Long Exact Poems
Long Exact Poems. Below are the most popular long Exact by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Exact poems by poem length and keyword.
I sit there on that wooden bench, simply sitting. I am not waiting for someone, not for anything. Sunlight peeks through the leaves of the two oak trees whose branches are mingling above my head. It is pleasant to feel its warmth. There is no reason for me to be outside other than the cigarette resting between my middle and index fingers. I walked down three flights of stairs to simply sit and smoke and be judged by the occasional passersby. I lift the cigarette to my lips and place it there gently. It sort of dangles there as I light the lighter in one hand and cup the other around the flame to protect it from a nonexistent breeze in the dry Southern heat. I suck in, trying to puff, which is hard to do without a hand to steady the cigarette, but it is lit and that is what matters. I take a deep drag, deep into my lungs, deep into my soul, and I can feel the calm wash over me. The nicotine is my oxygen; I can’t breathe without it sometimes. I blow the smoke out, admiring its delicious taste and scent. I like to hold the slowly smoldering cigarette in my right hand and then smoke out of the left side of my mouth. The way I hold it makes me look like a nineteen-forties gangster. I like that. Sitting there, on my wooden bench, I react. I don’t moan in ecstasy and I don’t close my eyes in pleasure. I don’t take it for granted and I don’t have a habit. I just enjoy my cigarette, no more and no less than it ever should have been. As it slowly converts itself into smoke and ashes I think to myself that most people probably wonder why an eighteen year old in this day and age would choose to take up smoking. At least I assume that is what the occasional passerby must be thinking when they see me sitting here on this wooden bench, for no other reason than to smoke the cigarette in my hand right now. I wonder what I would say if any one of them ever bothered to ask me. Because I want to, I would reply before standing, putting out my cigarette, and walking away. I look down and see that if I took another drag I would be smoking the filter. So I stand, put out my cigarette, and walk away. I walk away from the sunlight, from the two oak trees, and that wooden bench. I walk away with my fingers smelling like nicotine and that makes me smile because I know that I will sit at that wooden bench tomorrow to do the same exact thing. I know because that is what I did yesterday.
This is not a poem, this is a message for those who only come at my page to see flaws in my poem and in me, so they can make foul verbal comments. I'm not referring to my fellow poets here. I'm referring to my ill- minded compatriots.
Some even comment that its not me who makes my poems. But you can't really know or comprehend what it takes to be a poet and to make a poem if you're not a poet yourself. As Bob Dylan said, "don't criticize what you can't understand." It makes me smile to hear nonsense comments, like those saying that I copied works from other people when the poem is all about me or my situation, even containing personal details about me, especially those who comment that I plagiarize everything, including a short prose or a simple poem. You cannot apply your level of thinking or situation to that of the poet.
As you can see, every poem we make here are copyrighted the moment we make it, and many if not most of them are made for a specific competition under specific criteria set by the judges, so there's no way we just take poems from somewhere and place them here, especially if our intention is to place in the competition.
One thing that you should understand is that every poem is unique, because the condition under which it was written cannot be exactly duplicated in another time and another place. This means that except for competitions with open themes that may accept poems that were already written, poets write based on their feelings, emotion, state of body and mind, prevailing inspiration and other surrounding circumstances the time they write, which make them the only person who can explain the exact meaning of their poems. When one plagiarizes a work, he only copies the lyrics but not the essence of the work as when it was made by the writer, and definitely, the skill behind the making of the work cannot be plagiarized. That sets the difference between the person pretending and the real maker of the work. So there's no point in copying works from other people because there is no essence of self fulfilment in it.
Every poem here is open for everyone to see. If we'd be putting plagiarized works here everyday, we'd be slapped with countless charges. Besides, the admins of this site do not allow plagiarized works to be placed here. This is a site for lovers of poetry and not for haters.
