Long Distribution Poems
Long Distribution Poems. Below are the most popular long Distribution by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Distribution poems by poem length and keyword.
PROGENY OF FAITH
mom lead us in prayers
Our Fathers and Hail Marys
and Sundays to church
faith of my grandma
also the start that spurred me
to shore up my own
A red leather bible, family size, illustrated with religious art. I’m sure I knew how to read; faces, integrity, angels and naked truth. The gray pleated jumper in youth’s closet - simplicity accompanied by lacy socks and saddle shoes.
smaller than grown hands
with wisdom and faith
a graven missive
Along with distribution of gospels, psalms and proverbs in a tiny book, for unspectacled eyes, the sighting of saints all around - not serpents but doves;
hands of Jesus Christ.
no longer pinching
prayers off of beads - pretty pearls
fall straight out of book
Leaping not with butterflies nor rainbow eyes, but with flaming tongues. Not trancelike but with a sound mind, no fear, power steering.
Not unlike crossing the equator, an imaginary line - the one drawn in the sand. Think also of Indiana Jones, a fictional character - he had to have faith and leap, and then there was the path, solid that led him to the promised land. Empirical proof is divine.
Did you know the word martyr means witness? You become a witness of powerful things; they are as natural as birds chirping, the dawning of a new day.
not a character
like this Indiana Jones.
led by God alone
a witness with faith
coincidence i think not —
power-filled stories
True Christian faith is an adventure. I’m glad I chose to believe in our Savior.
7/10/2020
My Faith Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Regina Riddle
Reservoirs harbor the shape of water ;
I that I am a body of water;
Encased in flesh bones and matter;
Am I
I am an ocean I am a rustic siere I am the sea maritime;
My body's a lake a river stream
I'm of glacier I'm Atlantic a Pacific Ocean;
Abreast significant accumulated body of water state;
Can be artificial maybe all natural form beneath land depression I am
I'm a reservoir arm of the sea beneath me;
A dry mass full with amongst channel narrows heavy rain;
I am a brook a small stream;
I am bright receding bay I am a bill along oxbox lake in Australia;
My body is a broke yet cove I circulate around inlet delta flow;
I a reservoir I'm a water body channel distribution;
A canal artificial maybe all natural heavy rains I draw a water flow
After heavy rains estuary of one more water body that I am
That, that I am a body of water
I stand upon this planet earth surface a water body
I am the shape of water
6/12/21
FOR THE SHAPE OF WATER POETRY CONTEST
Sponsored by: craig cornish
During the industrial revolution,
Poe’s raven spoke with elocution;
“Nevermore”, now we’ve a solution,
just you wait for distribution.
We’ve invented great machines,
clicker-clankers, sure to please,
With cogs and wheels that spin with ease
and long, tired days, they will soon cease.
Wondrous gauges, invented by sages,
power-piping giant bird cages;
oh the miracles of the ages,
carefully crafted in small stages.
Just wait and see, you will adore,
hard working backs won’t break anymore,
travelling with steam, from shore to shore
is truly a great way to explore.
Guess what, you’re going to also fly,
like the birds up in the skies;
keep your glass eye, nearby
soon automobiles will be passing by.
Just don your top hat, c’mon gents;
oh, things may cost a few more cents.
just imagine the automated presents,
you can buy, let the future commence!
I am the sun burning bright
I give your planet heat and light
In the morning, when I rise
Throughout the day, across the sky
I’m made of plasma, super heated
Hydrogen and helium fused, repeated
My core is white hot, from this nuclear fusion
Mass energy stored for my distribution
I travel so fast I bob up and down
My solar wind spreads like fire around
Light travels to you, at a great speed
Making the plants grow, replenishing the trees
I’m good for your bones, but tough on your skin
So try to remember, don’t where your cream thin
Get the right factor for your special needs
As I don’t want to burn you
I’m begging you please!
