Long Haste Poems
Long Haste Poems. Below are the most popular long Haste by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Haste poems by poem length and keyword.
Did you just look upon my chubby face?
And thought let’s give her a chase
She is just a fragile flower in a vase
Let’s give her a taste of being waste
Just don’t try to execute your plans in haste
Cause you haven't seen me in my natural state.
Did you just see my five foot frame?
And thought let us frame her for shame
Oh! She is excellent at the loosing game
Well if you don't change your ways
You better start counting your days
Alas! You haven't known me always.
Don't you dare wake the monster in me again!
My neurons are fighting like gangster in my brain
Many a heroes I have slain
I will blow you like the husk of the grain
You better take your hands of my lane
Or you will be fighting the devil in vain
You have seen only the smile I have worn
Not the heart festered in stone
The moment I was thrown into school zone
Cannot tether two letters together, my brain torn
I was scorned, could hear people moan
But at last adorned the academic throne
Oh soon they took shots at my looks
And bullied me with their mean hooks
They were just entries in my joke books
Soon bested them at their own game
But regretted the girl I became
And gave up that lame game
My decision might go on a hiatus
So beware of your current status
Don't you dare wake the monster in me again?
My neurons are fighting like gangster in my brain
Many a heroes I have slain
I will blow you like the husk of the grain
You better take your hands of my lane
Or you will be fighting the devil in vain
Cause I am practically insane
Two cats yowling and screaming
Facing each other neither submitting
Staring and hissing, tails rapid flicking
Warnings signs of impending butt kicking
Tufts of loose fur flew through the air
Two territorial felines, a vicious fight flare
Exposing retractile, razor sharp claws
Penetrating bites - flesh torn by their jaws
They stop for a moment to gather some strength
New positions held with a guarded new length
Ears flattened down - body arch pose
Poised for new battle, next swipe to their nose
What seemed like hours this fight carried on
Neither was yielding both screaming cats song
Someone shouted and gave them some chase
Startling both cats whom scattered post haste
Silence now golden no sound could be heard
Not even a mouse or hoot of owl bird
When suddenly screeching echoed nights air
Two foxes mate calling - a date flirting pair.
30.08.21
'Twas two old men from Greece, is said;
Who sold two bottles of potion.
One was logic, pure and simple-
The other was pure emotion.
What bitter rivals they were
Both persuasive in their way,
Each believed his potion best-
The battle would often sway:
"Mine is more refined,
And truth the only good;
While mine can be explained,
Emotion never could."
To which the other replied:
"Not everyone's a scholar,
Not everyone is golden.
When men do not understand,
They simply do not listen."
"Truth is not the only good,
And be my end as just-
To arouse and quell emotion,
Is an effective leader's must."
To which the other replied:
"But what of the damage done
By the hands of one unjust?
Manipulating men like beasts,
And trained by you, I trust?"
"Men must learn to reason;
To know the truth of things,
To think only rationally,
To envision the good it brings."
To which the other replied:
"Life without emotion
Is a sorry end, indeed!
A tasteless life of logic
Would surely end our breed."
"Emotion may not rule you,
If logic be your boast.
Yet, to taste the taste of life-
Emotion is your host."
The two old men from Greece, is said;
Had soonafter passed away.
Neither had conquered the other-
Both potions were here to stay.
'Twas a second generation pupil,
Of the logician I might note;
Drew swallows from both potions,
And this is what he wrote;
"Logic pure and simple
Is good for you, 'tis true.
Yet, this one has no taste;
'Tis hard to swallow, too."
"The other, pure emotion,
Is pleasing to the taste;
And I cannot explain why-
I downed it in such haste."
The pupil then concluded,
"Neither one should stand alone."
He proceeded with a mixture
Of thoughts he wanted shown.
"Three parts of the logic,
To one of emotion.
For logic is the greater good-
Emotion is the motion."
He tasted from his potion,
A taste both common and good.
As emotion related to reason,
The logic was understood.
His potion stands the test of time,
Only fools put down his bottle,
Thoughts are better balanced-
When you drink from Aristotle.
Two hearts once beat as one in time..
Their voices sang a perfect rhyme.
Each thought, each breath, a mirrored tune..
They danced beneath the silver moon.
But she, in love’s unsteady hand..
Had strayed and broken what was planned.
A choice she made, a wound so deep..
That left him standing, torn and steeped.
He couldn’t see the shattered light..
Though she had begged and cried all night.
For every wrong he'd ever done..
She forgave him.. he, though, was none.
Her tears fell soft, a desperate plea..
"I’ve failed, but still, I beg you see..
I’ve wronged you, yes, but love still stays..
Forgive me, please, through darker days."
But he, with heart in shards and stone..
Could not forgive what she had known.
A rift grew wide, too sharp to mend..
A bitter grief he couldn't end.
So, they parted.. silent, broken..
Two souls, once bound, now words unspoken.
Her heart, though torn, still loved him true..
But in his eyes, that love withdrew.
Through years that passed, her soul would ache..
A heavy weight, a lasting break.
For all the pain she'd caused in haste..
And yet, in silence, love she'd chased.
But fate, with mercy, takes its toll..
And promises restore the soul.
In future lives, their hearts will mend..
And he will find it in the end.
For love like theirs, though torn apart..
