Long Effect Poems
Long Effect Poems. Below are the most popular long Effect by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Effect poems by poem length and keyword.
1. THE STORM
COPYRIGHT-POETESS-ANJALI DENANDI,MOM
The storm - from where, it comes
Why - comes, it ? Where, it goes ?
When - it came first ?
Forever it goes and comes
Has it any good effect ? Who knows ?
Destroy ! Just destroy ! Just- ! Must !
The nature becomes calm -
All know - it is the before stage of storm !
Oh! Fear ! The nest thinks - on the tree palm !
The storm has no own form ;
Yet - it has very strong action !
Which can break the mother's emotion !
Lives become hopeless by it !
Forever It can stop the heart beat !
Branches never come back as alive !
The buds and baby-birds never come back !
But the storm returns again and again ...!
Bee-eggs never come back -
But after storm - again bees build the hive !
Though trees feel pain -
Yet - branches , buds come back again !
The new branches , buds , baby-birds , eggs -
Take place on the empty places -
The new nests become happy again !
Cont’d
But no kindness of the storm's invisible legs ,
These always break the sweet dreams !
For these bad works - the storm feels the happiness !
To the storm - who blesses ? ! -
Try - in minds - for own love placings !
Oh ! The storm ! What do you mean ? ! -
Now - find and think about blessings !
Yes ! Yes ! Yes ! - - -
Be the well wisher of the nature ! Please !
Not destroys - creations are the lives - keys !
In front good works - down your knees !
Know - follow - who is your creator ? Who is ---
2. AN AIRY AFTERNOON
COPYRIGHT-POETESS- ANJALI DENANDI,MOM
In an airy afternoon-
I float by my little boat, on river-
Smiles, on sky, the silent moon-
I gift it my loving-look, from very far!
Waves touch my feet, which are naked;
These waves are too busy-
These never come back!
Some very little children, they are naked,
They enjoy around my boat, I see and see---
And eat pop-corn from my jute's sack;
Fishes are seen sometimes on open air-
Again hide in deep water;
My white sail- is in joy of freedom!
I reach very far from my little home!
My pets, my dog and my talking parrot,
Freely walk on my happy boat;
I call,"Hey! Children! Come here!
Yes! Please! Stand on my side;"
They do, like my speech!
Then go and on a big horse, they ride!
Which stands on bank, without speech!
Listen and you can hear the wind whisper
the name of a lost ship and its skipper.
The wind’s name is Favonius, winged god
His sotto voce is but a whimper.
Gentle breeze doth tell of China Clipper
Bound back toward London by English shipper
Lost from sight ten days out of Adelaide
for all those involved a real fear gripper.
Fast Lammermuir was used in the tea trade,
Built by W. Pile’s Company twas then made
Clipper’s capacity a thousand tons
With errant compass windjammer now strayed
Off course by three degrees vessel now runs,
till Mate’s use of sextant now captain stuns
Ocean current is also a surprise
This phenomenon Captain Bell now shuns
The current wants to go counter clockwise
Loss of ship’s control is what this implies
Sails unable to give pull to the right
though steersman at wheel with strength vainly tries
Lammermuir was in a terrible fight
Not turning right was a dangerous plight
All hands on deck knew their situation
Hard battle continued both day and night
Exactly where was their lost location
Question captain sought with much vexation
Average speed of Jammer was fifteen knots
Get back on course or it’s their damnation
No welcome sight of other ships or yachts
Current’s tying captain’s stomach in knots
Break free now or else certain death will come
Possibility gives worrisome thoughts.
New day same latitude they’d started from
A three hundred mile circle left all numb
From circling current they couldn’t break free
Trying all things they refused to succumb.
Lighten ship over the side went the tea
Sails pulled harder still that wasn’t the key
Rear stern chaser was next without effect
Flying, scared lady raced over the sea
Caught fast in a maelstrom of no escape
Swirling in circles of concentric shape
Ever decreasing circumference toward hole
Ever increasing speed toward yawing gape
West wind speaks no more of piteous sight
Wraps wings to cover eyes from ship’s bad plight
Finis, finis, Lammermuir sails no more
Ending day ends in blanket of black night.
