Long Dedicating Poems
Long Dedicating Poems. Below are the most popular long Dedicating by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Dedicating poems by poem length and keyword.
But by rotating in high karmic gears,
Shouldst thou wish a long life of hundred years.
To such as thee, no way but this,
Lest karmas cleave and steal thy bliss,
Do duties thine with an eye for no fruits,
And proffer them to Him to deepest roots. || 2 ||
________________________
Translations | 02.09.2026 | duty, karma, life, men, Rhyming Sestet
Note: How so long you may live, live you must by doing your duty by dedicating what you do to Him. There is no other way whereby the karmas would not cling to you.
There is wealth of wisdom in ancient Sanskrit texts . This series on Jewels from Upanishads covers selected verses from various Upanishads of which there are as many as 120. We shall select only a few verses. Here we begin with Ishaa Vaasyam. The translation here is not verbatim but freely done. The transliteration of the verse follows. Alas I have to remove all the transliteration symbols.
kurvan eva iha karmani
jijivishet shatam samah |
evam tvayi na anyatha itah asti
na karma lipyate nare || 2 ||
. yogah karmasu kaushalam, Bhagavad-Gita (2.50)
. karmajam hi phalam tyaktva (2.51)
. brahmani adhaya karmani sangam tyaktva karoti yah:
"The quick brown fox jumps over the lazy dog"
"The quick brown fox jumps over the lazy dog"
Nine small words have leaped right through the decades.
Jumping through my brain
Thumping through my memory
like a drum that still complains.
Dedicating dancing sounds
on keyboards of old Remingtons
and Underwoods, that understood
young fingers tapping, zigging- zagging
rhythms beating , small bells ringing
to and fro, a carriage swinging
to orchestrated yesterdays
While papers flew, and fingers numbed
with sly old fox tricks, lazy dogs, mixed
with mindless sounds of drumming bits of
gibberish verses, hands rehearsing
the fox, a hound, a cadance clicking
tick-tick-tocking back to classrooms
clocking words now locked in time
Sitting straight, with neck erect
a sticky "J" key...a whiz kid sat
next chair over, such a brat,
she'd try to race me, set the pace
that I could never match, no trace of
satisfaction on her face, and
I would lose my concentration
my head would wander into clouds
where foxes should be chased by hounds
instead I type the same old rounds
of foxes jumping over dogs,
that clogged my mind with silly sounds
which hummed inside my inner child
Old clacking sounds, are still around
they pound today, inside my head
and still I ponder all the while
how that old fox could leap a dog
unless that dog was dead!
..............................................................
Inspired by Craig's Contest: Typewriter
4/20/13
The Governors complain about the POTUS
The President complains about them
Chicago's Mayor screams: "Stay at home!"
Meanwhile, more and more folks are dying
Too busy complaining, pols aren't even trying
Simple solutions to some of our problems
Like dedicating more factories to produce PPE
Which'll also open up jobs for laid-off employees
Like offering a prize for a good, cheap ventilator
That'll surely bring a response from sharp innovators
Like creating temporary internships for health-care students
Overworked nurses and doctors might find this quite prudent
Where's the vision and leadership so desperately needed
More complaining and screaming's not going to be heeded
Unicorns - are they all just in my illusive dreams?
If I’ll see them, I’ll be much delighted and I’ll scream,
Once I saw them up above, just up there over my head
They’re the heart of constellation and I wasn’t misled.
Oh, how I love to ride at the back of those unicorns!
In the sky, they look like flying at the gleams of the moon,
Hovering above the clouds, I’ll look down with exhilaration
I’ll overcome my fears and get more strength to carry on.
I wish, I’ll not yet wake up in this dream of mine,
As I keep on riding on those amazing and one lovely kind
Like a Queen of Heaven with one mighty sword on my hand,
Even worst enemies will bow offering humbly their crown.
The unicorns are also real, they are found in the heart,
They’re white and dainty, just trust and don’t give a doubt
For their love is real, giving it straight like their spiral horn,
When pierced they can endure, a gift when they were born.
