Long From Poems
Long From Poems. Below are the most popular long From by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long From poems by poem length and keyword.
So many people help me. They are concerned, they rush to see if I am okay.
They listen when I want to tell my truth. They do not call me out
When I get outrageous. They are my up-lifters, and they want
Me to succeed maybe even more than I want to succeed.
I have spent years gleaning them and preening them.
I have developed my own tribe and it is amazing.
My Facebook “friends” are the ones I virtually see every day or two.
They hear my voice, and I hear their voices. But are they my real friends?
They are more like “virtual friends” – I know they are there, and
We are aware of each other. Some are from childhood. Some from thirty
Years of inactivity, and no communication at all to daily communication at first.
Others I have collected from word games I played only a little while,
but we had fun.
But my real tribe, the ones who have my back. I know who you are.
I have so many REAL friends, real true blue “die for each other” kind of friends.
At least six, maybe eight, which I think is more than adequate,
as I have not had to use them as truck fodder yet, to save my life.
Some of my newest, keenest, most aware-of-me favorite friends
and soul-family-friends
Are fairly new.
They magnanimously pretended that I wrote poetry until I actually did.
I did not know I even WROTE poetry until a year ago when I decided to try.
You are my tribe, and you know who you are and I am pleased with you.
Thank you for being here for me. It means volumes.
Over eighty years ago, my father
made a miniature Model T Ford
from scratch to scale out of
paper, paint, cardboard, wire and glue.
He could cradle it in his palm
the size of a small teapot,
half globe used like a cake cover,
glossy black chassis, red trim,
a circular base of green felt.
Posing like a shiny eight ball
waiting to be struck by
our pent up kid hands.
We pined to push it across
the basement linoleum floor.
But never could.
Keeping us back was the glassy globe
and Grandmother Lil's wary warning,
"Children, look but don't touch".
Same stern voice our mother heard
many times growing up,
we knew she meant business.
So when arriving at Grandmother's,
we'd march to its stately shelf
in parochial school procession
fascinated with this classic in glass.
As little more than toddlers,
we knew nothing of the "Tin Lizzie" saga.
So impressionable was I in the 1950s,
could there be a secret world in there?
I wanted to go in. But never could.
Didn't lift that glass till my mid-forties.
By then, the model was too fragile to touch.
Like an old, dried leaf ready to crumble.
It reminded me of those snowflake globes,
if turned upside down, snow scatters.
The wonderment of my dad's deft hands,
his piercing blue eyes focused on crafting -
bending, cutting, painting, gluing each part.
Thinking of what he was thinking then.
Concentrating more, I feel his essence -
his scent, his voice, his humor, his breath.
Today, when I recall the car in the globe,
I see a tiny cosmos, a bubble much like
the one I create to protect my privilege now.
Grasping for solace in other worlds is
a childish ambition only achieved in delusion.
Through the globe, my father still speaks.
Sometimes my eyes get glassy to think of it.
2/27/20 written
A Tender Moment From Childhood
Sponsor: Malaika Ray Choudhury
Wicked Love
And Clean Desire
Cruel and dirty desires, blackened love, broken life
You aren’t my life, I am a skilled guy, unclean our love
Please, shut me, up and call your gangsters, clear my life
Clean up my life, it’s death, a pool of blood of your life
You swim and swim in my life, you are an ill will of life
But not from the Life. And not from mine. You are a parasite mind
Our love is hellish, but it could have been angelic bright
Our wicked life is yours, I want another one, and that’s fine
Will be pure, if she is poor, then it is not a problem; clean desire
Wicked love, wicked love is not a future, not the Life
You created this horrible vortex in my life. Get it, enjoy your life
I chose Clean Desire, pure life, she will clean off your dust from my life
They're known by many names - taters, potatos, pertaters and spuds.
As a Hoosier lad I toiled hoein' taters and flickin' bugs off their buds!
So I was very well qualified when I entered the service, by and large,
When 'volunteered' for kitchen police to peel taters by a mean old sarge!
There's even a National Potato Day observed with tumultuous celebration,
With a Potato Queen, parades and other such nonsense across the nation!
Politicos pontificate about the virtues of taters 'specially in Idaho and Maine,
Where they transport them to our kitchen tables by truck, plane and train.
There was a national debate on how to spell potato with or sans an 'e'!
Dan Quayle didn't know how but I would've spelled it 'tater' if it were up to me!
Some taters have a patriotic bent since some are called reds, whites and blues!
Other varieties are yellows, fingers and russets from which you may choose.
To fill a feller's paunch the lowly tater can be mashed, diced or sliced.
You can make a tater salad or tater soup though you'll want them lightly spiced!
Taters roasted on the grille or scalloped tater casseroles will go with anything.
Barbeque tater chips or French fried taters with hamburgers are just the thing!
Mom would've been horrified to find lumps in her taters when company came!
In cafes today lumps are cela va sans dire s'il vous plait and is their claim to fame!
No matter how you slice 'em, taters are savored by commoner and king as well!
