Long Counterparts Poems
Long Counterparts Poems. Below are the most popular long Counterparts by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Counterparts poems by poem length and keyword.
Tonight I will not write
of stars, nor moon,
seeds of wisdom--
just mind flattering
bloom--
Nor will I write of love--
neither here nor above;
though our dearest
sentimentality, the heart,
too often foolishly enacts
its own fatality;
and if I decide to write
(which I have not yet)
it will not be the common
dark vs light--
No, not this, low, literary-fruit
will I harvest, arm and lather;
pick high and low to gather--
likewise, I will divest of
good angels vs evil counterparts--
my rules, my pen; therefore, for me,
some spades can be clubs,
and all pointed diamonds I declare
are now well-rounded, suitable, hearts--
Nor will my Poetic-theme
be of great, vast seas;
nor smaller phrases
of streams—the writer’s
usual surge to roar
that calms to a sleepy bore….
and certainly not
will I write about depth
of self esteem--
the shallow image of self
often incapable of
of deep, worthy gleam;
though seldom do others
see us mere puddles
as we to ourselves
are wrong to deem
(though never approaching
the great-self,
alas, most of us
will only let dream)--
so, tonight, self for me will rest...
and if brought to theme
it will only be for rhyme, my easy best;
Oh! That Poetic Shopping-cart:
shelves of prose! Aisles of mesmeric gleams!
like Poe’s mystic schemes--
clouds feeding voraciously off headless peaks—
those fantastical shoulders we desperate writers
must climb if to find our lofty seeks--
all creative mind’s begging for such volcanic leaks—
No! I will not pontificate on these, for the best programmers
many do still believe are little more than
Charlatans or geeks--
Nor as subject will I attempt the Divine;
our soul’s hope to progress, as wine,
to some vintage state--though, without tasting,
when compared to life’s offered new...
such abstaining, perhaps, not worth
the spirit's residue--
Nor will I attempt metaphors yet more mysterious--
maybe, even delirious; though often told
such intoxicating views, like the morning dews
can be practical lifesaving for both greens and blues--
sadly, such pasture-valleys thoughtless men
have turned to breathless, rat-infested alleys;
No! Tonight
should I decide to write
I will write of other things…
I will write...hum….
I will write… simply, Goodnight….
He made them in a hurry, He made them in the night.
He had other things on His mind, and forgot to paint them white.
A woman planned to fix this error - she was a woman of notoriety.
She saw the problems that this mistake had caused in society.
She beckoned to her female counterparts, to help her if they can.
Medical practitioners and scientists, between them not one man.
Now to decide what colour this future race should be.
Lets not make them blue, they wont be happy.
If we make them green or yellow, they may be jealous or cowardly.
We cant make them black, else they will have to fight to be free.
They pondered. They cant be red, others will take their land.
All colours were suggested, white was rejected as being too bland.
It was decided by unanimous vote the next generation you see,
will be of a delightful purple hue and all the ladies did agree.
They toiled for years to create a race of purple people to inhabit the earth.
Purple mothers everywhere having purple babies when they gave birth.
By the time all humans were of the same colour, peace now reined.
Harmony befell upon the human race and no bigotry remained.
It seemed they had found the answer, but Utopia is hard to uphold.
Soon discontent and aggravation among the population did unfold.
It wasn't long before rebels demanded to be different and not the same.
People demanded a choice of rainbow colours which seemed a shame.
Unrest developed within the race and soon the movement grew.
People stated that they were tired of being all just the same purple hue.
They began to chant a ditty from the lesson learned from a story.
by a young writer named Mary Shelley who found fame and glory.
Everything seemed quite amiss,
And their chant went like this:
A ghostly apparition?
An ill-reputed disposition,
A legacy to educate?
For all to meditate.
His ghost may be heard.
Frankenstein utters this word.
Notorious as a creator,
Of the monster, nothing greater.
A total disappointment,
After its deployment.
He showed it no respect.
It was a victim of his neglect.
His health declined during his search.
He left his monster in the lurch.
His ghost will forever teach us.
The lesson is there to beseech us.
Leave nature to do the creating.
A ghostly message, with no debating.
