Long Decoration Poems
Long Decoration Poems. Below are the most popular long Decoration by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Decoration poems by poem length and keyword.
Let not the pain of death enter my body
I the Pharaoh, son of the gods
Here my wife, who is the daughter of the Nile
The daughter of Isis sits beside my throne,
Is she not beautiful?
I live and roam the abode of the gods,
In eternity I stay with the majesties
Of the immortal gods
Mortality has no hold of me
I alone carry the staff of Osiris,
Behold! I judge thy weight of the heart,
With that of the golden feather
Thoth that measures thy heart shall tell me of thy heart’s content.
If I find thy heart lighter than the feather;
And find thy honesty,
I shall let you enter the heaven of the gods and goddesses.
If not, then, a beast to devour thee, waits for the dishonest.
Know me by my throne, made of gold
I am cloth with ornaments made of jade and sapphire,
White silk of clothing, with jewels from faraway lands.
Anyone that dear look down upon me shall die
And those that despise me, shall fine their homes burned down,
with fires from heaven.
Who am I? I have asked thee
Look at Anubis, the son of Nephthys bringer of death.
Do you await him to bring me great sorrow?
Shall he warp me with a yard of cloth?
Shall I find peace in death and my fate be judge by him?
If so, I have a place among them.
My afterlife is in paradise, their awaits a bundle of joy
With music of the immortal, with harps, lutes, lyres
And servants to tend to my every need.
But even if I die, the weight of mine own heart, shall be as light as a feather.
For I know mine own honesty.
As I sail across the sandbank of Apophis,
I have my guide, Ra, the god of the sun to light my path
No monstrous serpent of chaos shall wreck his boat,
The boat in which, I am in.
So, I ask thee, traveler from the west
What is thy business with a god?
Look at my palace, is it not magnificent?
Has is not, the decoration and flowers that surpasses all human designs?
I have built these with rocks
Sands was the foundation of my legacy,
Shall all things compare to that of the past days?
I carry the burden of my glory, and yes, it is heavy.
But will such foundation as the sand be strong enough to hold against the tide?
Love is abiding that is true, but only in those who welcomes it.
My love for my beautiful wife, oh! How well have I been treated
With love from her is better than any pleasure a man can have.
Faithful to the gods or my wife? That I know not.
It's not sadness that haunts me.
Sadness has shape.
Sadness has weight.
Sadness weeps and wails and rips the air apart-
It moves.
Sadness is a storm.
You can feel it crash through your chest,
Leave splinters in your lungs.
But you survive it.
You know it's there.
Numbness?
Numbness is the quiet aftermath-
When the wind has died
But the wreckage surrounds you.
And no one asks if you're okay
Because everything seems fine.
Numbness is not the fire-
It's the ashes.
It's waking up and feeling
Nothing.
Not peace
Not pain
Not even that hollow ache that used to howl through your ribcage.
Just static.
Just the blur.
You walk through the day
Like a ghost with skin.
Laughing on cue,
Nodding on time
Saying "I'm fine" so well
You almost forget it's a lie.
But you're not fine.
You're disappearing.
Slowly.
Softly.
So quietly that even you didn't notice at first.
You don't cry
Because crying would mean something hurts.
You don't scream,
Because screaming would mean
There's something left to fight for.
You just go still.
You just exist.
Not live. Not dream. Not hope.
Just survive.
Just... endure.
And that's the horror of it-
The normalcy of it.
The way numbness slips into your bones
Like it belongs there.
The way you start to forget what sunlight
Used to feel like
Before it turned to wallpaper,
Flat on the walls, like decoration.
Not warmth.
You eat, not because you're hungry-
Because it's time.
You sleep, not because you're tired-
Because you can't bear to be awake anymore.
People say "take care of yourself"
But how do you care for something
You can't even feel?
They ask what's wrong and
You want to scream
"I DON'T KNOW"
"I JUST FEEL GONE"
But the words rot on your tongue.
