Long Grow over Poems
Long Grow over Poems. Below are the most popular long Grow over by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Grow over poems by poem length and keyword.
Nationwide adverts are written so fine,
talking the talk of a walk that's sublime,
no mention of accounts that'll grow over time,
your attention's attained through these nursery rhymes.
In a nation that's narrow more tall than is wide,
steeped deep with history of sorrow and pride,
Brexiting the Brussels while all others are tied,
no mystery, clear misery sees the EU divide.
Ocktoberfest to bulls let loose in the street,
siestas of rest to the pasta they eat,
united by sport that increase your heartbeat,
war after war making Europe less sweet.
So you think of England or Scotland or Wales,
and those ancient made up patriotic tales.
Slaying the dragon or knights and round tables or William Wallace,
just give us the money that sits in your wallets.
Your heart knows it's home as you don't walk alone,
prone to mishaps from which friendships have grown,
but this is a commercial to be your monies new home,
yet with all of these words our policy's unknown.
We rhyme the rhyme and say anything,
but we do not say what we are selling,
we ramble on like with this poem,
la diddy da, I'm "scoffed" for a swim.
Nationwide adverts cost millions,
winning over 14 million opinions.
Nationwide since 1884,
but what we are selling,
we are not sure.
NATIONWIDE
My soul achs, my heart hurts, and my eyes begin filling with tears, as I have watched the space between us grow over the last two years. Don't you here my spirite as it screams out for you, for your touch, for your love, can't you see I am falling like the stars fall from above. Don't you even notice I'm dieing inside can't you here the pain in the tears that I have cried. The need to feel wanted by you is controlling me now and even if I could stop it I wouldn't know how. Not without you, without your help, without your touch, why can't you see that I love you that much. Its killing me inside with the passing of each day and your the only one that can take this pain away. Your the only one witn the power to save me, weather you like it or not I need you baby.
The horror of Covid dead bodies pile up in the grass,
they died alone and now my growing is disturbed;
bury them deep, so I, the grass can grow over them.
When I am done they will be out of sight, forgotten,
but, I pray some will remember and bring flowers;
to lay in my new grown green grass.
I welcome the rabbits, the squirrels, birds and chipmunks;
for they love being in the grass, that I am.
Yes, I am cemetery grass,
and I have a job to do!
______________________
March 20, 2023
Poetry/Personification/I Am Grass
Copyright Protected, ID 03-1532-771-20
All Rights Reserved, 2023, Constance La France
Written for the Standard contest, In The Grass
sponsor, Anthony Biaanco, Judged 05/30/2023
the orchestra keeps on playing
in the stillness of these violet nights
silhouetted in the waning gardens.
it goes on like the infinite inner gale
as weeds grow over my doorless house.
cold shards of the dying empire;
the geometry of the labyrinth;
shipwrecks of my fringe aspirations;
visions of faraway misgivings;
– a smile yet unsmiled, a life once lived,
I’m longing for the other self
I could have been.
ebb away along the graveyard benches
along the sphinxes and stagnant pools
torpid and lost in the sleep alleys.
precise as a clockwork wish collector
one day I’ll abandon the boat
atone the malaise of my black flora.
dethroned & desolate;
splintered among the poets of doom;
a dreary descent into vanity;
I’m weary like a horse running backwards.
still guilty of a victimless crime,
possessed & embittered
by the mystics of misfortune.
there’s no escape from the prison I’ve built
from prodigious lands of dead elegance
and the fatigue of this death fixation.
I’ll try to stay unmoved, hermetic
walk side by side with dusks and mists
live in my own sordid place of beauty;
the destiny is the voyage itself,
the child lived for one fine sunny day.
In the silence of your mind,
thoughts overflow like your cup is running over
But you stay strong and confident like a soldier.
In the face of treat, you hold your composure.
Cold shoulder, pain that's in the eyes of the beholder.
Blockage to your heart, being protected by a boulder.
A mockingbird that's never been killed
It pours on this end, like when hearing the funeral bells
Like May, June rain every day it fall.
A philosopher in the making,
Something like Plato in his prime.
Or Shakespeare one of a kind.
You stay on your grind for the blessings to grow over time
Stay through to your nature
Like being in your natural habitat.
Mother's words hit harder now that you're older
Like yesterday to today now having to look over your shoulder.
They mistake kindness for weakness
Timid for scared
Helping out for being ordered around
That's the type of stigma when you're young.
When it rains, it pours over here
Blessings in abundance
Bless beyond years of hardship
Like the titanic but this ship won't sink.
Thinking about it and complaining about it at the same time
I'm one in the making like Walther Rodney
These steady strong bones was meant to brake wave
Like Mark Anthony I'm the definition of brave.