The Maid of New Orleans
A teenage cow girl who couldn’t write
Was told by God to front the fight
the hundred Year War against the French
And cut her hair in trendy wedge
Six centuries later it became the rage
She donned male clothes to further enrage
Raising a flag along with the others
To battle by a regiment of brothers
Without a weapon, she could not kill
But controlled her men with fiery will
She took an arrow to her shoulder
Her actions by now becoming bolder
To liberate the French from English reign
And continue with her tough campaign
In Orleans with some success
But Paris was a failed attempt
When a crossbow bolt hit her thigh
She maintained her strength and did not die
The English caught her in old Rouen
And gleefully put her in their prison
With seventy charges, then down to twelve
For hearing voices, wearing masculine clothes
To face a life long incarceration
She assumed male garb in desperation
To avoid rape and intimidation
The Godly voices, she confessed
Tied to a stake, she acquiesced
With celestial eyes but consumed by flames
Thus canonized to saintly fame
T
2 600 years ago
3 Schizophrenic? Voices in the head, seizures.
4 Led French army to some victories in the Hundred Years War (Charles V11) against the English
5 Seen as a mascot in battle she brandished a flag instead of a weapon
6 Took an arrow in her shoulder during the New Orleans campaign and a crossbow bolt in the thigh
during a failed attempt to liberate Paris
7 Volatile temper. She kept the troops in check. Ridiculed by her male counterparts and taunted about
her French dialect, she always quipped back in humiliating tone
8 Fell into English hands in 1430 in Rouen (English Stronghold) and tried by an ecclesiastical court.
70 charges were made against her. Whittled down to 12. Wearing of male clothes and hearing God’s
voice when she was threatened by possible rape and intimidation while in prison
9 Burned at the stake in 1431
10 Emulated by imposters even after death
11 Pioneered the popularity of the bob hairstyle. She was told by voices to cut her hair in manly style.
Words unbroken but on edge are afloat on the water like a creature undead.
Corpses smoke clover and when they spark, it's like old times again.
My friend, where have you been? Hell isn't so tough. You're not afraid.
You're on the mend, on the break, on your terms, just burning until there's
nothing left.
Eyes, soulless and benign, they follow my every move, my every wound.
Your hands cut me, sending me into chaotic ecstacy. Once you take hold,
You become my sin of cataclysmic eroticism of the soul.
Will it end, you and me? Angry, hot, I want you, but you take my words...
Neurotically, morbidly, we join one another in zombie-love,
a lifeless encounter to feel alive.
Sweetly, graying, you touch me with the embrace of decay.
Will we tear apart one another or just deplete? Oh,
You were worth a so tearing up our mortal whims,
our functionality.
The time we've spent together has no title or perspective.
It's unbeknownst to a truth, a cause, a loosely based name.
We're a transgression aggressively changing each...
Shame on me for being a shame to you.
Shame on you for making us completely incomplete.
Us, we're in a fire waiting and we're the embers dying to burn,
but just won't go out.
Smoldering heat beneath the seeds engrave lament onto me.
In a graveyard, on a tombstone, lies our lies trying to break free.
Never, forever, our promises were just enough to encourage suicidal tendencies.
I'm not dying to live, just living to die, waiting for rest of you to torture-ease my
pain.
Our hands grasped their counterparts, locking us never and again. The knife,
it was crying out to see the veins that always tease.
Every kiss to every bite, became a plight, but you're moans sound good to me.
Rocking, loving, we'll never be.
Now, with time, the question has become what are we.
Faceless, nameless, in our dust, I know what I'd like to be.
Let it be night when we meet and I'll tell you my dream.
You'll sing us a carol or just simply scream.
Then we'll battle until one cannot breathe.
Love me and I'll love you psychotically, without end, I'll be in your hell.
We'll unhappily be together as the two, The Lovers Fatal.
Form:
Knocking on success’ door, irrespective of its intensity
is worthy of a response and an attention.
When life smiles and nature is happy, the one who passes their estate
is embraced by favour to take luck home.
Showcased by a tale
of two counterparts of same platform but different worlds.
He’s serious, but she’s playful,
a test defining their progress into another phase is the huddle.
From book to book, knowledge he accumulates
even sweat’s discomfort is no match
for such a determination which scares both life and death.
His living is subjected into a miserable triangle;
lectures, canteen and home is all he knows
even his dreams have been converted to a library for research
and a single spoken word from his lips
pours out a barrage of wisdom.
His understanding then gives an entire jungle
the salvation of great civilization.
Her time for merry is never taken for a joke,
her schedules are tabulated by the inventors of fun,
leisure and study share the spoil of her engagements,
pleasure tops the yardstick for all her toiling
and her indifference to progress in life
makes the demons of failure lust after her course.
Nineteen weeks of play and a week of work is her formula
on the eleventh hour, before the day of reckoning
she reads in compartments,
choosing her focus through random selection.
