Long Enters Poems
Long Enters Poems. Below are the most popular long Enters by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Enters poems by poem length and keyword.
I'll try to convey what I'm trying to say.
Bout the difference between heart and horny.
It is something that I in the past didn't buy.
Cause I thought that it just sounded corny.
But now I've had time to think and to dote.
On why things have to rhyme when distinctly remote.
This distance between the head and the heart.
Gets confusing when lower steps in with it's part.
While many will venture into realms of ****.
To get round the bend so to speak, round the horn.
Devout sentiment holds the reigns taught on some.
While others, well, you know, they just want to ... .
This journey that each of us takes on our own.
Can get kinda lonely if we're all alone.
And when physiology enters the ring.
It can smooth out the path when the bell starts to ring.
Just try to remember that it's part of life.
And that aspirin aren't all that can help with the strife.
Have a drink, take a pill (viagra) just sit back and relax.
Before long you will know about life's little facts.
Note: the ****'s were inserted by Poetry Soup not me.:) Go figure huh? :):):) But I did do the other little ...'s. :) I find that an interesting interjection that truly speaks to the theme of this poem. :) <3 :)
When winter enters the heart,
snowflakes gather in rosy chambers.
Like ghosts of crows-every breath throbbing.
Sluggish songs of longing and loneliness.
Over time the crows pile on,
my, my, how they live to pile on.
Like frost on the bones
bones of long-ago loves...
Suffocating songs, leaving an avalanched refrain.
While the soul is still flowing and howling.
Like an early winter stream-nobody dares to cross...
Those icy blue-eyed thinning veins.
There is a flock of warmth in every winter heart.
Buried beneath the dead songs of crow and time.
They just need a pinch of flint and pine.
To release the warmth from the glowing.
My, how they beat to release rose-budded songs...
from a million springs ago.
The impressionist's young daughter
stands poised before an open door
Occupied in thought she wears
a red apron much darker
than her hair with a pony tail,
then a revelation stirs her curiosity-
outside trees are frosted with snow.
The chilly breeze swiftly enters and makes
the long curtains behind her flutter;
it feels colder than the Iceland wind,
Hesitant, she stays inside in the warmth.
Inside the room, her mom
smudges pastels onto
drawing. The child watched.
Mom captured her daughter's
wonderment in each chalked line.
Upon completion, child and
and painting; are compared;
the child won't be
able to distinguish
impressionism from realism.
The artist sought- after and
amply admiring this work
for the right- other sights
for her chosen colors
and creative images. Her hand
gave life to seasonal
landscapes, or blank faces
which stare straight at us
with an air of mystery.
From a background gloomy or gaudy-
they make us feel a sense of suspense.
.
In this life there's water everywhere
it draws us under it's evil spell
pulling us down to it's dark chamber
having an power holding to it's cell
This liquid stuff pours all over
makes sure it enters our every space
transfixing it's hold on every corner
really need superhero on our case
There is a creator who made the world
but sin entered to mar this creation
in this full tank of iniquity's cesspool
the need is for a saviour on station
The son of God came to save
to rescue those caught down deep
drawing them up from such waters
taking them to where you don't weep
Heaven is the home of God
there everything's clean and pure
redeemed sinners will all be there
for God's promises are ever sure
(' He reached down from heaven and rescued me. He drew me out of deep waters.'
Psalm 18: 16 )
The cup must be empty, self-parched bone-dry,
The ego stilled, no thirst to drink till drunk.
For emptiness becomes a boundless sky
when space opens up, to move a slam-dunk!
Joy becomes bliss when you stop chasing tails.
When you envisage, emptiness to be
incoming inclusive, to what prevails.
A playful sage, in modus vivendi.
No need to fight for what's already yours.
Your form and shape, are worthless to command
what enters, or arrives at open doors,
slipping through fingers, splayed on honest hand.
Joy ripens fully, when chase is at bay,
Blissful contentment, lingers with the sway.
Do, at night, flowers dream of their death?
The thought, admittedly is a poetic one,
but I find that absurdity,
is often a step ahead of knowledge.
