Long Derived Poems
Long Derived Poems. Below are the most popular long Derived by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Derived poems by poem length and keyword.
Earth had offered Her eco-centric contract
of love and synergy,
awaiting ego's personal response each day,
each moment,
eager to optimize wealthy health care cooperations
of sacred grace.
Over an apparently inadequate lifetime
ego implied his competitive response:
I grow increasingly excited,
stimulated,
by this co-petitioning challenge
to frame our dissonance,
our operational riddles and puzzles,
games and illogistics
and dark strategies
Measured in statistical decomposition
of the odds for sustaining life
by perfecting hatred and fear
of death's dissociative decay.
I question Earth's right to positive resolution
and harmonic resonance,
as consonant co-governance
of enlightened ego empowering eco
to play win/win,
recreate without sin,
and co-passion nicely together
This co-petition against wasted anxious time
fully exercises my right of conscience,
to re-search 0-sum ego-partisanship
for absolute freedom from eco-dependence.
This co-petition asserts our human natural guild's unlovely preference
for contention over contentment
for sustained longing rather than resilient belonging
for uni-lateral freedom
rather than ego/eco bilateral interdependence.
EarthMother absorbed this richly contentious compost,
this dissembling over cooperative rights of assembly
and competition challenging associative eco-creation
as too inclusive recreation,
divisive of ego's omnipotent present place
in organic space
derived from eco's multisystemic functions
within history's healthiest seasons.
It seems to me,
said She,
Time has unfolded an eco-systemic co-tractive gift,
born of Her binomial grace
in bilaterally felt space,
a belonging response to mutually co-tribute with ego
gratitude for bicameral mutuality
and full freedom of co-scientific consciousness,
to conjoin time's eternal moment
of past personal ego
with future eco recentering life.
Post Scripted: "After all this time and space
repeating inhumane competitions and cooperative contractions,
deductive inducements to balance positive political space
with negative un-ecological economic time,
thank you for remembering why RightBrain felt eco-normics
gave birth to LeftBrain's verbal ego-petitions
in our first through last breathing moment
of win/win eco-operative identity."
Signed: Earth's Polypathic CoOperative Covenant
Prologue:
For whoever think story telling is that easy,
Would properly from this hilarious incident,
scene or whatever you might call it, would know is not.
*****************
Just some couple of months ago, I was invited
by a friend who knows me too well, back then in
school as a funny guy and story teller and so he taught this
night, that his grand pa (who is a famous story teller
of his village) had fall sick, I would be in a better position
to cover up for his father's so called responsibility
to his people. "For he (my friend's father, Williams) is a good story teller.
But what about me who has never faced
the ample crowd with my 'cripple' tale unless sharing it with friends?" I mumbled.
In the middle of this enigma, my friend, John called me to the hot seat
to tell my tale to the unbearable crowd of adolescence.
"God why am I here this day... But it shouldn't have been this day" I retorted.
The barbarian noise from the seats infront of me showed that truly I was
in the middle of something and not lost...
"Uncle tell us a story!... Brother tell us a story!" the crowd shouted.
This day, I needed a free moment but they couldn't let me be.
"Once upon a time" they heard me said and they all resited.
" I am sorry, I am sorry let me restart it all over again".
Now in old man's voice, I told my tale before them:
"Once upon a time,
In our mothers' womb, when she
Ate, we ate. Goodnight!"
They all cannot but burst to laughter while I stood and walked to the room with my
shame.
*****************
Anything after good night means nothing more till the next day.
Maybe I escaped the night by dissatisfying the emotions of those children,
in that scene, what about my friend?
"Have I not brought shame to John's family? Did I do the
right thing that full moon night?". My heart beats!
*****************
Epilogue:
Not even do the audience remember or care to ask me: (In kid's voice)
"What if my mother do not eat while in my pregnancy, what will happen to her?" or
probably care to tell me: (Back to old man's voice) "What lesson they have derived from
the tale before their departure... Oh! No sorry, my bashful departure from their sight."
