Long Go in Poems
Long Go in Poems. Below are the most popular long Go in by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Go in poems by poem length and keyword.
There is a new kid in town.
A new company.
Storefront with glass.
Headless Hands is what the marquee says.
A daycare center? Creative writing center? Nail salon?
Give up? I did. Headless hands tattoo.
Not sure I would want someone without a head tattooing me.
I am still pondering the why behind the name.
Two partners? Joe Headless and Stan Hands?
I would go in and ask, except
I am a woman who cannot say “no”.
Easily talked into stuff
And I have always thought
A baby dinosaur tattoo with
A red beret would look pretty
Sweet on my derriere.
I dare not go inside.
Was that a light?
Do you suppose they are open?
Mary Magdalene as we have all heard was not living her life right
Till one day her soul stirred as the Lord Jesus came into her sight
In hearing each Word He would say she herself began to change
And oh how she changed her way, even she found it to be strange
But by the Lord's side she would stay in witnessing His Awesome Power
This Man at any time she could betray instead drawing closer by the hour
This Harlot who knew not even of His Name yet was at the foot of His Cross
As the Lord is greater than all your shame yet His Salvation you just toss
Not Mary Magdalene as she went to that tomb being so unable to sleep
Seeing it empty she felt such doom and in telling the Apostles, they would steep
Peter and John flew out that door and it would be John who would easily win
But John knowing what was in store had waited for Peter to first enter then go in
But t was only later when Mary would again visit that Our Lord would first appear
Thinking He was the gardener she said in a fit please tell me that His Body is near
And as only her name would He say and in that moment Mary could now see
Oh how Mary had come such a long way, giving so much hope to you and me
I never knew her as a big talker,
but to me, she was a very keen
observer and one great listener.
I have always remembered the 8 words
she said when sending us to the store.
She’d say, “Go in a haste; come in a pace”.
As a kid at the time, I never questioned what
she meant by those words. Like my siblings,
I simply listened to her, and away I went.
I didn’t know if she was trying to be poetic
or encouraging us to get the job done quickly.
But now I know that she was a great teacher.
To me, those 8 words have taught me lessons
in life. I have always heard that “Haste makes waste”
So, Grandma wasn’t telling us to hurry up.
In my departure, she was saying, "Get on with it; get it done”. And upon my return, she was saying, “Have a sense of order and precision as you return”.
I must say that as I look back over my life, I can say,
Thank you, Grandma, I did what you said in the way
you told me to. I had the initiative to pursue my
dreams; and with a sense of timing, order, and
organization, I got things done”.
cj07182015
A narrow muddy creek.
Beyond the creek
a new housing lot.
Beyond the new housing lot
a small stand of wood
where a large woodland once spread all the way
to the highway.
Beyond the highway a farm
clings to fifty acres
but not much thrives and much is failing
until you get to the only hill for miles around here,
and that’s where I sometimes go, in the snow
when all the displacement and sully are covered.
Occasionally, after a heedless span - say
one fresh morning when the sun is up
shining like the first day of creation
and the snow sparkles like blue diamonds
while the bright air runs like a mountain stream,
then for a short while, you forget the muddy boots
that kicked over the native and natural.
You throw your head back
and imagine how it was
before all the sweetness
got pushed away
into small put-aside pockets
of amnesia.
just. that
tired
---------------------------------------------------------
yes, bury me now
shut those eyes,
hit head on each side
to turn back time
and do the things
I should've done,
throw
cushion
to that
wind ~ o
and m und.
eye-ayay lids
feeling heavy
with soiled r(egret) now
Dam(n) of tears
why
don't
you
b
r
e
a k
(free----
surrealready?
141126jnp37
**************************************************************
sumagi na naman
sa aking kaisipan
ang pangungulila--
sa natamong nakaraan,
sa matatamong kinabukasan,
sa tinatahak na kasalukuyan
pilit na pinipiga ang puso't isipan
sa 'di mawaring kadahilanan--
malamang dahil may gusto ang puso
na ibigkas
'yun nga lang--
dahil ako ay Ako,
hindi ko mawari't maisulat
isang malalim na buntong hininga
isang malalim na paglunok
ng saloobin--
pilit na binabaon,
ginagapos
--ayaw makawala
pigil na pinapalaya
dahil ako ay duwag... .
ito ako ngayon sa kasalukuyan
bukas kaya?
Ganito pa rin ako?
1202a0911816
(just want to put this in-- unrelated to the above write, but still)
--outside the kitchen window, hanging on a wire---
a trill that pierces me,
for some reason
I thought all have gone
yet,
that dainty, yellow, bird,
sings again
1238a124112016
In the night sky I admire the moon,
and the moon's ever starry friend;
they travel together and are attune,
above in the dark they suspend;
but I will become that star one day soon.
Oh, have found out that this is not a star,
that it is the planet Venus;
so, on my death she will go in a jar,
this will take a plan genius;
and will be hard to do from so afar.
Will appeal to the landlord of the sky,
and with respect will show my need;
for that perfect spot with a tear and sigh,
oh, he offered me an eternal deed;
that will commence the day I die.
When poets seek above I will glimmer,
and shine there beside the moon bright;
a forever, ever glow and glitter,
and my star will whisper at night;
yes, I will always be the star bigger.