December 23, 2023, PST, SPC
Over the 2000 year period since the death, burial, and resurrection of Jesus Christ, thousands of people have toured the 'Holy Sights' in Jerusalem and The Holy Land. One of those sights is a garden known as Gethsemane at the foot of or near the Mt. of Olives. However, the exact location of Gethsemane is not clearly known.*
The title question and theme is really not intended to be a search for the literal garden called Gethsemane, but rather the identity and whereabouts of our spiritual Gethsemene. We are not looking to locate the physical Gethsemane but rather to experience an encounter with God. The trip by Jesus and his apostles was taken rather often, but Let's imagine ourselves in the background looking in on the night that Jesus went into the Garden of Gethsemane accompanied by 11 of his 12 apostles. On that night, we would have clearly seen Gethsemane as:
A place of SANCTUARY where we seek stillness, peace, and quiet
A place of PRAYER where we meet with God and converse with Him
A place of WAITING where we obey His orders and move at His commands
A place of SLEEPING. Sleeping is not the purpose here and should be avoided
A place of TEMPTATION. "Pray, that you do not enter into temptation"
A place of SWEATING. Prayer is 'not a day in the park' but 'an engagement of warriors'. A place of AGONY and WARFARE where we engage, fight, endure, and never quit. A place of SERENITY. God gives us a 'free will' and asks us to 'surrender it freely'.
04052019PoSoupContest, Favorite Poem From Last Week (March 31-April 6, 2019) Poetry Contest, Lu Loo; Original Title, Where Is Gethsemane
*Wycliffe Bible Encyclopedia, "Gethsemane",p.675, 1975, ISBN 0-8024-9697-0 There are four[6] locations claimed to be the place where Jesus prayed on the night he was betrayed.
1. The Church of All Nations overlooking a garden with the "Rock of the Agony". 2. The location near the Tomb of the Virgin Mary to the north. 3. The Greek Orthodox location to the east. 4. The Russian Orthodox orchard, next to the Church of Maria Magdalene.
Modern scholarship acknowledges that the exact location of Gethsemane is unknown
"I love you"
These are the three ripe words that
I wanted to whisper in your ears.
So, I
Fixed a date
You came
We met
We spoke
But I couldn't propose:
Though tattooed on the tip of my tongue,
at my dismay it refrained to flow out.
Then,
I packed all my feelings and emotions in a box
with a love letter clinched to it
and laid it on your desk.
Looking at the hourglass
Counted the time.
Zealously anticipating
for your arrival
But,
Unfortunately
you were on sick leave.
Poor me
Carried the box
ran and hopped into a taxi.
Impatiently sitting,
throughout the ride
yearning to meet you..
After reaching the destination
Carelessly forgetting the box,
restlessly I jumped down
Rushed to your flat
Found your name plate beside the door
Pressed on the calling bell
Faced your maid
With a fine clarification
I stepped inside the hall
Not finding you
Confused I stood.
In a while,
Got to know
that you have been shifted
to hospital;
Not knowing the address
and the exact location
I stumbled
Place to place..
In search of you
With a wrong information.
Cash had melted;
Looking my wallet
I sat on the street
gaping at your photo,
that..I had stolen
from your locker.
Hit suddenly an idea..
Thought of calling you
But,
In a hurry had left my
mobile on my table;
Recalling your number
I went to a telephone Booth
I tried and tried and tried..
With many failed attempts
I just heard the recorded voice
which repeatedly said:
"your call is not reachable"
My eye lids were twitching
prophesying something awful is to happen.
The clouds were shadowed by darkness;
And I returned back home
with a huge sigh;
Found my pillow
Embraced ,
Cried my heart out,
Lay insomniac,
whole night
Thinking
Of YOU
I stay awake
Worrying,
What might have happened to you..!
The next day morning,
I found newspaper
Headlines said:
"Airplane crashed due to turbulence"
Strange was to know..
Your name typed too..
under the missing passenger list.
Why such a shocking news ?!
Why the hell did he board the flight
all in sudden with no clue?
Myself wriggled
On the floor..
Soul paralyzed
"Losing him"
~The Untold love~
The one who capriciously
got away from me
in a very
short span
of time.
3-7-2020
Second place in the contest.
Note:The one that got away poetry Contest.
Sponsored by Silent One.
