Long Forgets Poems
Long Forgets Poems. Below are the most popular long Forgets by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Forgets poems by poem length and keyword.
A big hurray for the Yankees
for their stunning victory,
and a parade of confetti
to celebrate their twenty-seventh win
in the World Series on
November sixth in New York City.
Fans tossing shredded paper they saved in their offices
for that unexpected event, revel in their triumph, cheering up
their heroes whose faces glow with glory from Battery Park
to City Hall as they ride down, " The Canyon of Heroes"...
and all the streets seem a scenery of snow as Bloomberg
honors them with his poignant, thought-provoking wit!
The cheerleaders dance and the band wearing
their famous, colorful Scottish skirts,
don't mind the nippy weather...
what a joy to pay their tribute playing
their happy, memorable tune for
a great team who fought against the odds.
The crowds can't get enough
of their charisma and these rejoicing players
accept this honor with smiles...
and they know that there are
many more to come in the near future,
so let's cheer and hail our handsome champs.
A parade of confetti tossed down by fans
weeks before Thanksgiving Day,
when the jubilant, vibrant city forgets
all the worries to indulge in a carefree day,
revving up its passionate spirit and be jolly all morning...
a celebration indeed for every fan engaged in fervent hailing.
Sitting on a stone my hands brushing against the cold water
I gaze upon the night sky searching my reason in the heavenly bodies
floating up in the universe...
The secluded life which I had chosen away from all the hustle
and noise of the humans, was it a wish to attain peace?
In my heart I truly new that it was a way to escape my past.
But is any human capable of doing that?
I did forgive him, but has forgiveness ever lead to forgetting the truth?
No matter how far you run, no matter how much we admit to move on
The day we had that quarrel where I saw his real unmasked face
can never be obliterated.
The moment your whole life is declared a lie
you loose your purpose.
In the forest near the river I now live my life in complete solitude
this is how I imagined it would be.
And the present is alluring.
Quotable
Regina McIntosh
when faced with a clearing upon a path
are you more likely to walk or take a ride
is the answer more important than the question you ask
or is your journey just a result of your pride
when is it the most that you feel alive
is it the conjure of voices in a crowd
or is it that voice that triggers your drive
when you can hear your heart beating loud
does it take someone near you to realize you are breathing
is it the breath you feel inside your lungs
is it their heart that keeps yours beating
or is it their words that slip from your tongue
do you quest to live in a world where everyone agrees
a result of a reality where everyone is dreaming
does the world exist simply to find those to please
or do you choose existence where you give yourself meaning
does thinking of the universal fear keep yourself from you
the idea of being alone clouding your thoughts
as the convictions of others dictate what you do
while the mind forgets what it has been taught
does the flame of your heart flicker from others doubts
as evening beckons you to sleep
or does your heart tell what you're about
when the world causes you to weep
when you walk a road at night
is your shadow the only company you need
or does that thought instill fright
in the twilight when the dawn recedes
when thoughts web and cloud your mind
are you sure that they are your thoughts that you are hearing
or is it when you left others behind
that the light is shed on what you have been fearing
Just be you.
Because you will never be another.
No one is you-er than you
and that is truer than true.
Don’t bend yourself to fit hands that were never made to hold you.
Don’t shrink to be understood by people who only speak the language of masks.
Trying to please everyone is a hard labor with no wages.
Trying to be someone else is a prison with no key.
Just be you.
Know this:
You are worthy, even on the days you feel like nothing.
You are important, even when the room forgets your name.
You are unique God broke the mold after He made you.
You are beautiful. Not just on the outside.
Deep, in the way you care.
Deep, in the way you survive.
The God who made the stars
took time and stitched you together.
Fearfully. Wonderfully.
On purpose. With fingerprints.
You are not an accident.
You are evidence.
Yes, some will try to pull you down.
Some will judge you, test you, bother you.
Let them.
Their words cannot unmake what God has spoken over you.
Be proud of the skin you’re in.
Be proud of the story that raised you.
Be proud of the breath in your lungs right now
because the most precious gift God will ever give you
is the life you’re living in this very second.
So rise.
Laugh louder.
Love softer.
Walk in the truth that no one can be you better than you.
The world doesn’t need another copy.
The world needs you.
The real you.
The unfiltered, God-made, wonderfully made YOU.
Just be you.
Because you are already enough.
And you always were.
The dusk slips down in lilac swells,
And I am caught in dreams again—
Of girls with velvet, painted eyes,
Their lashes dipped in midnight rain.
Their lips are full, like fruit at dusk,
So ripe the moon forgets to rise,
And every breath a muted hymn
That trembles through the tender skies.
I ache to touch their tilted chins,
To feel the hush where longing grows,
The place where silence wears perfume,
And every pulse of wonder knows.
They press against the world too sweet—
Too soft for thorns, too quick to bruise.
Yet still they bloom with pointed grace,
Like lilacs pierced by morning’s shoes.
O God, the ache that beauty leaves.
Facing your reality can be your greatest fear
difficult decisions as to where you go from here
and it can take the balls of God to follow what is clear
you don’t want to go backdown slopes and disappear
You can take the easy option not meet your desires
but you should follow your heart seeing what transpires
as you’ve already lost it all and faced all of the trials
you’ve nothing left to lose so what’s the point of the denial
That fear of what’s ahead is not ahead but in your head
In one hundred years from now we will all be dead
that fear is there to conquer or you’ll live with the regrets
of being someone long ago who everyone forgets
Being stung by the limelight may have changed your perspective
It only knocked you backwards you’re not naturally selected
So don’t be stunned just do what’s right get your thoughts collected
Who cares about opinions when nobody’s perfected
You know you more than they do
and you care for you the most
you know just what you can do
dare yourself when all oppose
I could have done so much more
if I knew what I was fighting for
with this second chance I’m sure
I’ll give what I didn’t give before
Those who look from balconies
have also reached their boundaries
I’ll change what Is surrounding me
Up off the ground undoubtedly
It’s all about the balls of God
slightly bigger than Uranus
Give it all that you have got
you might be rich and famous!
