Long Divest Poems
Long Divest Poems. Below are the most popular long Divest by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Divest poems by poem length and keyword.
Moon isn't different; same do sun.
But we all for peace get the streets shun.
Weather caress us so well.
Should earth not be healed; won't all wish hell?
The pleasure taken indoor is off beast mode,
More than necessity could brace, all calm abode.
Its insane how the crueler widens each moment.
Yes! The news becomes abhorrent.
Each day becomes long in bed;
Couldn't pray of daily bread,
All we thought of is manna from heaven.
Fell truly, though all was distributed amongst seven.
And has day passes, cocks cease to crow...
Only couples continue to plough,
Not even farmers that could heal the land.
Plants lacking sunlight shall live to wither,
In the face of Corona plants, farmers become weary to withstand
The peace streets enjoys lonely as weather slithers.
The dying seeds await their falls...
Farmers aren't scared to grace the silent night*
It seems courtesy colors their calls.
With the burn, they become more delight
Despite all the risks that abounds.
We pray for all farmers' souls gone to rest---
May courage from others be not divest,
That all retires to their compounds.
Truly, our night gowns are wet in tears...
In it we continually pray "everyone's life be repaired."
All roads become pleasing...
That we may find the cure,
Even the ones we tag impure now retreating,
To ease our fears so pure.
If not of faith, should we have forgotten our fountain?
If not by grace, none should have answered --- the origin rejected long on mountain.
Pastors flee; all retires to their comfort,
Imams skip the usual advert of God's stalwart.
Is He no longer He who has done great in the past?
Or was it our faith becoming so aghast?
O God almighty, be thou forever receive honor.
We kowtow as a hopeless goner,
Let thy favour lights our grace,
And turn around the world's case.
Though weary hearts rarely render praises!
It feels unfair,
the doctor said,
to blame all pathological -isms
on LeftBrain dominating
NorthWestern enculturation;
Too geopolitically ecological,
too globally sweeping,
where my reason looks
for biological neurology,
more inside linguistic powers
more intimate.
But, both neurology and ecology,
both natural biology and spiritual theology,
these four each and all agree,
whether secular or sacred paradigm
for discernment,
Monocultural ecosystems
divest of originally healthier
polyculturally robust wealth,
resilience,
multicultural resonance,
harmonic compassion.
So it is with LeftBrain dominant egos,
monotheistic dominated ego,
securely enslaved servants
divest of originally healthier
multicultural
robustly cooperative,
and compassionately felt,
true polypathic wealth of empowerment,
multicultural enlightenment
Trusting
liberal cultural-istic phobias
conjoin with
conservative historical-isms
to regenerate more democratically robust
global ruminations,
discernments,
political power and light dialogue,
cooperative investment.
Yes,
well,... the doctor responded,
racism
and colonialism,
and capitalism,
and sexism,
and anthropocentrism,
and ageism,
and bullyism,
and narcissism,
and even omnipotent monopolistic
closed ego-systemic monocultural monotheism
of LeftHemispheric enculturing verbal dominance
feel too aggressively unfair as well.
Cities have weekends, us unable to function,
Once vibrant and lively, now yearning to function,
The hustle and bustle, now fades to a hush,
As urban dwellers seek solace and a safe place to rest.
Streets that once roared with life, now whisper low,
Echoes of laughter and footsteps, now come and go,
Weary souls seek respite, a temporary release,
From the chaos and demands that never here cease.
Skyscrapers stand tall, reaching for the sky,
While their inhabitants pause, heave a weary sigh,
Weekend warriors retreat, seeking solace and rest,
In parks and cafes, their worries divest.
The rhythm of the city slows down its pace,
As the clock hand moves backward with such gentle grace,
We reclaim our time, reconnect with our core,
In a world of instant gratification, we yearn for not less, wanting more.
Weekends revive our spirits, our senses alive,
As we seek refuge, to rejuvenate and thrive,
Cities may have changed us, but we adapt and grow,
Finding balance amidst the chaos, a weekend's tableau.
Once upon time's center
grows two permaculturing farmers,
multicultural mediators
of Earth's healthy polypathic remainder,
And, surrounding them,
seven elders
and their cheer leading mascot
of disabling foolery
Arriving each spring
in his wheeled chair
to witness
and sometimes loudly prophecy,
to entertain with his win/win intentions,
studying compassionate economics
and empowering politics
and enlightening neurological communion
v dissonance.
