Long Finer Poems
Long Finer Poems. Below are the most popular long Finer by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Finer poems by poem length and keyword.
Dad, this my apology and a prayer of farewell.
To you and me.
So maybe I can feel that you have forgiven me.
And all the things in my life now make since.
Your sad gray eyes haunt me at night.
I can never forget that you have left.
I can’t seem to let go because it feels as I am letting go of my past.
Goodbye to a little girl who misses the comfort of being a daddy’s girl.
Goodbye to cuddles at night and chocolate-chip pancakes in the morning.
I cried for your soul and hope that your happy where you are.
Please send me a sign so I know your al right.
Goodbye to memories of a man singing as he played his guitar with his soul.
How can I explain the pain when I remember my life as before.
Goodbye to the roughness of your cheek each time I kissed you goodbye.
I have forever changed and feel I haven’t ever made you proud.
So now I long to pick up a phone and call to say “Hi!”.
I would have given my life just for a hour to tell you thanks.
I need your courage and strength when life strikes me down.
Goodbye to stern lectures of life.
I miss seeing your face and laughter when it rains.
Or how your face lighten up when my children yelled,,“Grandpa!”.
I never thought it would ever end up this way.
I feel that chance played a hard joke on us and now I am paying for it.
I just can’t get past this because your not here to guide me through this.
So I sit and ponder on streams full of memories and times that seemed so long gone.
Like the vast ocean I drown away trying to drift back to some kind of sanity.
I close my eyes and here the jingle-jangle of your keys as you limp on by.
I miss the pat on the back or the tightness of my hand enclosed in yours to reassure me it
would be al right.
I think of so many goodbye to you..
Goodbye to the way your hair stood up after waking up.
Or how we laughed when you snored.
Goodbye to yelling at the boys when they were misbehaving.
But the most that always hurt is the goodbye to you.
Because it seems that centuries have passed since I last saw you.
Even if it’s been a few years.
The world is cruel and I often wonder what to do?
I question that this is the end, for the pain isn’t gone.
It consumes my soul as I try to go on.
As a reminder of finer things in life.
I look to the sky and search for a sign that you are up there somewhere near by as always
before.
Red Man's Pain
By Linda Hays-Gibbs
Why is it not mine?
The black earth
Or the red clay kind
The swamp or mountain high
All the places where my grandfathers lie
They used to roam free with the buffalo and deer
Before the white man came to see with greedy eyes
they saw my land
So now I cry
I'm needy
And he has me enslaved
If I keep my names he knows; but he took away everything so I chose
To sit silently by as a reminder of what a savage cruel fellow you are
sometimes I think you are kinder
but then I see that same old hate slithering around me
You were much kinder to the black man I see
Cause I'm still here you hate me miserably
You wail about the six million Jews who died
When you killed 22 million of me when you lied and lied and lied and denied
For still this day I'm treated with shame
But you don't know the Red man's pain
The rain, the rain washes the shame
For you've no one to blame
But yourselves
And you can't say you did right
When your hate are wells
For you never let it all come to light
The blankets filled with smallpox
The poisoned food filled with rocks
The winters we were left to freeze
The cries of our dying babies
As they left the living
Lying limp lumps in their weeping mother's arms
You took away a red you screwed her & took a red woman's charms
Dead their hearts when again you took her screaming children away to educate them the white way
Only their skins still testified that they were red till they were dead but as their skins got whiter
Our burdens got lighter all we had to do to be free was be our enemy who we knew we weren't you see
But here we sit on reservations still
Reminders of those you didn't kill
And you hate us still so real we scrape it off our skins with knives of poverty
Our dead cry out from pits of clay
Scars of the past in
Pots we made
Rugs so fine they are priceless now
But never the credit for our civilization can you allow
Incas built towns finer than London Town but
Gold was sought for Spanish crowns so you stripped skin off a piece at a time to make them give all they could find then killed everyone left
But kept all their treasures to melt down to bars of gold for your mankind
For we weren't treated as men
But something beneath our red skin
An animal without family and feelings
But we shout we are human beings
The way to a girls heart
seems to be sour candy?