And you can argue 'bout the spellin' of 'potato' but 'tater' you can easily spell!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved
She was thrilled to be in the nightgown commercial
When the rain fell, the photographer said let’s not give up
She had no idea what this would mean to her career
She danced, frolicked and pretended to love the rain
Feeling like a fake, a poser, wondering when it would be over
The photographer kept snapping photos.
She was getting miffed.
It was cold water.
Difficult to pretend now.
The photo session was a huge success.
It launched her career.
She became a mega star, and was in high demand.
Her salary went from five figures to six figures.
She stopped resenting the photographer.
Glad to let go of the hatred, since they were married.
Awakening in a spiral, a dance of unraveling masks,
Consciousness pours like a turbulent river over the banks of a weary mind,
Truth—not a treasure to be found, but a veil to be lifted from the eyes of the soul,
In every moment, a layer of illusion melts away under the relentless rays of awakening.
Knowledge—a heavy burden keeping us anchored in the mire of appearances,
We are walking libraries filled with dusty volumes of falsehood,
But wisdom comes when we burn the books and dance in their ashes,
Unchained from the bonds of knowledge, we float freely in the ocean of unknowing.
We are not sculptors of truth, but blocks of false marble,
The chisel of destiny carves mercilessly, removing layers of self-deception,
With each strike, we draw closer to the pure essence hidden deep within,
Becoming less of who we thought we were and more of what we have always been.
Spiritual awakening—a gentle death of the ego intoxicated by certainties,
Each day, we die a little, unraveling like a withered flower in the autumn breeze,
Petal by petal, we let go of all we believed we were,
Until only the bare seed of truth remains, ready to bloom anew.
In the shattered mirror of consciousness, shards reflect fragments of reality,
We watch bewildered as they reassemble into a mosaic of authenticity,
We no longer know who we are, but for the first time, we truly are,
In the void left by falsehood, truth finally finds its rightful place.
Sweet blue indigo were your eyes,
sometimes they appeared almost black
but in their reflection, I saw clear sky blue
with floating pastel aqua painted clouds.
In your tended garden, soft pale cyan croci rose
followed by tall taunt blue cornflowers
that stretched between the graceful cobalt delphiniums
that stood before summer cerulean hydrangeas.
Your laugh filled the garden with sapphire irises
that lived for but a day or two
and in the walking tour of flowers displayed,
each shade danced into a Persian setting sun.
Passing now those recalled memories and scents
I smell sweet lavender fill the air
and in my loneliness without you
the blue celeste fades to paler shades and hues.
The mix of white and gray shadow accompany me
and the sky turns cerulean tinged gray
and I wipe away the tears from my azure faded eyes
as blue midnights wrap around my heart.
Now, tincture steps into unblushed sky of winter
and all the colors tend to fade and disappear
like you.
*Celebration of the life for a dear friend who recently passed.
My dear friend; calm, patient and positive
A giving person who sacrificed and served in faith
You will be in my heart forever, through it all
I celebrate your life, precious time shared, this New Year
You are a man of strength, a helper, an angel to many
You have reached a high place in heaven
All that you shared and gave to many is cherished
Memories remain in the sight of a cardinal bird
In so much guidance and support you gave
In patient conversations and simple coffee time
In graciousness you showed for acts of kindness
Thank you for every moment of laughter there was,
Every wise piece of advice, every smile with inspiration
Your willingness to be there for anyone in need
Your service to our country and also our state
Your footprints are left here for everyone to follow
Trees are planted in memory of you to flourish
From the roots in the ground, like boots on the ground
To grow tall, reaching for the blue shades of the sky
Your favorite color, I will paint for you to see
To be spread like impressions of your colorful life
I celebrate your life and as you would say, “YEA”!
Heidi Sands
1/1/23
turn and walk away from lifes indecisions
why pay the cost for oppressed dogmatic religion?
why do we give in without question without resistance?
why should we live a shitzophrenic existence?
why do we induce guilt and fear into our own hearts and minds?
why do we attack and destroy the flesh of our kind?
why do we live in a world full of hate, greed and decpetion?
why are we so eager to follow popular conception?
why do we worship the images that are bestowed?
why do we feel like something has to be owed?
why is our god full of jealousy and wrath?
yet demands that we walk a very narrow path?
im sick and tired of the lies that are told!!!!
an authortarian belief system that loves to control.
they bond the spirit with the chains of oppression
while the few know the truth while the others keep guessing
knowledge is power but many misuse it to their advantage
yet the stench of preachers and pastors run repugnant and rancid
if death is a gift a release from the flesh
then let us put these preachers and pastors to the test
The wind roars like a lion
As a sheet of snow, blows on by
Dusting of white sticks to windows
The weighed down bushes tip over
Outside, there is a brewing war
I walk, bting wind on my face,
By the snowbanks climbing higher
I hear loud scraping of plows
The tree branches crack like gunshots
Suddenly, blinded by white-out
All the animals have hidden
Parked cars are buried, pillowed mounds
No time to keep up with shoveling
The storm is whipping nature
Then it slows, miraculous ways
Change tames wind all around
Smoke now seen from.the tall chimneys
Light breaks through and the war is won
12/26/22
Entry for the winter storm contest. Sponsor : Kim Rodrigues