He commands the justification to succeed
while she queues in the long line of fate.
Passing through this is a decorated corridor to his success
raising her hands in pathetic surrender is her bullet-less gun.
He’s sure, she’s not; he’s ready, she’s frightened,
he walks confidently; she does it in a gait-like manner,
the heat of such examination he absorbs, but she gets burnt.
What next, is the short incubation period of truth
when several hearts await a straight forward judgement
and comfortable minds anticipate a glorious confirmation
with all efforts well deserving of the medal
and a prosperous finding, a worthy result of true seekers……
She passed!..................... He did not!
THE ANGELS:
Oh!
My angels,
My hands are in the,
Air for you,
Pardon me for abandoning,
You for some times, age,
Like Ojukwu properties,
In Lagos state.
My angels,
I am sorry for sometimes that,
I was like Adam and Eve.
I know that being the
Church mouse that I am
Today is my fault.
My angels,
Thank you for staying
With me in time of
War and difficulties
Like Biafra’s
Thank you for being with
Me in the time I died and,
Come back life again.
My angels,
Thank you for being
With me in
They day I was judge and
And sent to hell,
But who brought me back?
My angels,
Thank you for songs
Of promise you teach me
Day by day.
Shall I intimate you of?
The next war?
Will you fight me?
Again?
THEMES
1. Assistance help
2. War
3. Message
4. Kindness.
NIGERIANS PRISONERS:
We are Nigerian prisoners,
We are not happy.
Where are our counterparts?
We are Nigerian prisoners,
Here we are,
Here we are like a cat.
We are calm and cool like, you.
Every Sundays we puts on jeans like,
Our brethren in deeper life church,
But you put on they suits,
We are not happy.
We are now like the,
Christians but you are,
Are like the crusader, we,
Are not happy, the hour,
Of our service has emerged,
But the gates are not opened,
We are not happy.
We have referees but,
You are still playing rough,
We are not happy,
What of our javelins and it’s,
Field, what will the,
Audience do,
We are not happy,
When will our gates,
Be open? We know that
We are prisoners,
But we will still more.
Obasanjo has been here,
But Abacha is yet to come,
Mandela has been here,
But Yaraduwa is not.
Chimaroke Nnamani has,
Been here,
But Ben Ariugu is yet to come,
Dr. Orjiuzo Kalu has been here,
But Surlivan Chime is yet to come,
Nnamdi Kalu has been here,
But we did not see Asari Tokumbo,
We are not happy.
THEMES
1. Equality before the law.
2. Patience
3. Partiality
4. Corruption
5. Obedience
6. Repentance
7. Baic
8. Hardship
9. Innocent
10. Responsibility
Dear Black Man,
Shout out to your deep waved, shaggy, Afro picking outlines. In honor of the loose fitting jeans with the snap backed, wide hip loving, story telling beats that carry on like the echos of the Congo drums from the motherland. Black Man, I Black woman, am not here today in the name of needing my beauty sanctioned or demanding R-E-S-P-E-C-T from you. I am not angry at you, I am not angry with myself. I am angry with the systems operation on our children' self worth. Don't ever think I am here to stunt your growth. I am Black woman, whose being is the closest thing to God. Whose body is in conjunction with the earth, boring life, as the birds and bees have come to be. My appreciation for you goes on and on like the munchies of the fiend. Though I will never truly understand all the turmoil this earth brings to your face. We share burdens which are too similar to ignore. I see you, Black man, working hard with no reward. Watching your brothers getting stolen and washed away. I see you scared for your lives, running from the greatness of which your sons and fathers possess . Is it that you don't want to show them the potential that has been taken away from your lips? Black man, I uphold your royalty, you are nothing like they make of you to be. Grab your brother's hand and lift it up in solidarity. I black woman, am dignified to stand by you, and fight through any war in the honor of our people. Black man, I hear you. I feel you. I am black woman, whose name should soothe your worried shaken ambitions. Black man, over time your inventions have been gripped by the European counterparts that fear you so much that they intruded your Black women in plain sight. As deep as the hurts appears to be, You and I are the strongest unit, Black love is one of the most sacred existences that there is. Lets turn away from the road of shame, moving toward the flight to recovering and discovering the greatness of who you are.
Love,
A black woman.
