Long Full(a) Poems
Long Full(a) Poems. Below are the most popular long Full(a) by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Full(a) poems by poem length and keyword.
Home-coming
Self is so close
The real self
How far have I walked away
Miles and miles
Chasing its many mirages
On oh how many different ways.
Meditation is a journey back
Step by step
Down the tortuous paths
Through the thick undergrowth
Picking careful way.
Self is so deep
The real self
How shallow have been my ways
Waves on waves
Holding how full a sway.
Praying is a plunging in
Stroke by stroke.
Absorbed in its sound
Released for the moment
From the pseudo self--
Its web of visuals—
Vibrating down to the very base
From where all energy flows
And if He wills
A link with your Master!!!
Self is sans thought
The real self
It is pure passion's play,
To the Circuit of Energy permeating the garden, sustaining the canopy permeate
Washing through with waterfalls, cascading rivers, and upwelling springs the fermement
Was magically darkened when Eve took her classes at Satan’s grove
Where one tree (or gate or pedestal) stood, and the devil appeared like hand in glove
To capture her attention, draw her away from her programmed obligations
Little did she know that the devils deal would lead to abnegation
Of her rightful role as a helpmate, swquaw and poets wife
To rule as co-creators, in innocence, with her husband – Adam – and without strife
Although the invitation to new knowledge might have raised her curiosity peaked
‘Perhaps’, she thought, ‘only to have this new experience’ would raise her from meek
Humility. And give her new insight into helping her man: new insight new skills
How was she to know that the tree of good and evil would not fulfill
Any decent role in sustaining the garden, or giving of strength
Had she known that she would be banned from paradise, and removed a full length
From the easeof leisure, the peac of pleasure, which passes all understanding
What a tragedy then, when she engaged the devil without comprehending
The consequence of taking that fatal action, to partake
In the fruit and lust of the wicked tree: when after she began to fake
The full collapse of her station to assist the 1st Man, her original matrimony
She had, perhaps unwittingly disrupted her union with man, and sundered its harmony
With the role of Adam as a spokesman and poet was now broken
The life from before, when he merelyspoke and observed had become a token
Memory. Speech itself a vestige of what life had been when it was perfect
For Eve had introduced vast new knowledge through her dalliance when the devil depicted
A fuller knowledge of all the trees of the garden once fecund
Now all that once gave life in full, a mere second
To Eves infinite question; to probe the everlasting and to question
From what source, and what deep came the gall of God’s order not to mention
The mercurial things that she had seen in Eden, the sweet lull and whisper
And perhaps her fall, the devils gambit settled the mist-in-her
The doors are big.' The room has benches.. people hussle
Around, some in suits and a few wear gowns; robes grim
Faces and keen looks, at times the benches are full at
Others less than a quarter full, a room of judgement of
Examination accusation and pleading cases, of drama dry
Of drama moistening eyes; there is fear' also a sense of
Retribution! And power.' There is another room there are
Rows of benches, in the distance a platforn and above the
Curtains where scenes are played, by good or bad or
Average actors, this is a place of people in suits and robes
Gowns with capes, and swords there are teary scenes shouts
And screams, grim faces moist eyes overacting reaction rage
You name it.'
There is another room..In another house normally on a hill.'
There are rows of seats, a raised chair like a court, there are
People in suits with darting eyes some are dressed in gowns
And robes.' There is drama here examination speeches and
Indignation, moist eyes; tears fear cheers' and reputations to
Earn or burn, this place is the seat of government..Does it in
Anyway? Remind you of other places I have written about.?
Like a young heart, the sun outshines,
flirting with the billows of clouds,
leaving a gentle kiss on the blushing horizon.
Cry of mucking gulls above,
visit the no longer alone, white laced-topped waves;
its bounty full, a romantic love with morning gone.
A tern with its black hat,
near goldenrod, scattered in heaps,
pecks on the length of the treasures of the beach.
The tuneful sound of the spring ocean surf,
rolls in, touches my toes in a tease,
then runs away giggling, but not for long.
Once again it rolls to chase me for a nip at my toes.
4/12/2022
There is a painting at the art gallery,
I have a strong affection for;
it is a man that calls me from the past,
in the year 1670 lived this nobleman.
Long dark hair falls to his shoulders,
a strong face with fathomless eyes;
eyes full a passion and desire,
he does not smile, yet I adore him.
I want to reach out to him,
he seems to see me, beckon to me;
come to me- he whispers,
aristocratic is his demeanor, dignified.
O, but could I step within the frame,
be in his world- in his time;
we would hold hands in silence,
for he would know without question . . .
my heart and soul are his forever.
___________________________
November 11, 2012
Poetry/Narrative/My Heart and Spirit
Copyright Protected, ID 11-435-073-11
All Rights Reserved, 2012, Constance La France
Your scent still lingers in the pillow
The one with pattern of a willow
The last remambrance of life
Where you laid before rising out of sight
I believe your soul is here with me
In my shadow, in my tears
Forever gone but always near
Fond memories love of such a dear
No replacement nowhere to look
There is no website there is no book
Sometimes I lay in your old place
Close my eyes and touch your face
But when eyes open life is real
You are gone but I still feel
An empty hole where my heart should be
Who could have predicted it would be me
A soul so full a lovers curse
I wish the loss was in reverse
I believe your soul is here with me
In my shadow in my tears.
