Long Genie Poems
Long Genie Poems. Below are the most popular long Genie by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Genie poems by poem length and keyword.
One jinn butterfly flew on his wings three wishes lay.
One wish was for true beauty to grace forms caste of clay.
For though all things are beautiful, their mind doeth say neigh
And discord comes when envy vies and jealousy doest play.
And once man’s reached reality as to truth he’s reborn
The butterfly in me would wish true kindness would form.
Kindness, so that none would hurt another and fear be allayed,
kindness for each and every day, so anger and hatred are kept at bay.
The third and final wish my jinn butterfly would carry
Would be forgiveness when in weakness good men do tarry.
Each of us like the butterfly feel trapped ‘tween the glass
Praying to fly free before our glory days have passed.
**In Arabic, a genie (also jinn, jinni, djinni, from Arabic jinni) is a supernatural creature which occupies a parallel world to that of mankind
A hundred male construction workers working so hard in the middle of the desert were given a special treat by a genie from an old lamp. The lamp was found a hundred feet below the ground.
Different colored-eggs in a big basket were offered by the genie. The genie said, "These eggs are enough for all of you. Choose any color you want, but you can pick only one." Then the genie disappeared.
The foreman started the picking while the other ninety-nine workers are in line. Everybody got an egg. And each of them was excited about the egg.
Some workers were puzzled why all eggs are of different shapes and sizes. But by majority, so long as each of them has an egg as a gift, is good enough to be rewarded for their hard work.
Moments later, all eggs have been opened and everybody was surprised for getting everyone's wish for life... a dancing chick!
Inspired by "The Physician", a fascinating story that reminds me of the sweeping tales from Persia, like Aladdin.
"For those who don't know, the film ("The Physician") is partly based on real facts and characters: Ibn Sina, for example, really existed and entered the history of medicine with his Westernized name: Avicenna."
Our thoughts and wishes
By Michelle Morris
23/06/2023
Today I am a bride
Today I am a gift
It is a day of jubilation for them
This arranged marriage for business
I am a Physician
A foreigner in a foreign land
A man alone on a journey
To learn from the best teacher I can
Here we are in Persia
Life is complicated and difficult
We each have our own path
But destiny has entwined our souls
Our thoughts and wishes are our own
But our love for one another remains
Deeply felt between our hearts
Deeply known between our souls
We tried to accept our limitations
But we were drawn together as one
May the genie grant us our secret wish
To be together forever for all time
© Michelle Morris, 2023
"The Physician (German: Der Medicus) is a 2013 German historical drama film based on the novel of the same name by Noah Gordon. The film, co-written and directed by Philipp Stölzl, focuses on an orphan from an 11th-century English town whose mother died of side sickness."
Side sickness is what we know as appendicitis. These days, it's a simple operation but before modern medicine, people could die from it.
"The tale of Aladdin is found in The Arabian Nights tales or One Thousand and One Nights. An enchanting and magical collection of fairy tales of Middle Eastern origin. The Arabian Nights stories were first introduced to Europe in a French translation by Antoine Galland in 1704."
Blossom
Poem
Lionel Derbyshire
Road trip to Blossom
My growing up home
It is a farm place
In sunshine and
Fresh ozone
Lush and green.
I'm heading there
I'm going home
Driving on
Like running wonder
I'm going home,
I'm comin home
Run wonder.
Onward hill's break past
Heading on ..
Bouncing up and down
Little .. little behind me
Passing wayward streams
Dry winds blowing by
On the road again
Morning breaks
Grey to blue
Today is crisp .. true
I'm heading Blossom..
I'm going there.
I'm riding on
Run wonder
I'm comin home
I'm comin home
Run wonder.
There ! rise a shape ..
A solitary farm gate
Swelling great
Painted Blossom A name.
I ain't dreaming
No genie, no lamp.
Miles and metres pickle by
The birds tickle full of fun
They fly up and down.
Blossom !
Open your gate ..
I am coming in
Run wonder
I m comin home
I m comin home
Run wonder
Her roof A painted red
Her walls still standing tall.
The humble rafters looking fine.
The windows glowing glee
They greet me ..
I am going in
The big brown door
Invitingly in.
Carnation's are blooming
Red and white
A bubble burstling
It's buregeon bliss
Feeling touching picking
No leaf A broken.