Note: The tale: "Once upon....Goodnight!" is a Haiku form of poetry.
In magical verses weave your fated heart's request,
With metaphors holding the shy choir of light abreast,
When hearts corroded by hatred in barrenness rest,
And chains of thought whip gently the gentle flight's zest.
If you are to regain control once more,
When friends of yesteryear were but a lore,
Whose drab garments through time emphatically wore,
But forgiveness you've secreted from its core.
And if in hope you can stand upright,
Not raising armor before the liar’s project slight,
When rage whispers edicts as if to indict,
Melt it in calm, with spirit bright.
Show the world whole your portrait fair,
No masks, no regret, laid bare,
And if you dream of deep breaks in despair,
May you not become in others' lives a dismal seer.
When eternity throws its cold shadow in your corner's crease,
You should gaze with eyes that do not buckle under time’s caprice.
Every living moment in time's palm surely will not cease,
On the heart's scale, they demand to be released.
If you can listen when the truth is spoken,
Alien and shifted in a world that's been broken,
And to persist through the common lies outspoken,
To find faith beneath the frothy spray's token.
If you dare face decay’s embrace without dread,
Avoiding the gilded pleasure's feigned spread,
And in autumn whispers feel your stern fall ahead,
In the poverty of a sky that once display had fed.
Risk carrying on the die heavy, precious pearls,
Wager all that you've got for a fleeting twirl,
And then, whoever you are, learn not to hurl hopes like chaff,
Your failures become a path leading to something more sacred, more daft.
Endure, in a feeble body, remorse and persistence,
Wearing a smile as a shield, melting the tormenting ice of existence.
Cherish the moment that remains in unending instance,
With a soul lined in armor's silent resistance.
If you can fill the silences in empty spaces,
When shattered times speak with yesterday's faces,
Replenish them with fresh sparks among the disgraces,
Then you will build from seconds, unbroken traces.
And the Earth shall through you be magnified,
And all that writhes in its infinite tide,
And in this great shaken, you'll uncover as scribed,
That you're a whole man, not just a soul that's been pried,
Not part of the herd whose times have dried,
But master of the strength from your own dream derived.
I
are you ready to play with words and games of the soul....to bring out the
labyrinth that is within the sacred soul??
w/U absolutely
I can start with chimes of alter mimes within my alter rhyme
ok
a shoot of expectation....uprooting congregation....my own ramification of self
altercation...the way I fan the flame
the utmost juxtapose...the beginning of our game
gimme a word,though even if absurd....and I'll reply in time
YES
gimme a subject, and I'll congregate...verbs and nouns to subjagate...places to
fill with mynd
Love
love entangled, be it obtuse...let's say it's a caboose....of a place we may contain
I'll seclude it to a space, where we can't replace...where there can't be an easy
refrain...
more
gimme more...and I'll abhore more words and junctures to place within...I'm
waiting on a whim...the space I'll call " to win"
one word is all I ask.. and we'll drink upon the flask...together on the clouds...a
placement of feelings, fragments...a war of truth and wills
heart
a heart can only beat itself....like lonely Irish elfs....misunderstanding value...of
which way to go.;...the non = ending ebb and flow...I want to understand where
these feelings come from...
are they derived from lonliness or boredom...in the back room or corridor...a
package of the heart...where do feelings start?:
adjudication and frustration is what I feel constantly....the placement of my
feelings a continual
mystery...
I love the way U write, have I told U that?
am I manic or just a substantial panic - meister....can I ever kick this system in
the ****...thats what I want to observe...
I'm more intense in person...and I don't mean to make tensions worsen...I only
wish to widen the width of this scythe...
I like the way U talk
that is why I keep talking to U
My life, like everybody else’s, is a treasure trove
with a mine from which one’s treasures are derived.
The familial bonds we form are platinum; our friendships gold.
These are precious ores that most souls are born to find with ease.
But all of us have other precious stones we need to mine.
