Long Here and now Poems
Long Here and now Poems. Below are the most popular long Here and now by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Here and now poems by poem length and keyword.
Run across the fair fields, as fast as you can run, the fields your grandmother ran as a young girl,
Over long lush dark green grasses, whipping your knees, soft spongy turf springs each new step,
To stop where fast flowing streams rush and dance to the wind, a sweat breaking out on your face,
All out of breath kneeling by the bank of a brook, a stitch in your side, corn waves like a gentle sea.
By the brook with childhood friends enjoying sweet company watching spring as her beauty unfolds,
To walk across wet water mead’s, seeing glades in their finest clothes, to a meadow, in full flower,
Rolling in grass making camps sitting legs crossed as warm summer breezes temper-sweating brows,
Making sure you sit next to the one you care for most, nothing will be as good as this day ever again.
Playing in the meadows where your grandmother played, picking daisies, making very long chains,
Holding buttercups up to chins to see if they shine, then laughing, shouting out loud when they do.
Playing kiss chase, slightly slowing down, when the one you want to be kissed by is chasing you,
Under old pear blossom trees, flushed rosy red cheeks sitting next the one who is your first love.
Laying in high grass chin in cupped hands, it is so special this lovely day will be yours for all time,
Just staring at friends, full of innocence and so happy, this romantic time can never be repeated,
Unplanned moments where beautiful things just happen it’s your youth just enjoy the here and now,
Where everything is brighter has more colour, smells from the meadows become a memory for life.
Laying on your back staring at turquoise watery skies, listening to the silence, a perfect sunny day,
Heaths meeting small woods surrounded by greenest carpets only seen by a child’s pure innocence,
Give your heart and soul to this day enjoy natures gifts, your end of days will recall these moments,
Falling asleep in the December of your life, this last dream your friends will be there waiting for you.
So gather these thoughts, tie them up in a bow, put them safely in a corner of yesterday’s thoughts,
And walk again with your dear young friends in those happy times golden hair fluttering in the breeze,
Back to days of cotton dresses and turned-up jeans with baggy shirts, nobody noticed or even cared,
Hold your sweethearts hand once again and run across the fair fields where your grandmother ran.
...He walked up and kissed her head so softly,
then said, “Good news, I’m off for the next few weeks.”
She said, “Mmm…and I’m betting that you’re are
thinking of all that you will do to me.”
He smirked, and said,”Well it has crossed my mind.”
She said, “I must work, but we will make the time…”
And they did enjoy that time together,
they went to dinner, took walks, and made love,
Cormack so enjoyed these little reprieves
from his chosen life, so brutal and rough.
Some days he thought it very hard to beat
lazing on the couch and rubbing her feet.
But good times are good because they can’t last,
eventually a new call did come in,
he told Christie he had to go away
for a sales trip, he shared no details grim.
She said, “It’s fine, I must travel as well,
to visit my brother, who’s going through hell.”
They said their goodbyes, Cormack went to work,
the patriarch’s gave him a new target,
a serial killer near Topeka,
“We’re not sure, but we think he’s a good bet.”
They told him as they slipped him a file,
he frowned, thinking this might take a while.
The drive took two days, but Cormack got there,
in a rented house he set up his gear,
see Nephilim left some strange energy
at any location where they appeared.
An electric charge from their angel kin,
unique to their kind, so Cormack did begin.
This was the boring part of the hunting,
walking the streets with a heavy backpack,
inside a device reading the energy,
hoping to pick up residual tracks.
He started near the sites of the fell crimes,
traces of a Nephilim he soon did find.
For days he looked for patterns in the readings,
using the data to triangulate,
narrowed it down to a three block circle,
armed himself and went to investigate.
The device went wild as he drew near,
he wondered if two Nephilim were here.
He heard a commotion from a warehouse,
not uncommon in a bad part of town,
he heard an angel voice and painful moan,
and knew something awful was going down.
He slipped inside and heard a voice proclaim,
“When the hunter shows up, you’ll get the blame!”
