Long Creating Poems
Long Creating Poems. Below are the most popular long Creating by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Creating poems by poem length and keyword.
The waters sparkle in the sun
as the breeze lifts across the lake
the yachts settle in their berth
looking out as it stands abrake
The skies show its beauty
in the morn revealing pastel blue
as waters show it's stillness
to be as creation intended so true
The ducks sail through the waters
creating more than a little wave
birds fly in the horizon
such loveliness one needs to save
Looking high up to the hills
shows the greenery of it's landscape
words can't describe such a picture
your eyes are bewildered by it's shape
The trees across the lake
fills your view with such splendour
completes the full picture you see
summing up the creator's perfect agenda
The agenda makes all things perfect
in the eternal God's appropriate time
showing His perfect sovereign control
making all things beautifully sublime
AUTHOR NOTES: Just some thoughts on a weekend stay on Lake Windermere on England's lake district a few weeks ago waking up from my bedroom window looking across the lake.
A part of life’s journey ???
The hours begin to claw at me.
Time slips away, filled not, I see.
To much time on my hands.
In beams, in waves, in bands.
Empty spaces, invisible air.
These games of solitaire.
This game that is now my life.
No girlfriend, no lover, no wife.
Tides ebb, tides flow.
Time ebbs, times go.
Memories remain.
Keeping us sane.
On the turn of a card, life rides.
Behind a mask true life hides.
What is the time and space ?
That has created one’s face.
These masks that some prefer to ware.
Fashioned from scares beyond compare.
Staring back at us from near and far
Hiding !, just what and who they are.
Once again, I seem to be caught up in.
This game of solitaire – my life- such sin.
Cutting through the hours of my life.
Like a dull, old, rusty knife.
Severing all ties with reality.
Creating a world of fantasy.
These words have been written.
Time - the soul they have smitten
B. J. “A” 2
December 1st 2014
Behold she is the hand
made of the LORD,
created with all the
beauties of heaven
BEYOUND.
A true gift and blessing to
the WORLD,
and a unique treasure to
BEHOLD.
She is created right from
the dept of GOD'S HEART,
that is why she is nothing
but a sweet HEART.
She makes a heart that
never BREAKS,
and the least to cause an
heart BREAK.
She is an extraordinary gift
to HAVE,
and a lovely friend to
CRAVE.
How can i forget her
amazing SMILE,
that can heal even the
deepest scars from a
thousand MILE.
Her immense beauty can
never be compared to
NONE,
all what you can feel when
around her is happiness &
FUN.
She is a treasure to the
world of MEN,
And having her is like
saying ' AMEN '.
She is everything anyone
can ever have WANTED,
A person anyone can ever
VAUNTED.
She is worth every bit of
life's HAPINESS,
because she's strong,
focus, gorgeous and
FEARLESS.
Having her in your MIND,
is like having gold in the
palm of your HAND.
Am not trying to be
SARCASTIC,
am only been REALISTIC.
She's a million times a
LADY,
that's why been around her
makes you COZY.
She's the symbol of divine
LOVE,
and an instrument of GOD
ABOVE.
She's so indispensable and
UNFORGETTABLE,
and her friendship is
IRRPLACEABLE.
She gives you a sense of
HUMOUR,
even in a scene of a
TUMOUR.
Without God creating HER,
this world will be an empty
place without HER.
I just want her to know that
she is a TREASURE,
Beyound every available
MEASURE.
The reason she's so bright
like a STAR,
is because her beautiful
name is ' ESTHER '.
There is a melancholy in the air
And an emptiness deep inside
A flux of emotions overwhelm me
Rushing in like a rising tide
The sun scintillates the breaking waves
Creating diamonds upon every swell
Each one is reminiscent
Of the eyes that said farewell
Bright and glorious for just a moment
Then fading as quickly as it came
A wondrous gift, although brief
Has outlived it’s moment of fame
Yet a fingertip beneath the surface
Can create a false illusion
So at the waters edge
Our love has no conclusion
I wish that I could stay forever
Just outside of reality
Avoiding the obvious truth
And all it’s brutality
But alas, I shall not grieve
For that which cannot be
Instead I am very grateful
For that moment you gave to me
The memory of your magnificence
Is etched within my mind
You may disappear from my sight
But within my heart you are confined
Under the moonlight, the voices chant.
Young voices, and nearby, the old men rant
Over kegs of fresh palm wine and kola nuts
Spitting out proverbs and some, with coconuts.
The locust chirps purifies the atmosphere
Mingling with the scent of fresh brewed corn beer
For which my pals and I salivate while skipping
On the "Tabala" conscious, there was none for tasting.
The Village "ngong" beats it's music,
As the maidens shake their waists and tunic
Exciting the lads who gaped in ecstasy
Rubbing their hands in frenzy
Grandpa, in solemnity poured libation,
With proverbs, rumbled out incantation
While creating a link with our ancestors
Who sat side by side with our predecessors.
As the Moon weaned, we scampered homeward.
Accompanied by drums beating skyward,
Jostling lads, professing feelings with gifts of groundnuts
Many of them shy and without guts.
A score later,
With bowed head under the moon I sit.
The yard void of kids with just a seat,
Reminiscing the good all days
Now so altered in many ways.
The "ngong" shed lay besieged by dust
The drums reside in frost,
And while from afar, Don Moen does chant,
I realised our kids no longer play "tabala" and rant.
Such longing for the past brought into me, fear
while down, I let go a tear.
© Temajung Michael T.
