Long Germinates Poems
Long Germinates Poems. Below are the most popular long Germinates by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Germinates poems by poem length and keyword.
Rare Flowers
A woman I know – always there.
A helping hand for all – works for Share.
A heart of gold – this soul doth care
for the needs of lives – nothing fair,
for them it seems – lost dreams, she is rare.
This rare flower – I see – gives voice
to what is missing – her name is Joyce,
Joyce, is ideal, is positive – is a great choice
for a world in dire - desperate need
of her to manage - homeless to feed
in this world - dominated by greed.
This rose germinates great seed,
even if one’s dreams – turned to weed –
never to see the light of day – ever again –
yet her and they, will forever remain.
B. J. “A” 2
April 22nd 2004
Life germinates in the springtime,
to blossom in summer's warm embrace.
And then autumn weaves its death shroud,
before winter snows entomb it.
To blossom in summer's warm embrace,
long days accelerate life's growth.
And plants prosper under the sun,
till shorter days diminish light.
And then autumn weaves its death shroud,
painted orange, crimson, and gold.
For life can no longer flourish
beyond Jack Frost's first deadly kiss.
Before winter snows entomb it,
life sows the seeds of tomorrow.
And morphs into the memory
of a moment that's come and passed.
(French Retourne)
11/24/2015
#Her_unique_story
From a distance, my thoughts provoked, gazed in with deep mesmerization, saw only the fine linens God had embroiled her silky soft texture with, forgot that she too was human before all, so many stories her archive posses, I chose only to hear the tales which would make my heart twinkle,
but she had a story in particular, the uniqueness I have heard of, now honoring my presence, a unique story she carried, in all the soft edges of her voluptuousness, got lost in her voice, it was a question she asked but my ears consumed only melodies, a melting pot of my attention, liquidized before my eyes, after a while realized I was been spoken to, oh! Heaven have mercy,
a beautiful rose, her name recites, I heard rockets blowing out of my eardrums, after effects of her voice, so ***** I fell upon my knees, attacked by her attraction, felt and filled her presence with my magical touch, automated smiles running flawlessly on her facial, knew my codes, were granted access, indeed met a female dinosaur and she gave me a fire conversation,
her story broke, its a yesterday she had, chaining her to step any further from it, a smile turning sour, with one eye as a passing hose from her bleeding soul, filling her lenses, the mood dims, reaches some climax so up raptly, forced to provide tissue words,
a bond germinates, her story stirs hidden emotions, wondering why though, answers at no avail, some wind blows wisdom and understanding to my sense, and I say "if not you, who then?
Her story woke my silent demons, intrigue fills my heart, how so beautiful being goes through such, realised the beauty in her trauma, my art eye spots, all the drawing her yesterday contributed in making her the ornament I just can't get enough of,
pain indeed beautified her unique story, the freckles on her face, so perfectly placed, making her all uniqueness dazzling for the public to admire, a plain evidence that her story is unique, her unique story
#Poetic_Ink
#Extraterrestrial
Summon the earth to my present, nature has never being coincidental. Fate has landed to my heart shore, gratitude overflow from my heart. Feels like life was born in here, a new fresh leave has turned. Something only God can recreate. Extraterrestrial!
Wanted to say out of this cosmos but my mind and heart says God has came through for you, prepared a table before my foes. I look down, my knees have scars, evident of how long I have been on my knees.
Thought heaven gates always shut before my prayer could land, have lost hope and courage to pursue, to request and to fight for what my heart desired.
Here I am palm to palm, giving glory, praises surpasses my imagination, patience have cooked a stone. The amorphousness of my joy overwhelms my body. They say to God be the glory and I reiterate God's timing is never early nor late.
In her my heart rest,
In her my soul cease to thirst,
In her my life begins.
In her my joy germinates
In her i feel reincarnated
In her I feel repurposed
In her I live.
If time had not landed me here, the extraterrestrial shoved me here, here I have won, not to life alone but to nature and spirit. I say she's an extraterrestrial for nothing of this earth equates to what my life has been showered with, to the unknown and known I bow. In her I'm content
In her my life began
In her my future has acquired tracks
To the universe, this is my extraterrestrial gift
#Poetic_Ink
The Puppet Master
Always Pulls the Strings
Written: by Tom Wright
3/11/2016
Charity, oft repeated,
Becomes an addiction of sort,
And many surviving this way,
Are selling themselves short;
Free stuff becomes a lifestyle,
Not always grounded in need.
But a seed that often germinates,
From a tare called greed.
It results in a selfish attitude,
Of not caring who paid.
As long as it wasn’t them,
And booty arrived un-delayed;
Charity forces takers,
To become dependent upon another;
Laying down decrees, which,
Are often inclined to smother;
You’ve become someone’s puppet,
When you take their free things;
And the puppet master will always,
Control the pulling of your strings;
I dislike free riders who search for ways to milk the system!