And if not you had a go....
I saw her once beneath the city lights,
A siren cloaked in velvet nights.
She moved like poetry, soft and slow,
With eyes that knew the world below.
She turned me down in younger days,
I wore the silence like a maze.
Thought love had cursed me, left me bare,
While she danced freely without care.
But time—oh time, the painter sly—
Draws lines where roses used to lie.
And years passed like a whispered sin,
Until that night on 13th and Linn.
She stood alone, the crowd passed through,
Her glow now lost in morning dew.
The spark had dimmed, her aura gray,
As twilight stole the light away.
Her voice was low, her posture bent,
Her face—a canvas, beauty spent.
A queen dethroned by choices made,
The cost of glory's fleeting trade.
I felt no pride, no sweet revenge,
Just solemn awe at time's revenge.
And in her gaze, a haunted sea—
Of all the things she could not be.
We both had learned what youth forgets:
That fame is fire, and beauty debts.
And chasing ghosts will only find,
Illusions left in mirrors blind.
So here’s to all who shine too fast,
Burn bright, then fade into the past.
In her twilight, I saw the truth—
That every rose must face its root.
Betwixt two thoughts there is a gap
No illusions therein entrap
In the time-stretched pause we then see
Ego craving is a mousetrap
The world holds its breath
between north and not-north,
a compass needle trembling
like a truth afraid to choose a side.
Ice forgets which way to fall.
Migratory birds stall mid-sky,
their wings writing question marks
across a stunned horizon.
Even the oceans hesitate
tides half-remembering old promises,
currents loosening their grip
on the maps we trusted.
In this pause,
history unbuttons itself.
Wars reconsider their reasons.
Lovers reexamine the words
they flung like stones.
What if attraction is only habit?
What if repulsion learned its name from fear?
The poles soften,
not erased, but listening.
Iron filings drift, confused,
forming unfamiliar constellations.
The earth hums a lower note,
a lullaby for spinning things.
I stand barefoot on unsure ground,
feeling gravity renegotiate its terms.
Up becomes a suggestion.
Down, a rumor.
In the silence between forces,
where no illusion tightens its grip,
we glimpse the trap for what it is
desire baited with self.
Here, in the gap between thoughts,
nothing pulls.
Nothing pushes.
And for a moment,
we are free
to choose again
what deserves our devotion,
and what we finally release.
I don’t miss the city,
the metropolis I once knew was built
on the edge of a never-never land.
I miss just this: a green half-acre,
a cultivated fenced enclosure
with a round bandstand; a Victorian structure
surrounded by a bed of carnations –
prodigious red carnation.
That small public garden
exists now as a child’s memory.
I am told that the wooden rotunda,
the pleasant plot, the carnations,
the velvety carnations,
have all been expunged by the expungers.
In that charmed place, a ten-year-old girl
once talked to my ten-year-old body
as if it were much older.
It was then that I saw,
coming over a distant horizon,
my post-adolescent puberty
driving a superannuated Morris Oxford.
The car and the girl
have probably been erased
by those whose job
will always be to erase lovely things,
but I should like to go back there
before my body forgets
to treasure the inconsequential.
Now with my thread-bare mind,
I return again
to that wrought-iron,
railed patch, of green city space;
to be among the deep red carnations,
the long since bloomed
carnations.
Standing among the evergreens, hardwoods grow pale
Signaling the change—like a snakeskin shed in near perfect form,
On the forest floor, shadows and leaves, in infinite degrees of repose.
And for a season, before new sprouts, these giants stand firm. Majestically.
Naked. Silent. They wait upon the next season with the patience of a tree.
Strollers park haphazardly. New Moms huddle. Comparing notes, experiences. Challenges. A confluence of happiness, Joy, and misery—all of which love company. Swaddled infants garner garbled words, and smiles as they are passed, and silently inspected. And compared. Days turn to weeks, turn to months, turn to years. And Mom’s huddle. Babies grow into toddlers and teens, and the huddles continue, in new forms.
A teen cries as an overbearing father forgets his manners, in an effort to instruct. Profound influence and opportunity—lost in the emotion of the moment. Yet life goes on. And later, he shares his ability to be intimate with words of apology, that sooth with laughter and hugs. And on each trip, parents hold fast to faith, not fear, with prayers, trusting, hoping—as they wave good bye, and silently hope for safety.
Outside, rain beats hard against panes. Inside, a family gathers—hands held. Smiles muted. Conversations low, punctuated with hugs. She is present, but has been gone for a very long time. Old, feeble, with no memory of who we are, or why we’re here. Photos of smiles surround her, mostly for us. Gentle reminders of years now gone. Picnics, holidays, birthdays, and graduations. She is here in form, but she left long ago.
Life has purpose. It is a dance. A self-perpetuating movement. The stanzas in a poem. The chorus in a hit song. The tag line in a famous commercial—“where’s the Beef?” Life is seasons, and about making a mark. Leaving it better than we found it. Giving a legacy to the next in line. Loving large. Giving more than taking. Seeing all one can see. Having no regrets. Life is experiences tempered by the human emotions that make it all very tangible and worthwhile.
Life is Good. Life has purpose!