My time has come, and I must go down
To shine my rays on some other town
I’ll be back tomorrow at the same time
For I am the sun, I forever shine
© Copyright K.C.Leake
30th November 2010
All Rights Reserved
Remeber that toast from yesterday morning honey? Yeah what about it. It tasted like cake what was it. I fried the leftover poundcake into french toast. Hazelnuts and coconuts and whipped cream. I was faboulous Darling where did you get the idea. The gy at Cafe Mongol told me it's what his wife does when there's lefteovers.Editing, and distribution process. Jargon: why are you saying this Honey? Oh nothing I left the sheet music on the table did you move it? Yes it's in the draw by the door. Thanks I found it. Did you know they rebanned the 12-stringed Yatga in Mongolia? No honey, I couldn't give a damn. It's a banned instrument why is one here. I guess I'm some sorta "MUSICAIL OUTLAW" I guess.The Glass Armonica will arrive at the auditrium tommorrow. We might have some troubles do to it's abilty to cause muscle spasms. Yeah Honey! Well I'm off I'll be back after my workout.." Might the threads unravel i will depend on your love for my concern"! Yeah I love you to Honey. Put a block of ice on it Cool it off that way. See you later.
She's a superposition
of a tiger and a cat
Open the box, with permission
Still won't know where she's at.
Can't decohere a wave.
Can't tell her to behave.
She’s everywhere and nowhere
It really isn't fair.
(bridge)
I tried to use logic
No clean line to pursue
Every glance became a question
Learn an answer, lose a clue.
(chorus)
She’s my quantum woman
A personality distribution
What she's thinking is insane
I'm only certain of her name.
She takes every possible pathway
Some cancel, some align
Interference in my brain waves
Complicates my mind
We’re telepathically entangled
What she knows, I feel it too
But the moment that I measure
Something can't be true.
I've tried intuition
I've tried tea leaves too
I have a sense of mission
To know who I'm married to.
The social worker said forget it
She's still your better half
Quantum theory drives men crazy
Only a genius can do the math.
I stood on the tip of the top of the cliff and looked down,
Though valleys seemed colorful, scenes deep down were grey and brown;
A few freshwater streams were springing from filmy fountains,
Lo, why these ants-colonies roam on the Rocky Mountains;
The entire landscape looked like a huge monster's mouth yawning,
Are these sounds and noises around foretelling some warning...?
This scene of the yawning of the cliff valley of nature,
Reflected, like a mirror, the rich-poor caricature;
Dining on Ayan Black Chicken, Wagyu beef, Kopi Luwak,
Iberian ham, Moose cheese, Black watermelon, Blue Duck...
Wearing clothes of velvet and silk weaved for them alone,
Adorned with gold, gems, and diamonds - the rich have their zone...!
Does even the Public Distribution System assist?
Each hungry moment of the poor has an ironic twist.
Stories of humans eating grass, lacking food, lo, pity!
Malnourished, lacking jobs, many poor beg in each city;
Fawn-colored messy clothes - only rags they can afford,
Having no house they sleep, like dogs, on footpaths of the road...!
Systems and States, like ladders, aid and abet the wealthy,
To grow, progress and develop through ways, often, stealthy;
Schemes and plans and strategies for the poorest are plenty,
Yet, in reality, do the poor get any penny?
Gulf betwixt the rich and poor, like cliff and dry land cleaves say:
Fraternal love of caring and sharing is the true way...!!!
I am now retired and doing what I have desired to do for decades.
Over a period of at least 60 years, I have in some way been a part
of America's labor force. Just a few minutes ago, I estimated that
I have had some 20 jobs, not counting pizza delivery.
A holiday called Laor Day, is just shy of 2 weeks away.
We are told that there is a labor shortest in America.
About a week ago, a business owner indicated to me that
she could not fill a position for $15PH in her restaurant.
Whether in distribution, transportation, food, or retail,
The same story appears in various forms throughout America.