Cormack stepped out and lifted his pistol,
he said, “Or I’ll just kill you both here and now.”
The bigger man jolted as he appeared,
then his eyes glowed, and he bellowed out loud.
He then then himself into a mad charge,
but Cormack’s gun spoke before he got far...
CONTINUES IN PART III.
Late night summons madmen,
madams, bold streetwalkers,
picking pennies from the gutters
as the merchants close their shutters
and the homeless crouch in doorways
in their rags, against the cold.
Black or white, no compromise,
no colours clothe the empty streets,
as Bobbies tread their lonely beats,
the watchmen rub their crusted eyes
and settle into vigilance,
no accident, just circumstance.
Midnight passes.
Leila in her bursting bodice
lingers, guesses who I am
and flaunts her body, all the same
to her, a customer who'll pay
for twenty minutes' satisfaction.
Dressed in taffeta and lace
she'll never even see my face,
night's sweet anonymity,
the very definition of her name.
Later, as the moonbeams shift,
and cloudlines disappear and drift,
come images in stark relief
of twisted metals magnified
that catch the eye, suspend belief.
Abandoned building, hollow-eyed
and squinting in a death mask grip,
skeletal, once filled with pride,
now empty, and for ever tongue-tied,
cadavered, and condemned to drip.
Still later, the street-lamps spot
the cats a'creeping worldly-wise,
and rats along the quayside waiting,
ready for the avalanche
of waste into the yawning dumpsters.
I have seen the children sneaking out
before the dawn comes crawling,
dirty little ragamuffins forced
into leftover clothes,
weepy-eyed and snotty-nosed,
playing with a rotting carcass
or a broken bicycle.
Pre-dawn, and the street-lamp sputters,
merchants come to raise their shutters,
regard the fading moon, and mutter,
'yet another day.'
Begone, O Bride of Midnight!
favour us with not another glance,
put your spells away,
you'll not lead us in our daily dance.
Behold a wrinkled substitute,
a crone who likes to think that she's a queen;
with as much grace as she can muster,
she flusters, fidgets, lonely in her room,
feathered and be-furbelowed
and plays with her decolletage,
she's mutton dressed as lamb.
The smell of stale tobacco
and a whiff of old perfume,
no longer with her entourage
she dances out of rhythm to the tango,
rusty and unconstituted,
wraith-like, a phantom in her tomb.
At twenty past I'm home at last,
the brass plate spells my name;
come inside!
familiar and gratifying,
slippers by my bed still lying,
dressing gown and cap are crying,
here abide!
The sheets are turned and ready.
I leave the night and take a final bow,
grateful for the here and now.
Once our land stretched from coast to coast
and the drums of the people beat proud
we were mighty and we were strong
we were happy . . .
then the white came to our shores
they thought our land was theirs to take
they called it Canada
they brought disease unknown to us
when we fought for what was ours they killed us
and we killed to . . .
we were a savage people true and skilled at death
many of our chiefs were tricked to come in peace
many of our chiefs were hung . . .
they called this justice
the whites stole our land and our way of life
they massacred the buffalo and bear only for their fur
and left their rotting bodies and we wept for them
the ancestors of our people fly with the eagles
drifting and falling on the wind
their cry is our cry . . .
we were herded into reservations like cattle
starved into submission and left a broken people
and they called this justice
but in each of us burns a fire bright that can never die
in each of us is a strength and courage
a tranquility and serenity
we accept the past as the white acknowledge the wrongs
and the Prime Minister of Canada
is trying to say sorry
with tears he apologizes to the people for
the hangings
the killing of our people
the stealing of our land
the 1960 scoop of our children
the residential schools of abuse
the highway of tears that goes on and on
yet, the social injustice to the people is still present today
when they steal the land we have left
for pipelines, and other projects without our agreement
we want to keep our lands pristine for wildlife
we do not want polluted water where the fish die
some of us are living in third world conditions still
with no water, electricity, heat . . . still on reservations
so you tell me where the justice is . . .
I am just a girl of the here and now but
but I hear the drums of my ancestors beating
in my heart . . .