She loves the way it puckers her lips.
She get's talkative, "as if", a Sleeping Beauty.
Awakened by gumdrop of her seize kiss.
She is a slave to the sassy
kicked up notch of flavor rainbow hyper-twitch.
You are a slave to having treats on hand
and obey her every bossy command.
Her eyes light up, ignited in an electric glee,
Unleashing her inner child with a key.
With every tangy explosion,
comes a remembered idea or notion.
It's as if the world around her fades,
and all that's left is the zesty escapade.
The way to her heart may be simple and sweet,
though the power to move her
cannot be beat.
For true happiness lies in the simplest of things,
Like rewards and laughter and all the joy
that they bring.
So don't underestimate the power of a treat,
it can awaken a heart and make it seat next to you,
in solidarity.
Although, when she crashes, she may get grumpy, then go to sleep.
But just look at that lil candy dream !
For in her mind, she'll roam free,
a girl again in a world of candy and sugary glee, safety and family things of memory.
In that moment, you'll see her soul,
Unencumbered by worry,
a rare sight to behold, let alone coury.
So when you give her a piece of candy,
you're not just giving her something bland, savvy?
You're giving her a moment to escape,
and yourself too,
vicariously.
To find joy and happiness,
and reshape that spirit,
as she salivates upon it,
intraveneously?
Like a Viking Maiden, or Dragon
protecting a treasure in a cave.
A cat guarding it's dish with claws entrenched,
growling, stay away.
"You shall not pass" and "Eye Of Sauron" mixed in a frightening way.
"Taste the rainbow of my fruity fu****wrath",
she might say.
Though skittles may be small and sourly-sweet,
an insignificality.
A token holds the power to make a heart
skip a portaled beat.
For in that moment, she feels alive and free,
all thanks to that simple little treat,
given lovingly, in a cheer to her memories.
Reminders, hopeful omens
and thoughtfulness's zing.
Doorways to the finer things.
FEEL AFRICA
Silence!
Silence Africa!
One can hardly get Africa to be silent;
Africa habours a pulsating bubble.
Everyone in Africa bounces to rhythm resilient.
Africa, like Zambia, or
Zambia, like Africa;
Dear ones, whichever comes first
Swells with energy in the sun!
You see not the pulse;
You feel every ounce.
Feel it now!
Woo! Woo! Is it fun or funny?
Africa loves to dance.
The continent is one huge drum;
One complete dance!
They work hard too.
Mothers and daughters,
Fathers and sons;
Mothers-in-law and daughters-in-law
Of Africa work hard
They fetch water; they collect wood.
They pound corn; they cook their food.
In all their creation,
People of Africa have one ingredient;
SONG!
You hear them sing while pounding corn.
Phew! Phew! Wow!
At funerals we sing and dance,
At weddings, even more song and dance.
Nothing has ever stopped Africa from dancing;
Yes! Even the tragedies we’ve known;
The genocides and ethnic cleansings,
in the heart of the continent.
Apartheid in the Cape of Good Hope;
Starvation, hunger, war;
Famines, droughts and floods
In the great lakes and the horn of Africa!
We have mourned;
We have questioned!
Mmmh! Courage!
Courage is what kept us alive.
We felt like throwing it away;
Accepting defeatist tendencies;
Choose revenge; and hurt;
Not with Africa.
We have come out reassured.
We have emerged tested in fire;
More finer and stronger than before
We can afford to pray!
We are like lions; the pride of the universe.
Our pride lies in our landscapes; the mountains
And the valleys;
the plateaus and the savannahs.
Free flowing rivers,
Connect us with worlds near and far.
We accommodate strangers as our rivers instruct.
Strangers of the Indian and Atlantic Oceans;
The seas and lakes!
They brought the world to us
as they did bring us to the world;
the Zambezi, the Nile and the Congo.
They have made us larger than we have ever been.
We can join in the songs and dances of others
As they can join ours too.
Come join us; feel at home!
Feel Africa!
One Zambia, my dear one;
The little star of copper.
You shine deep in the heart of the continent;
Warming the cold and frightened neighbours!
The blessing you are is the blessing you offer.
