Long Directions Poems
Long Directions Poems. Below are the most popular long Directions by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Directions poems by poem length and keyword.
LET GO OF THE LOOSE LADY:
She wants you to lavishly spend on her,
More than how good you treating her.
You are showing the best love to her,
Because you fear to loose her.
But everything you doing for her,
Seems not to be acknowledged by her.
Her families don't even think of her,
Just like the way you appreciate her.
Well,what's so unique about her,
That you can't let go of her,
Since you're not even entitled to her?
Have you undertaken any perspection,
Vividly over her actual perception?
Sometimes I get stuck to conflictions,
As this issue yields confussions.
I'm never okay with your conviction,
Though it comes by in profusion.
Her love for you is clearly an illusion,
Wrapped with total intrusion.
You are trying well to take reflections,
To reorient her of intended deflections.
I know you need some love as a pilgrim,
But kindly learn from my past prelim.
The experience that made me real me,
After someone wisely drilled me.
Therefore, please read between the lines,
Before she wickedly tears down your spine.
I wish you don't dance to a bad rythm,
The bad rythm to hold you a victim.
I mean the directions of this lady,
Who don't see your kind as worthy.
So please focus on building your career,
and not on this loose lady in that area.
Thanks...Shalom!
WEIRD PATH -KIFUMBAMACHO
Living at the coast i never gave any credence
to stories of the supernatural attributing them
to ignorant locals who are into mysticism an spirit-ism
being a believer in the Supreme i never gave them
stories much though.. best of buddies..
Me, Jackie and Georgie had a funny incident
I name it funny for lack of a better word
we lost our path on a shortcut coming
from a swim at the pirates beach resort
we took a back route which we thought
twas a short cut turned to be the longest
cut we have ever took
were seeing our destination
yet for crying sake we seem to be
moving in a weird circle..or is it short
back to the same place
a quarry with a strange natural bridge with
strange lights below - funny huts on the side
its dark now yet we should be
safely tucked into our beds already
our navigation skills rendered useless
Kifumbamacho we are rotating back
to the same place Kifumbamacho
Were praying earnestly we resurface home
Kifumbamacho mysticism hypnosis
where you loose you're senses
in a strange manner
We asked a a stranger for help and
in a matter of seconds following his
indicated directions we arrive at the hostels
Us uplands people don't understand the
weird coastal s choosing to step lightly
had a laugh about it with Georgie an Jackie
Them claiming i was the architect of the kifumba macho
God knows i more flabbergasted as than they were - we then
laughed it off for we are not superstitious like the weird coastals
Lewis k Nyaga
weird recall
20/01/2014
Autumn leaves released against the cruelest winds
unmoored, without a distant shore to land
have no instruction, nor direction,
swept by the tides of winter seas
Surfing waves without an oar
curled tight against themselves
Fall winds spread them far,
until they sink
and crumble
into
dust
While
I must
not stumble
and must not curl
tight against myself
but be kin to nature...
soar the waves of winter seas
adrift in a sea of knowledge
following directions of my heart
unmoored, but with a distant shore to land
against the future of autumn's cruelest wind
__________________________________________
9/12/14 For Shadow's Contest: Double Etheree
On a drowsy dusk in July the air suddenly stops to flow
the trees seemed stilled fossils, the leaves drooping low.
Western horizon turns a wall draped in clouds on the rise
the thunder splits the slaty sky open taking me by surprise.
The deafening sound tells me the storm would soon surge
the wild winds from all directions would rush and converge.
I go out and stand beneath the swinging tree, not in haste
to turn into a fallen leaf the wind would blow to you, I wait.
On a dreamy dusk in July you run among flowers in garden
the southern wind wafts on your shoulders all of a sudden,
the disheveled swirling hair covers your glazed face in a web.
You dance like peacock courting the dark clouds that wave,
your fleeting feet lift dust in the grey air, you become a gale
sweeping your smile that blazes through the lightning trail.
Burn me, blow me like the drifting leaf resigned to its fate,
give me a place in the shadow of your parted lips, I wait.
September, 30, 2017.