In a swirling mist inside my mind
Five tombs containing comatose swans
labeled Kindness, Caring, Courage, Love and Joy
Sweet nectar of my soul
Five weathered tombstones lie side by side
Marking where my goodness, the swans, have gone to rest
Five ravens croak nearby
still very much alive
Their names are Contempt, Indifference, Cowardice, Hate and Sorrow
My poison, the ravens, running rampant
Counterparts to those goodly tombstones
Wreaking havoc upon those goodly tombstones
The ravens reign
One thing keeping the ravens back
A lone sparrowhawk called Hope battering the toxins back
keeping them at bay with a defiant scream
Trying to achieve a goal that can't be reached
Wanting to find love from within a sealed mist that cannot be cracked
the foolish creature wanting the ability to love when my loving swan has already been locked up in a tomb
I stumble through a mist
Unable to see what is around me
The mind's eye unfocused and unseeing
I sense a light, and I wish to reach it
Yet the light is high upon a mountain's peak to my right
Millions of miles away with my way blocked by a barrier of my own making a barrier I cannot budge
To my left a darkness pulses poison oozing
My feet readily moving
I will be there in a few steps
A bird of prey bars my way
To my right where the swans are, There is an unreachable paradise
To my left where the ravens are, An easily reached hell with just one obstacle
Both obstacles are born of my soul
I stand still at the crossroad
My seesaw of Good and Evil, Right and Wrong
Constantly tipping Left and Right
I have frozen all emotions
My personal time suspended
Waiting for someone I do not know
The reign of the ravens has begun
The ravens may hold dominance
But full control they do not, and will not have
As long as the sparrowhawk lives
~STRIP TEASE~ Featuring:) SKAT
Silver Skimpy Ink, String, A POET DESTROYER's bling, bling
Think of me as a human ditty delicious decoration,
Something along the line of a sweet tooth temptation
Cherry tastes, between the slit of tender toast
Fine jumble jam slams down the tongueless throat
Dance like a diamond on The tight South Pacific Rim
I'll feed you with a slithering seductive sound
My hair soaking, -wet and wild, tonight I trim
A dulcet apple acrostic bottom, to squeeze the greed
Feathers, on top, poetic diction describing to please
At times, I'm in deep dire need of something sweet, and sour
Endless epic words, and ode to the naked poetic world
We The Women and Men of poetry,
Reveals far more than any nudity found in a bar
It does not matter how you do it or who you are.
I'm an entertainer, of Poetry,
The good, the bad, the freaking awesome
Don't worry, I keep my clothe On :)
---
Symbol of the spiritual Sexy SKAT Slang
--Provocative-- A slippery succulent, scrumptious kiss
Counterparts working the tension, another arrant appetite
I am the Illuminati illusion, laminating luscious illustrated letters
Indulging in the, satire of one stilt spoken sunset
Like a child's spiking temperature, I often throw tantrums,
Teasing attentions, by incorporating a pole, paper and pen,
If someone is uncomfortable with facing the fact,
When I reveal everything, without removing my high heels
Then you must not be worldly or women and man enough
I love to spoil and slur my scenery, using my best assets
My strength and power parallel, any unique universe
That's how confident the audience makes me feel
We The Women and Men of poetry,
Reveals far more than any nudity found in a bar
It does not matter how you do it or who you are.
I'm an entertainer, of Poetry,
The good, the bad, fantastic and fabulous
Don't worry, I keep my clothe On :)
~A Poet Destroyer Collaboration~
borders drawn and refused entry
my thoughts limit themselves to their flawed counterparts
seeking answers from those who never question authority
hiding behind those who know the truth that they were merely told
wishing to be held one last time closely by someone they thought they loved
ink spills onto parchment and produces an image of long forgotten angst
smiles of hollow-headed individuals who speak in groups that never translate
portions of a broken mirror still reflect what we have yet to see
bloody fingers fumble through the mess that is organized at our ends
alliances with enemies to progress to a place that we find surreal
holding our hands out for payment and receiving just advice on how to live
smelling the acid that pours from our lips and poisons our process
holding our flag high while reciting an anthem to those below
promising that we are equal while explaining our differences
the blind will hear and the deaf will see
motors make noise and move the people forward
while all they wish to do is look back upon what they left behind
pay no attention to those who hate what you create for they do not understand original thoughts
hate has been around much too long and we must advance towards a better life
the stanzas end with a response that you never thought could be comprehended
broken down to your knees, you stand in the ruins of your collapsed dream
you smile at the skies with clouds that promise to bring relief in due time
though nothing can come close to the pain that you felt when you realized she was gone
take a star from the expanse and cast it behind your shoulder
follow the sun and lead yourself by the moon
smile no more and frown no less
we will all be together eventually
pieces of us will be reflected in broken mirrors
but we will be together
again