When you told me you didn't love me
I didn't know what to do
I didn't know how to react
Because I remember what it felt like
When I thought you wanted me
I remember when you took me
To what I thought was our first date
I remember smiles and laughs and midnight texts
A bright little light hidden under blankets
As I lay awake in bed waiting for your reply
It made me feel like a child again
Staying up late and doing something I shouldn't be
Doing something that I know would only end in trouble
I remember the first time you held my hand
I remember when I thought this
This is what love really is
I remember the exact moment I fell for you
When I thought you caught me
But in reality you were just letting me fall
Deeper and deeper and deeper
With no intentions of saving me
With no intentions of telling me no
Because you were attracted to me
You told me this
You showed me this
I remember the first time we
I want to say made love but that wasn't really it
So I remember the first time we had sex
It was something beautiful
Again I thought this, this is what love feels like.
I remember meeting your family
Your mother and father smiling and telling silly stories
Your brothers asking questions
As you cooked a meal for us all
That was my favorite memory
You started to take me on more
"Dates"
I remember red robin, Polaris, late night movies and cedar point
I remember when these started disappearing
When you stopped trying to cover up lust with love
I remember tangled bed sheets
And messy hair
I remember sleepy eyes
And a soft voice saying "you're beautiful"
I remember me believing you
Thinking that you meant it
I gave you my heart
Because I realized you actually did find me beautiful
But that was all you found
My beauty blinding your judgement
Thinking my love was lust
You thinking I wanted this too
Because there doesn't need to be any
Love in attraction
You can give away your body
Without the person wanting anything else
I don't blame you anymore
It was an easy mistake to make
I mean girls give sex to get love after all
And men give love to get sex
I remember the day you told me you didn't love me
I remember the day you told me I was beautiful
I remember the day I lost my ability to love anymore
Because I gave away my heart to a man who had no intentions of giving it back
6/14/2015
In the narrow corridors of lost time,
where light seeks its shadows in dusty corners,
words sit like butterflies with heavy wings,
suffering under the weight of unspoken silences.
In the silent cells of a forgotten world,
my books traverse walls, like birds searching
for the sky in a windowless world,
trying to free thoughts trapped in chains of paper.
I wrote for those who bear invisible burdens,
for those who find solace in lines,
but literature, a mystery to the ordinary mind,
weaves into the soul like a forgotten melody,
a song even the rarest of us
cannot understand without feeling its pain.
Poetry, a labyrinth of emotions,
sheds complicated meanings,
leaving behind clear, human words,
like an honest gaze in a world of masks.
Williams called for clarity,
and I followed, seeking to open paths
for those who have forgotten how to see.
But writing is one thing, life another,
we improve the words, but our lives
remain stuck in the same patterns,
like birds repeatedly striking
the glass of painful transparency.
Perhaps, by writing better, living more beautifully,
we will make life ashamed of itself.
Maybe artists were never strong enough,
maybe those who rule the world were too strong,
and we, pale and precious,
let words flow like a river
never finding its sea.
But art, in its intimacy,
bears the same burden:
women, governments, God,
love, hate, poverty, slavery,
insomnias and roads without destination,
times and spouses, and all the rest…
A man in a cell dislikes how commas dance,
how words stray from their path
to capture the exact essence,
without knowing the intention is to relax, to humanize,
to make words like butter or avocado,
something you can grasp and taste,
like a simple and nourishing meal for the soul.
Art may wander, but it keeps the essential form,
like Dostoevsky or Bach,
who taught us to layer melodies
one over the other, creating a symphony
of hidden meanings.
I do not defend my work, but the right to create it
in a way that makes me feel alive.
A writer's boredom is the reader's boredom,
and perfection is just a myth,
an illusion keeping us away from the truth.
You, in the neighboring cell,
receive this letter as a gift,
as a whisper of hope and freedom,
for art needs only the freedom
to be itself, imperfect and real,
in a world that forgets to listen.
Little Lilly wanted to go, to the playground, to have some fun the other day.
And all the other Trolls wanted to tag along, for it looked like fun, they said.