Because numbness steals even that.
And maybe the scariest part?
You almost get used to it.
You almost accept this half-life.
You almost stop noticing
You're not really here.
Almost.
Until one day,
You look in the mirror
And realize you can't remember the last time
You saw someone human
Looking back.
And in that moment,
You understand-
This. Isn't. Living.
This is drowning,
In a sea no one can see,
Suffocating without sound,
And wondering if anyone will ever notice.
You've gone under.
I want to believe
In that enormous green tree
Appearing here, alive in the spring
Foliage, decorating its thing
Bark firm and strong
I sit under, pondering life’s wrongs
Its shade, cools me
While I sip summertime tea
Watch and wonder
Afternoon storms arrive, declaring thunder
Wet
I do not get
Umbrella branches
Protecting me as the heavenly water dances
When the shower calls it quits
Ending the daily tantrum fit
I endure our sloppy, muddy setting
Enjoying an arbor relationship consecrated wedding
That will never break
No matter the stake
Calendar date flips
My tree starts to strip
One leaf at a time
I start to whine
Why? Why?
Are you starting to die?
Winds start booing
Chiming, ‘how are you doing?’
Then emerges a star
A friend from afar
Guide me my northern light
I ask this visiting galactic bright
Glowing in the dark
Proclaiming a hark
“You want me to cut down my tree,
Bring it in the house, for all the see
Dressed up, displayed ever so nice
My darling paid the ultimate price
But now is the center of attention
Did I mention?”
I thought about this suggestion
Decided saving money, due to a planted shrubbery recession
Axe I handled
Feeling wax on my candle
Going the festive way
My tree will have one last say
Planned the attack
Took only one whack
Out went my back
Sending my love to the ground
Hearing the deathly earth bound
Sound
Music occupied the air
During scheduled holiday affairs
Creating memories my tree and I will share
Until one morning
Without any warning
A stranger put packages under my tree
Glittering with glee
Realizing what was done
We started to have fun
Throwing wrapping paper around
Cherishing the merchandise we have found
Days later new year joined the party
Everyone stayed upbeat, not sorry
I stared out the window
And what do you know
Another tree ready to grow
And bloom
Wanting my companionship soon
Humming our favorite, seasonal tunes
Greetings to you all
I exclaim, dragging my spruce honey down the hall
Inspired By Connie Marcum Wong's Poem "Dreams Of India"
Dreams of India
Her music haunts me
in such a knowing way
it makes me weep
and causes my heart to ache.
I become homesick for her
scents, her sounds, her food,
her enchanting dance
which spawns dreams
of her romance.
I know in my heart
I have lived there,
I know, I have loved there.
Her poetry transcends
my spirit to encompass
a wholeness that is
so familiar to me.
I dream of the Ganges ,
and her gentle cleansing flow,
of reflections on its surface
when the moon is hanging low.
Of crickets singing nightly
to serenade me to sleep.
I dream of colors of the saris,
the beauty that they keep...
Of garlands placed with care,
a gajra in a maiden's hair
and the hues of floral leis.
I hold a reverence for Hindu
Devata and Devi.
I aspire to learn the sacredness
of varmala in the seeds of
past lifetimes I have shared.
A passion grows for those
whose love glows through their
auras to welcome strangers.
I'd love to share a cup of chai
to chat with friends in open air.
I long to return home, though
I have never been there.
Notes: *a gajra: flowers which females use as a decoration
for their hair.
*Varmala: is a tradition from ancient times where a beautiful garland of flowers symbolizes a proposal of marriage. In the tradition of Swayamvar. A female would choose her life partner from a group of suitors by placing a flower garland around the neck of her chosen man. Once the girl had made her choice, a marriage ceremony would be held right away.
MY TRIBUTE TO CONNIE MARCUM WONG
Connie never went to India, but she thought
she should have been born there…a mythical, mystical, sacred land of her
dreams ~ a Princess wearing
a Banarasi saree, a gajra on her hair…stunningly beautiful!