I, being less self-absorbed than the frailest weed,
never dream of death, for death dreams of me,
it crawls into bed with me,
and enters my morning coffee
as a memory of what will come.
Every part of a flower is a construct
of one dream upon another,
it is a meditation by rote,
a chant on rails of light.
Only night can slow that processional unfoldment.
When the bloom wilts, look please with care.
See the beauty of dying flowers,
how they dream themselves out of this world
with their closeted death-songs
see how they impregnate water and soil.
with that last surrendering
of their looking-glass souls.
Winner takes all
He sat on the sofa feeling disgruntled, watching TV
about a young woman who read a poem about hill climbing.
I have climbed many hills, he said to himself,
but there was always a steeper hill to conquer.
Take sport, he said, women win everything you care to mention
even football and ice-hockey the last bastion for men has been invaded
to the newspapers delight, of course, the editors are women,
as are the contributors; it isn’t fair.
His wife enters. She has been on the treadmill for an hour,
asks him if he has done the dishes? No! He says folding his arms in protest.
Do them now the cleaning lady is coming, she may think badly about us.
Triumph, at last, he thinks, typical female worries about silly things.
Again and again, the teacher enters the classroom.
Her lessons are heard by the eager but also fall on distracted minds.
The teacher reaches out to students and then loses their attention again.
Day after day the teacher rises above the noise,
carries the hopes and the potential of all children,
and each time we burden her with more paperwork.
Time and again society demands better education,
reaches from policy heights to the crowded classroom,
longs as an eternal ideal to ignite young minds.
The teacher is always moving among the desks,
to guide us today and prepare for tomorrow.
She looks with patient eyes straight into
our confusion, boredom, struggles, and dreams
but we do not dare to meet her expectations.
Only the spark of curiosity can match her dedication,
yet it flickers and fades in the face of rigid systems.
Bell after bell rings, marking time's relentless march,
as another day of possibilities slips away,
lost in a maze of standardised goals and distractions.
The teacher persists, her spirit unbroken,
while childhood's fleeting moments vanish,
sacrificed on the altar of misguided priorities.
I wonder,
Is the soul as happy when she leaves the eternal to be enclosed in the temporal, As she is when she starts her trip to return to her celestial home?
I wonder,
Whether the enlighted soul is as worried when she enters the ignorant body,
As she is when she leaves it and has to account for the success or failure of
Her mission?
I wonder,
Whether the soul is incarnated out of Free Will or is she " obliged " to go Through such an adventure called life?
Finally, I wonder,
Whether one day, we would find answers to these pertinent questions, either In the physical or in the metaphysical realm?
Till then, my dearest friends,
Let our faith lead the way up to our last breath with confidence and trust to
Our Lord's divine plan!
© Demetrios Trifiatis
14 December 2022
Perhaps the most cherished treasure our cabin in North Carolina holds…
besides the views, the birds, the sunsets, the cool crisp mountain air..
is how we know…once we open the door
all the memories waiting for us there.
Since Deborah’s mom and dad built this cabin back in 1981
It’s enjoyed over 40 years of memories…
over 40 years of family, friends and fun.
Memories of each season…summer, winter, spring and fall
Memories of our children and grandchildren echo off these walls.
Yes, these walls, if you listen, have a million stories to tell
Because the memories aren’t just ours…but of many other families as well.
And as we listen to all the memories this cabin in the woods has had
we’re reminded all these memories started with Deborah’s mom and dad.
Her father was a quiet man in his garden he found the peace he sought
Her mother was loquacious…which means she liked to talk a lot!
Both of them loved sitting on the porch listening to the birds
Both showed us time and time again how actions speak louder than words.
They loved it when we visited…
And every memory we made with them on these walls has left a trace…
So in whoever’s mind that memory surfaces…it leaves a smile on their face.
And though they’ve been a long time now that’s the beauty of a memory
how we can actually feel a person…whom we no longer can see.
And herein lies the beauty…the legacy of their cabin…
Not only how 40 year of memories are in this cabin blending
but how each person who enters adds another link
to a chain of memories that’s never-ending