The Camp Cooky’s singin again outa tune,
about turnin 60 today around noon
"What good is there in it?" I hear him say,
and it got me to thinkin . . . seein it was his birthday
It seems bein 60’s got two spins to that tale,
one frittered and wrinkled, the other covered in shale
The one who’s 60 if truth be told,
is still younger than all those 61—to real old
In the campfire’s crackle of light I can see,
how everyone younger, is likely dumber than me
So if my hands struggle with the knots and riggin fer sure,
the knowin and the tellin to those younger’s worth more
Havin outlived many a cow horse, while lovin them all,
the awnry and skitterish, the short and the tall
The summers ridin drag, and the worst winters mendin fence,
with a slicker full a holes, and that ol dog with no sense
And while the cuttin and the brandin seems boring to some,
it’s the importance of their nature and gettin things done
When the hats and the spurs and even the saddles are all gone,
and the sun sinks over that last mountain, like in Dusty’s ol song
I’ll remember the good times, lettin go of the bad,
and think back on the pards and the ladies I’ve had
Because just like for Cooky, it happened last year to me,
and turnin 60 seemed ranker than any bronc could ever be
But like that new Visalia saddle the boss man said was now mine,
I've found somethin that’s different, somethin gentler and kind
The speed and the strength ain’t been traded for free,
and somethin woke up that I guess was sleepin in me
And as I yell to the wrangler “Cut me one gentle and nice”
without loosin too much pride I ask, “Can you help Ol Jim
cinch his riggin real tight”
Then once more in the dark I ride off in search of the herd,
singin that one favorite cow song every real hand has heard
And as I inch up on the lead steer whisperin mellow and low,
“Yippee ki yay, Ol Fella; you ready to go”
For maybe one last time we push North thru the dark,
the sun still two hours off to the right of our mark
While in the distance a wolf howls, as that lead steer catches my eye,
and in that instant I know I’m still needed—a long ways from g’bye
(Dewey Montana: Circa 1990) Read In Elko Nevada, 1993
I faced alarming paradoxes
as I headed toward puberty.
First,
my King James Bible-belting parents,
extended family,
and all-hopelessly-WHITE farm community
taught me
God loves me
and all the children,
red and yellow,
and black almost as much as white.
That felt good
but then I learned God hates me
because I became queerly obsessed
with hot guys,
and not hot girls.
So, God restoratively created me
so He could retributively hate me.
That seemed like poor justice and peace planning to me,
and I was still in fifth grade.
Then I learned that God had given me two extraordinary gifts:
Possibly unmeasurable intelligence,
and so,
my grade-school principal warned
my evangelical farmer parents,
we were not to be surprised
if I was and saw this Earth
in a somewhat different way.
My second gift
was the envy of all good Bible-belting out and still-in teenagers.
I could sing with the angels.
So,
the God of Infinite Love
is my Creator
and I am His Frankenstein *****
with a mind and singing voice to soar,
full of Grace.
You and I might both be surprised
how long it took to figure out
Something is very wrong with this picture,
and I don't think it is just me.
It was merely everyone else I knew and trusted
in that Bible-belting time.
So I sang for them in full voice
but gave as little voice to my sexuality as possible.
I wrote papers and test responses
in full A+ voice
but told no one
I knew they were asking wrong questions
for me to answer with full-versed integrity,
Free to sing with David and Jonathon
free of magic superstitions
standing in for mythic polypathic wisdom
of Solomon
Not to divide innocent organic Promise
God has conjoined as Love
of and for children,
red and yellow,
black and white,
gay and lesbian,
bisexual and transgender
And, yes, even straight-faced
Bible-belted out and inward Hate,
Supremely Evangelical Christian Colonizing InBred Correctness,
while continuing to give birth
to hidden,
shamed and blamed ***** Grace
of a Loving God
polypathically immense,
deep and wide,
future through past
regeneratively just
and peaceful
and wickedly funny
Because if we cannot laugh at our egocentric stupidities,
then we must cry out for cosmic tragedy.
Cruising southwards to LA from Sac
a midnight filled with songs ‘n Luna,
light-etching hills in a black infernal…
It was a leviathan’s back on which I
felt the tires unrolling a chilled grief ~
Owlish-full, a hypnotic moon, ‘n Dido
reminiscing tunefully about surrender
negating white flags and loves forlorn...
Inside the eye, a wispy face smiled hi
and gently slid open a papery fusuma...
Dazed, I held her gaze, so undead
Round face framed in softest ether
exhaling cool peppermint to inhale ~
Amaranth rains of fleeting gardenia,
mildly-scented dawn's astral gloam ***
(11/2/2020)
this peace was written by my good friend guy
Not Lost Just not Found On padded feet a love may walk With melodious voice a person talks
With kisses sweet a heart is stolen With moon so full a promise is grow-in Tomorrow comes
and your mouth taste sour Discordant notes come from a churches tower The clatter of heals
rains on concrete hard The day of bonding has been washed from the card Yet tomorrow will
come with new ones to see The joy of life can be there you will see A smile from a child
or a kiss from someone new The sound of a song or the thrill of the zoo Life is a wonder
for tomorrow starts again Yesterday is history the future is your friend For what you may
seek can come when you are blind Don't search to hard it will come in its own time.
the peace was given to me so i thank you my friend for you words Duncan chappell