When we lose access
to our most primal Other,
our EarthMother experience
dreamily following DNA's developmental scripts,
original sacred scripture
of external habitats
becoming internal identities,
We lose not only our spiritual sense of security
but also our natural taste for liberty,
independence,
Freedom to go out from our well-conserved womb
and subsequent multiculturing habitats,
home-base to liberally spread seeds of compassion
as we have always known our purposed meaning,
natural-spirited DNA
unfolding and infolding identity.
When personal identity loses access
to natural sight
we can still hear internal spirit memories.
When we lose access
to natural taste
we can still feel ancient spirits in our starving stomachs,
in our insecure and unfree
and too secure and unliberated
and right enlightened integrating
creolizing
co-acclimating guts.
When we lose capacity
to touch organic nature
we can still feel internal integral spirits,
most without self-conscious voices,
perhaps a few with cries for liberty
and security
or death.
We can smell nature
to know which unseeable spirited winds
waft from which directions,
up and down
left and right
north and south
past and future generations
of light's actively encultured hope, secure
and unfreedom in despair.
What we naturally lose
we organically incarnate DNA-integrity
gained so far
as individuals,
as species,
as multicultural becoming fragments
extending DNA-latticed families
tribes
living multi-generational laced-web systems,
Sometimes playing external nature with internal spirit Win to Win
for liberating compassion,
and sometimes playing sinister nature v spirit
secular outside v sacred inside detached win/lose
no longer actively securing and freeing enlightened restoration
of communal Truth and Beauty integrity;
DNA's future health/wealth
timeless nurturing
original wombs and integral webs
co-revolving health-wealth thrival.
When we retain conscious attachment
to our primal Other,
and Her primal Others,
our EarthMother experience
originates sacred re-scriptures
speaking through nature
and listening through secure and freeing spirits
of cooperative DNA health development
ego/eco-identity.
My skin is not smooth—it is a landscape, creased and rough, folded like a well-traveled map.
The curve of my neck cradles the sun, even when the sky is gray and distant.
The scar on my knee is where I learned gravity,
There I remember how my knees sought answers and bruised against silence,
The faded marks on my wrists are memories I stopped trying to erase.
My shoulder holds the weight of unsent letters, of unkept promises,
Of people whose ghosts I’ve kept long after they disappeared.
Behind my ribs, ferns unfurl, and roots intertwine with the hum of my heart.
Saltwater collects in my throat, swallowed like a secret I refuse to speak,
It floats between the tightness in my chest, weighing heavy with the unspoken,
With everything I couldn’t say and the silence that remains.
The curve of my hip sways to a melody only silence can sing,
The arch of my foot, like a compass, knows the escape routes without needing directions.
I am stitched together from paths I never chose, oceans I had to cross,
Mountains I was lifted to, and somewhere along the way, I learned to call them home.
Maps aren’t always drawn with ink; some are stitched with breath and scars.
Don’t ask me where I come from—ask me where I’ve been.
Touch my shoulder, and I’ll show you a road only my skin knows.
making up for years of lack,
unable to speak,,the heart held back,
oh, how it looks so selfish and absorbed,
as if seeking attention, the heart wants to love more,
unexplained, you just do as i say,
as if losing the freedom to speak, a voice at bay,
"simon says" was a cruel game to be played,
it stunted my growth as if i couldn't understand the directions he gave,
so here i stood, always striking out first,
to stand to the side, to watch and observe,
and it wasn't so bad to just watch and see,
because next time i just told the better player some strategy,
i wasn't on my tippie toes to wanna jump back in the game,
so then i started to strike out on purpose, ide rather help motivate the game,
sure enough, simons game got old,
there was a new game in town, "Twister" unfolds,
highly motivated, my favorite game!,
Parker Brothers,,i commend you!! you got the right aim!!! ;)
I’ve inherited contradictions - which could be genetic, original-personal failings, or the result of family dynamics - those are like the background radiation left by the big bang.
If you’re in school long enough, you take a lot of psychology tests. In my psychological makeup, a drippy sentimentality uncomfortably coexists with a cat-like indifference. This is probably my French cultural inheritance - is it too late to add that factor?
The seedbed of my current cognitive dissonance is time - I don’t have a lot of time for other people’s issues. Please accept these earnest, unfiltered insights - even if they are laced with caffeine.