In my mind, she is there holding, for her beloved, a Varmala!
September 24, 2022
Short Connie Tributes - How Did Connie Marcum Wong Inspire You Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Andrea Dietrich
Cerulean sky in the quiet jungle was shook up by the unexpected tremor of a white and red bimotor plane. Larry, a tall, olive skin, green eyes, was the handsome pilot of the plane called Lara. Mechanical problems obligated Larry to an emergency landing.
In the crystalline river was a lady called Lara. She was camping for two days in the inhospitable surroundings. A heart break made her to take a time out from her hectic work schedule as general surgeon. Footsteps were heard in the dry leaves. Lara looked behind her, to see the impressing presence of Larry. She thought she was going to faint.
Larry felt a skip in her heart when he saw Lara. She was very identical to his deceased beloved. Without uttering a word, they felt love at first sight. Larry asked to Lara her name. They introduced themselves. Lara was packing to return to her home. Larry told Lara about the plane incident. She offered Larry to take him to his home. By coincidences of life, they live in the same urbanization. Before stepping out of the car, Larry gave to Lara a business card with his phone number. He was the CEO of an important tobacco exporting company. One week later, Lara took her cell phone and called Larry.
He invited her to a dinner to an elegant restaurant of the city. While they were dining, Larry told to Lara that he wants to know more about her. After concluding the dinner, they agreed to continue communicating by phone, letting that time decide their romantic future. Two years passed, when Larry invited Lara to dinner waiting a surprise to Lara. An engagement ring was inside of the rose bouquet. Larry asked Lara if she would marry him. Lara accepted the proposal. Wedding planification started. Fue most expected day for Larry and Lara arrived.
Larry was wearing a black tuxedo. The ivory bridal gown of Lara was stunning. Cala flowers and pink roses were part of the church decoration. Lara walked the aisle when Larry was waiting for her. After the religious ceremony, they were declared husband and wife. They left the church in a white limousine to the reception in a five star hotel. Blissful days were part of their married life until death separate them, ending a romance that began in a jungle.
The End
Memorial Day – 2023... origin of holiday
Strong and brave men and women
gave their level best
crème de la crème strongest and bravest
leaving grieving significant others
with emotional agony within treasured chest
o'er the redoubt the the enemy did crest
where lovely bones of forebears for everest
dead bodies strewn across killing fields
hostility among warring factions finessed
forsook their lives eternal peace they rest
honored and revered succumbed mortal
electric kool-aid acid test
though I question if sacrificed life
worth a spit of land to wrest.
Now pardon ma faux pas
from dis po' pa try'n 2b sleek
line six starting here necessitated minor tweak
a reasonable rhyme rhyme,
where sense and sensibility weak
Officially called Decoration Day
proclaimed on 5 May 1868 by General John Logan
first observed on 30 May 1868
Waterloo N.Y. officially declared the birthplace
by President Lyndon Johnson in May 1966.
though seven and nine tenths score years
since (minor emendation regarding time frame
since original date I crafted poem)
Appomattox, a psychological balm
helped stitch frayed nation to calm
served as silent psalm
since bombardment at Fort Sumter qualm.
National holiday most adept
at uniting Civil War fallen soldiers
when fiercely armed as brother in arms crept
against opposing forces, which took
by surprise “enemies” or found inept
ill prepared troops with surprise mortal
blow which ambushed attackers leapt
mowing down valiant soldiers, thus
becoming slain grooms who eternally slept
sorrowful lamentable hymns from
widowed brides tears wept.
Cease fire that day
terminating internecine flay
o’er mounds of earth whence
bones o boys donned blue or gray
a day of remembrance for those
who died in our nation's service lay
celebrated this last Monday every May
one must know tis not about division
boot about reconciliation
and sacrifice brave heroes did pay,
the price of their lives for granted
freedoms enjoyed as american lee-way.