This home coming treat..
This home coming feast.
Run wonder
Running for the gate
Where I was a child
I m home
I m home
Run wonder
Blossom !!
Home at last
Still fresh and sweet.
Courtesy of one or more tradesmen,
first Monday in September set aside
for employees able, eager, ready
and willing to acquire money
to marry groom or bride
climb the corporate ladder or
become an artisan, entrepreneur, technician
to side step getting rung, drafted
like an oxen plow, commandeered and chide
by management as insubordinate
till retirement or join kiln fields once died
from over exertion, yet nonetheless
sweat of brow efforts praised I espied
searching me noggin brief history re:
aforesaid day, where barbecues fried
dispersed aromas recognizing efforts
of workers with quality control as guide
grievances against danger challenged
sense and sensibility stalwart did not hide
the shenanigans that took place inside
boardrooms in tandem with glories of
American made products from those
who put figurative nose to grindstone –
just common everyday Jane's and Joe’s
who weathered extreme temperatures,
whereby bodies froze
but thanks to those who battled elements
at large and snatched doze
birth of brute efforts eventually
earned reserved renowned
borne couple shy of
nineteenth century, whence sound
of industrial silence replaced with
parades where hoof beats did pound
burgeoning and bustling city streets
echoed along hardened ground
fealty to country soldered
with faith, federation union freedom
and job security did thence abound,
which holiday underwent
transformations as bustle
and hustle
proved myth regarding land of milk and honey –
from straining of muscle
whereby life, liberty and pursuit
of happiness less of physical tussle
set (thank you masons) cornerstone to an invisible
complex edifice originally from New York
forgotten builders, farmers, machinists,
et cetera who laid groundwork
wrought by destruction
from Civil War largesse and pork
loosed from the bottle in
Antebellum South, when off flew cork
freeing a genie, which became rendered
supremely courtly poet, i.e. this former dork.
I Wait With Bated Breath...
(yes...yes...yes, this rhyme
resembles a recent one of mine
from a previous time,
yet appropriating wands zone writing
haint no crime -
at least not yet!)
Okay bull heave me you,
at this moment
alm completely unaware
what the a muse zing
genie of poetic
inspiration will bring
possibly shelving what Calliope
holds in store for me,
meanwhile now
with impatience it ching
visa vis to discover
what this Earthling,
(albeit modest) will be amazingly
graced with, meanwhile aye fling
haphazardly, indiscriminately,
and jocosely blitz
krieg feebly attempting
to contrive ingenious emits
poetic prestidigitation in fits
and starts, sans "FAKE" wits
as this humble
human imperceptibly orbitz
around mister Sun,
(which about bajillion years
from now suddenly quits)
shining foisting misery,
where Nyx knocks
(paddy whack give
my dog a bone...) divinely,
knowingly and spiritedly visits
(believe me you) this trumpeting
stupid moron loser
forever doth taint
after this moment
(no need tubby saint
lee and suppress any quaint
gut wrenching chortle)
at what aint
no farce), nor literary feint
yours truly painfully,
sorrowfully, and verily avers,
he now lacks fire and fury
(as if nettled by burrs)
nonetheless, which ambition
dust hanker mink thinks furs,
and foremost (Tom
morrow i.e. purrs
sues tha owl mighty,
where fame posthumously spurs
me amidst pantheon
of great writers
which dream dashed
into a million,
(no...no...no...not
bajillion this instance,
though good guess) pieces
abysmal silence replacing
(palimpsest like),
mine over imagination whirs.
“You can have any wish,” the genie said.
“Any ONE wish?” the girl asked, a little disappointedly.
“One wish,” the genie answered, shrugging.
“Oh.. then” she said, thinking it over. “I wish for.. a banana,” she said whimsically.
“A banana?” The genie asked, hesitantly.
“Yes, the girl said, nodding her head.
A banana appeared on the table.
“As a banana pudding, please - in a bowl,” she amended.
The genie nodded, and a large bowl of delicious looking pudding took the place of the banana.
“With a spoon?” she asked sweetly, and a spoon appeared by the bowl.
She tasted the pudding and it was, indeed, magically delicious.
“A jewel encrusted spoon.” she corrected, and again it was so.
