Long Dislike Poems
Long Dislike Poems. Below are the most popular long Dislike by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Dislike poems by poem length and keyword.
G-ratitude is a good sign,
E-xample of being great;
M-an of true humility,
M-eek and ready to
A-ppreciate.
P-ride, conceit and disdain
A-re a known bad behavior;
N-o peace dwells in the heart,
T-here is no love anymore.
O-pen your mind to thanksgiving,
J-uly twenty-sixth morn,
A-lmighty God has helped you endure and win over the scorn.
R-espect and recognition
O-pen the door for harmony;
D-erision and dislike
R-uin relations of humanity.
I-ngratitude is indeed evil,
G-ood manners still exist;
U-se them to please the Lord,
E-xperience pure joy and
Z-est.
L-owliness lives in the soul
A-llows one to have fine attitude;
R-eflections of one's character
A-re mirrored in his gratitude.
this autumn air
leaves me gasping
in the depth
of thoughts
i scrape frost
from windshields
on mornings
that resemble
your heart
the wind
carries the tune
of unsung lullabies
better than you
some days you linger
like october's leaves
the trails of my pain
spiraling in these winds
our eyes meet
in the mirror
as i drive along
trying to forget you
bleached blonde beauty
your glamour
only ran skin deep
i saw the truth seep
in the roots
of auburn drab
i've grown my layers out
even tried to scribble color
in darker tones
to regain myself
yet it always fades
back to platinum
sometimes i despise
looking at you
in the mirror
looking back at me
sometimes
i want to find me
without you
because you make me
dislike what a see
you make me
hate myself
just like you
seemed to
i wonder
does it make you
stand proud
knowing
you still
can kill me
even in death
your hold
chokes
When the mind speaks
Poetry is immensely personal. I hide behind
storytelling, not talking about my feelings
but the sensibility of others.
What happens has nothing to do with me, the onlooker
the observer, like an architect surveying a building
and finding the house wrongly designed.
I don’t mind if the building has doors and windows
and are watertight, I gladly move in, love is
another country as passion is an ember of an ancient fire.
You say I’m a liar who tells the truth using the passage
of time as my mentor.
“Once upon a time, there was a cobbler…” There is not
a cobbler, but someone else timeless as history
written by those who weren’t there.
My writing is mundane, like a forest if they are not
so big I can’t find my way out
Sometimes it happens, and breaths of death come
into my mind, upsetting the delicate balance
between life and no life.
I’m not an intellectual reading a book as a pensum
to an exam, there will be no trail of titles
When I have gone.
I like flowers, but dislike flowery poems. I find them
artificial, as Gertrude Stein said,”
A rose is a rose.”
But of course, a rose signifies much more.
While not waiting for Godot, I will write some more lies
as long as I can.
We started a move,
With Mwalimu Julius,
The move to paradise,
a promised land,
Full of wine and vineyard.
We declared Arusha,
As symbol of movement,
Unifying poor and richer,
To live as one forever,
And build the nation together.
Challenges started,
When some dislike the policy,
Socialism is an attitude of mind!
They wanted free market,
To exploit their fellow brethren,
They sabotaged and plundered,
Public Industries and companies,
As the preparation towards drunken walk.
We are drunken, yes we are!
Moving two steps forward and three back,
Spurting tobacco on left,
But covering the land on right,
And this is our move,
A move towards development.
We are fifty three years old,
As the old man with white hairs,
But lacks wisdom by talking the same thing,
Kilimo on morning day and night,
As the backbone of the economy,
And now with amplified sound,
Named kilimo kwanza,
To bring about development,
And changes peoples life,
That we previously failed,
But this is our song,
A song of the digital world.
Listen comrades,
I also agree,
And let us resume our failure,
For we dare again fail,
In a country like ours,
Where policy is importation,
Of everything except soldiers
What movement do we speak?
Or movement towards primitive!
19/02/2014
The same kind of nights we see the same times a year.
People play people, break their hearts then blame the moon and stars, not the beer and the bars, for all the tears.
Down the road, round the back. Wake up without recount for who or what was just unluckily near.
Bruises take a while to disappear.
The same kind of nights we see the same times a year. A sharp dislike is taken for a smile that can soon disappear.
Eyes shine in sunlight but hide their plight for the night, for the fear, for the tears.
The same kind of eyes seeing for the same kind of minds night after night all through the year.
The same kind of nights for the same kind of minds for the same kind of tears.
We dance with desire; we dance with dislike.
As human beings, we all are alike.
Flames of desire will always leap higher.
We dance with dislike; we dance with desire.
If desire is lust, we must slow the dance.
Slow to a stop; self-restraint give a chance!
Learn not to tango with what we can’t trust.
We must slow the dance if desire is lust.
We allemande right; we allemande left.
We must learn to move with steps that are deft
and dance for good things that bring great delight.
We allemande left; we allemande right.
While dancing each day, try moves that are new.
Practice through life how the spirit moves you.