So we went at dusk, for our first try, so no wee ones, would be anywhere near.
For you know, Trolls can play pretty hard, and I didn’t know, just what to fear.
I quickly found a bench as home base, for those who needed to have a time out.
Anyone who couldn’t play gently, or broke anything, found they’d get the rout.
First the sandbox became a deep, dark hole, from which to pop up, to scare, thereat.
Of course, dodge ball became club ball, so you can guess what happened with that.
King of the Hill was a really big thing, since they are all, the most territorial, by half.
Surprisingly, the slide was all-OK, but trouble came from underneath, as they laughed.
They wanted to exact a toll, of course, in the middle, as you passed above, quite brief.
The merry-go-round made them dizzy, knocking everyone down, in a domino motif.
The Seesaws became a great big catapult… to the other far side of the playground.
The monkey bars! Well, they aren’t monkeys, that’s for darned certain, I expound!
They tripped, fell, and smacked themselves senseless with no ones’ help, I ensure.
It could’ve been climbed much better, if not covered in so much drool, I’m sure.
Swings became broken as they pushed the others, all the way to the moon, oops!
And basketball became a slam-dunk, as unfortunately they didn’t fit in the hoops.
Hop Scotch took coordination, and you have to be able to wait your turn, too…
So, as in tag, they started bumping and fighting, until becoming a crazy piled up dado.
Races started more fights as all wanted to win, and threw everyone out of their way!
Hearing a laugh, I turned around to see Grandpa Troll, was ready to stop the moray.
He stood near the bench, as I stood looking up, amazedly, at what they had done.
Now, there were other benches everywhere, but they were piled high, on a single one.
I’ll never truly understand the brain of a Troll, for them a playground’s just not fun.
And they don’t play gently, and are bigger, than our wee folk, as I had already known.
They spent the night, putting things to right, even better than before they’d been broke.
And I finally took them home, to find OTHER things, designed especially, for OUR folk.
I used to wonder
What you sounded like
What you looked like
Why you weren’t here
For so long,
I thought my punishment from God for all the wrong I was GONNA do, was your absence.
I wondered if I were simply a mistake of two teenagers who didn’t know their head from
their a$$es.
I used to ask about you, a lot.
I was either sent outside to play or given a look that told me I shouldn’t even be asking.
So I stopped and simply accepted what I had
And I always had plenty,
Even when I was too ungrateful to realize it.
I let thoughts of you go
During what I call ‘The Dark Years’
The years when I’d hardened my heart and my mind
The years when I felt like my life was founded on rejection and pain
The years when I didn’t care about much of anything, including myself
My teens and early twenties weren’t much fun at all.
Then something happened
I became a mother
The father proved that he wasn’t ready to be a father
I entered the real world
I got a better understanding of what you and Mommy just have faced
A better understanding of the responsibility it brings
Over the years
I’ve matured
I’ve gotten smarter
I’ve grown into a woman
And my mind came back to you
I started again to wonder
What you looked like
What you sounded like
If you thought of me, like I was thinking of you
My wonderment got the best of me and I replaced it with a need to know
To know
If you were still alive
If you lived close or far
If you were a fine, upstanding person
Or some cracked out drunken loser
Not that any of it really mattered
I just needed to know
So I began my search
For answers
For closure
For my father.
Each leg of my search brought me new revelations.
You were still alive
You were married
You had other children
And finally
An exact location
It took courage I didn’t have even know I had to send that letter
It took even more to answer that first phone call
Stomach flipping
Heart pumping
With a simple “hello”
A door opened
To my past
To my future
To the unanswered parts of me
To my father
Now that I’m here
I don’t regret a moment lost
I know that time cannot be replaced
But a new, improved future can be made.
And with you, my father
I’m looking forward to it.
Grandpa the Master Magician
Grandpa was old and creaked
like a well-worn floorboard
but he always carried a smile with him
which generally won the day or the situation.
He had just spent time with his two grandchildren
which had added fun to his morning’s recipe.
They saw Grandpa as this master magician
capable of producing an egg from either nostril
..…. boiled or not.
An eggcellent start to any day!!