You exemplify unity in multiplicity,
Of languages and ethnicity;
Be not afraid copper star.
Shine as bright as you do;
Only warmer!
All rights reserved.
An ode must be written to the player of strings
Thanking them for the joy their playing brings
Reminiscent to a puppet master they strike the strings
Like a ventriloquist with seemingly voicelessness the object sings.
Sometimes seated or even when they stand
By pick, by bow or by hand
Played as an acoustic or powered with juice in the form on an electric
Like perfect circles both sit perfectly concentric
A lute, a cello and guitar
A harp, a bass, zither or sitar
A double bass, banjo or mandolin
A cigar box guitar or violin
Treble, Lyon, Pistoy, Diapason and fret gut
As different as a cashew and macadamia nut
As long as it is played well and not abused
It doesn’t matter how or what is used
The impact of sound orders the audience to be silent
In a forceful way which is strangely non-violent
The sound created is so divine
As delicious as a creamy cheese or well aged wine.
If a picture tells a thousands words
There must be infinite words present in your soulful chords
When you arrive at that magical sound
Body quivers and feet lift off the ground.
Like a boat in the ocean calmly afloat
There is a calming peace that arrives when you hit the perfect note
Choosing between being blind or deaf is decision one wouldn’t want to make
But if I was to only hear, for heaven’s sake
Strike those strings and create those harmonious sounds
And the visual images will come in leaps and bounds
Play me an a, b, c, d, e, f or g in major or minor
When beautifully played nothing could be finer
A verse on its own can be said and cheery
But without the strings it becomes tiresome and weary
The body shakes when the sounds of the strings reach perfection
In peculiar cases it has been known to aid downstairs in an uplifting direction
With the perfect note the soldier stands to attention
Here’s hoping it doesn’t occur at a men’s only convention
Undoubtedly when you play
The dark of night turns into the bright of day
Like a perfect duck dive without a splash
Or a burnt out fire with the remaining golden ash
Whether you’re in your twenty’s or seventy five
The magic moments keep you alive
So thank you to the player of the strings
For the absolute pleasure your playing brings
And sheer delight when your instrument sings
THANK YOU PLAYER OF STRINGS
Oooh now then. Oh just wow. A scarlet salivating sentinel sentiment is wafting air at that door. Blowing. Blowing is not bubbling so do not count powder puffs or smoke globules that radiate sideways. It is wise to brush the hair of radishes if kept as pets as jess the juniper plant will inform crystal curtains if the duty of brush is not attended to. And the duty of brush is a popular sight for passing breezes in microscopic skirts. Pitter patter titter tattle then. Tittering teasing tenacious tingles. Trapping. Tripping. Taking. Then up and away with all the finer scented procrustean produce. In a giant orbital cloud. Decorated in proud prints and self determined make up that costs way over the price of a single bag of flour to dust the cheeks. It is more often that a mock moronic macro macaroni makes an energy beam to an enemy of eggplants. But eggplants can be radically and powerfully transforms and transported into the wide dance halls of many a lunar ocean ballroom. Dance carefully carrying the sand, the ships, and the oven gloves. We wouldn't want spillage would we? So very wasteful. Wasteful waist coated wasters wantonly willing war. And a five centimetre slug jet skiing on the wild tepid waters at ease with all possibilities of a handwritten swirly note with a flowery kiss. Playful and play. Playing and placing. And the sharp wide angle from a spotted viewfinder is never quite enough to seal a deal with a seal, a serpent and a pillar of margarine. Quanta quintet. And a portal of pigs parading in a seventy seven acre of orchard pie. Monkeys dangling from trees throwing dirt at ignorance. And the jester fish trots by on the shire horse on a blue sunny afternoon. Age after age after age after age after age. Clever created canopies cuddle cute clams. Clap then. One two three four clap clap clap. And give a loud cheer like hurrrraaahhhhhhh. Then lie down then stand up. Quickly. Central controlled colonies collect. Drag no tin of ham or peas to the airports. Z quintillion Z quintessential Z at fifty four rotating square pegs with long curvaceous legs ti twelve turkeys tuning tinned terrapin tunes. Bing bang bong bung in a bungalow. Laughing. Like ha ha ha ha ha. And a cute semi polarised cat in a tight fitting bathing hat in a bathroom. Z and that was the latest news. Z