First Place Winner
Contest: Unicorn Poem
Judged: 10/5/12
Sponsor: Poet Poet-Destroyer (PD)
Written : Sept. 29,2012
By Leonora Galinta
I am dedicating this poem to my dear friend, PD on her BIRTHDAY, OCTOBER 7, 2012. Here are lovely and mighty libran unicorns for you with their lovely queen!(smile). I am looking forward for your great and lovely Natal Day!
This poem is a special homage to all Poets
Who never thought, behaved or misbehaved like puppets
Who never had a chance to write a poem
Who were killed by oppressors who couldn’t dream
Who could not express themselves freely
Who clandestinely fought for equality and liberty
Who never had a chance to sit in a classroom
Who worked hard with a mop or a broom
Who did everything to help the elders and the children
Who never had a chance to write or publish a book
Who had to sweep, clean, wash, wipe and cook
And could not read anything or sign their names
I’m dedicating this poem to you to remove all the blames
That society has unfairly bestowed on you, my friends
Many people are Poets, because they offer helping hands
To the world. Poets were born to save and to make society
Better. Poets were born to fight against inequality, bigotry
Racism, oppression, injustice, greed, cruelty and unfairness
Thank God. God created all the Poets to be humble and blessed
Allow me to thank, with all my heart, the unsung, unpublished, stolen
Trapped, falsely accused and executed Poets who were forgotten.
Copyright © July 2020, Hebert Logerie, all rights reserved
Hébert Logerie is the author of several volumes of poetry.
“Trust in the LORD*.” Such declares God’s sovereignty
Along His leadership as the supreme Almighty Deity---
We must bow to Him with humility
Submitting ourselves to His authority.
“Trust in the LORD.” Such affirms God’s greatness
Along His omnipotence while manifesting gentleness---
We must shine through His goodness
Consecrating ourselves to His graciousness.
“Trust in the LORD.” Such reverberates God’s warning
Along His rebuke against unbelief, doubting, and complaining---
We must repent with sincerity’s well-meaning
Yielding ourselves to His reigning.
“Trust in the LORD.” Such speaks of God’s demand
Along His precept attesting promises so grand---
We must meditate His Word, whereupon we stand
Dedicating ourselves to follow His command.
“Trust in the LORD.” Such asserts God’s compassion
Along His mercy upon us during our affliction---
We must abide in His will midst COVID19 situation
Laying ourselves to His perfect and wise action.
“Trust in the LORD.” Such announces God’s requirement
Along His statute for us to show our joyous fulfillment---
We must comply to His faith-building agreement
Committing ourselves to His soulwinning-empowerment.
“Trust in the LORD.” Such assures God’s victory
Along His triumph in our obedience to proclaim Gospel story---
We must rely on His might while praying to overcome worry
Surrendering ourselves to His control for His glory.
*Psalm 73:28 …It is good for me to draw near to God: I have put my trust in the Lord GOD, that I may declare all thy works.
March 21, 2020
On nights when sleep flees from me like a shadow scared of its own existence,
I wonder if we are cursed or blessed, we who think beyond the edges of reason,
For "bad" is too simple a word for the complexity behind our perpetually awake eyes.
We are the architects of our own mental labyrinths, builders of castles from layered thoughts,
And if you look closely, you'll see that beneath every worry lies hidden a profound form of love,
For no one loses themselves in infinite thoughts if they don't care to their soul's core about everything they touch.
At midnight, when the world sleeps, our minds race at the speed of light through parallel universes,
Constructing perfect scenarios, unraveling and reweaving the threads of reality into ideal patterns,
While seconds drip heavily in the hourglass of insomnia like mercury tears.
We want each day to be a masterpiece sculpted in ephemeral time,
Obsessed with details like painters dedicating their lives to a single painting,
Trying to capture the essence of life in the fine net of our hyperacute consciousness.
But the price of this infinite attention is heavy as lead in tired bones,
Temples pulsate under the pressure of thoughts like drums in an endless ritual,
And eyes burn from tears shed for the perfection that always slips through our fingers.
With all scenarios calculated to the last comma, with all plans woven in silk threads,
We end up exhausted, with souls heavy from unrealized dreams and bodies drained from the perpetual dance of the mind,
You, who read these lines, know exactly what I'm talking about, don't you?