Not those with genuine need.
Tom
It is a tree of five hundred one and twenty different fruits
with nine others totally disenfranchised
in a garden of more than a colour of grapes
a black bunch out of every five same
is its numerical contribution in such defined location
A flowing stream, originating from the Nok aboriginals
has created different hundreds of tributaries
in its inland is a town where fertility is ambidextrous
and the most diversified of the colourful flying beauties
is found within its territory
A family possessing envious wealth but seemingly a myth
b’cos of the Mephistophelian deeds of its guardians
its house, built on land where toothpick germinates to a monstrous tree
and man power capable of producing half a continent of sky scrapers
yet six out of every ten of its members
are less comfortable than a pet in the west
As the paradigm of evolution down the line
formulates a set of human values of intent,
the survival instinct, an axiomatic need,
gets woven in the fabric of consciousness.
The seeds of empathy embedded in the mind
germinates and grows as sapling of humane traits.
The buds of beliefs blossom to adorn
the structured societal norm of harmony.
But the mist of intolerance of the complex times,
clouds the modern man’s jaundiced eye,
altruistic intents are shrouded by pall of prejudice,
fabricating a biased and motivated value system.
In the abyss of narrow ethical perception
alienated lives wander in the secluded alley.
For them to find oneness of soul under the divine sky,
it’s time to clear the predisposed colored vision.
June 23, 2021
Contest : Jaundiced Eye
Sponsor : Unseeking Seeker
One day I will make Syria my home
And one day my cup of tears will be gone.
When bullets have lost wings of flight
And bombs lost zips to unzip,
Then I’ll speak freely
To hopes and failures-
Promising them a future
When justice will reign
And young speeches become bold.
One day I will make Nigeria my home,
And one day my thumb prints will speak.
When my hand writes freely
And my pen free to dance,
Then I’ll run home
And commit my days to change,
Kneel to her feet and
Obey her sister-‘RIGHTS’.
When my breathe pours out
Without my notice
And my heart beats
Without drum sounds,
Then my shadow
Will be seen in the open
And my voice will be
The picture of what
Ears want to love and
My pen the dancer of words
They’ll all love to watch perform.
One day I will make Somalia my home,
And one day ‘medium of exchange’ will be my train.
When black-faced flies surrender poisons of blindness
And masculine mosquitoes close down the courts of death,
Then you’ll find thousands
Of my feet on sand
And millions of speeches
On which the future germinates.
One day when Africa matures,
She will be the home of the world
Where people learn to love
And study how to care for the born and unborn.
With Sol shining spectacularly bright,
I woke to the trickle of melting snow.
Hoping that Spring had arrived overnight,
dripping icicles set my heart aglow.
And while Winter may still be holding tight,
in a few weeks she'll be forced to let go.
And when the daffodils sprout from the ground,
She'll simply slip away, without a sound.
I hear the honking of geese heading home:
their cacophony, music to my ears.
And as melting lakes shine like liquid chrome,
icicles morph into Spring's tepid tears.
And a world packed in snowy styrofoam,
revives, as it has for billions of years.
Resurrecting colors that are varied,
Spring germinates seeds that Autumn buried.
I'm delighted to see patches of green
polka-dot the alabaster landscape.
Winter no longer dominates the scene;
the melting snowmen can't retain their shape.
And each breath of Spring air smells fresh and clean,
as it facilitates Winter's escape.
Sol's shining with an optimistic glow
that soon, wildflowers will begin to show.
It begins as a sordid space without definition,
with the nebulous boundaries collapsing inward,
enfolds the air thick with the dust of remote faces,
enwrapping you each time you think of freedom.
The winter of depression arrives detached
with heavy dense fog featuring as your desolation
that configures covertly your misty psyche,
shape-shiftng to self-design of vague despondency.
The somber sky falls flustered on convoluted awareness,
wrecks the crown of bejeweled night’s exuberance.
The sickle moon slices the shimmer of its fading glow,
dissolving at the brink of the pervading expanse of blue.
In the dungeon depth of opaque onyx solitude
the ground hears the feeble footfall of stillness.
Glacial sense of chilled passion congeals stealthily
the excavated exposure of lonesome inner secrecy.
Painfully curled broken wings of the petrified free bird
can’t fly in the lacerating chill of the woeful winter,
envelopes surreptitiously the frosted senses,
the fervent warmth of sanguinity freezes unfelt.
The sky of longing falls frozen through the morose mist
on the permafrost of abandon in the arctic silence,
where the icy fountain of the forlorn cold heart,
gets buried deep in the gelid blue of seclusion.
But somewhere inside of your self-devised sphere,
perceived not above, not beyond, but deep within,
the seed of patience germinates to defy desolate winter,
splits the ice, sprouts spring splendor of redeeming hope.