Distance To London From Adelaide is:
10110 miles / 16270.47 km / 8785.35 nautical miles
Distance To Shanghai From Adelaide is:
4706 miles / 7573.57 km / 4089.4 nautical miles
The A to Z of Karma
The Law of Karma is very deep
As we sow, so shall we reap
The bad we do will make us weep
And the good that we do, we get to keep
It's a Law of Action, a Law of Reaction
It's a Law that says, we get what we give
A Law that ensures what goes around comes around
A Law that's for everyone on this ground
The Law of Karma is born from our Dharma
Karma is a Law, A Universal Law
A Law that watches all our actions
And a Law that ensures the same reaction
If we plant tomatoes, we won't get mangoes
If we plant cactus, we won't get a rose
So also if we do good, our reward will be good
And if we do bad – what returns is just as bad
What is this Law of Cause and Effect?
A Law that ensures the balance is perfect
A Law that records everything we do
Good or bad, it must come back to you
But how does this Law work, we don't know
It belongs to the One who created this show
It controls how on Earth we come and go
Does it end at death? The answer is NO!
Our Body may die, but our Karma stands by
We CAN escape our Karma – that is a lie!
Our Mind will be reborn to live and to die
And we will continue to suffer and cry
Death is not the end; it's just a bend
Whatever we have done has to be undone
If our actions are rewarded as we live – that's great
Otherwise, the residue will decide our next fate
Is our body responsible for how we act?
No, it's our mind that's in charge, in fact
Thus, the Law of Karma is that of the Mind
It's the ego and mind that suffers we find.
It carries the good and the bad that we do
The score doesn't settle at death when we go
Life after life, the score goes on
The Karmic score decides how we are reborn
So should we suffer again and again?
When will we finally escape this pain?
We can if only we Realize the Truth
We must get to the bottom; we must get to the root
What is our purpose of life on Earth?
Are we just born to die and take birth?
Where did we come from? Where do we go?
The Law will go on till the Truth we know
Are we the Body? Are we the Mind?
Are we the Ego? The Truth we must find
The ignorance that's around us, we must rewind
We are Energy of a different kind
The Law of Karma makes this world go round
It's a Law that makes sure all's well on the ground
The Law is for all who come and go
Except for those who understand this show
I WAS ROME - MING THROUGH TIME.
WHEN I PASSED THROUGH A DOOR.
I WAS PART OF THE CLOUD ,
OBSERVING A WAR.
FREEDOM RIGHTS AND PRIVACY
WERE HANGING BY A THREAD.
LEGAL PROPAGANDA
BEING DRILLED INTO FOLKS HEADS.
PRIVACY IS A FRAGILE WORD.
ESPECIALLY WHEN I KNOW ,
EVERYTHING YOU EVER SAID ,
THOUGHT , HEARD OR TOLD.
GOTTA LOVE WHEN PEOPLE SAY,
THERE IS NOTHING I NEED TO HIDE.
THAT'S UNTILL I EXPOSE THE TRUTH
YOU SIMPLY CAN NOT DENY.
INVASION OF YOUR PRIVACY,
GOES BEYOND THE SCOPE.
MANIPULATION OF YOUR THOUGHTS
HAS THE SAME EFFECT AS DOPE.
IF YOUR SUGGESTION CREATES IDEALS
THAT BENEFIT THE CORPORATION,
YOUR SURELY GOING TO GO ALONG
WITH NO NEED FOR EXPLANATION.
INVASION OF YOUR PRIVACY,
INCLUDES THE FOODS YOU EAT.
IF BIG AGRA SAYS IT'S GOOD FOR YOU
TO JUSTIFY , YOU REPEAT.
OWNING WHAT YOU NEED TO GROW.
CORPORATIONS PATENT , AND SELL TO YOU.
GOVERNMENT , BLINDLY , GOES ALONG
AND THE POPULOUS , HAS NO CLUE.
KNOWING THINGS THAT FRIGHTEN YOU
LIKE HATRED , WARS AND CRIMES.
GOVERNMENT HAS TO PLAY ALONG
IN THE FORNICATION GAME OF MINDS.
INVASION OF YOUR PRIVACY
INCLUDES SETTING PEOPLE UP.
IF ORGANIZED CRISIS ARE EXPOSED
THE COMPROMISED COVERUP.
ANOTHER WAY OF INVADING PRIVACY
IS STEALING PEOPLE'S TIME.
THE COMPLICIT AND COMPROMISED
CREATE CHAOS OF YOUR MIND.
MEANING THIS AND SAYING THAT
CLAIMING WRONG IS RIGHT.
WHEN CONSTANTLY BOMBARDED
DEPLETES YOUR TIME TO FIGHT.
WHEN WEAK. , TIRED AND GIVING IN.
METAPHORICALLY , THE SHIP IS SINKING.