And yet, in this beautiful madness there exists a kernel of greatness,
Because we love life so much that we refuse to be mere spectators in our own existence,
We choose to feel every second to the marrow of our bones, to live consciously every breath.
In this hyperlucidity there is a strange and painful beauty,
In the way our mind constantly dances between reality and possibility,
In the way we refuse to accept the superficial and always seek deeper meanings.
There is beauty in you, restless thinker,
In the way you carry the universe in your mind like a precious burden,
And each thought is a star illuminating the darkness of the unknown.
“Walk in the Spirit!”* Such declares God’s sovereignty…
…His sovereignty as the supreme Almighty Deity.
We must bow to Him with humility…
…Submitting ourselves to His authority.
“Walk in the Spirit!” Such affirms the Lord’s greatness…
…His greatness along His gentleness.
We must shine through His goodness…
…Consecrating ourselves to His graciousness.
“Walk in the Spirit!” Such reverberates the Father’s warning…
…His warning against transgressing, trespassing, and sinning.
We must repent with sincerity’s well-meaning…
…Yielding ourselves to His restraining.
“Walk in the Spirit!” Such speaks of Christ’s demand…
…His demand attesting His gift of life so grand.
We must abide by His Word, whereupon we stand…
…Dedicating ourselves to His mission-errand.
“Walk in the Spirit!” Such asserts the Holy Ghost’s call...
…His call above our vanities’ mall.
We must confess to Him our carnality, lest we fall...
…Laying ourselves to His guidance of wise practice-hall.
“Walk in the Spirit!” Such announces the Saviour’s stewardship requirement…
…His requirement amidst His sacrifice-fulfillment.
We must comply to His faith-building agreement…
…Committing ourselves to His service-empowerment.
“Walk in the Spirit!” Such assures the omnipotent King’s victory…
…His victory among our righteous deeds’ story.
We must rely on His might in the ministry…
…Overcoming ourselves with prayer for His glory.
*Galatians 5:16
May 7, 2019
Word Painting In Black and White
Cubed ice dismantling the plank bridge with pliers
made of syrup spilled with a dash of grief and brawn
the reptilian doughboy mixes up another cosmic batch
of truth cookies designed to mislead with wishes of
the big power grab all manifesting inside the largest
television set ever devised with a flat screen as big as
a flying saucer that has at last come down to earth
so large and compelling my eyes were sucked out of
my sockets for five seconds of blind purgatory something
I thought of as an impossibility what with the moon landings
in the last century and all the heart transplants with
a dozen doctors dedicating a day of grueling hours with
silver forceps and scalpels designed to cut and close
as with all relationships between a tight skirt and a mustache
on the floor by a black vent kissing with fingers touching and
moans muffled by the hand of fear there on the green carpet
in a mad darkness by the black vent and the trees with lemons
invading from days and decades earlier when young women
found the tile smooth and electric with sharp tingling sensations
on naked nubile skin rubbed down with cold creams made of fish
ransacking a thousand anchored ships with knives made of pearl by
old pipe-smoking hippies who make love all day with sprawling girls
looking for hot thrills inside gardens made of stone and bootleg love.
It is hard to walk in the sand especially with boots and a heavy rifle.
Manuel and I would sit on a rock and watch the moon give birth to
a distant blue Africa.
Franco's Guardia Civil were not all thugs. A few were poets.
Manuel's father had worshiped the general and had blessed
the day Guernica 'that Marxist nest' had been flattened.
That was decades before he was born, yet Manuel still patrolled
the beach, weaving between sunbathing tourist seeking nonexistent saboteurs.
On his rounds the young conscript fell in love - often, but in winter
(when his sneering corporal was away), he would sit in the bar,
tongue curled like a snail shell, dedicating lurid hyperbole
to every female foreigner that had smiled at him, and to all
the Catalan girls that never did.
That night the moon seemed to translate for us.
He asked me earnestly:
if I thought Franco would ever lift the ban on bikini's?
"Never!" I replied, "The Pope and the Rightists are against it."
Manuel rose and shuffled sadly away, his rifle dragging on the sand.
That night the moon came close, to bask on Manuel’s beach,
and she without a stitch of cloud-cover over her matronly form.