Plant a seed of hope, courage,
strength, patience and love
Dig a big hole in the garden of your thoughts
Cover well with soil of fertility
My garden philosophy is
to make the garden simple, practical,
nice, lush and beautiful
in collaboration with nature
A garden that will grow over time
Water it from the source of satisfaction
I choose to have several types of flowers
Marguerites, Lobelia, Scabious,
Rosemary, Foxgloves, Petunia and Chives
The best flowers for bumblebees
plants rich in pollen and nectar
When you focus on the possibilities,
you will only get even more opportunities
In return you will get unprecedented
amounts of happiness and peace
Some of the most annoying I know
are the days when daydreaming
constantly being interrupted
while I climb my ladder
... one step at a time
My garden is my temple
30/07/2020
Sun :) - A-L Andresen :)
Copyright © All Rights Reserved
Poetry Contest
Petal, buds, blossoms, bees, birds, butterflies
Sponsored by: Silent One
2nd place in the contest
- a fictional poem :)
(This poem is partially true)
My friend put a radiator hose in his pants and people thought he was well-
endowed.
He seemed to grow over night and women wondered how.
He appeared to have a very big johnson and this was what many women
believed.
But the ladies raised hell when they learned that they were being deceived.
He had women chasing him because they wanted to get him in the sack.
But a man came and told my friend that he wanted his radiator hose back.
When he pulled it out of his pants, the ladies attacked him.
They were really pissed because he didn't have what attracted them.
In reality his ***** was only two inches long.
After they beat the crap out of him, they cut off his tiny schlong.
One of his attackers said he deserved what he got and most of the women agree.
Now my friend has to sit on the toilet when he pees.
Form:
Seasons change
New life blossoms
New Beggings
Sure to come
However Stains of the past carry on
The grip of racism
Yet to let go
Historical tragedies
Come and gone
But one remains timeless and strong
Discrimination of a certain colour
Hate towards black people
Yes seasons change
New mindsets born
A system so flawed
Has yet to be updated
Houses destroyed to be rebuilt
Roads stained by blood
Replaced with new pavements
Streets cleaned with bleach that lingers
Now stays the remnants of erasure
Black history buried under a new dawn
Now flowers grow over dead ones
Symbolises eradication
Of black lives victim to oppression
Change is good
Change is different
But most of all beneficial
To the survival of an ever progressing world
But the past a damp that causes mold
One that stays in the shadows of trauma
One that can cause the world's downfall
Especially if the world survival
Depends on black labour
Knowing it could crumble with the weight of us gone
When the existence of life
And a hope for a better future
Depends on the existence of black people
Why are we subject to racial torture
One must think are they the problem
Or is it the pride and ego
Living within the oppressors
(Poem included in the Poems of Yosemite chapbook.)
Ineffable –
Still, I write these lines
trite.
A scaffold of words
which whence removed
casts only a silence
of long shadows.
To you, the paradigm
of living time,
I write ephemeral
wordless words.
You say nothing
though the wind wafts
words which speak
beyond words to each.
The sound of wind
continues in the stillness
and reaches into
the logos which
spells the visitors
deeper than these.
You speak centuries –
the entire time
of our adolescence –
when you’ve watched
as we wrestle with
the worst of nature.
You were made for fire
and your cambium grows
thick bark and fibers
over the scars.
Does too our tissue
grow over scars?
Wars, devastations?
Will these as well clear
the understory?
But you don’t create fire
you endure it.
Is that the difference?
This is your nature,
share and compare us ours.
We see your exposed rings
and the markers
telling us which ring
belongs to Christ
and the Inquisition.
I see my ring
but not the current
as only the living
scribe those rings
and they are being written.
Poetry overcomes time
and endows the ephemeral
with permanence.
Your permanence
is presence and in
this silence of time
the visitors sense
then understand –
they’ve come not to see you
but themselves.
The Statue at the Crossroads of Cloud
We were frightened, two candles left standing in a southern wind,
we wept with tears of resin that washed nothing clean beneath the sky,
and stillness ran straight through us like water through a golden sieve,
while the road dissolved under our feet like the wax of a lonely dream.
You stood there humbled before a wave the moon had melted down,
a wave that had forgotten its own shore, a horse without its snow,
you were harsh with yourself, both the judge and the jailhouse at once,
and you caved in at the foundations like an altar bitten by ivy.
Yet still you kept trying to come, the way rain keeps looking for the sea,
with your footsteps of gentle ash on the staircases of the dream,
and I tore loose from the absurd unraveling like a bird
that flies with its own wing in its mouth — I left without ever leaving.
We both stayed on as a statue, two trees grown out of silence,
our roots braided together beneath a bridge that never was,
love unfulfilled, bread held in the hand until it turned to frost,
two voiceless lovers at the crossing of an old wayside stop.
That is how the tender love ended, struck by the thorn of the years,
by the winds that snap the mast clean off before the storm arrives,
by our staying far too long at that crossroads made of cloud,
where the last definitions of love ripened into bitter fruit.
What remains is glossy disillusion and long arcades of shiver,
forgettings that grow over our faces like moss on a cold stone,
and longing — a lantern burning in a house abandoned long ago,
burning in tears and in dreams, for a guest who is never coming.