_____________________
April 1, 2018
Poetry/Free Verse/They Call This Social Justice
Copyright Protected, ID 18- 1009-383-01
All Rights Reserved. Written Under Pseudonym.
Written for the contest, Social Justice
sponsor, John Hamilton
First Place
WHAT IS IT
I am thinking of you again
How many times? I cannot remember.
It still causes the same pain.
Burning in my chest, like a white steel ember.
It has been eating at my mind, it is a devastating cancer.
I am writing this now, even though… I still have no answer.
The other day, I tore up my room
In a childish fit of rage,… anger.
But that is not my strongest emotion.
I realized that, with a single tear. I wiped my eyes in shame,
I am not supposed to feel this way.
Although I did…do, I do.
I do feel this helpless pain.
I can always say to you, that we will be able to work it out.
But what is IT, this thing…..
This IT, that lovers, poets and friends talk about.
I have come to terms with this IT.
IT is us. Not our person’s, but our souls.
The two of us united, IT creates a separate entity, which lives and grows:
IT is our invisible bond,
But that is only an after effect.
IT is of dancing beauty,
A representative of our emotional elect,
Each of us selecting and giving,
To this glorious warmth, which is us,
Between us, dancing, soaring, forming something bigger than the both of us.
IT is the selected best,
These gifts we give each other, forever.
For even if we part,
IT will dance in our minds, eternally together,
IT is in me when I am down,
IT is what brings my head out from depression.
IT is what brings back my smile.
IT returns my passion, my life force, my obsession.
A feeling of greatness fills me,
A feeling so real, so powerful.
A deep heartfelt statement.
IT does not need to be worked out.
IT is stronger than any living self.
So, it should be said, that IT will be able to work us out,
Seeing that we are the unsteady ones.
And IT, our emotional creation, I will never doubt.
I am prepared to give every bit of friendship and energy I possess.
Jus t thinking of you, helps.
I enjoy the thoughts of us together.
I sought you not, for the here and now, and I have never believed in temporary
situations.
You are my completed self.
The whole of me, a wealth of joyous sensations.
My happiness is simply;
For you,
From you,
By you,
IT is you.
To end us, is to kill the most beautiful part of life, I have ever experienced.
And if IT dies, so does life, or at least IT will never be as beautiful, since.
Juan A. Rodriguez
Form:
The Coming…
(Mood Variations…)
The long hot summer yields to the arrival
of the cooling fall.
Despite the coming treat to survival
towering trees proudly stand firm and tall.
Sticky, sweaty, steamy nights
have now all gone;
giving way to the cool ebony breeze.
Horny frogs and crickets
no longer sing their eerie song;
squirrels organize
their cupboards in the trees;
and ivory towers grow on
graves of fall’s fallen leaves.
In the early evenings’ misty wine
sun of change set the close of day,
leaving hued shadows to sway
on the footprints of changing time.
The angels of the sky have flown far away;
leaving a strange peace to seek out another day
to find sanctuary in caverns of hope.
Seasoned lives prepare for what winter nature will send their way;
as echoes of rain mock the variations like a cruel joke.
Strange how nature’s circadian rhythms
bring about change: yet the more things change,
the more they stay in the same range.
No one saw the ambiguity of the coming strange schis
Dawn seemed to have struggled this morning---
Returning from her nocturnal journey,
She slowly stretched, yawned, and arose
To the appointed occasion
Sending dim, golden rays piercing through
Shades of lazy grey clouds
The whistling wind wails, whooshing through the trees
And winding around corners
Bring awakening alarms that hands cannot stop
Nor ears can ignore
The weight of sleep lifted; the window shades of dark orbs
Open to the set time
Oblivious to the exact moment of designed closure, only
Aware of the here and now;
Thanksgiving is offered for one more day of struggle:
To be free of the shackling mind games they play,
We prepare to fight another day.
Only God could have made this chosen day
We cherish
To teach the children the liberating way
That they not perish
In the ongoing struggle to be totally free
Culturally, politically---
And economically be.
