Long Hold water Poems
Long Hold water Poems. Below are the most popular long Hold water by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Hold water poems by poem length and keyword.
Clouds
Cumulous, dense, fluffy, gorgeous
Clouds
Profuse, passionate, powerful,
Poetic black and white
Intensely desirous like the light for the cave
Or the river from the mountain on the valley
Though black, gray and white near the shore
Deep inside the core
Ripe crimson lore of tomato like hunger
Waiting and counting down the minutes
And the counting hastens
Too impatient to hold water
Very seldom we can do
We all love the dew
In a diversity of hue
But still biding its time as I saw them
The clouds
Dense, dark and delighted
Biding its time
For the sun to go out
Enabling the concentrated vapors to darken
For the thunderous collapse
In a purple plunge down
On the starving earth
Inside its curious caves and crescents
In tempest and tornadoes
Beautifully blooming blows
All windows open
The brimming dam broken
Buddha smiles
At the existential styles
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23/02/2017 Word count – 148 as checked at howmanysyllables.com
For the contest: Any Free Verse 150 words or less: Sponsored by:
Laura Loo
After Kindy
little kids
wait with mums
at the big kids’ school:
Chat-time,
there and back time;
big-tree shade,
dust and long leaves,
water in cages –
shiny bubblers,
hot black play-ground,
bench-seats
low down.
Liz is back and sobbing,
Mum says, ‘What’s the matter?
Wipe the tears.
Blow the nose.’
‘I can’t hold water,’ Lizzie cries.
‘We’re making mud,’ says Bella.
‘Oh,’ says Lizzie’s Mum.
‘Oh,’ says Bella’s Mum.
The mums frown.
‘You have to put water
in your mouth,’ says Liz.
‘And spit it,
on the dirt,’ says Bella.
‘Oh,’ say the mums.
Mums don’t make magic
in play-ground dust.
Kids do.
Drips of water
from their mouths:
dust kicking
water strings,
mixed up
with fingers
into mud
with gumnut people
jumping in,
and leaf crocodiles
snapping.
I have sinned, friend.
But my sin is not a God
To smother my Divinity.
Innate, alive
God writhes within me,
A burning fire
A tripartite light.
How low I sank
I may not tell
But in the muddy
Fires of Hell
Is not my destination.
I drank from an evil cup
And yet
God took me to his bosom
And I Am transfigured.
Me, a Sinner.
A broken piece of pottery
That can no more
Hold water
And yet
He mendeth it
And makes it His Abode
Now what GOD
Would live in a broken teapot?
Nay, MENDED!
The God of very Gods,
The Son of Suns.
Behold He is I Am
And I Am
Is alive forevermore within me
He shall yet win his way through my Heart,
And I will be alive in HIM
Forever.
SELAH!
stepping
I skid
to my lips
I sip
on my boat
I skip
from my arms
I drip
I dive through
I zip
my hands grasp
I slip
bucket with leak
won't fill
my story
doesn't hold water
truth that's weak
leaks out.
water like time,
slips, slides away, can't be held
makes its way through cracks.
with drips and drops
it wears away a stone.
wily water has a will of its own
its goes where it wants to.
you need water most
when its gone
when the well is dry
you'll know
how much its worth
when it slips, slides,
flows away
with its drips and drops
relentless
singing along
with time's
ticks and tocks,
counting and
wearing away at life.
I am the wrench in the clockwork,
a tiny twist in the gears of a universe
too vast to notice my pinch,
yet enough to reroute the cascade—
leverage, a quiet conspiracy of small forces.
Like a catapult built from old regrets,
I launch myself over gravity’s grumble,
where time folds like origami cranes—
folds that hide the sharp edges of loss,
each crease a fulcrum point for flight.
Leverage is the sly magician’s hand,
lifting an elephant with a feather,
trading the impossible for a wink—
an alchemist turning doubts into leverage,
transmuting weight into possibility.
I am the offbeat rhythm in a symphony of cogs,
the marginal note that shifts the meaning,
the whispered nudge beneath the thunder—
the pivot that tilts the scale,
turning imbalance into dance.
Leverage is the secret recipe in a shared meal—
a pinch of kindness, a spoonful of patience,
the subtle tilt that makes a cracked cup hold water,
the thread pulled to unravel a knot
that’s strangled days into silence.
It’s the crooked key that fits no lock,
the sideways glance that shifts a stubborn heart,
the small word spoken at just the right moment,
a lever pressed lightly beneath the weight of worlds.
When the world demands a lever long enough
to shift the mountains inside my chest,
I build it from moments others discard—
a stack of fractured promises,
a hinge forged from stubborn hope.
Leverage is not brute strength;
it’s the art of bending without breaking,
of finding the fulcrum in chaos,
a crooked smile in the face of fate,
a quiet power, slight but unrelenting—
the subtle architecture of change.