These aged and playful snowbirds
form a Wisdom Circle
conjoined by all farmers
Committed to Earth's health care
in humble Vermont neighborhood places
spaces balancing Green Lives Matter races
into organically interdependent co-investments.
This Circle plans cooperative gardens,
MultiCulturally designing
and redesigning shared outdoor climate spaces
in and on now abandoned places
they purchase together
to divest of Green Commons neglect
and invest in a local cooperatively-held enterprise
With land and water and healthy air-based capital
where patient customers
become curious partners
contributing cash
but also labor,
beauty
and nutritional equity,
gracious investment
and/or benignly viral infestment.
This Green Wisdom Circle
plants fruit and nut trees,
vegetables EarthMothers insist they eat
and would like as much as fruit sweet
if they remain of right/left balancing mind.
They plant hemp,
and make baskets
and yoga mats
during dispersed winters
into the retiring diaspora
season for planning futures
of health restoring EarthJustice.
Circles of weavers
and knitters
turn lambs
into shorn sheep
into yarn
into blankets
socks
sweaters
skullcaps
winter masks
with ear **** handles.
Eventually
this Circle will reincarnate Wisdom
into Fire Circles for compline meditations
and story telling
into Singing Circles
of care medication
for young through old,
for those present living now,
and here dead
and yet to arrive
within all sacred regenerating species,
Egos circling within ecosystems,
interweaving networks
of TruthSeeker Circles
sharing win/win BeautyVisions,
Communion Farming Centers
within nonviolent communication systems
for engaging nutritional health,
Sacred ZeroCore recovery Allies,
not Lone Warriors,
within Earth's fully present
compassionate
care giving as receiving
green old as new deal Circles.
Despite your proclivity for the dramatic,
your latest love saga limps barren of marrow.
Perhaps your heart’s unfruitful seeds need a harrow,
lest your spent nuance-fields shrivel up traumatic.
You brag and attest that cupid well tends your quest,
leaving raw, arrow-clad women piled as discards.
You secretly fear lust might pulse your heart to shards,
yet with temerity, you divest, then detest.
Wimpy-lame best names your decrepit armature.
You feel sure you have sent many down pain’s vortex.
You think yourself debonair and worldly complex,
but such false cheers just you hear in dark’s aperture.
written for contest that required the italicized words be used
Four Letters Spelling Blah...
generally define mine anatomical phooey zook
corporeal status, essentially feeling like gook,
not my usual babbling brook
self, thus finds yours truly whooshing, he
could wave a magic wand (all thee
while exjaculating abra
cud dab bra, or whatever
applicable spell -
spot on - to re:),
vivify mine pathetic sluggishness,
hashtagged with nauseous
tsunami waves, and inxs,
where these nada
so lovely brittle bones,
and atrophied muscles free
quint times this day
feel robbed of lee
ping lemurs (yule
grant me hyperbolic
indulgence) spirited energy
versus experiencing hypersensitivity,
which head toot
hoe soreness analogous
(ache and burn'n ken to
contracting the Amish Flu),
where this jumpy,
manicky, persnickety, rickety,
and totally tubular ancient
tomb mess scent body
finds ordinarily endeavoring
scribe this moment tub bee,
a little horse and bug gee
(in other words), aye
experience over sizeable
(bare ten able) boots
of dizz zee
ness (as if pitched to
and fro on rough sea),
where webbed venting
helps this wordsmith
to sum men strength
tube (boo hoo)
himself from bing nsync
king mode, sans (10,000
leagues...in Dave vee
Jones locker) as a dee
pull lore hubble skidrow re
sid divest news junk kee -
do dilling with zero hap pee
go luck key
ne'er do well bummer, I...he
barely exhibits signs
of life breathe
thing inaudibly inhaling
and exhaling wei
zing all the while
with pronounced je
nais sais quois nasality
emitted racking prithee
moren slight lee
jarring with achy breaky tree
men dose skeletal pain,
thus fuhr re hiss lee,
heavily relying on wing,
and broken prayer hope fool lee
fully helping this
old codger (yepper me)
do magical wonders to re: captcha
lapsed la pas suh zoo lee
infusing this corporeal being i.e.
once again me
with spirited resurgence.
It's not true
that Original Taoist Laotse
did not say
Laughter in response to his teachings
was his outcome indicator of deepest nature-spirit-mystery
comprehension.
It's not true
that laughter could be disassociated from
agapic bliss
or erotic baptisms.
It's not true
that laughter can feel any distinction
worthy of a label difference
between erotic bodies and agapic minds,
nor did Laotse.