Closing in on an all-time high, wars remain in vogue:
Peace has been vetoed
Military-industrial complexes are the nation’s money lode
There is no other road.
At the conference table, negotiations continue
To collect dust
And the compromise remains us.
I was chosen before my time.
Listen very close this is not just a rhyme.
My life was known before I was born yet,
Time had to come around the horn.
Now I am here with a job to do,
Part of my job is to watch over you.
Yes I am a keeper and I must be kept,
For another brother’s died while I have slept.
The poison metal pipes are going around,
Flowing in, flowing out and all around town.
Earning a day’s wages and still in need,
Then the poison metal pipes help kill a seed.
We’ve been accused for doing most of the wrong,
And if we’re not careful, we’ll believe all the long.
In the midst of it all, others round about me fall,
STILL, I am destined to answer my call.
My call is from above to both young and old,
So what I am telling you, I am only being told.
By one most know of, and they may know OF Him well,
But its not enough to know of,
THAT’S THE REASON WHY OTHERS FELL!!!
You see I owe you as a brother, and I owe Him as a Father
So I am here for Him, and there’s really no bother.
I will do what I’ve been destined to, this I know is right.
During the morning, during the evening, and into the night.
I’ve been called, picked out, with a mission ahead.
And if you don’t take heed, you may wind up dead.
You see, dead is being more than without a beat,
It is also being held under another’s feet.
Not thinking for yourself, influenced by the WRONG others,
Persuaded by some BOYS, and then, becoming mothers.
Not following the wisdom of our parents from old,
Not wanting to take heed to what we are told.
We are leaders by nature and
We can’t help this,
Still the way some of us are leading,
Others will never reach this bliss.
You can not be a leader less you have someone to follow,
But whom can you lead, the strong or the hollow.
We do not have long in this earthly place,
Yet its not about the color, the gender or the race.
Its about being a soldier and the chain of command,
The torch has now been put into my own hands.
You see they’re many torches, all in the hands of the same,
Strong minds, strong willed with the backup of
“THE NAME”
The end is soon to come so I must go now,
But you have already been chosen for right here and now.
You are the next leaders, I would give it some thought,
Because you have not only been “CHOSEN”, but;
You’ve also been
BOUGHT !!!
Form:
Humbly holding forth this bouquet of flowers
Within these sincere and love filled hands ~
Marked by lines that have defined themselves, through time....
The spectrum of colors across these pages, these shades
Endlessly, from black unto white; crossing these shadowed avenues
This maze, that many they have called life?
Never looking towards the left nor the right
Straight ahead, many of them say....
But what are these things unto myself, as I question them all now?
Shall I trade eternity in paradise, for this moment of sunlight, in life?
To let darkness' desires, forever steal this hope, from my soul? No!
I shall not entangle myself within these webs of sorrow....
For I have seen the face of pain, and have beheld its eternal grave
I have walked the highways, the byways, along these corridores of time
Viewing both joy and sorrow-profoundly so!
Grasping thorns while holding stems
Tasting, both bitter and sweetened wines
Yet realizing within the end, by mercies touch
That these shimmerings are merely mirages
Not worth the dust, from which they were exhumed; born
This black hole of souls starvation....
Skeletal bones of its aftermath, dangling upon its umbilical cord
Only to be severed, forever within its end!
But rather I shall hold these flowers, with hands, strengthened by "The Light" ~
Until the pages of life that we know, are folded and forever discarded away
For this is love, that I have come to know-passing winds, deepened breaths, lies....
"My Love" for you is not, encumbered by the here and now
Yet is always within my heart and sight-this different array of colors ~
A bouquet I have come to now see and to hold
A sweeter flower, this, Heavens true love and rose!
Within these humbled hands, softened, yet forged through the flaming fires, of truth....
Placing within one hand, this sharpened sword, meant only, for darkness' heart
And this is "Love," unto me now, to forever slay, this shadowed night!
For my love is eternal, and my soul by "Grace," is everlasting ~
A love that shall not wither by the sunrise, of tomorrows light....
This flower that shall endure, until the ends of time!
