldn’t buy, couldn’t light
even if we had them. The power died in March
and took with it the oven, the mixer, the bright hum
of anything working the way it should.
I had saved the flour. Hidden it
like contraband, like hope—
three cups in a plastic bag
behind the loose tile in the kitchen
that no longer had a kitchen attached.
The cake would have been chocolate.
She asked for chocolate every year,
and every year I made vanilla because it was cheaper,
promising next time, habibi, next time—
and she believed me because she was seven, then six, then five,
and children believe their mothers
until the moment they learn not to.
The game was going to be musical chairs.
Ridiculous. As if we had music. As if we had chairs.
As if eight children could gather in one place
without someone calculating the efficiency
of the target, the value of the payload,
the acceptable margin of small bones.
I found one candle yesterday.
White. Thin. Half-melted from the heat.
I don’t know why I picked it up,
why I put it in my pocket like a relic,
like something that still meant birthday
and not just another way to mark
what didn’t happen.
She would have blown it out.
Made a wish. The wish would have been
something possible in her world—
a new doll, a book, a day at the beach
before she learned that the beach was closed,
that the sea doesn’t want us anymore,
that wanting itself is a luxury
distributed unevenly.
I lit the candle last night.
Just to see. Just to remember what it meant
to have a small flame and a reason for it.
It burned for twenty minutes before the wind
took it, and I sat in the dark
singing happy birthday to the space
where eight years old should have been,
where the yellow dress should have twirled,
where chocolate should have smudged her smile,
where she should have cheated at musical chairs
and laughed when I pretended not to notice—
but the dark doesn’t answer,
and the candle is out,
and eight is just a number now,
a countable thing,
a cake that was never baked,
a girl who will never be nine.
Each time I saw mum and dad fuss
Over issue of not enough
I felt damp and embarrass
I often thought of what to do to have this not enough
Money solve, for I'm a little girl I sank within
One evening it repeated itself again
I lose zest that night; I pray to God
Before I went to bed" dear wonderful and miraculous lord
Please increase the money that dad dropped upon
The table before morn as you morphed water to wine
Within a wee" I woke four times to check
If 't has been increased, but not, these make
Sleep to elude the ocean
Un-countable thoughts whirl swiftly within my brain
Then I arrived at a point " I'd better
Help them to divide each into four"
I raised and moved ahead, as I held to tear
It; I heard "don't" from the rear
Oh! Mum I wanted to help you
This is all I can do!
9/2/15
Contest Instinct of innocence
Sponsor by Justin Bordner
Brace For Impact
Brace for impact with tact
and promptness
to access success
on venture or adventure
at present or in future.
Meet the challenge at any range.
Brace for impact
Act, react or interact:
Always in progress
proceeding dauntless
never to regress!
Even if to endure failure.
Work if gone wrong.
Stay stable and strong
Rectify and correct.
To be precise and perfect
Keep your head erect.
Honest approach with sporty spirit:
Victory or defeat not the criterion.
Dynamism is the countable credit.
Whatever be the environ
Calm cool or turbulent
Hopeful or despondent
Confront at every front
Face fearful fact.
Brace for impact.
Title chosen Brace For Impact
06/13/22
This or That Vol.12
Contest by Edward Ibeh
Insect Quiet
I take the quiet of the night
With somewhat countable drops of rain
Too heavy on the leaves unsettled there
And like the leaves I never settle
Dim lamp light goes out of focus
I gather myself within the laws of nature
Turn instead, I watch the insect make his path
Too small or nearly so, for our detection
I see his children come and go below the wall
Clothed in armor
With minute morsels of food and crumbs
They slip into the dark
My watch is missing also….but moving on
With tiny legs and armored bodies
In the quiet of the night they make their way
And I make mine
I sleep before myself and others
And leave the details to the dim lamp light
‘Put your best foot forward’, old hat
Now ‘Put your best face forward’
The more, the merrier
Isn’t it so Dear?
As if like Demon King, Ravana
You had ten faces
“Ten?”
More than ten
A face for every occasion
But then
‘The best one’
Reserved
‘Reserved for whom?’
Not for you
Not for me
But
That narcissistic selfie
And then to wallow in
‘Likes’
Oh! Don’t be stupid
Not that so yesterday
‘I like you’
But this so modern
‘Everybody likes me’
‘Like’- that abstract feeling
Has suddenly become countable
But then
These likes
Come with a condition
‘You like me’
And then, in turn
‘I like you’
A perfect
‘Give and take’
For all those
On-line friends’ sake
Now amongst the race
For these likes
Where is the real you?
Suffocating beneath
The mound of ‘likes’
‘Phew’!
But why should it bother you
Your life
Dependent on your face
And your face
Dependent on others’ ‘likes’
So, please continue on
Put your best face forward
There’s nothing called ‘Real’
In this fictitious world
So, why should you alone be bothered?
“Full Circle”
Sometimes you have to go to Hell
and back again,
to let the real dreams begin, to live
to feel a resounding vibration
to just be,
awake in the moment
to create something higher
like an eternal infinity ring,
through portals
opening,
our inner lives bloom wide unfurling;
on the other side
of a screen,
what truly drives us, is clearly seen
Love
Unity
Candide Diderot. ‘25
Circle.
“The circle is considered a symbol of unity, because all the regular polygons are embraced by the circle. It is also the symbol of infinity, without beginning or end, perfect, the ultimate geometric symbol.”
Infinity.
Mathematics.
“a number greater than any assignable quantity or countable number."
Symbol.
horizontal figure 8.
Infinity. Noun.
“a place that is so far away that it cannot be reached.”
“a point in space or time that is or seems infinitely distant.”
“...my father’s house has many rooms.”
circle, unity, love
muse
John 14