They are the fruit of skills and talents put to their best use.
My treasure trove abounds with gems already -
ones that I discovered as a child.
Though rough in their natural form, most of them I opened
as I grew in understanding of God’s gifts for me.
Others not so easy to break open were able to be shaped,
for once I sought them out inside my mine
and cracked them open. . . their radiance was revealed to me.
Our precious gems, God-given, must not be squandered.
Once mined, they need to be shared.
Artists, teachers, scientists, tradesmen, leaders, even dreamers -
we all have different kinds of gemstones hidden in our mines.
Once, later on in my own life,
I came upon a silver tool used by many different types of artists.
I’d seen it in my youth but hardly used it.
Thousands of words lay embedded in that specific tool God gifted me.
I delved into the depths of my mine and learned
that I could tap and tap the silver worded tool upon each stone,
and finally a gem would then reveal itself to me.
The more I searched for stones to tap,
The more wondrous were the nuggets that appeared -
And there were more of them than I’d believed I could ever find -
buried there so deeply in my mine!
The art of crafting them and polishing them up
I was able to improve upon in time. . .
and found that even those less valuable could shine!
A poet’s gems need not be bought or sold.
Displaying them with love and pride alone can be fulfilling.
How I thrill to view a wide variety of gemstones
freely shown from others’ treasure troves.
From the rarest and the clearest multi-faceted
color-shifting Alexandrite and tanzanite,
and the most remarkable of diamonds, rubies,
sapphires, emeralds, amethyst and jade,
down to the lowliest of onyx, quartz, garnets, or agates,
each stone has something of the poet’s soul within it,
especially beautiful when polished to a brilliant sheen!
The more I open gemstones in my mine, the more of them I find,
and my silver-worded tool lies nearby at the ready.
‘can’t change your family but you are free to choose your friends’
Michael’s brother is demented and only remembers the distant past
his parents are long dead they died in a car crash at illegitimate speed
every now and then he visits their graves and leaves a Match Box car
instead of flowers and lights a joint for Peace just to annoy them a bit
illegal traffic is one of the burdens of modern society and transport
luckily for him he fathered three children who don’t know what hit them
when he is diagnosed with cancer but they promise to look after him
a fortunate story of love and the transmission of generational kindness
life’s hardships are relative and sometimes a concept of irrational thought
now it stands him in good stead to have followed a path of emotions
Michael has chosen his own relative friends at free will and he
cherishes them all in equal proportions and knows how to relate
the Liberty to decide when to give and when to receive
undeterred by strict norms and unauthorized obligations
a notion of Justice derived from virtues and a moral law
from within along fairness equity rectitude without fail
Honesty in all his endeavours as much as the very truth
to be spoken when silence and falsification where easier
unmistakeable Charity in the face of a self-righteous world
requesting nothing in return because he is privileged by birth
Communication in deeds and in words without anger or venom
because once acted or spoken it is difficult to retract a position
most of all he is only too well aware that Perspectives are contingent
as well as embedded in context but that he can craft from his own Self
he Reads Writes Feels Reasons and Stakes his claim at times Surrenders
connects what seems to be relative but does not change on his last journey
Michael’s brother does not suffer from the loss of engaging with his relatives
his parents died a pain free death at the crossroad of the reaper’s stark scythe
and his children will tell his story outlook and attitude to relatives and death
he is a blessed man and he keeps a small vial of morphine for when time calls
his compassionate wife who by law is not a relative will help with the plunger
02 November 2020
Endorphin power is about positive politics;
it votes with little fading feet running away from negative politics
and WinLose competing economies of victimization,
marginalization.
Stress, dissonance, competitive over-indulgence are toxic
including to the abundant production of endorphin,
which, like its endo-morphine namesake,
creates a peaceful co-empathic trust feeling
that it's safe to believe all is well,
has become well,
and will continue well,
both endo-symbiotically and ecto-symbiotically.