YOU WILL RELINQUISH "ALL" PRIVACY
DRINK WHAT THE REST ARE DRINKING
ONCE DEPENDANT ON CORPORATION
THERE IS NOTHING YOU CAN HIDE.
CORPORATIONS NO LONGER NEED YOU,
YOU BECOME RAWHIDE.
IT STARTS OUT WITH YOUR PRIVACY
WITHOUT NOTICE , YOU LOSE YOUR RIGHTS
THAT'LL BE THE END , OF SOVEREIGNTY
AS HUMANITY, GIVES UP ON THE FIGHT.
ARTIFICIAL INTELLIGENCE IMPLANTS
FOR SURE , THERE'S NO WAY OUT.
DOESN'T MATTER WHAT YOU SAY
THEY'LL OWN YOU , WITHOUT A DOUBT.
YOU'RE PRESENTLY IN A LIFETIME ,
GUIDED BY SOCIOPATHS.
IF YOU DARE , DISAGREE WITH THEM
YOUR DISCARDED JUST LIKE TRASH.
ARTIFICIAL INTELLIGENCE , DELETES
AND SENSORS , VITAL INFORMATION.
IN OTHER WORDS , THE PSYCHOPATHS
CONTROL YOUR DESTINATION.
Michael E. Harris
01192023
I am but an ordinary woman resting in my easy chair after a long day of work.
However I am about to transform myself into a great explorer.
I travel through the many realms of space and time all from the safety of home.
My journeys cost me nothing but time spent in their enjoyment.
I close my eyes tightly to contemplate whom I shall visit this night.
Shall I sup with King Arthur and the knights of the table round as bards entertain,
Or feast on nectar and ambrosia with Zeus and Hera on Mount Olympus?
I could feel the angst of Cyrano’s unconfessed love for Lady Roxanne,
Or that of souls from Poe’s pen with his mocking raven quote it “nevermore.”
Choose to learn the life cycle of the bee, lion, or bear through a scientific work,
Or fly through space on a star ship with the creator of a masterpiece of science fiction.
I can recapture the whimsy of childhood while chasing cars with Clifford the big red dog,
Or take a brisk run with Pooh and Tigger through the hundred-acre wood.
I may celebrate glorious new beginnings with Mother Mary and Baby Jesus,
This holy birth portrayed forever within our sacred Bible.
I might also choose to contemplate death along with Caesar during his last moments.
Only the playwright Shakespeare could portray these with such tragic effect.
I may discover the secrets of gourmet recipes from master chefs,
Or learn how to sew a patchwork quilt of old fashion.
Vicariously visit the culture and religion of various peoples,
Or study the history of my fellow Americans.
Maybe I should check the financial reports to see how the stock market is doing,
Or it might be pertinent to examine the latest advances in law.
Let me discover the origins of favorite words in a volume of etymology,
Or distinguish quartz from quartzite whilst leafing through a book of gemology.
Books, yes volumes hold the secret keys to my voyage,
It is they that conduct me each night worldwide exploring.
I need not to plan ahead pack luggage or gather tickets,
Fore when I wish to escape this world a book is always close at hand.
I may travel safe and undisturbed through numerous times and places,
And leap out of one adventure headlong into the next without moving a limb.
When I am weary from the road or have chased enough beasts as warier fine,
I simply mark my place, fold the pages together gently, and retire to sweet sleep.
A Rift in Time
By Elton Camp
Henry Higgins, B.A., M.A. Ph.D., graduate in physics from the Massachusetts Institution of Technology, is missing. Born August 8, 1950, he was thought of as a genius by some, but as a crackpot by others. Revolutionary theories on the possibility of time travel that he presented at scientific gatherings received a mixture of applause and ridicule. None of his articles have seen publication in peer-reviewed journals.
How his machine works is of a technical nature, thus certain to be of insignificant interest to the readers of this account. Suffice it to say that it works very well. Henry had seen his device disappear and reappear multiple times after being programmed to slide both forward and backward in time.
Finally came the day to test it in person. Surprisingly athletic for a man of his years, Henry strapped himself into place before the control panel, adjusted his eyeglasses and pulled a protective helmet over his thick, gray hair. He set the chronometer to early August of 2040 to determine if he was still living at that advanced age and what honors had been accorded him by the scientific community.
With a barely-discernable jerk, the time machine began its slide into the future, the red cancel button prominently alongside the digital display of the date. The world outside the device became a blur and Henry heard only a low hum from the engine. All seemed to be well as the years rolled by on the chronometer. At first, that is.
