Long Countless hours Poems
Long Countless hours Poems. Below are the most popular long Countless hours by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Countless hours poems by poem length and keyword.
The family tree
On this day we will plant a tree
To symbolize the growth of our family
For long ago seeds were planted
After time you had roots of your own
Root by root you nurtured each one
With a mixture Of support and a sprinkle of love
After countless hours of understanding
Our family tree was quickly expanding
Like the seasons come and go
The tree branches continue to grow
For life is ever changing nothing stays the same
So on this day, we plant new memories
In a whole new domain
Beneath the tree, we plant life's precious moments
Like all my children so far away
When the wind blows they all find their way
Soon I know they will be on their way
Back to the tree
Where dreams of today
And memories of tomorrow
Live on day after day
Every day, questions arise anew,
Who would you prefer, AI's blessing or curse, happiness, or me true?
He spent his life in a methodic trance,
Solving problems with algorithms, in a perpetual dance.
Dreaming of AI to crack century-old codes,
In his lifetime, just solving some math with his loads.
Countless hours, days, and nights he toiled,
Debugging his code, his passion unspoiled.
I wondered who this new mistress could be,
More captivating than sharing life with me.
What is happiness, fun, vacations, travel?
Spending money on good food and wine to unravel.
He can craft love poems with AI's might,
But none for me in our silver jubilee's light.
I offer love, happiness, and sorrow's embrace,
But maybe no one should marry a geek in this case.
As a spouse, should I leave him to his AI devotion?
Leftover pasta and potatoes, his token of emotion.
Love needs reciprocation, hearts drift apart,
I hope he chooses AI, happiness, or me, and restarts.
Every year from spring through fall, if you peered between the cattails you could see the swans in the center of the pond, head to head, their love peering back. On the pond's edges, from the tops of lily pads, frogs were singing of love's song as dragon flies frolicked gleefully above. We would sit and watch them countless hours, day after day as they gracefully swayed to the rhythm encircled in the reflections of love. One year in the dawning of spring, he returned alone, we watched him slowly swim with downcast head to the center of the pond, within the shadows of lost love he'd pause in the ripples that surrounded him, his sadness reaching the edges of the pond, where abandoned lily pads tilted downward caught in the spirals of his lonely tears. He still comes to the pond, muddied and alone from spring through fall, through clouded eyes we still watch him swim, wreathed within his pain we taste his loneliness.
head downcast, he swims
enclosed in the pond's ripples
his tears splashing back
October 12, 2019
Writing Challenge, October, 2019 -Bird-
Sponsor, Dear Heart - Wiishkobi Ode
Two fresh plates to adorn my humble chariot.
The one on top had the honor of being mounted at the front,
as my customary parking pattern
is to back into a space on the far side of the garage.
But soft ... was it an honor?
To be figurehead, first to see, noble vanguard,
and yet,
bombarded for countless hours by suicidal bugs,
dust, gravel, and mud.
The rear plate will soon be far cleaner,
and has the quiet, reflective view of what has passed.
Though it might wish for the electric thrill
of seeing things first.
I wonder which the plate on top would prefer,
if it had more claim than its fellow below.
But fate granted me judicial clarity.
Top is front; bottom is back.
Different fates - each with their own charm.
Grow not envious, o plates.
Your positions both have great beauty.
18 November 2022
In my mind, preoccupation
Occurs from time to time.
One example is me trying
To make my words rhyme.
Beside my creativity
Exists a certain place...
So, I introduce to you
My video head space.
Often, fragments of cinema
Appear inside my head.
These can be triggered at random
Or thought of instead.
Television was a mentor
When I was much younger.
Its visuals and soundscapes
Would satisfy my hunger.
Countless hours would be spent
With eyes glued to the screen...
Mesmerized and memorising
Details of a scene.
Shots, action, and dialogue...
Played in repetition.
Looking back, I laugh because
I made it my mission.
Nowadays in times of boredom,
Speech or certain actions
Of a movie sometimes surface
In parts or small fractions.
I do not re-enact them
The way I used to do...
But still, my video head space
Provides me with brain stew.
Here’s to all the dogs
who go out of their way, every day
to rescue their pet people
from the impossible-to-win,
rat race.
Who spend countless hours
waiting in anticipation
Just to smother us in
kibble-breathed, saliva-kisses.
Who we trip over and step on
in the middle of the night without
inciting their rage.
Whose fur daily graces our office clothing.
Here’s to the dogs who love us unconditionally;
and put up with our mood swings and tantrums,
when fellow humans won’t.
Who listen to our complaints
And roll those big umber pools in their faces
until white crescent’s show their boredom,
with our ramblings;
they never call us names or claim that we,”
have
“bad attitudes”.
To all of those brilliant
Slurpy-smelly-furry;
Saliva-dripping, Puddle-drooling,
Cuddly, hand-shak’in, Belly-rubb-in,
Jerky-eat’in, best friends in the world;
I salute you…so,
here’s to all the dogs;
may the world never know a day without them!
One sign points east, and the horror arises.
I thrash and cry out.
