Long Forgetful Poems
Long Forgetful Poems. Below are the most popular long Forgetful by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Forgetful poems by poem length and keyword.
Learn to pray to the God full of mercy
He’s the one that sees all with compassion
seeking to give all for everything our good
for this God does a real good mansion
Look with your eyes on all people
seeing only Jesus the everlasting light
let God’s eyes show you all the good
in others that can overcome their night
Remember the Lord’s prayer to forgive
all those that appear to show their worst
for having been forgiven of all our sin
such graceful mercy makes one’s heart burst
Have a mind that’s very forgetful
to be not able to remember all the bad
put all that stuff very far behind
hold on to the good uplift the sad
Keep believing on the eternal God
having faith as a small mustard seed
that your mountains will be removed
so God will reward such indeed
The first time I had been blue,
I remember,
Sitting at the bar,
With the attention of that one person behind it,
Only..
And nobody else.
I wrote my first song.
Gulping down chilled poison,
And lurking the shallow crowd
The smell of beer,
The smoke,
The intoxication beyond reasoning,
Hovering in the humid air like an unscrupulous dream,
I found my poison dripping from my fingers,
Painting the napkin,
Which he gave me with a sweet smile..
The checkered shirt that I wore,
Displayed its dismay, like a lost set of wires
Didn't know where to connect..
My jeans, flaunted skin..and a scar
Through the notched denim,
By a jut, of one fine forgetful furniture..
And, i wanted to get rid of everything,
The blues, the rues,
The parasitic clothes, in the heat of the night
The shoes cried 'RUN! RUN!'
Were my favourites,
So not them...sweethearts!
The clock danced its way with the crowd,
Soon the tables and the chairs
Rebelled for scattering them like lemon seeds
On the busy kitchen floor,
And it was my poison, being poured
Into the napkin,
And into the glass
By that one person behind the bar,
Whose attention I had,
Only...
For one last time,
As after that,
With that same sweet smile,
He handed me the bill..!
Gunga Din can have his gin…
Old King Tut his beer, but
I’ll rely on the sparkling wine.
Just a bit before dinner, imbibe…
just enough to create a sigh…
a cabernet sip for the heart…
My purple-tinted glass is high;
I fill it nowhere near the brim -
halfway between a half
and quarter to five.
I can do without a glass,
but what kind of class
to drink straight from the bottle…
Dear Dad, on my wedding day,
did just that thing…do you think
he brought his game, when
he guzzled half the bottle
as the champagne flowed
like the Trevi Fountain. My spouse
stole my papa’s heart…not good enough
for his daughter…too soon.
So we drink to forget
or we forget to drink.
We’ve all become forgetful,
forgiving the unforgivable,
having relationships with frenemies.
Do I sound like I’ve been drinking.
I’m not…just poetically speaking
I’m drunk with words, with laughter,
with memories, with excitement,
with friends (that last, even through
this supercalifragilisticexpialidocious* sup)
5/25/2025
*name of song in original Mary Poppins movie
When Love forgets, for once, to pass me by,
And bats her lashes, smiles, and slows her walk,
Then, I’m a baby chick, that wants to fly...
Oft, Fortune, not forgetful, makes me ply
My patience, when I’d rather jump in... talk...
When Love forgets, for once, to pass me by...
I weigh desire against the value of pi,
This calculus: I run against the flock!
Then, I’m a baby chick, that wants to fly...
I have no manly grace to guide the eye,
I’m graceful as a teenager! I gawk!
When Love forgets, for once, to pass me by!
I cannot tell, at all, when Love is nigh!
Unless She spells it out for me, in chalk!
Then, I’m a baby chick, that wants to fly...
Then, I meet you, Sun smile against the sky,
And all within that Bumbles, fails to balk!
When Love forgets, for once, to pass me by,
Then, I’m a baby chick, that wants to fly.
Date Written: 1/17/2019
To the passage of time, you waste
to an old idea that lives in you
to that vivid imagination that still burns
to your dream that lives on
there will come a day,
when eventually it runs out-
to the passage of time you waste
rejoice in moment of levity that lives within
to your heart that feels heavy
to your soul that is crushed in burden of your own weight
walk close and steadily to that litted room
every step, each one, you take
your crushed soul, in moment of truth
you; will nearly break
-
to an old idea that lives in me
to my vivid imagination that still burns
to that forgetful dream that lives on,
the passage of time I wasted
this pains that drains my heart
this hopeless soul that is crushed
I rejoice in moment of levity that completes me.
to live in burden of failure
exhausted; I still dream
I bath in my old ideas, i may never reach
I shower in fabricated imagination
my soul ashamed, will surely endure.