Where the body's erotic love and terrors lead,
the political mind goes with and as and for
and away from.
Where mind's agapic love
and disempowering fears and angers merge,
eco-normic body value-transfers,
willingness to invest and divest,
go with and as and for
and away from.
How could erotic Yang political nature
ever become separated from Yin's spiritual eco-normic agape?
without decomposing laughter's cosmic health insurance issues
and promise of deeply discounted reassurance rates
and raves that we really are talking synergistically about climate exchange,
when every suffering person
and other endangered tribes, knows
we need a revolution for climate happy health
that could peacefully and justly absorb
all our dyspeptic pathology,
rooted in LeftBrain anthro-ego's sobering hubris.
She loves me she loves me not...
Just my luck that when juiced a lad
din grammar school, aye own every
rhyme and reason tubby mad
every friggin time boyhood fingers
plucked petals off flowered daisy...
just as well, a relief and more than glad
tomb hiss out on doing the wild thang
and be'n totally tube yule lore lee baad
yea, how boring squirreled away
voraciously reading 'bout some cad
oh my dog...I too could write story
"FAKE" steamy extramarital liaison add
chocolate flavored Glynnis (Msgeegee),
whereby celibate chap goes stir crazy - egad
yours truly drives back to her pad
within sketchy part of West Philadelphia
starring as chief protagonist
none other then... yupper this dad
until caught with pants down (figuratively)
thine missus both angry at me and sad
I immediately unapologetic longed to gad
about even jetting setting off to Vlad
divest stock to escape wrath cull bile
daily spewed phlegm at me - wad
off by bajillion miles wife got poor aim
cruel colorful epithets coarse expletives had
filled beyond capacity to resist or tolerate
hence, yours truly sought to skad
had dude dull married life awkward fit
analogous, incongruous, perilous
why dead men don't wear plaid
they make no bones about
nor act self flesh deathly quiet
oblivious toward latest fad
mouldering into dust
whereby gravesites sprout weeds
mother nature's couture clad
eroded tombstone disintegrating
vanishing without trace
unremembered story...
unlike Odyssey and Illiad.
The Black Hills wept for Thee
East of the Black Hills of South Dakota,
On the Pine Ridge Reservation,
Live a proud tribe of Oglala Lakota,
Part of the Great Sioux Nation.
On saddled chargers rode half the Regiment,
of the Seventh Cavalry.
A tune they played on behalf of the GarryOwen,
was such a sight to see.
While climbing through Prickly pines, they spied,
near the summit of Porcupine Butte.
Spotted Elk with Hunkpapa Lakota tribe,
the chief of the Minneconjou.
Five miles West through the cold day they walked,
the Lakota and soldiers of the Seventh,
Where Wounded Knee creek's icy waters balked,
between hell and heaven.
The Colonel ordered all of the tribe's rifles confiscated,
while the braves danced the ghost dance.
For rumor had spread of a new religion, long awaited,
that would turn the tide of chance.
Then suddenly came the report of rifles fired,
as the women and children fled to a ravine.
From the heights the thunder of cannon, now inspired,
close quarter fighting and lead, now convened.
Who knows where Providence went,
on that cold December morning.
Both guilty and innocent, now spent,
lay dead with little warning.
Bodies of the fallen now sprawled across the snowy plains,
with faces frozen in a moment of violence.
One mass grave with all, is all that remains,
of tears and laughter forever silenced.
In the days that followed medals were pinned to chests,
who proclaimed victoriously.
Though God only knows why, ignoble and divest,
life taken in vain, ingloriously.
In the shadow of the land of Sitting Bull,
was now told the tragic story.
Passed down from Mother to Daughter were recounted,
days of lost glory.
“Let us put our minds together to see what life we can make for our children.”
-Sitting Bull
In anti-social economics
for escalating violence
and waging war,
what matters most
is who
and/or what
you actively distrust
divest enough to sustain revenge
and imprisoning
dissonant
dissociative dispassion.
In politics,
as diplomacy
and peace-building
and making love,
what matters most
is who
and/or what
you invest in trust
enough to create
and recreate compassion.
In healthy
and safe ecopolitics,
what matters most
is who
and/or what
you co-invest with trust
and do not secretly distrust
enough to recreate
therapeutic compassion
letting go of hate
before it's too late
for traumatic unknowns
to become outgrown
historic dispassions
disappointments
disarray,
health and safety
distancing dismay
Freely set aside
when it is,
as now,
past time
and sacred space
to come out
for more
and evermore
compassion's healthiest play.