I finally got some graded papers back - I wondered if they were shredding or recycling them. I did ok. It was an electrifying moment in an otherwise indifferent week.
Let’s wax somewhat poetically…
I’m loving the Université.
The architectural spaces,
the concertante ways people
move through functional areas
and the layers of differing sounds
- the heard-like, instinctive responses
to the triggering abstractions of universal signage
- going up or down, yes, no, stop, go -
that send us in well-practis'd directions.
I find the colour and movement,
the fashion mix of high and low cultures
lush and satisfying but you can never get
a cup of coffee large enough.
enough of THAT.
I’m not a poet at all. You’ve heard of method actors? Well, I’m a method writer. I fully inhabit my one and only character who, in turns, charms, repels, embarrases and delights me - just like everyone else in my life.
Would you buy defining yourself, in little vignettes, as an audacious act?
I write ‘flash fiction,’ I’m told, because it presents only one person’s perspective - but I do it with forensic precision - and present it all with the narrative negligence that defines my work - it’s art, people - on a time budget.
.
.
Songs for this:
new friends by flowerovlove [E]
Tokyo Lift (5am) by Cautious Clay
I Should Be Home by Balu Brigada
The wind is blowing from all directions and the cloud is falling beneath the earth, the hills are standing tall and strong, and my heart is singing a merry song. I long for the days to come back again when we will be just like old friends, the shadows will dance with the moon and the stars will shine upon us.
I can feel the wind blowing in my back and an unfamiliar sensation moving up and down my new frock projecting a strange noise in the roof that brings joy and laughter in the atmosphere.
It is the howling sound that comes with the wind forcing mankind to pay double for his sin and nature rock you to and fro and catapults your mind all over the floor and when the moment has passed you sit still gasping for breath.
Th smell of roasted coffee beans seeps through the kitchen roof stirring my morning appetite and meddle with my midday delight. I struggle to bridge the gap between the coffee and the ice-tea and the early morning shoppers drain the energy out of me. They converge on the pavement next to the house and crowd the coffee shop in the corner. Discount coffee, strawberry doughnut galore, and cinnamon beagle pile up to the roof waiting on hungry buyers.
The crowd begins to swell and spills out in the street, and the dogs emerge out of hell pointing their long guns at the brawlers to control the swelling crowd.
Droopy eyes and hungry gut yawns before me, anxiously waiting for a cup of tea, the coffee shop finally opened, and the people form a line leading to their destiny. I have never seen such display of emotion before; it puts everyone on the dance floor.
My lips began to tremble, and heart begins to move and a song that has never been sang, a rhythm that has never been felt burst out my lips and the early morning crowd caught on to it and everyone start dancing, coffee cup in one hand and cinnamon and bagel in another.
Morning came alive and my emotion touches the sky.
A small patch of flowers, a mountaintop glade.
Slapped into twirls of magenta by a cold rain~
voiceless but pleading for the purity of truth
to be taken by {a} tender into the beating of dawn.
In a sunny dream they'll play, black butterfly and fawn heart
tempering time until dusk makes the crows bark,
cackling where was the {us} when living turned to blood
drowned the frolic of every prayer for tomorrow.
Was it a chain of slanted decisions that minced the light?
bad luck (as when a dime slides from the ritzy to the grate...
maybe we met long ago, when we crawled from the sea
took different directions by the will of a rogue breeze.
Maybe we had parallel lives?
Made from the bones of wild planets on fire.
What happens when magenta meets black and blue
[this is a good time to dust off the palette- start mixing the hues],
what colors does a rabid cyclone leave behind
the texture of twisted stars,
to be swallowed by the devil of divine?
Young butterfly remembers the innocence of light.
When moonglow made love to the black lips of night.
'til a pack of knives slashed at its wings
(to hell with the good fight).
Now it no longer searches for mountain top flowers.
Nor does it dream in pools of magenta.
It lies in the mud juggling broken eggs
upon a pile of old dung-
How in the hell can such a thing... love
again.
but there is a softness buried deep
in this blaze of a runaway train.
Hop on board if you will
follow the reflection of manogre...
to be cont.