Long Fits Poems
Long Fits Poems. Below are the most popular long Fits by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Fits poems by poem length and keyword.
The Pugilist
The push for purse
or punishment
to take the heavy iron
what brands the foot
or binds the hand?
another step in time
agreed the lengths
to self-defence
endure the cunning mind
when thoughts repressed
the body stretched
and pain sets out to find
behind the point
that pokes at fun
and parries all away
a boxer’s punch
was worth the punt
to fight another day
within the hand
where justice fits
the scale was tipped to weigh
amidst the sand
the knuckles land
and dare they join to pray?
skipped upon condition
reasoned beyond all doubt
the crowd was here to listen
with every second count.
I ponder the phrase, ponder the 'natural'.
There are an infinite number of ways to die
either tragically or macabrely comic,
countless ways to cash-in or cash-out.
Obituaries record ‘sad endings’ from natural causes,
peaceful age related slow-go.
Lingering, suffering, grinning in a dark room
just waiting...not so natural.
The deceased have no say of course
some step on garden rakes and die from a hole in the head,
some deliberately put a hole in their heads.
Death is a one size fits all phenom.
Natural? Maybe if natural is a clown car full of bull crap.
What's unnatural, what is a great blessing
is when the once living plant God in your heart
then depart on a cosmic greyhound
leaving you to ponder the unnatural aspects
of the ever-loving natural.
Religion is about ideology; Resurrection is about The Christ.
Empty words; empty ideas; empty religions; Empty tombs.
Satan was totally clueless about the resurrection.
Unity with the Father was often mentioned by Jesus.
Reckless actions and self-assurance doomed Satan.
Roman nor Jewish law could have prevented the death of Christ.
Execution by crucifixion was the exact prediction of the prophets.
Christ rose from the grave on the third day and ascended after 40 days.
Thirty pieces of silver were the price paid to Judas for the betrayal.
If Peter denied Jesus and repented, why did Judas not also repent?
Overreach is a perfect word that fits the actions of Satan against Christ.
Never has anyone claimed to have found bones of Christ in the tomb. Why?
032324PS
Set your sights high, set your fond feel;
Use heart to know, use mind to seek;
Bear steadfast sighs, bear steady will;
Love ever shows, love blossoms meek;
Indulge each play, indulge grand thought;
Make movement meet, make grandeur speak;
Explore the way, explore the plot.
Mind creates sweet, mind nurtures peak;
Expound fine theme, expound fond trace;
Align paths here, align signs well;
Now fits grand dream, now floods this space;
Imprint deep cheer, imprint wise tell;
Notice the rays, notice the times;
Glimpse happy play, glimpse sensuous chimes.
Leon Enriquez
27 December 2014
Singapore
So, you plan on going on a mission to the moon and I hope to see you soon; so, you plan on going on mission to the moon and I will meet you at noon to discuss the plans and your hard-earned ambitions.
You have been working on this for decades with crystal ball, Lego and tennis balls, you must have had a million sketches and a thousand balls, and a giant apparatus covered up in the big hall. When will you unveil it? I hope that everything fits.
The moon triangle is swinging over the sea, the moon triangle will set you free, assemble the pieces together and take it to the upper block and give it all the energy you have got and let it float in thin air.
The moon is earth’s special satellite and it orbit around the world throughout the night with lipstick on its tip and sensor in its guts and its bright light gleaming in the sky looking for a comfortable place to lie.
It passé through the East but nothing is there to compete, it glances at the West and stares at the heavens dancing in its Sunday best and the burnt-out stars have gone to take their rest.
The north is too pompous to accommodate it and the south is filled with doubt but the milder temperature in the south is what destiny is all about. It can land on the side and destiny will abide; it can land on the tips, and you will walk away with the golden dish. Everything never goes according to plan, but your subtle faith will give you the upper hand.
The moon triangles are gliding in the sky covered in craters until it dies, dust and debris covers its core and its hold on gravity Earth’s, is rattling on the shores. It affects the human spirit and sends the fish floating in the sea with an urgent message for thee.
We are going to Mars with a drum and a base guitar we will land on the south and explore the East if there is some doubt, the north is cold, and you must think twice before you venture out. The triangle is in the moon, and I will see you soon.
I was born in a banana republic,
Between the carnivorous chains of Françafrique,
In an open-air dumpster,
Where tyranny, barbarity, and savagery speak with arrogance.
I am perfumed with all the nauseating scents of misery.
I grew up under the honeyed speeches of necktied oppressors,
Their swollen pockets vomiting development aid.
They painted the walls of despair UN blue,
While our starving bellies served as ballot boxes.
My tongue is a battlefield
It was cut, stitched back, trained to sing the masters’ symphonies.
I speak French like a trauma articulated,
With the pain of my color since the first slave trades.
My struggle, a reminder of the invasion, an inheritance of batons from the Caribbean plantations.
I saw dictators blessed by chancelleries,
Oil traded for diplomatic silence,
Mines bled dry by hands gloved in elegance,
And mass graves hidden beneath bilateral agreements.
I am what they call human resource,
Exportable, exploitable, erasable at will.
I was born where dignity is sold by the kilo,
And where the future fits in a punctured boat at dawn on the Mediterranean.
I was born where the future fits in a punctured boat at dawn on the Mediterranean.
Where a passport is a burden, not a key.
Where one sells their skin to organ merchants
To buy a pixelated mirage of Europe.
I saw my mother weep silently over deportation slips,
My father break his back in open-pit mines of the cradle of humanity,
I learned to read in the pamphlets of the defiant,
To count on my fingers the promises unkept.
School, a factory of stillborn dreams.