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
~ The Bouquet ~
Form:
I’ve heard lots of feminists say
we’d be better off without men,
they claim that they are just joking,
but say it again and again.
That we’re all of the world’s problems,
that we start all of the world’s wars,
the species would be much better
if we didn’t need men anymore.
The trend is for the feminine
to be exalted endlessly,
the masculine gets demonized,
Orwell-speak shields the misandry;
but I think all these flippant jibes
cover a fact few will admit,
if these feminists got their wish
the whole world would fast go to sh-t.
Now I know the obvious fact,
with men, no procreation,
which means that the whole species dies
within just one generation.
But lets get to the here and now,
to the world and how it must work,
without men out there doing there thing
society would go berzerk.
Most folk who chose to be pilots
do carry the y-chromosone,
so if they’re gone then kiss goodbye
the chance to travel far from home.
And most people building with steel,
or wood are of the manly type,
so don’t expect much to be built
if men are sent off into night.
Most people out in the hot sun
building roads are decidedly male,
so if you are the type who drives
without men you are bound to fail.
Who can forget all the farmers,
once again, most of them are guys,
if they're not there growing those crops
then millions of people will die.
Surgery and anesthesia
are dominated by the dudes,
so if they’re gone you better hope
nothing ever happens to you.
The police who chase criminals,
and use force to put them away...
mostly men, and without all them
scumbags would also rule the day.
The miners and the lumberjacks,
the truckers, and the soldiers strong,
the plumbers and electricians,
the list of it goes on and on…
Now some may say that without men
women would just do all of that,
but equal rights say otherwise,
and simply looking at the stats
shows women do not take these jobs,
despite all the hype about STEM,
when both sexes are free to chose
it still always fall to the men.
I think it’s time we all admit
that there’s evolution at play,
there’s things men are better geared for,
and it will always be that way.
If all the crazies got their wish,
and the ‘toxic’ males disappeared,
you all would be dead within months,
both sexes have roles to play here.
Ephemeral online moment...
Yours truly plagiarizes himself with zeal
courtesy mental cogs and rusty wheel,
thus no literary crime committed to steel
I broadcast material shown thru rickety
black and white Roman Times newsreel
forthwith shoddy wordplay exempts me
against copyright infringement meaning
only I own privilege to take self to heel,
nevertheless yours truly hoops longshot
to score brownie points a higher power,
I will not cajole, bribe nor appeal...
while sitting on haunches horsing around
contemplating how to clearly expound
idea that the here and now does not exist
cuz no sooner then present moment
experienced than bitta bing bitta bang...
little block of time immediately gone,
hence quite profound...
Whereby present, i.e.
2:24 PM March 4th, 2021
instantaneously becomes past.
Linkedin thru tenuous
webbed world wide
electronic thread defied
no matter flurry of emails/
messages exchanged flattery applied
courtesy transient online
tête à tête downside
cyber venue offers convenient exit
personal aversion, I chide
brevity figurative thorn in side
futile effort Androcles tried
I haint lion, familiarization denied
fledgling cyber acquaintanceships
dead on the vine, yours truly sighed
potential friendship never fortified,
cuz immediate value judgement cast,
instantaneously prejudiced aversion
perhaps hidden agenda implied
maybe intimated illusions of grandeur
netiquette nuances overstepped, I chide
yours truly vouchsafe
absolute zero great expectation
love smitten wounds pride,
the Italian girl in Algiers
inchoate mystique forever unknown
nonetheless fantasize bartered bride
figment of overactive imagination
hence grist for poetry mill
grateful fleeting rapport tried
to take flight before sputtering
doomed to dustbin of history (mine)
filed within memory as template guide
against future unnecessary disappointment
best stick to your guns abide
against infatuation lest
conjured lass doth override
focus on reality no matter who espied
Facebook post, tis foolhardy
to allow, enable, and provide leeway,
hence aimless thoughts elide
dear boy, ya never learned always denied
rapture becoming ensnared
noose sense and sensibility stride
ding blindly, dumbly, foolishly...,
into own perilous entrapment, verstehen?