It’s in the way a whispered apology
loosens the bolts of bitterness,
the way a single seed, planted in cracked soil,
can uproot the wilderness of despair—
leverage is the unseen hand,
the small lever
that pulls a life
out of the shadows.
Who will then stand for the people?
When the ones who once did are now for sale,
their voices auctioned to the highest bidder,
their spines traded for suits and silver.
Who is not allergic to bribery?
Who has not tasted the honey of compromise?
The rulers sit on thrones and rule,
while the leaders are gagged, bought, and shelved.
Who will speak for those whose tongues are tied by hunger?
Who will fight for the hands too tired to lift a stone?
We are all inheritors of bloodline sins —
wounds we did not carve, but still bleed from.
We pray for a serving hand from Heaven,
while on earth the rich compound their riches
and the poor compound their sorrows.
The gap widens like a grave.
The world is staged.
A theater of plastic smiles and rehearsed compassion.
Heartlessness is their uniform.
Cruelty is their crest.
Wolves in sheep’s clothing,
preaching heaven with one mouth,
fastening a yoke around your neck with the other,
paving a highway to hell and calling it progress.
Empty promises fall like confetti.
“Money is the root of all evil,” they said.
I thought it was just a proverb to blame.
Now I see it walk, talk, and govern.
Does “No pain, no gain” still hold water?
Or has pain become the only currency we own?
We are mentally colonized.
Our dreams are locked behind glass we cannot break.
We are told not to dream anymore.
So we watch.
We shut our mouths.
Because to speak is to disappear.
And only God knows…
Only God knows who will then stand for the people.
So let the one with eyes, see.
Let the one with a spine, rise.
Before silence becomes our inheritance,
and the people have no one left to stand.
Science and Religion
Some ask, “Why do you waste your time on religious matters?
When it’s obvious, science is the answer.”
After countless hours, I realize the theories
Are like sieves and will not hold water.
I do not blame the scientists, who attempt to explain
The universe logically or the evolution of life
With evidence gathered.
It is these so-called “intelligentsia” who distort the facts
With fabrications and then propagate the lies to replace the truth.
This suits their narrative, the fools!
Science is rational, armed with data to analyze existence,
Whereas religion quenches the souls of human beings.
I, too, want my name in a history book,
But not as an idiot.
Line of inquiry:
“Betwixt two thoughts there is a gap
No illusions therein entrap
In the time stretched pause we then see
Ego craving is a mousetrap.”
Pause of Polarity Interchange
We build our own mousetrap
Don’t be a sap
We even hide the cheese
And then we freeze
Amazing maze with walls
Dangerous falls
We can run a distance
With persistence
Tummies groan for cheddar
Time I fed her
But she doesn’t hold water
Ego got her
Parenthesis, a hold
Don’t get too old
Before finding way out
Follow the route
Cheddar never mattered
Only flattered
Better sustenance found
When you rebound
One of you will say to me: “Then why does God still blame us? For who is able to resist his will?” But who are you, a human being, to talk back to God? “Shall what is formed say to the one who formed it, ‘Why did you make me like this?’ ” Does not the potter have the right to make out of the same lump of clay some pottery for special purposes and some for common use?
Romans 9:19?-?21 NIV
If the temperature is too low, the clay will crumble. But if it's too hot, the outside will fuse and burn before the centre of the clay is cooked through. While baking, the clay should cure evenly throughout and turn into a hard plastic.
From the dust we were formed
Like it or not it's not our creation
We are just here in this world
The clay cup in its blindness
Says ,why was I not the bowl
The bowl says why was I not a cup
It's the same clay for different purposes
But both are formed to hold water within
The potter is the master creator
With His hands molding one
Then placed in the fire to purify
Into a finished product
Only He can fill the cup or bowl
With His purified water
The main goal of both is
To allow the clean water
To clean the inside of it
In hope the cup or bowl
Is made acceptable for it's use
The cup or bowl can not
Make themselves useful by own works
They know not the source
But only through the process
Of the creator shall one be made acceptable
That He might put one up on His shelf
To remain in His kingdom
As a finished product of His purpose
Things happen to me
in ways i cant explain them,
It sometimes tears me up inside
Something insane to common men
But still my faith is there, like it has always been
God granted me power beyond measures...
At times...It seems to much to treasure
Seeking out love
Cus thats how inside i do survive
Rain that pours
The drops fall
And i cant ignore
The feelings it makes me explore
My emotions are like this cycle
It fills up til it cant hold water anymore
Showing me how i am
Inside im wounded in war
The battle of spirits and with it i draw my sword
Someday,
My own spirit shall forge a steel worthy of a lord
Until then, i share these stories of internal War
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