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.
We opened a book that started with the name
of our country.
The right side was numbered corruptions and the other side was numbered greed & bad leaders.
We burnt the stride of our bodies into aches and dreams waving away fire and foliage of silence.
Women learnt to carry portrait of bodies of their dead children on their shoulders, beautiful corpse.
It reminded us of the civil war in front of our Father's betrayed house.
It reminded us of lyrics written on the walls of our Hut with a framed keys of memories.
Love that taught us to look back into our heart and draw current of men in their ignorance in search
of a better home than those bridges we burnt.
Things like the pains in the eyes of a boy,
Things like the tale on the lips of a girl,
Things like sadness in the soul of a mother painting the images of her lost children in prayers.
Those strange tears stranded between chapters of the smoke as they travelled to the lonely cloud,
With the echoes of our forefathers last libation
Like the voices trailing from a boy's name for the lost of his prestige.
There are things that we may not know that leave our footprints to our heart through the opening in our nostrils and ears.
In our land was where a boy once stood on the face of the sun, his shadow reflected on a mirror.
He saw his future carted away by his fears.
Lost girls found in his assaulted plights
Trying to find home in a shark's mouth.
They hold water from the oceans together basking their hope on the traffic of women holding their bodies and leaving their dead for survival.
We do not live in the moon!
We do not whisper to the wind of the song we
heard him sing every day!
Of things that come in white and black are
like our straying country weeping with the
images of the masses.
Like those corpses brought back to BENUE.
Those images are the images of darkness projected by a big screen of the sky to our eyes.
Our names burnt into different rivers holding different tribes that seek for freedom.
We wrecked our testimonies to bleed blood with flames to suffocating cities surrounded with pity.
Those things on white are the way we were built but the black demons corrupted us all leaving memories to sneak our hearts into dark places where mischievousness can take over us.
©John Chizoba Vincent
From_A_Pen_Refusing_Frustrations.
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.
This is the latest news about some enterprising individuals...
Making their reputations with a big bang while others slumber..
Presumably amateurs for they dabbled with fire crackers...
Theirs was an outrageous act of crime that was no laughing matter...
Their little stunt of exploding a Automatic Teller Machine or ATM..
Yielded cold hard cash of some cool RM70,000 from the exploded ATM..
It happened the wee early hours in some obscure little sleepy town ...
You can bet your last dollar that this little caper is now the talk of the town..
In the swirling aftermath of this crime, the local inhabitants had no idea..
Who were the criminals who smartly embarked on such a novel idea...
What an explosive way to withdraw money, illegal money galore...
A quick getaway in the wee early hours, none the wiser who they were...
Looks like the horse has flown the barn as the police hastened into action..
A little too late, the burglars have flown the coup and from retribution...
Only time will tell if this audacious criminal gang will be finally hauled in..
But the fact remains, they have made an instant fortune of RM70,000 all in...
Not a bad haul, a rather tidy sum in cold cash for the gang members...
Undoubtedly they will be splitting their ill gotten gains altogether....
As long as these gang members keep away from the long arm of the law ....
They will get to enjoy the spoils of their heist, until their funds run low...
Then it is time again for another such caper in some small town...
For there are numerous such cash dispensing machines all over town...
The maxim crime does not pay does not hold water for these criminals...
Very soon the local internet media will be abuzzed with their next haul...
http://www.thestar.com.my/news/nation/2016/05/11/robbers-blast-atm-escape-with-rm70000/
Poetry is much like a Great Photo,Capturing feelings and emotions of a single moment in
time;then preserving it for future history books.Next generation learns.
Hurricane Katrina gives a lesson.For the next generation of Americans.
"TAKE CARE OF BUSINESS, A STITCH IN TIME SAVES NINE."
Yet they live on as pictures in our minds of a moment of time,emotions unforgotten.
An act of Natures Forces cause great change in strangers lives. They become strangers
in a moment of time : next a single heartbeat of" family united to help each other's
survival." at no other time in history of the United States have American's seen such
devastation of humanity. Not from an act of terrorism,but the forces of Nature!
Water is needed for life to continue,but must be clean processed water.