Paranoia eats endorphin,
lays it to waste,
mows our mojo down,
while pronoia feeds shy endorphans
what they swellfully appreciate receiving,
especially if they need not ask,
Please Sir, may I have some more?
Mutual helping,
cooperative games and strategies,
regenerate pronoia invitations into each Earth day,
or maybe an hour,
or just a moment at a time until time evaporates,
builds deep sensory awareness of WinWin ecopolitical,
social and cultural and climate health trajectories,
well being inclusive of future generations
already flowing their/your imaginations
through your champion endo-chemistries.
So pronoia-healthy politics
incarnates cooperative economic intentions, designs,
structures and plans,
networks and gestalts and climates,
regeneratively
deeply ingrained
of/for ego-self optimizing through eco-self-identity-emptying,
through helpful health-wealth production with and for Others.
Our most fluid full-strength Yang egos are those most ecopolitically abundant
performing, practicing, intending endorphin driven and derived health
as we expand our ecoconsciousness of self-therapy with other co-mentoring therapists,
some of us comically bad at producing more confluence than dissonance,
but all of us doing our best
to extend our endorphin-provoking family empathic trust
back through regenetic recombinant reiterative history of time's enlightenment ourselves,
stories embodied within each organic turn of Earth years,
and forward toward shared endorphin ecopolitics
regenerating multiculturally positive therapeutic futures,
which also degenerate
absorb
endorphin traces erasing monoculturally negative pasts.
Endorphins swell power-with helping,
not condemning or faulting or neglecting, others
toward ecopolitically healthy wealth abundance.
Musicianship
(3 May 2014; For my son Steven, an ACCOMPLISHED guitarist)
Real musicianship can truly drive you nuts—
There really are no “ifs”, “ands”, or “buts”.
Practice, study, memorize, then more practice--
Is this just an obsession or complete madness?
Learning chord inversions, arpeggios, and scales
Is like reaching Heaven by crossing through seven Hells.
It wouldn’t be bad if there were only a dozen majors,
But there’s also those other dozen minors.
What’s worse, it seems we’re never finished
Because there’s also augmented and diminished,
The major/minor/augmented/dominant sevenths.
And symmetrical double-flatted diminished sevenths,
And if this harmonic mess is not enough,
All those dissonant Jazz chords get really tough…
Such as the sustained seconds and fourths,
The sevenths add nines, sixths, blah-blah-blah, elevenths.
And if learning all this isn’t already extraordinary,
There’s music theory and music vocabulary.
Instead of just saying “get louder”, you have to “crescendo”,
Or for “fast” or “slow” you say “allegro” or “lento”.
Then there are names like Ionian, Dorian, Phrygian,
Lydian, Mixolydian, Aeolian, and Locrian.
(All being modes derived from scale C-major,
Plus each major scale also has a relative minor)
Multiple pattern exercises on guitar fretboards
Are even worse than finger drills on piano keyboards.
Worse, the string tuning on a six-string acoustic guitar
Is not quite the same as on a 4/5/6/7-string bass guitar.
It’s hard to get up on stage and routinely play
That same song, for the umpteenth time, in an inspiring way.
No wonder musicians seem to all suffer manic-depression,
From trying to play a full sets with unique expression.
All the advances in music equipment and technology
Bless and curse musicians like two-edged swords, you see,
Because all this work they do to sound like a maestro or genius
Can be counterfeited on a computer by a musical ignoramus.
But computer geeks won’t ever find that special place,
That fugue-like subtle sacred state of grace,
Which for brief moments is like deep meditation.
No, that’s the forbidden domain of the real musician.
To suggest that musicians all are just “gifted” naturally,
Is the absolute superlative worst insulting irony.
Truly, real musicianship can drive you nuts—
No, there really are no “ifs”, “ands”, or “buts”.