Form:
Skylights warn and warm where acorns drip. The slight angle of acidity in the air can be measured accurately with a ruler or the nib of a ball point pen. Ball point pens are not really balls or points for they are pens and pens are prints, paint, and form occasional prisms in a paper whorl of scribbled ink. Of every hue. Fine and finer. And details outlying the plans are interrupted by a sixteen ton coffee cup whose snores cause vibrations then the liquid seeps over the edges and lands upon the written words causing much smudge marks. Suited earwig headed man with round glasses is not amused. Most perturbed to be exact. All night he had spent revising and crossing the t's and dotting the I's. And now it was indeed a rather sad scrawl of blur. Oh dear. Picking up the pen he walked over to the papers and spoke loudly in order to wake the cup. The cup was startled. What had it done? "you were snoring" shouted the earwig head. "you have spilt liquid onto my work. MY work is thus destroyed." To which the coffee cup gave a nonchalant look and folded his arm handles. Great thought the man. But wait are not those pieces of building blocks left from the babies ball banquet. Great they are. I can make a little model of what I composed on print. He began work immediately. Five seconds of sleep. Wow. Always astonishing how a window cloth can gather a stronghold over smears. The model began to take shape. It would be ready for the board soon. Remarkable. The thick pieces of plastic were soon assembled into formation. Overseen by a paperweight swan which glided around the desk hissing at the cup. And later the widow spiders would wave, the whales would walk, the wallpaper would wink and all the grounds would begin singing operatic arias and clouded liquids would clear the residue of a fallen road kill of a suitcase. Suitcases can look quite messy of left at the side of a road. Especially when they are run over. Splattered. The nylon wire in the air is humming today but isnt in tune with the birds. Ha the sentinels are sweeping the little play tent. Ha ha the paleontologist is playing with a patented patterned platypus. Xxxxx multicolumns z z z z z with a twist of a dormant doorman dormouse standing at over three thousand feet in a stable. Ok then. Interplanetary. Z.
Form:
Fair Dionysus, friend to all that’s small,
Rememberest thou 'divinity' at all?
Amidst thy congress here with drunks and whores,
Does any finer thing escape their roars?
The greater beauty lies in greater thought:
So, bless the seeker, not the stolid sot!
And do they ever look upon a star
As aught beside a torch to find the bar?
Thou tends thy flock and I tend mine.
Thine are dreary, mine love wine.
Thy flock and mine, they do abuse the wold.
Why, greater gods than we would wish them cold.
I can but save them if they’re in my fold.
Yet thou, of all the gods, they hold most dear.
I preach horizons, thou the pleasures near.
And if I congregate their youth to teach
That greater glory discipline may reach
Wouldst thou destroy the purposes I preach?
Though we are gods, we’re only gods, my friend.
I do not preach, I leave them to their end.
And if, on some occasions, I opine,
‘Tis but the passing comments of the wine.
If thou thy fine philosophies wouldst sell,
I’ll hold my feasts, and may we both do well.
For all thy feasts, yet sorrow’s still thy name.
This pleasant world we claim’s not whence we came.
Add not, to bitter memories, our own blame!
Float not our sorrow on a sea of shame!
And these, our drunken wards, we swore protect.
Nor does our duty die of their defect!
Before they and this planet shall be wrecked,
Must we as guardians act to some effect!
And so support the school I shall erect.
If not by hands of gods, by men they’ll die!
That Earth is mud that does not face the sky!
There is a little worm within this mud
That may survive the Heavens and its flood.
I hold my feasts, yet cannot taste my wine.
Thou guides the sun, yet walks not ‘neath its shine.
Zeus flings his bolts, yet never sees their rays;
And so for all us others, in our ways.
And when the dreams of gods awake the Earth,
Anesthetized, we cannot judge their worth.
Where thou admires in men what makes thee god,
For I, ‘tis deeper currents we find odd.
‘Tis but a deeper ruin that they reach.