"I love you to the moon and back,
my name is Dreamer, find me on nights black."
________________________
November 8, 2020
Poetry/Quintain Sicilian/An Eternal Star Beside the Moon
Copyright Protected, ID 11-1303-071-08
All Rights Reserved, 2020, Constance La France
Written for the Standard contest, There is a Star with my Name on it,
sponsor, Silent One, Judged 11/12/20
Second Place
People will swim murky oceans with man-eating behemoths.
Free climb sheer rock faces in gale-force winds.
Dive headfirst off a cliff into an abyss wearing nothing but plastic wings.
These same people won't go for a walk in the inner city.
They'd rather take a stroll, without caliber, through a lion-infested savanna.
Crawl through deserts and jungles with smirking serpents and panthers.
Ride the green eye of a seventy-foot neck-snapping wave.
We've failed as a society, as a people, as human beings.
We needed to go in for a societal Pap smear long ago.
We ignored the pang in our soul flank for too long.
Now our mojo and soul piss is Coca-Cola colored.
The infection is spreading-now everybody's pissing black.
We needed to take the plastic wings off a long time ago,
Taken a mental inventory of where our hearts are.
Taken a long crawl through the city.
Pluck a weed from the sweet gutter, lick its heat.
Shuck out the smolder before it burns living to the ground.
“Still other seed fell on good soil, where it produced a crop…”
Matthew 13:8a NIV
ROTTEN
Scorched, withered, choked. Is friendship,
friendship at all, when a pitbull turns
and attacks their own with insouciance.
You thought you were on the same team.
You wore the t-shirt, made the same jokes.
Flames leapt from your scalp, tears fall
and flood around your ankles, as if you
dropped your pants. Embarrassment
with a spotlight on you. You’re thrown
under the bus. It rolled over your pretty face.
No one talked into your ear. Of course it
is clear that the spirit of fear is mocking you.
Seed on good soil will save you. Judas
scorched, withered and choked - his ears
as if cob-earplugs, permanently installed.
Every Judas will have his day in court.
Explain then how you took the lead,
how you threw the net, took the money
or fame and ran with it. You are hot -
your popularity is at a ten…but now
your dead, and yes you will go in the direction
of your peers but no one will find you.
The tears, the flame, the panic
condemns you to the awful same.
If you’d only explored your root,
the rot inside your heart, ugliness
of a pretty face and prayed, girl, prayed.
It’s not too late,
while you live.
Long for life -
eternal life.
9/29/2022
Homeless On One Stormy Night
In the winter of 1984, I accepted a pastoral position in San Francisco.
The salary was not sufficient to live in the City by The Bay. So I found it necessary to obtain a second job. This relationship worked
well for two years. In the late spring of 1986, the church decided to
go in a different direction.
Losing a substantial part of my income meant that my family could
no longer live in San Francisco. So I kept my second job and moved my
family to Sacramento. We only had one car which meant that a daily
commute was not an option, not to mention the cost of such a venture.
I found a room with a dear friend and spent three nights a week with him.
I was home four nights a week.
After many months, my friend's brother needed a place to stay; so I thanked
my friend for his generosity and moved out of his home and into another friend's 50-foot boat. In a real sense, I was houseless but not boatless. I was alone
on a boat docked at Point Richmond across the Bay from my job. Here, I spent
the winter 0f 1988/'89. It was a short stay, but the memories are enduring.
There was no music, but I certainly experienced one rock and roll stormy night.
By early morning and my time to go to work, it was still dark and the power was out. I was afraid to walk along the dark walkway for fear of being blown into the water. So I exited the boat and crawled across the walkway, making sure to dodge all the fallen electric wires. Thank God I survived and went to work.
My homeless experience was much longer than these few lines. My lessons
of life learned about storms, about God's grace, and about friendships are
enduring. Yes. That's my story, and I'm sticking to it.
10252016 PS Contest, Being Homeless, The Seeker
Limitless! Is where you can go in the universe of poetry.
Set your goals as high as that glorious moon.
For the steps to what we call, "Glory" are steeped in quick, fast-food poetry.
Beware! No astonishment there, just jingles that make you tingle.
Dont lie~ you do know fully what I mean!
The fast, the quick, the puny impotent, poetry gestures, the fallibly obscene.
That make both author and reader alike, shrink in stature!
Twin corpses,a ghastly blue and of equally squallid, putrid ,quilled natures.
Be an Emerson or a Neruda, who found their voice.
Like Michelangelo,chisel your words and refine their meaning, make them
choice!
English, an abundant language, oh, I write in pain!
Writing with words that a only thirteen year old can maintain?
Oh, Lord forgive me for sacrificing the brilliant verbiage for the quick.
I live in a universe where 'fast' rules all, it makes me sick, these poetic tricks!
Making poets think poetry is a stand up comedy act?
It's anything but..and drives me daft.
For in fine poetry, there's more than just a quill.
It's a Poet's finest hour, and his grandest thrill!
February 12, 2020
4pm PST
Dedicated to the beautiful souls here, who constantly keep lifting my quill to celestial heavens.
Eternally grateful,
Panagiota Romios