Later, on an icicle of an afternoon
and confronted by a presumptuous wind
which blew him around street corners;
he found himself happily chasing his youth.
Newspaper and chocolate treat acquired
he set off for the finishing line of home.
He noted that the traffic lights were changing to red!
So, although not at the proper crossing, his GPS
i.e. Grandpa’s Priority Selector
was saying…GO! GO! GO!
However so was a fast-approaching Fiat 500!
Grandpa felt validated by time and experience so..
he sailed forth but time and his knees didn’t agree.
His legs instead of speeding up, started slowing down
which was the exact opposite of the flying Fiat,
driven ruthlessly by a manic-panicked driver
who exaggerated a swerve around Grandpa
with arms orchestrating her extremely annoyed thoughts.
Grandpa tottered on oblivious to the orchestrations.
He felt composed being lean, leathery and learned
as opposed to the driver’s ill-fed, ill-bred, ill-mannered approach.
However Grandpa, the master magician, wasn’t to be thwarted
so as his feet touched pavement, his hand touched cap,
then his winning smile and a flicked wave of politeness.
The driver just continued with her orchestration of
Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony in C Minor
while mouthing, “Is your brain on holiday!”
However life was to offer Granpa a final judgement
for as the traffic lights winked from red to green
our driver was still in a boil of botheration until…
a honk of reprimand from behind grabbed her attention.
Frustrated she tried to floor the accelerator pedal
but only succeeded in stalling the engine.
The horn hoots and toots began queuing up
until the Fiat 500 burnt rubber and swivel-hipped away.
Grandpa’s face showed not a flicker of amusement
but he allowed his bones to enjoy the moment -
particularly the funny one!
Then the wind giggled up, clapped him on the back
and then kindly blew him gently home!
Who put Breonna Taylor in "Harms Way"?Was it a snitch that the police trusted? We must,and it is a "Duty" of "Justice" to leave no stone unturned!Who put Breonna Taylor in "Harms Way"? The Police on that day caused real "Harm",and that is a real true fact,and that is true and perfectly exact!That was a terrible act! We really want to know who put Breonna Taylor in "Harms Way"of "The Police"? Who would do that? We who care must leave no stone unturned!"Justice is not always exact,but "Justice does ,and can see the real facts! Who put Breonna Taylor in "Harms Way"of "The Police"?Who would put their mother,father,sister,brother,grand daddy,grand mother,girl friend,boy friend in "Harms Way"? We who care must not leave any stone unturned.The Lord God Almighty sits on the Throne,and never leaves any stone unturned for any as we all will face him on the day of judgement for the good and the evil that we have done in this life. God leaves no stone unturned! We really want to know who put Breonna Taylor in "Harms Way" of "The Police"on that terrible day for "Democracy"and The U.S.A.and for Liberty and Justice for us all? "The Police"came and they did cause ""Unjustifiable Harm"!"Justice must act to "Justify" itself or "Justice makes itself unjust"!Once all the stones have been turned then "Justice can be served to all of those who unjustly acted,and to those who put Breonna Taylor in "Harms Way"!Do they still give "The Electric Chair" in "The Great State of Kentucky"for "Unjustifiable Homocide"?Justice is always tendered with mercy in order for Justice to be Just"Motion To Indite by "The Grand Jury of "The Police and "The Boyfriend".Police=Self Defense with unjustifiable Homocide "Boyfriend=The first shot from a gun fired out of "fear". When the boyfriend fired the first shot he enabled "reckless endangerment and unjustifiable homocide .Rectless indangerment is "Being put in "Harms Way"!!!! Who really fired the first shot? Jistice can be served by finding out who fired the first shot to cause "Harms Way" to come into existance!!!Unjustifiable Homocide requires "Justice" to "ACT" ,no matter who fired the first shot so that "Justice Itself" can "Crush,Plow Over,and "Pulverize "Evil Flesh,Evil Spirits,Evil Minds,Evil Bodies,and Evil Souls.Will "The Grand Jury" "Act" to see all of "The Facts"? The "Motion is in Place"!!!!