Choose partners wisely with whom you will sway.
Try moves that are new while dancing each day.
Let dance stir the soul. Be moved by sweet grace.
Dance not with aversion. Smooth moves embrace!
The rhythm of body with spirit control.
Be moved by sweet grace. Let dance stir the soul.
Sept. 30, 2022
This Quatrain form is called Swap Quatrain
IT IS ME
XXXXXXXX
With all the adversities in life, became a woman with an
open mind, a kind heart, a care free spirit and a teachable soul.
Oldest sister of six brothers and two sisters, strong willed mother
of four; two sons and two daughters, raising them all alone and
grandmother of seven; four boys and three girls.
Lover of nature’s beauty, the beauty of His creations,
like the glorious sunset, the colorful autumn leaves, the azure
sky, the splendor of the rose, the magnificent butterflies.
Lover of strong women and passionate people.
Feel profound happiness when dancing, feel great looking
good dressing up and feel excited learning something new.
Dislike snakes and digital stuff being from old school and
detest people living in lies, believing others, not themselves.
An aesthetic person appreciating beauty in art, music,
literature, photography, fashion and like to travel to learn
more about culture and explore the spectacular scenic views.
Resident of Golden State in the West Coast. XXXXX
8/1/21 This Is Who I Am Poetry
L. Milton Hankins
Lisa, a fellow freshman who lives in our neighbor suite, is a breathtaking beauty from New York - the kind of beauty that toppled ancient Greek empires - a sun-like beacon to the male sex. Anna (one of my four suitemates) gasped and said, “The gods walk among us.” The first time we saw her at orientation.
If Lisa lays in one of the hammocks in the quad to study - in minutes there’ll be 10 guys doing athletic male things like throwing footballs and foot juggling fobs - anything olympian and roughly physical to show off and draw her interest.
Late one afternoon, Anna and I were studying and watching such a scene from a second floor patio garden. Sunny, (another of my suitemates) just returning from class, took in the scene. She closed her eyes and inhaled deeply.
“Are you smelling roses?” Anna observed.
“Better than roses,” Sunny said. Looking down at the preening guys. “They’re gorgeous,” she sighed, “Why can’t I have just ONE?”
“They’re already entranced.” Anna said, peering over her sunglasses.
“Awwww!” Sunny purred, “Look at the pretty one in the orange shorts.”
“Too late, I said, “she’s already culled him out from the herd.”
It was true, Lisa was slowly leading him away from the pack, spellbound.
“She’ll probably eat him.” I said.
“How does she DO that?” Anna asked admiringly.
“I don’t think she even tries - it’s probably pheromonal.” Sunny said ruefully.
Our envy isn’t raw enough to curdle into dislike - we agree that she doesn’t seem to TRY to be the center of attention - we just wonder where she finds the time for it all.
In a small town in Nevada
lived a man named Joe McCoy,
he never touched a bottle,
never bothered or annoyed.
He was a dark-haired bean-pole,
rarely even shot the bull,
the only thing said about him
was that he was always moral.
In fact Joe was so square that
folks didn’t even use his name,
they all called him ‘Moral McCoy,’
born without hint of blame.
Moral tipped his hats to the ladies
whenever they passed by,
and whenever he talked to you
he always met your eye.
He did the work of two men,
had no trouble with the law,
always went to chapel on Sunday
to give his due to God.
Yes, he was a good man,
to all he was quite fair,
but one man hated Moral,
the hired gun ‘Spike’ Kildare.
Something about quiet Moral
always rubbed Spike the wrong way,
and his dislike came to a head
one dreary, April day.
Spike stormed into Carol’s restaurant
with the roar of an angry man,
said,”McCoy get your damn sheep
off Boss Taylor’s gazing lands”
Moral had finished eating
snd said,”I’d be glad too.”
but before he could get up,
a Bowie knife Kildare drew.
He advanced on Moral slowly,
menace cold in his words:
“This is the fourth time it’s happened,
I think now you need to learn.
“The boss don’t like freeloaders
grazing damn sheep in his yards,
you’ll remember that from now on
every time you see your scars.”
Spike continued forwards,
meaning to carve Moral red,
So Moral pulled his thirty-eight
and shot Spike through the head...
CONCLUDES IN PART II.
My dislike of Poetry
I dislike poetry; it is a contrived form of expression, yet whenever
I published one of my collections, which is under the rubric
of poetry
when they are nothing but opinions and descriptions of thoughts, which
I try to share with readers who might like what I write
or think this is a waste of time. I dislike poetry because it keeps
life in shadows and tries not to tell but to show by writing
so abstract
you have to guess the intentions. When you do, the poet is great.
mainly because he described life as scholastic and has little to do with real life, but you can, if seeking brief fame, put your head in
The gas oven and everything you wrote will be holy as the poetic grail, a pity because the poet/writer was seduced by her father and was unable to come to terms with this because she liked the rape but didn’t dare to admit it.