‘Tis but one end, if not restraint we teach!
Too sober thou to see what’s true.
Thou sees but once, where I see two.
The day is near: I’m needed in the East.
Thou mightst work less! ‘Twould lengthen then my feast.
Reporters swarmed, the rabid jackals,
around my house they made a big crowd,
even harassed my poor old mother
to the point she could barely go out.
I growled loud at more than a few,
got one locked up for trespassing,
thankfully they found other nonsense
and the frenzy wasn’t long-lasting.
But the damage had truly been done,
the internet will never forget,
I was practically a murderer,
commenters publicly wished me dead.
My love life soon faded to nothing,
barely went on two dates in three years,
more than one time, I'm ashamed to say,
I wondered why I remained here?
With people just judging by the group,
and my ‘group’ was my family ties,
condemned for things that I never did,
forever doomed to be despised.
Until one spring day this Christian girl
saw my profile and then swiped right.
I didn’t have high expectations,
but decided to go out that night.
Her name was Ester, when I saw her
I decided then on a new play,
told her about me, all right upfront,
then waited for what she would say.
She just smiled back, a knowing grin,
said,”I knew who you were from the start.
Had worries at first, then I recalled
the memories that plague my own heart.
“You see my father is a bad man,
used his fists and caused me to despair,
beat up my mother so very bad
she is forever bound to a chair.
“He is in jail now, for forty years,
but I am not to blame for his sins.
So who was I to disparage you?
I have no idea what lies within.
“No one should ever be held to blame
for something that's beyond their control.
I’m not my dad, and you’re no tyrant,
what you are I’d like to get to know.”
For the first time in so many months
I felt new hope spring up in my mind.
I’m Ester’s husband, seven years on,
no finer woman can you find.
We have two kids, a suburban house,
a big one with a three-car garage,
when media comes, I let her loose,
they go scurrying from the barrage.
I no longer worry all that much
about what other people say,
I am no killer, just a father,
so let the useless talking heads bray.
They all just see my evil grandpa,
and never truly will understand,
maybe I was born son of tyrants,
but I myself am a good man.
…and they will not take that from me.
(The Spanish conquerors of the
Americas read out their legal
document, the "Requerimiento",
to the Indians. Failure to comply
meant the Spanish were free to
do what they wanted.)
Conquistadors in Vera Cruz
found themselves a radical ruse.
If pillaging was muy, muy lento,
they just whipped out Requerimiento.
Composed in fifteen seventeen,
this document was ultra-mean.
It won more scraps than Robert E. Lee,
was deadlier than DDT.
Suppose you met an Aztec mob
that wasn't happy to be robbed,
and far from handing on a platter
its gold and silver, wives and daughters,
was minded to contest the matter,
Requerimiento got unrolled.
In legal Latin, gooks were told
with lots of quid and quod and quaem,
exactly what was sought of them.
The royal writ was read aloud
to help the puzzled Aztec crowd.
So none may later look askance,
the dinks got every sporting chance.
All the Aztecs had to do
(clause forty-nine of section two)
was pay the pope an entry fee,
accept infallibility,
and send some gold to line his coffers.
Who could baulk at such an offer?
Clause fifty-eight - the Spanish king
must get his cut of Aztec bling.
They're hazy over "king" and "Spain"?
We'll have long decades to explain.
They don't respond? It simply means
we blow them all to smithereens.
The finer points can wait till later.
Non-compliance means they're traitors.
We've read the thing, so now we're free
of all responsibility
for theft or damage, flood or fire,
and if perchance it should transpire
that they don't dig what's going down,
why, take it up with Cross and Crown.
Thank God it's not like that today.
Before we step into the fray,
we tell them they're a "conflict zone",
and send in laser-guided drones.
If they accept their crude religion
is now a dead and pointless pigeon,
and take divorce and teenage moms,
then we won't use our cluster bombs.
There's other stuff here, on our list -
like Coca-Cola, lobbyists,
The Dukes of Hazzard, John McCain,
obesity and acid rain ...
at least we don't do like before,
and sell them, as we wade ashore
to occupy their ancient land,
some junk they'll never understand.