I'm not an expert in anything, but simply a retired observer.
Common sense observation tells me that work and labor concepts have changed.
We could simplify the problem and blame it all on COVID 19, but a
closer look, even by a casual observer like myself, points to a much
larger and deeper dilemma. I'm sure there is a multi-headed monster
relative to the subject of work and labor, and two of those heads are
'the work ethic and the whole idea that 'there is something for nothing'.
Yes, the work ethic is rapidly disappearing and the 'not so discerning' is being sold a lie about 'the meaning of work'. Work means the same in every generation. Namely, that there is something that I want, desire, or need, and I must work to earn enough money to satisfy that need. As a 'would be president' once said, "It's just that simple".
From as far back as I can remember, I heard the line, "Price and demand go hand in hand". My father was born in 1905, and I suspect that he heard that same line all of his life. No, there are no 'free lunches' and everyone must take some form, some measure of personal responsibility for what goes on, or everyone will die equally, both owners or consumers.
082222PS
Two people cannot see the same way but they can teach
One another their ways. One gives up body and soul
To follow the flow of the historical woman until
He can close his eyes and glide through mountains effortlessly.
He gives up earth and he gives up air, he gives up being touched
But he forgets to give up desiring to be touched. Then
One day the sun is hot or the moon is full, he desires
Uncontrollably to be touched and flies smack
Into the mountain, never comes out the other side.
You live to prepare yourself to die. You leave behind
A wreck of strewn projects or a few icy pearls.
Incredibly you leave your voice behind saying
Over and over again the same words. You leave
Memories of yourself behind as pictures in the heads
Of people who wish you weren't dead or hadn't been alive.
They wash the pictorial body, shave it, comb your hair
The way they liked it best, cut a little here, add a little there,
Then easily, easily and kindly forget you.
Two hundred years later the wall crumbled and burned.
The ashes were spread logically across the plain,
A mathematical formula could describe the distribution.
The ashes were like seeds and from them
A thousand higher walls were made. It was lovely
To see those walls breathing imperceptibly
Shifting their glances so slowly as to go unnoticed
Behaving as if they were dead.
If I breathe, they breathe. If they are ash, so am I.
Having tried to separate myself and failed
I donate my body to science. The wall needs me
To breathe and hear. It gets my ears and lungs.
Trees need me to cast their night spells.
Are they asleep or are they dancing
A primitive fertility dance in the forest?
I choose trees because they can watch everything
From the distance of longevity.
To them I donate my soul.
Everything should be made of earth.
Earthen walls, earthen homes, earthen bodies, earthen sex.
Nothing should be made of air. Earth should inhale
And exhale air. Air should whip and caress earth.
Air should dry it out and crumble it. Earth.
Water should wet it and dissolve it. Earth.
What is the function of fire? Fire makes earth permanent
And then fire makes earth into air. Water
Makes earth into mud. Mud makes earth into homes.
Homes make earth into walls. Walls make the earth breathe.
Breathing makes the earth crumble. Crumbling
Makes the earth seed.
By what labyrinthine repetitions,
by what agile, precise divisions,
by what accretions, do we compile
a life's arcane hieroglyphs,
its subtle, unmathematic mysteries?
What cold calculus shall we yet invent
to construct the introspective model?
What distribution curve, what standard deviation,
shall predict the time remaining 'tll we exist
entirely in a universe of our own creation?
Shall we make of stars mere red-shifted
spectral lines on photographic plates?
Will heartache be reduced to sine waves,
mapped by styli on graduated rolls
revolving in precise concurrence
with computed average biologic rates?
Shall we expunge the record from the file,
shall we precipitate a system crash?
What key will be called escape and which restore?
What impulse may span the neural gap,
what synapsis presage what deity?
And will there be a world left to explore?
Will we stop to soliloquize?
What obeisance shall we require?
Piety is no mark of barren earth and rocks,
nor of sterile wind and raging fire.