Then she blurted, all at once:
“The Spoon is In the hand of a handsome prince, who’s genetically identical to Timothée Chalamet and is so in love with me that he proposed a moment ago - to the delight of his father, the king, who knows we will both live long and happy lives, having several delightful children - that will rule long after us - but who, unbeknownst to anyone, has an immensely serious heart condition that, sadly, will claim him roughly fifteen minutes after he pronounces the prince and I husband and princess!”
The prince appeared, and the happy king.. It all happened.
As the ensuing dramas unfolded, the genie took his leave.
“It’s *never* just a banana,” he said to no one, snapping his finger and vanishing in a puff of wispy white smoke.
I start to wish, but ask the cost,
A genie calls, 'now call it yours',
But satisfied, desire is lost.
So visit me at Styx' dark moors,
A wake, for waking to my loss.
One final hope? Repeated course.
A tug of strings at heart of moss,
One slow to ire, and too, desire,
In dark I sow, at day I cross,
At eve I stand with bow of fire.
Reborn, I weep, then take with sleep,
Returned once more, to lonely mire.
You ask of me, of what I see,
I ask of you, a date and time,
The truth will change, and with it, me.
I try to speak, less wrapped in rhyme,
Of what I felt, and what was true,
But lies persist, a heart's true crime;
To give me love, then break the ruse.
By love, I mean a wish to keep,
By ruse, I mean fair-weather cruise.
So slow I walk, or rather creep,
Up to my muse, afraid to spook,
Yet I, with laser focus leap.
My prey, I've prayed, will fawn, not flee,
But now it fights, while I just cower,
Now weak and fearful, up a tree,
I fear to think I'm in a tower.
Its bricks of loss, and time, and grace.
Its spiral stairs, my lack of power,
To take a step, and see my face,
Of quiet hope from yesterday.
I tell myself to keep my pace,
Remind myself what I should say.
Accept the beast that was my hope,
And cause its feral heart to stay.
The earth seems flat and Godot decided to arrive on the scene
Like a boil stuck on a pancake dressed as a trans gender carnival queen
He carries a prophecy written on a tag hung from his shoulder
Suggests Sisyphus had it easy on slippery slopes with his boulder
A Mocking Bird rears its ugly head on ominous spread sheets of doom
One Hundred Years Of Solitude and Paradise Lost for a safe tomb
No divine comedy but rather Robinson Crusoe's forsaken enclave
Bell Jar meets Darkness at Noon in a world neither new nor brave
Is the cute fluffy bear safe or lost on tracks near Paddington Station
Has Peter Rabbit met Alice while loo roles are the prize for the nation
Will the Famous Five dwelling in a cave of adventure survive the storm
Can Pippi darn enough stockings when isolation becomes the latest norm
A decision for the Little Prince is to whether to leave the planet in time
Would Momo kiss Benno the street sweeper or is it declared a felony crime
Tom Sawyer has to heed aunt Polly's advice and avoid Huckleberry Finn
Who puts genie back into the bottle when Aladdin's lamp shines rather dim
Surely there are more important questions to pose during epic disaster
Why do the marginalized suffer more badly than those who master
Has Donald Trump enough money to put more bricks in the partition
Can we blame Russians or Muslims or some other satanic mission
God forbid if the Monarch of Britain was to bite the dust in the crisis
Would it be a vile conspiracy theory to accuse Jihad Al Qaeda or ISIS
But the worst had to be watching a funeral cortege on computer screens
Or that socialists villains take over the country which is not what it seems
10th April 2020
As a genie, I would get myself a horse ranch, which is odd as I fear horses.
I would bring all the dogs home from the shelters, and let them run free
On my new non-horse-dog-ranch.
If I cannot be a dog in my next life, let me linger as Barbara Eden
Of course I need her body and her blinking eyes.
I could blink my eyes and the housework would be done,
Which bothers me not a whit, but apparently bothers my husband.
I love surprising people; my blinks would murder them with surprises.
I would be flirty and cute, and ridiculously loveable too like Jeannie.
Major Nelson would not have a chance, and Roger would encourage me.
I would be instantly put on TV and become the darling of Saturday night.
People would tune in and worship my severe darlingness, and laugh at my blinks.
Money would pile up so fast, I would have to buy a new mattress.
Or maybe get myself a matching set of luggage, which I could certainly afford.
Of course I need her body and her blinking eyes.