Healthcare, a market where cancer is sold in tainted doses.
Justice, a rumor, an insult whispered
Between two power cuts and three police blunders.
I am the child of fake independences,
Of tailor-made constitutions stitched for insatiable gluttons.
I was born without inheritance, save for
This rage accumulating like sand under the skin.
They called me delinquent, migrant, underdeveloped,
But I am the living archive of their beautified crimes.
I am the raw product of their refined markets,
The shattered mirror they flee, for fear of seeing their own barbarity within.
There is a road that shows the way
To bear all loads with easy sway.
There is a path where all things good
Bring forth enough to fill each mood.
There is a way to know the quest
In sanguine stay that works the fest.
There is a style to seek and find
The cheery smiles that free clear mind.
There is a dance to set soul free
To take a chance and simply be.
There is a route where love greets life
As blessings shout to erase strife.
There is a grace profound and true
That fits each face with joy on cue.
There is a place where space and time
Need never trace such weary chimes.
There is a feel beyond mere sense
That surely heals the awkward tense.
There is a touch that heals all stuff
And loves as much each thing enough.
There is a face that calls to each
To now re-trace true grace and reach.
There is a time timeless and true
That fits all rhymes in me and you.
There is a plan beyond mere thought
That simply can fulfill all lots.
There is a will both harsh and kind
That does reveal a sacred mind.
Leon Enriquez
12 December 2014
Singapore
Words roll off your tongue, like a wet pile of dung. Do you not know what you say, one day you will need to pay. You tell a little lie, then you make many cry. Your name is now liar, how do you like your new attire. I think it fits you well, with your new smell. You can never again be trusted, so many are now disgusted. Was it really worth it, to be a counterfeit. Truth will always win, over your deadly sin.
Date Written: 1/14/2023
2 Place
Inside my skull
there is a house
that never sleeps.
Its corridors are lined
with mirrors made of old wounds,
and every mirror
insists on showing me
a different version of myself.
In one room,
Guilt sits like a tailor,
measuring my mistakes
with a yellow tape
that stretches across decades.
In another,
Fear is a locksmith,
changing the shape of every door
just before I arrive.
Nothing fits.
Nothing opens.
Nothing stays.
Meanwhile,
Memory works in the basement,
a silent archivist
cataloguing forgotten afternoons,
preserving heartbreaks
in glass jars,
pinning dead conversations
like rare butterflies.
Sometimes
I hear them fluttering.
Psychologists call it rumination.
I call it
a graveyard teaching itself
how to sing.
The brain is strange.
It builds cathedrals
out of tiny accidents.
One careless sentence
can become a religion.
One abandonment
can become a climate.
One betrayal
can alter the migration route
of every future hope.
And still,
we continue.
What remarkable creatures we are—
walking ecosystems
of invisible weather.
Some people carry monsoons
behind their smiles.
Some carry droughts.
Some are entire oceans
pretending to be cups of tea.
For years,
I believed healing meant
demolishing this house.
Breaking every wall.
Silencing every ghost.
But grief,
that ancient architect,
whispered otherwise.
It said,
“The crack is not your enemy.
It is the window
through which tomorrow enters.”
So now,
when anxiety hangs its dark laundry
across my thoughts,
I do not fight it.
I simply open another window.
When loneliness arrives,
dragging its suitcase of echoes,
I make tea for both of us.
When sorrow plants its black garden,
I water it carefully,
for even suffering
contains seeds
that do not yet know
their own flowers.
And on certain nights,
when the moon rests
like a silver bandage
upon the forehead of the world,
I walk through the rooms
inside my skull
and discover
that I was never a broken house.
I was a lighthouse,
mistaking my own storms
for ruins.
Bedlam and mayhem in the mistress's boudoir
(Nsync with variations on a theme:
various and sundry
pseudo lurid fictitious escapades)
mostly I did merrily wet
whet madness aye ever did dream.)
The missus personal trappings
strewn helter skelter
every perilous step fraught
with danger analogous
riding as passenger
with death cab for cutie
'course thy quasi bohemian rhapsodic Queen
of denial feigns ignorance
attributes hazardous condition
linkedin with accident prone
little lord Fauntleroy's
double doppelganger, me
trumpeting pet husband,
her unrequited germane Liebchen
willing to risk life and limb
doting hand and foot
as proper husbandly duties.
He (ahem... me) exhibits drama
whimsically visiting slapstick pantomime
especially pretending to remove sneakers
pulling with all my feeble strength
off little feet of wife
half-heartedly struggling,
lamely denouncing marriage
nevertheless conveying jollity
regarding marital entrapment
er... rather unbridled wedded bliss
constituting fits and starts enduring
about two dozen years.
I reciprocated amorousness,
whether toward MaryAnne,
(his long ago coldly dismissed
sagacious enchanting first paramour,
(half a dozen years my senior),
whose astrological forecast
accurately predicted promising
acquaintanceship/relationship
potential soul mates
(two score years ago -
gone to naught),
which latter aforementioned humble lass
decried he fomented
incessant emotional grief,
he cruelly (albeit unwittingly)
doled out nothing
but lackluster lovelessness
attributed to identical zodiac signs (Capricorn)
(matter of fact shared same birth date
January 13th - six years age difference)
stubborn misconstrued perception,
whereby fancy free and footloose
selfish nasty short brute nevertheless
deemed himself undeserving of love - humph!
Addeneum: Approximately four decades
re: one quarter century after
aforementioned baptismal initiation
love stricken paroxysm
forty fifth president of United States
took (i.e. plagiarized) many pages courtesy,
cruel playbook authored
by Matthew Scott Harris,