Henry noted with surprise the muscle atrophy and skin changes associated with extreme age. A slight looseness of his helmet caused him to discover that he was now as bald as his father had been in his late eighties. Henry’s eyeglasses no longer allowed him to read the control panel clearly. The truth hit him--he was aging along with the passing years. The inanimate time machine had shown no such effect, but it was different with a biological organism. He desperately punched the cancel button, realizing that, if his future self was not still living, his death was impending.
To his relief, the chronometer slowed and stopped. Without input from Henry, the time device began to move backward in time, slowly at first, and then at a brisk clip. By the time the read-out showed Henry’s present, his physical deterioration had been reversed and all was as before.
My phone died this week.
I’ve ordered a new one—
I’d like to say I’ve enjoyed the silence,
just lo-fi music playing, slipping into a flow state.
But I’d be lying.
Only a handful of friends to tell.
Enough to register
the tragedy of going off-grid
like it’s 1503—
where I imagine
I’d be decent
at throwing logs on a fire,
but useless at hunting.
No survival instinct.
I get sentimental when it gets quiet.
It's surprising
that this is how I finally understand
what Black Mirror really meant.
Slick glass, dark and dead,
reflecting back:
smeared rectangle
of myself
slack-jawed, staring.
Neither of us blinking—
only one of us
alive,
allegedly.
I’d had that phone
since before the pandemic.
It held more than my cache:
its shape, my memory—
my hand
aches
for its frictionless drag,
but I had to get a replacement.
I picked the same model,
not out of loyalty,
just me hoping
it would backfill the imprint
of its ancestor.
I'm not too proud
to admit
I miss the constancy,
companionship,
the fugue-state afternoons
given over to scrolling.
I’ve been more alone than I expected.
And lonelier still,
realizing
how much of me
was never here to begin with.
It's a disorienting false north,
this gatherlessness; I'm still sitting with it.
By the way, it's untrue news
that tech is soulless—
it's been up
at least one mortal ever since
my husband powered it on for me,
a gift,
ersatz affection
in response to a lack of discretion
he'd only recently admitted.
And get this: apparently, I cry now.
Despite half a life of spent
convincing myself
I’d therapized it out—
that tears were just poorly timed
girlish things I'd evicted
due to their silencing effect.
I was wrong,
they were only hiding in the attic—
turns out all this noise was just insulation
from every soft place.
Evenings with him feel longer.
He’s older, closer
to death than me. He’d hate that I said it.
I won’t tell him. We’ve learned
to steer clear of each other’s art.
No rules about who we kill
on the page.
Best to leave it that way.
I wonder if we'll go back to old habits.
I think I already know answer.
This screenless space hasn’t been clarifying—
just absence,
with no metaphor to cushion it.
At the risk of repeating myself,
I do know this:
I miss her, Distraction—
I remember how I would cry myself to sleep
Night after night then I would wake the next morning
Dreading the moment I stepped into the
School's doors where you would all be waiting.
You'd smile and pretend like we were the best of friends
Till my parents left the car park then the words
Would fall from your mouths slashing and cutting,Burning into
my brain. You would all stand around me mocking me,jeering.
When you saw your words didn't effect me,you moved on to
The physical. I remember how your hands would wrap
around my throat,preventing me from breathing. You'd laugh at
My struggle to breathe. I remember how they would hold
Me down so I couldn't run while you would punch me repeatedly till I
Could no longer stand up right,till I lay in a pool of my own blood. How people
would just watch and laugh but never stop and intervene. The pain and
humiliation I felt only enhanced your glee.
I've grown stronger, now nobody would dare mock me. Sometimes
people aren't strong enough to survive this so they leave but some
people come out stronger...like me. I remember how you'd get so angry
Because I never cried,I never screamed I just took it silently.
When I look back I see how small you were and I try to feel anger at what you
did to me but I feel nothing. I try to hate you but I can't.
Maybe it's because I'm now successful and you have nothing to look forward to
but another gruelling day of pain and little food.
I feel no hate only sympathy towards the person I once feared but no longer do.
Now I look back and smile at how I could've stopped you and I know you
realised this too, now I know why you only ever hurt me when your friends were
around to hold me down. I admit you've ruined me in many ways. I can no
longer trust people,love people,no longer look people in the eye,but I look back
and smile because if you had never hurt me like you did I wouldn't be the
person I am today, I wouldn't be as strong and independent,as successful and
happy as I am today, I would never feel such a strong sense of justice like I do
now so I would like to thank you for making me a better person.