As the rupture in the wall of my cerebral cortex grows bulkier and broader
Not a soul comes to salvage me
And no one comes to pull the plug on the feeling of my intestines spilling out of my body
Not one soul kills the gruesome vermin
That's facilitating the tower of sickening, horrific thoughts
Growing in the kingdom that is the film in front of my retinas, and the things that I see.
One sign points west, but there’s nowhere to look
God, the things that I apprehend as I scream a long, loud, piercing frequency
And I perceive the horrid voice pounding on my pulse points as it screams with me
I’m incredibly aware I'm going directly into a head-on collision, but I don't shift my calves
Then…I hear them faintly, the torn and jailed uplifting thoughts saying I can do anything
Although, as I imagine what I can do, it's a dark, empty void that gives me a sense of fatigue and dread for what's to come
As I wave my bloodied, bleached white, and tampered-with flag
I succumb to the misery that is my darkest understanding of the word “Hate.”
One sign points north, and I already despise it.
I see the road leading down to the dusty, dark, pothole of my depths and despair
I ask myself if I knew this would happen
If I saw the palpable signs and if I knew how to keep them under control now
I see a structure in the distance, a building I used to spend countless hours in
I see a broken, worn-down, rotten, abused palace of emotion
It may be a house, but this was never once a home
As I insufflate the fibers of this disintegrated life I call my own
The air feels like snow, like I'll freeze at any given moment
I permit myself a millisecond to imagine the tranquil blizzard on my bare forearms
The scars on those arms and hands, a remembrance of what I was before my vestigial wings seized, the ones that used to hoist me into places where oxygen is sparse
Before everything went south.
And I respire in the stench of forgiveness
It feels uncomfortably serene, but I don't dare bother letting it into my heart
Letting it graze my organ of skin
Letting it patch up my wrongdoings
Letting it make me see something of my past that I could never truly disengage from
At no point will I ever let it in.
Last night I stayed up counting every time that I've wished for you.
Then I came to my senses that there wasn't a need to wish anymore.
Then I came to the realization that I inhale you with each thought.
That I've come to trust the hours I spend talking to you about any and everything.
Finding your smile in perfect company.
Allowing myself to be the circumstance that makes your cheeks rise the most.
In vivid imagination. Seeing you before I close my eyes.
Truth is last night I stayed up making countless wishes to reassure that what I wished for the most stayed in the countless hours that we spend talking to each other.
The adventures we take traveling through each other's mind.
Finding it much easier to breathe with each mile we hike.
Even if I have to hold my breath until my face turns blue.
Thank you for giving me the breath of you, I appreciate each and every moment that you do.
And I promise not to exhale until the next breath is presented
Concomitant to foster
misgivings of wretchedness,
I harbor jealousy at young whip smart kids,
who already possess laudatory command
concerning salient technological knowhow,
far beyond paternal parental stage
yet speculate how child raising
could allow, enable and provide
insight into latest cutting edge binary wizardry.
Less impactful upon precocious
boys and girls hungry for knowledge
includes protracted time
fathers, mothers, brothers and sisters
experienced opportunities to
relish countless hours
tutoring son(s) and/or daughter(s)
patiently mentoring progeny
about rudimentary concepts
(plus edifying offspring
about all encompassing netiquette)
aided in turn with
sophisticated computer programs
(possibly created by little Einstein)
invariably lovingly bonding (yeah right).
Schlerotic schlemiel schleps...
Into lonely senescence -
three plus decades already elapsed
trepidation, hesitation unbearably
tugging, shouldering,
remonstrating accumulation
of "baggage" thumb
of right hand thrust out
silently raving, quaking
cursing ultimatum parents
(soffit to fascia in)
saw fit to fashion
and hammer home
red hot poker rage
their singular male offspring
middle child of two sisters,
who long since vacated premises
when both young naifs
prior to attaining age of consent
deploring bing holed up
at 324 Level Road redoubt
built as summer house
remote from fracas of urban bedlam
still fifty years since Leipers
bon voyage into netherland
father and mother
imposed swiftly tailored
harried styled tough love
translated meant absolute zero value
toward offspring they begot,
and made quite clear loathing
heaped upon sundered fountainhead
good for nothing son of a...,
he whittled away precious time
reading avast among trove of material
crowdsourcing numerous bookshelves
mostly to impress intellectual visitors,
when in truth middle aged couple
thinly veiled country bumpkins,
donned with "FAKE" literacy
stereotypical "rednecks,"
inexplicably begot wunderkind
agog with inhaling literature
in tandem with liberal
magazines and newspapers
oft times whiled away countless hours
sunup to sundown
sequestered most remote nook
within local library
few miles walk along country road
served as self taught schooling
since parochial educated regimen
habitually rapped knuckles
courtesy whiplike hickory stick
if pupil evinced slightest
distraction, whence schoolmaster
detected lack of attention
as crotchety curmudgeon
blankly droned monotonously
dull jabbering subjected
stone faced classmates
into instant soporific state
futilely struggling to keep eyelids
slamming shut tight
including yours truly,
who when suddenly awake
realized quite a vivid dream!