Forsooth, now we cherish too, the Poppy red
That grows on fields where valor led,
It seems to signal to the skies
That blood of heroes never dies.
Blueberry and cherry, and home-made apple pie,
Country girls bake them, the apple of your eye;
Each pie’s got a number—which one will you choose?
Look at all those country girls, looking right at you.
It’s a Pie-Supper Summer, in Nineteen and Thirty-Eight,
Down at the school house—you know you can’t be late;
Lemonade and coffee, wash that pie right down;
Your friends and your neighbors, from the hills and from the town.
It’s a Pie-Supper Summer, in the Ozark mountain hills,
Mighty big appetite--you know you’re going to get your fill;
It’s a Pie-Supper Summer in the Ozark mountain hills:
You can shut your eyes…you can see that picture still.
Billy brings along his Gene Autry, Sears guitar,
He likes Tex Ritter, and those cowboy picture stars;
Bill buys a pie prepared by Becky Lou—
Look at all those young folks…sneaking off two-by-two!
Becky. She says “Now Billy, I think we’d better get hitched soon—
I can see Daddy’s shotgun reflecting the Ozark moon!”
So they get married down in Arkansas, late one Saturday—
Billy’s dropping out of school…now he’s baling hay.
Pearl Harbor comes along in December of Forty-One—
On an Okinawa Beach, Billy tests out his M-1 gun—
His mama gets a Gold Star—and he never got to know his kid,
And Becky, she don’t say nothing…she keeps those feelings hid.
And you know that Time, Time, Time has a way of adjusting
All your dreams,
And the years, keep right on flowing
Like an Ozark mountain stream.
Becky lives in Springfield in a high-rise all alone,
And her son performs in Branson, in a theater all his own;
On Decoration Day she puts a wreath on a hero’s grave,
And she shuts her eyes and looks at yesterday.
It’s a Pie-Supper Summer, in the Ozark mountain hills,
Mighty big appetite, you know you’re going to get your fill,
It’s a Pie-Supper Summer, in the Ozark mountain hills—
You can shut your eyes…you can see that picture still.
Blueberry and cherry, and home-made apple pie;
Country girls bake them, the apple of your eye;
Each pie’s got a number—which one will you chose?
Look at all those country girls, looking right at you.
We draw life's patterns, vibrant and bold,
We arrange our karma, both new and old.
In the mandala of time, we place our stories,
In the chakra of days, we set our glories.
We shape tales of anand, we shape tales of dukh,
We turn the kaleidoscope of kismet, we turn the kaleidoscope of sukh.
Our paths intersect like mehendi designs, creating complex jali,
Our steps trace yantras across time and space, holy.
We inlay memories with precision's steady hand,
We assemble moments that defy maya's shifting sand.
In the rangoli of existence, we are both colour and artist,
In the grand leela, we stand distinct, yet part of it.
We tint our experiences in hues of rasa,
We colour our world with unwavering asha.
Our lives unfold like origami, fold by fold,
Our journeys map nakshatras of struggle and peace untold.
We sketch our sapna on the canvas of possibility,
We paint our aasha with brushstrokes of tenacity.
In the bindi of humanity, we each place our dot,
In the raaga of being, we play our allotted slot.
We construct sangha, diya by diya,
We forge bandhan that make life our priya.
Our patterns may crack, our designs may fade,
But in life's grand rangoli, our chinh is made.