-
Let's create something new
Let's abandon all of our fantasies
Let's work to achieve our dreams
Let's walk, on a new path
each and every step we take
this time, we learn
through the the passage of time,
we will learn to live again
this crushed soul will burn again
There are some sad things that happen,
and here is a story of love broken . . .
Maureen lived in a small quaint house,
with her dog, hens and maybe a mouse;
but she was getting old and forgetful,
and Molly her dog was also old and feeble.
Maureen's health declined and she became needful,
now, neighbors take old Molly for a walk,
the hens were sold- hope not for the cookpot;
in a care home Maureen just looks at the clock.
This tale of sadness doesn't end right there,
with old Maureen alone, no one to care;
a carer moved in there, to cook and clean:
Maureen is now the happiest I've seen!
The carer Pascale is so very kind;
she doesn't mind Maureen has lost her mind;
they go on walks in parks, the dog behind,
or tea in cafes, rides by bus or train . . .
She loves to stay inside her own domain;
an end for sure to all Maureen's old pain!
As for the hens- they all have found a forever home.
___________________________
February 11, 2018
Collaboration between Broken Wings and Jack Horne
Poetry/Rhyme/True Story/Maureen, Molly and Hens
Copyright Protected, ID 18-9936-52-01
All Rights Reserved. Collaboration
I'm learning to be a man from my brother
Since I'm flying under his wing
As he shows me how to flap my own
Before I can go solo from here on
I see how forgetful he gets at times
It's cause he's head is in his pockets
Thinking on he's next move to make sure we have
Even when the surface he hits is hard he still finds a way
I see how he glows when he gets the chance,
to see he's family is getting by well
He dozes of early this nights
Too tired after hitting the road all day
I see how his steps are quick but subtle
Cause he doesn't want to wake anybody around
He goes and comes as he went
Talking less that all we do is just see him
I'm learning to be a man from my brother
And I hope that when I'll be a man
I'll be a man that my brother can be proud of
Cause he doesn't get to be proud of himself,
so I'll reflect that to him so that he sees himself
The PO£T
A broken heart sinking beneath the surface.
It is rotten luck to have known of love;
Where once we were eternally happy, sad but a second in youth.
This love thing they speak of takes a hold of us
And we are forever at its beck and call;
The sorrow of learning the truth.
Once we ran all day and played in the sun;
Swam in seas alongside beaches, smiling and getting a tan.
Where once we ran after a ball, when we were still young;
Our childhood dissolved
And we were forced to become a woman or a man.
Before our hearts were captured and sure enough, broken;
We were free of lust and love and worries about a rapport.
We were solely focused on our own amusement; such joy! Since stolen,
By love and its minions, its poetic verses and it lack of forborne.
Through shallow waters we search, forever lost in the mud;
Our hands dart beneath the surface, blinded by beauty.
We grope at a lover we should never aspire to love;
We only find through trial and error, our true equality.
And even when we have found love, truly, madly, deeply;
We are forever doubtful, not intentionally forgetful;
Love becomes our ruination.
We are crazy in love; we seep into each other’s lives so skillfully,
That we are unaware that this disease we drink is called a love potion.
Lover’s morph into something else,
If there is falsehood beneath the waves.
They are eaten from inside and become bitter and twisted.
Such joy in the beginning;
Our fondness soon becomes our grave.
This love thing, disguised as beauty;
Just leaves us,
To become listless.
(C)2016 Aa Harvey. All Rights Reserved.
By the time I'm somebody
I'll be picking out a stone
I'm headed in a dash
To forgetful(or alone)
I’ll be better parted
If I took the time to see
The chisel and the hammer
Wanted a picture(not of me)
I'll wait with no excuses
If the taker wants a loan
It's under and I'm over
(With no data on my phone)
I'll see the ordinary
Yet the claim is simply put
The plot, the page and rescues
Were a screenplay(with a But?)
I will ease into an easy
Yet a lay me down’s to sleep
So ask no quest to somewhere
(You'll find my plot too deep)
December did not call him out
to the creek,
it was a prod from a walking god
whose legs had grown stiff.
The softening stream is smoky,
a recuperating sun is unlocking the frozen,
slivers and floes jostle to be one
with the melt and miasma.
He watched water rats playing tag
with each other’s tails.
He had argued with her
and was kicking around a grievance.
Peevishly he lobed small stones
at the rats;
they dived into the banks for cover
but soon come out again
to enjoy the spate of the stream.
Water rats seem immune to
prolonged caution and fear,
maybe they are as forgetful as goldfish
or simply habituated to risk.
It was then that he knew
that he had to go home and apologize,
mend what was broken, hold her close
until she melted and flowed again.