Loving life hid beneath rim of cool ceramic bowl
Tree frog claimed proud place, toilet's homely hole
Enamoured by his simple palace making stance
I bend to peer at his green grip toe stick, entranced
My ordinary admonished by gaze from onxyx eyes
Quick reflex and instinct, skills by which Frog relies
Shine of black marble smartness lures me nearer
Knowing even with my bulk, I'm somehow inferior
Rubber eyelid winks, peels open again enlarged
Eye wrinkles droop to hammock, I'm encouraged
To nestle within humid folds, shrunk human glued
Oscillated in his lid lures languishing duly procured
Spun suddenly, rubbery cocoon cosy lurches erratic
Some worry occurs I'll drown outside skin hammock
Prior to paranoia taking over, thrown from dizzying ride
Launched into stark big bowl with steep slippery sides
Swim in cistern spew strangely renders me cleansed
Lap in lurid blue sends me to inevitably to S bends
Whooshed and flushed with refreshed perspective
Dark harassed by diffused hues tug seductive
Dolphin derived, my smooth unphased by spiralling
Saturated zones, ease honed, enamour never tiring
Snorkel hole snorts water, puffs readily on its purification
Imbibing combines giddy with clarity, senses' temptation
My forehead flicked flirtatiously by wide flamingo flippers
Splayed feathers fan surface, showcase dance floor shimmer
Cabaret her costume, shakes crystal bead rainbow release
Ravishing precise pirouettes prim pink princess completes
Her curved beak caresses my porthole brain, rubs insistantly
Into warm walnut shell weapon I'm swallowed quite quickly
I spy through pomegranate seed eye, mirror lake unswayed
Stilled kindly by wind's nonexistance, decision to travel made
Climbed to bird's tiny tiara topped crest, covered in feathers
Graceful lace tu- tu floats my aquatic future endeavour
Bouyed weightless and grateful, flip draws no resistance
Swim in S bend treasure, trip of sight resumed brilliance
*** Spring has sprung!!
- in Australia
My branch beyond
The tired pond
of Earth, awakes
Imminent Heaven
(perhaps)
*** A collapse of facts
Flight of flamingo regalia
Revel in place of waste
- Mystery flush takes
on its S bend
1st September 2020
‘Water’ seems a fitting title
of this rhyme on something vital
for the beings we take care of
and the others we’re aware of.
Life on Earth depends on water,
whether human or sea otter,
fish or fowl, whatever creatures
having some subsistence features.
Water may have been existent
in archaic ages distant
long before we tend to think—
even water that we drink.
Yet when in our galactic history
it was formed has been a mystery…
The researchers have debated
as to if it could be stated
that this liquid can be dated
back to when it’s been related
there was a disk of gas and dust
and molecules that were a must
for water that originated
when our ‘system’ was created
(namely, ‘solar’, where we’re fated)…
Or might it be more antiquated?!
Could we trace to outer space
the genesis that took place
of the water in our glass?
If indeed this came to pass,
it would open up new queries,
not to mention E.T. theories…
But that’s within the jurisdiction
of those who compose science fiction.
Many scientists have avowed
that from the Sun’s parental cloud
of interstellar dust and gas,
from which our star derived its mass,
water, well, to be precise,
water in the form of ice
was inherited there and then,
in that olden where and when…
Some astronomers theorize
that what we may not realize
is up to half the H2O
within the oceans that we know
right here on Planet Earth could be,
yes, older than the Sun we see
illuminating from on high,
in daylight’s path across the sky,
our frets and frolics down below,
where heedlessly we come and go…
Water and life go hand in hand,
from briny deep to wooded land.
In the mariner’s rhyming tale,
all the winds at sea did fail,
and the sailors lives were lost—
the idle ship was merely tossed
as if on a painted ocean,
painted ship, devoid of motion.
There was water ‘every where’,
Coleridge says, except that there
was none to quench their parching thirst;
so the voyage seemed doubly cursed.
Water is such precious stuff!
Do we value it enough?
Oh, may there never come a time
(as in that famous rhyming rime)
when as to water here on Earth—
where mortals meet their death and birth—
we too will ever need to think
that there is not a drop to drink!
~ Harley White