****************************************************************
1. "karma" (action and its consequences)
2. "mandala" (spiritual and ritual symbol in Hinduism and Buddhism)
3. "chakra" (wheel, also energy points in the body)
4. "anand" (joy) and "dukh" (sorrow)
5. "kismet" (fate) and "sukh" (happiness)
6. "mehendi" (henna designs)
7. "jali" (perforated stone or latticed screen)
8. "yantra" (mystical diagram)
9. "maya" (illusion)
10. "leela" (divine play)
11. "rasa" (aesthetic flavours in Indian arts)
12. "asha" (hope)
13. "nakshatra" (lunar mansion in Hindu astrology)
14. "sapna" (dream) and "aasha" (hope)
15. "bindi" (forehead decoration)
16. "raaga" (melodic framework in Indian classical music)
17. "sangha" (community)
18. "diya" (oil lamp)
19. "bandhan" (bond)
20. "priya" (beloved)
21. "chinh" (mark or symbol)
I’m walking through another crowded room
wondering if people can sense the tremors behind my eyes.
Fluttering wings of falling Angels full of hellfire buckshot.
I’m seeping into the Berber carpet,
into the taut stitching and beginning to gasp
as it wraps its threads around my chest.
My vision is beginning to blur.
The room has forgotten me and began its own path into the ether.
I take a knee at an end table by the
entrance, holding up plastic flowers
and now a man whose rushing mind
is quietly questioning if he is any more
or less real than the aesthetic artificiality
he has no name for. Some man in a factory
could have very well made up his own species
of flower. It may have never been real.
Is that Art?
My shoulders dip as the carpet pulls me deeper.
And my fingers feel the dusty cool of the vase that reminds me of an urn.
The kind that someone is placed in by a
family that could afford to buy one, but didn’t
bother to put much thought into it-
because he is, and always has been more of an
obligation than a member of their genus.
An old man puts his hand on my shoulder.
The flowers fall to the floor.
“Are you okay, Son?”
As my shaking hands desperately tuck the waiting room’s color back into place, I tell him I am fine. Carefully adjusting each flower
back the way it was. When his eyes met mine,
I knew that someone had indeed felt the quake.
He knew.
“Are you sure you’re okay?”
“Yes, sir. It’s just one of those days.” I told him.
“We all have those, Son. Don’t worry.”
I tried not to look up again.
But, as my eyes met his once more.
I know he knew the truth.
Not everyone. Not like this.
Just the ones who live in the corners of rooms
full of people. Full of colors that no one appreciates,
because they know it’s not real.
Just a cheap decoration taking up space until
something better suited is found to fulfill its station.
I am the plastic man in the corner of the waiting room.
Slowly becoming unclean.
Unable to wilt.
Despite my need to disappear.
-James Kelley 2018
There are some who live by fear
And there are those who live by love
Those who believe their perceptions
Should not be constrained or altered
There are some who think belief
Should be guided and dictated
They believe in the doctrines
Which relieve them of any responsibility
And all their laws and rules
Tell them how things should be
And damned be they to hell
All those who think and act a little differently
There are some who see
The shadow cast upon this world
And in the darkness of its aggression
They are forced to do as they are told
There are some who cannot close their eyes
Nor willingly close their heart and mind
To the inflicted suffering
Of their fellow human beings
There are some for whom this knowledge
Is an icicle in their soul
And it writes itself into every aspect
Of the false and intimidated world
And although their love and caring
Reaches out to all
They are confronted by the medium
Of a cold and thoughtless wall
There are some who consider
Beauty a mere encrustation of the scene
A pretty decoration
In the garden of their concrete
They look ever for the quality
They are to receive
From the payment
Of its service
There are those among us
Who do not care
In which way
You express devotion
They do not give a single thought
To your race
Your colour
Or religion
It is they who see
All the diversity inherent in all its propensity
To feel the need
To answer all the questions
There are some among us
Who celebrate the weapon
Their answer hangs on death
With the bullet and the bomb
There are those who think obscenity
Is in the sexual act of procreation
And they condemn the art of lovemaking
While watching the latest Hollywood war film
There are those on this planet
Who condemn and demean
Every human aspect
Of our God inspired creation
They who would haul us all
Into the shadow of their own self denial
And feed us to the guillotine
Of their twisted sick disconnected
While they
Feed upon
Our world