Dare anyone in this wide world,
To tell you, to line up and take it?
Use your head, if you want to be free,
You must have courage and grand espirit!
Dare ye not follow the lame, boring crowd,
Who want you as just another sheep, humble and cowed.
Don’t blame evil leaders, if you won’t speak out against madness,
That is what we do now, creating a universe full of violence!
By ignoring what a huge difference you can truly make,
Passive attitudes are a signal to all evil men, to be on the take!
11/10/2024
The writers of vers libre follow no structure,
it begins with an image in their head;
words imagining a picture,
and soon the creating will spread;
but it is not about telling a rambling story.
Yes, I am guilty of that- sorry,
it is fragmented lines- pauses to make us ponder with eyes starry;
yet, giving us some fury.
It is like painting or sculpturing a piece of art,
and finding words and stray phrases that touch the heart;
words wailing and whispering from the start till they depart,
like water slipping over stone;
that rest in their truth and whimper from the bone,
of dead and forgotten things that moan.
Write of shadows moving among us in the haze,
and like water flowing into a vase let thoughts fall;
words are like a mighty tree found in a maze.
and with vers libre one can utterly amaze or hit a stone wall.
Oh poets, just pick up your bleeding pen,
and wail a vers libre- create a shade of emotion gem;
I remind you- this writing of poetry is not a pastime but an art, amen.
(Or write a rhyming poem, like I did in the end.)
___________________________
November 25, 2018
Poetry/Rhyne/My Rant and Theory of Vers Libre
Copyright Protected, ID 18-1088-752-0
All Rights Reserved. Written under Pseudonym.
Written for the contest, Let 'Er' Rip #2
sponsor, John Lawless
Fourth Place
Could my muse be so complex a being
That his inner drive remains in creating music
Music which would hypnotize lions
Music which would wake in me, the mystic
Music which would sing always, of the mystery
That inhabits life and all creatures that walk through it!
Could my muse be some sort of savior
Imbibed with the power of assembling creatures
As mighty as crocodiles
Crocodiles which would turn all meek
Caring not even to try to slash lions
And to swallow flamingos!
Why, if my muse were such, I would have readily
Knelt in front of him and offered him all the parts
Of my sorrowful and God yearning heart!
Pray, could my muse be one who cared not about his nakedness
Caring, rather, solely to imbibe the whole of existence
With his angelic hymns
While fully aware that nudity can be seen as a purity
When lusty thoughts about it cross not the minds
Of onlookers
Why, if he were such, I am pretty sure that music and its essence
Itself would have flocked to him!
Pray, the world remains as it is because some power
Wants it to
But, things can change
See, mighty carnivorous beasts can turn all meek
Muses can leave their abodes to tend to mortal
Beings like you and me
And nudity can become acceptable as an attire!
But, in the very end, the grip that music has over us
Shall remain that which it has always been
Why, music, when played by muses of mystery
Can bid one's soul to want to leave one's body
To kiss the stars, out of ecstatic joy
At being alive
Before returning and nesting in its usual place!
Pray, my muse, high up in the clouds, remains
A being of the unknown, and
Should I someday know of his essence
I do wonder, if he shall be as such!
For Contest Poems that Paint a Picture
Written on 8th October 2017
I wrote this for a friend who went through a harrowing Cancer experience and survived the disease and the treatment. Chemotherapy is insanely challenging. I'm grateful that she made it through. Survive and thrive. Blessings, love and hugs.
Stay strong and hopeful
By Michelle Morris
16/12/2023
It came into your life
As most awful things do
Insidious and cruel
Uncaring of any rules
It was your body
It was your life
All turned upside down
Challenges and strife
Oh, the BIG C
The one you'd always dreaded
It loomed large and fearsome
Like a monster under the bed
But that monster was inside
Taking over cells one by one
Changing your physiology
Creating mayhem under the sun
The disease was terrifying
The treatment a constant struggle
But you made it through
Burst that Cancer bubble
You know that anything is possible
You know that you can overcome it all
You have fierceness and hope
You have determination and support
It no longer rules your life
As most awful things try
Now it's that bad memory
A disease that likes to lie
It is (still) your body
It is (still) your life
Keep grounded in the present
Allow this gift to multiply
Stay strong and hopeful
Live your best life and create joy
For you are beautiful and eternal
No mortal disease could ever destroy
© Michelle Morris, 2023
Trudging as a scorched weary traveler
in the wilderness of the desiccated life,
I wander in the shifting maze of your deceptive shadow.
Enticed, I’m seduced by the mirage of your flashing face,
confused, I don’t know where I should be going to belong.
As I disintegrate in myriad illusions into drifting dust
in the desolate wasteland of my life, I see transformed,
my broken heart I scatter as debris on your obscure trail.
I let the hard times of denial profoundly strike me,
ever so strongly that my yearning space is shattered.
I strive to preserve the shards of battered essence
in the inner sanctum of instinctive quietude.
I build a boundless wall seemingly impenetrable,
creating the compulsive cocoon of imposed isolation
to contain the cacophony of pervasive chaos
for the soul to get suffused in calm insulation.
As I become a lone prisoner of my making,
force me to be a captive behind the wall I construct
with the fortification of the false sense of pride,
I find you disappear like mist in gale beyond my garden,
taking the fragrance of flowers I love to see blossom.
I’m caught in the dichotomy web of entangled uncertainty:
break the wall, walk away free into oblivion,
or stay secluded, obscure within the cage I’ve built.