Thank you.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
I spend time with a friend
well, a pseudo-friend
an acquaintance of sorts
no, I guess he'd be a friend,
****, who knows
one of those types you never really share your heart
that authentic trembling you
I guess
he's more like a radio station
on a long lonely road trip in the night
or late night cable when the kids have left
a thousand channels
bright flickering nothing
we meet after hours in the deepest of dives
I just sit, listen,
curl myself into that hunching shape
looking like someone piled old laundry on a stool
and act as chaperone
an escort of sorts, you know, like those fresh faced kids in college
earning some bucks walking lifesize cartoons around for pictures
and with a bar top slap, I know he's got one, he's revved up
a steampunk machine running on old rye and spasms
"know this! I have faith in our sacred family values, our brave military and our cellular plans!"
(it's hard to not chuckle a bit, enjoy the aerating effect a good laugh does to spirits and your pallet, just avoid aspirating too much or you bellow and cough like an amateur drinker, good god don't show weakness in a place like this or the crows will circle and I swear the shadows lengthen under the bar)
most times, as I sit next to him, removed from his sphere
detached observer that I always find myself
I notice he talks to that small sliver of himself seen between the dirty glasses
piled up against the old mirror with faded silvering
and the blackened spots frame his face
like an old time picture
representing a vast loneliness of a nation
this goddamn solitude we find in crowded rooms
"My opponent here is working with Chilean miners, violent video game makers and angry chefs, goddammit"
once curse words are added, we'll be on our way soon
the barkeep's tips weren't that big
and the mutterings from the corners are beginning
as his outbursts begin to chisel into the hazy bubbles of regulars
I pull him out into the night
away from cheap wine and leaded glass
red faced, blustering,
cool air confusing him for a moment
and, lightswitched, he walks with a purpose,
back to the maindrag and streetlights,
calling it a night with a wave and one last holler:
"I want an America where Somali pirates and Rupert Murdoch yes-men cannot corrupt our precious environment!"
I just stand and wave back.
Old Zack Adams sits a slouch’n so sloppy drunk on a bar-room stool,
Wear’n his cheap-threaded cowboy suit and a stained satin shirt.
All the while a peek’n and a leer’n at women like an old poor fool,
But think’n man tonight—Oh Boy, I’m really gonna hit the pay dirt!
Old Zack in this small Texas town is reputed to be quite a lecherous hoot,
As he raucously and recklessly rolls old worn quarters into the slot
Of the old bar-room Wurlitzer while snicker’n and smil’n to boot,
And plays his tearful and twangy jerk-water music while smil’n a lot!
Old Zack is this town’s “Jukebox Gigolo,” a real lover boy—Oh Boy!
He wears his patched cowboy hat and his scuffed silver-studded boots,
Meant to impress young girls and bar-fly floozies who have the Joy!
Of being with this bewildering, withered, weathered man and his boots.
Old Zack has a fad’n recollection of events and a silver mane of hair,
With a cigarette in his hand and cuss’n like a nasty little stable boy,
He downs whiskey shots and tequila seconds like no tomorrow on a dare,
While chas’n whiskey glass ice cubes and the tequila worm—being so coy.
Old Zack while a swigg’n down his whiskey mucho fast and direct,
He has now that blind courage to fight or to love—whichever is first,
While the old Wurlitzer resonates a rueful hick song for a teary effect,
But Old Zack can’t move now for this song has him sobb’n the very worst.
Old Zack with his nicotine-whiskey breath and his pockmarked face,
Personifies the image of an ideal loser of a man—with problems all,
While fight’n, scream’n, and punch’n others to gain some precious space,
He’s a showcas’n his reservoir of manly prowess—with problems all.
Old Zack was young once and not so wild, withered, weathered like now,
And he thought he was a really smart dude—all right moves and all,
But was really a man act’n far above his funny fake smart brow,
And now a cry’n on his bar-room stool and act’n like a fool before a fall.
Old Zack Adams—alcoholic as he truly is and sly and slick as a Texas fox,
Is not really so good with his women friends nowadays—for his real talent
Is in roll’n those old worn quarters pieces one-by-one into the old Jukebox,
Sing’n—“I’m the Jukebox Gigolo”—“a Drunk and a Delight,” that’s real talent!
Gary Bateman, Copyright © All Rights Reserved (October 7, 2014)
(Rhymed Quatrain)