Is woven deep within the heart.
In silent years, through lives they’ll roam..
Two souls will find their way back home.
There is a lot of responsibility for a shortstop.
Many times, I field the ball on the hop.
As sure as I breathe and am alive,
I often have to snare a hard line drive.
I become a catalyst for a double play.
We must keep the opponents from scoring and save the day.
I field the ball up the middle and throw to first base.
There is no time to think, but react in haste.
To get the runner out, I have no time to waste.
I must get the ball to first with a strong arm.
That way, I can protect our lead from harm.
I must be the team’s wizard with the glove.
It is hard work, but a labor of love.
I lead my team out on the field each day.
When it comes to winning, I must always find a way.
Feet still ache and shoulders are sore,
From the labors this night that they bore.
And still, a smile must they show,
To those who come to this abode.
With diligence and steady hand,
Orders are taken by others' command.
So to the fry of a kitchen hot,
They carry the message of who ordered what.
Then, again, they look for people anew,
Who come for service, food, and perhaps a brew.
When the fare is prepared, the kitchen bell will ring,
To beckon them to serve, as they dance with haste to answer its ring.
They wait to serve, then serve and wait,
They are at each customer's beckoning.
They smile to even the rudest ones,
And silently pray there be a reckoning.
So wait they will and wait they must,
Good service...and a smile upon their lips.
You can broaden their smiles at meals end,
Be generous with your tips!
Line of Inquiry: We look at spirit not at form. Our touch is gentle, kind and warm. We but reflect God’s love and light. ‘Tis the path to which we conform.
She stood beside the crosswalk in the rain,
her coat drenched, her gaze turned toward the ground;
I almost passed, weighed down by my own haste.
But something in the storm—perhaps its whispered strain~
unveiled her spirit like a lantern found,
a quiet glow no weather could erase.
I offered her my umbrella, small and slight,
and in her lifted eyes dawn broke anew~
a warmth that mirrored God’s unbidden grace.
Thus kindness shaped the path my heart pursued,
teaching me form is shadow, spirit light.
What am I doing?,
the strength of a real poet is to speak truth through words but most words I cannot pronounce,
I struggle to recite my poems out loud,
i realise i have misspelt as I proceed to read so i stop to correct my writings but by then my words have already lost its magic,
I do not know whether to end with a full stop or comma so i keep writing placing punctuations as I please, one blunder after the other,
who cares anyways, they will all go to waste.
I haven't picked up phone to write in days,
I blame it on a hopeless presence but those are all excuses,
it isn't writers block because the ideas don't cease to come,
I'm afraid all my plans are just mere micro naps,
i say i am wide awake and focused but as for my future i fear i hallucinate.
i tell myself i will not live like this forever, they will all see me, notice me,
i saw a friend today and it reminded me how much my life is a waste and i might do the world a favour and leave in a haste,
and of death I am not scared, I am more frightened that I shall be a living dead,
my heart beating in a way it does not deserve to,
walking amongst the living like one of them, eating and breathing,
I do not deserve this luxuries,if they do not see me,
if they do not worship me.
I refused to be put in a box and as for this poem there is no form,
receive it as you please and let it speak to you,
let it flow through you,
I do not desire you sympathy,
do not support because you believe you know what I have been through,
this is not a cry for help but a warning,
I am here to learn and observe ,
so when its time for the game there is no denying my checkmate.
Form:
THE HUNT
Ferocious cunning carnivores
hunt helpless harmless herbivores
Slaughter of prey with tooth, paw, claw:
Cruel brutal ruthless Nature’s Law
Wild beast being ready to attack direct,
Tail and skin-hairs stand upright erect.
Odor of predator spreads to relay
news reaching olfactory cells of prey.
Instantly starts rigorous race of life and death.
God knows prey will flee or take last breath.
Taking in grip the predator makes no haste.
It roars howls frightens the prey at best.
The victim shivers and turns almost half dead.
The fierce kills the timid mercilessly at the end.
10/30/16
THE HUNT Contest by Casarah Nance
Whirling through torpedoes of sound,
spinning and tailing its way like Raphael to earth,
shoots some uninstantaneous ether:
the impermeable myelin of true experience.
The soul—the richest treasure chest ever found;
creating, disseminating, revealing, glimmering, alluring.
Rawest sense material pinging in gold-tipped purls of rose-furls:
stroking the ears as gently as a brook,
yet roaring with the might of an ocean-river undammed,
with strength enough to loose the captives.
Dance—that vital union of impulse and excursus,
Funnelling to earth to free the heart with unspeakable words.
Beauty will save the world, said a great Russian writer:
But how does that matter unless it first save our souls?
Wending, winking, welding walls of splendor; almighty proportions,
austere glory of Euclidean quintessence,
draining, distilling, disgorging life's elixir into a jet-black pearl
suspended in honey-dew drops:
Then the peak of the ascent and the plummet back to the globe of the touched;
yet refusing to leave us untouched.
Surely there is more to what there is than whatever we wish it to be,
Yet the continuum plunges on in measured oar-strokes,
to reach in all haste that prized and glistering and all-consuming whole;
Unfilched fire of sparks and symmetries to wound the soul with terror
Of the known but not realized:
After all that, we arrive at the beginning,
and let our sails be billowed with burnished breezes.