Water that is contaminated is able to destroy the young and the old with bacteria.
Water and time can be stronger than a rock or levies that hold water back.
To see the devastation of New Orleans and the genocide of people being moved to other
states even lose of family members and family pets. This picture does not go away.
Here a year later the homes are not all rebuilt,the families not all united due to death
caused by the rising waters.
This Great Nation can survive! And Heal! One day at a time. One person at a time.
When the forces of nature act against the community. The American Volunteer in each of
us, Steps Up to help others. while as human beings one day we would not stop to give
this person the time of the day and the next day of disaster,American Volunteers start
showing up to do the best they can. Faster than the Government is able to assess the
needs of the communities. Truthfully Americans have proved again and again, when
everything around us is at its worse,we step up and do our best.
GOD BLESS AMERICANS!
You Can Lead a Republican to our Constitution
(But You Can’t Make Him Think)
Though fools claim love for Constitution, ‘Founders’ floundered on its beach.
“One man! One vote!” ‘God’s revelation! ‘Women,’ ‘slaves’ vote? Who can teach?
A ‘White Man’s A*s,’ he hopes is his! A woman’s a*s? (Such thoughts perverse!),
her offspring chattel (but for boys!) Her daughters? Dowries! There’s a curse!
Our Founders thought the Pope demonic, King’s rule, too, seemed poisoned well!
Let’s pass ‘Just Laws’ we all agree with! Rule 1: Things I like are swell!
Democracy full-blown’s a new thing, freedom’s not a toy for child,
dictator’s fine if he’s my servant! Brother mine, your thoughts quite wild!
Friend, your dictator’s kin to Hitler, Nuremberg’s too good for him.
Eyes off my wife and daughters too! Discover them if death’s your whim!
Rule 2: What’s mine is mine, what’s yours gets taxed till it’s not yours (helps keep
dictator’s eyes off all my stuff!). This way I might just get some sleep!
We gave brown Indians poisoned blankets (smallpox toxin thought germane)
to clear the West for Pilgrim’s Progress (wagons crossing their domain).
Rule 3: If land’s unfenced it can’t be yours! It’s fruit? God’s gift to strong,
all water, mountains, hills and plains. Rocks, woods, and grass, to strength belong.
The Constitution tries to make law serve all people best it can.
It recognizes many skillsets (some divergent) make a man.
We must not judge! Some skills aren’t missed until they are (then save the day!)
when value’s found in something bending, pots hold water (formed from clay!)
Long Tooth
December 6th in 2022
Poet’s Notes:
A fun variation on an old saying! “You can lead a horse to water, but you cannot make it drink!
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
Soiree
We
Are “odd.”
Invite us,
And we will come
To your grand soiree
And mingle with your friends,
Speaking our uncensored minds
The nicey-nice types always frown
Oh no, it’s getting late! Nine-thirty!
Time to wrap it up. Thanks for having us!
So, now you have a decision to make:
It’s a simple question of values
Ours we showed by being ourselves
Yours will come out in the wash
Were we embarrassing?
Status unconscious?
Does that matter?
We won’t wait
By the
Phone.
Ebb
And flow
Of friendships
Just like the tides
In sometimes, then out
No sense in fighting it
We’d rather not hold water
That wants to return seaward
Not selling or buying, just being
Popularity? Sounds like a lot of work
Foregone, weighty codpiece of normalcy
Just waves, rippling on midnight seas
Flow towards us if we suit you,
But only if. Happy with
Each other’s company
Or even my own
E v a n e s c e n t
precious time,
spend with
care.
5/5/16
© Thomas W. Quigley
I struggle from day to day in my own kind of way
Unwanted thoughts creep in as I try to keep them at bay
Why is it different when I want to love others
I get scared that they notice my past being uncovered
When I get close to the one I love, I get numb and pain
When you don’t know what to expect, what do you gain
Being touched is a beautiful thing,
But the feeling of hurt comes in again
After comes tears that you can’t seam to control
That’s when you start to feel that your all alone
Being able to love is a powerful thing to have
Mine feels broken like stones rolling down a mountain
Or like trying to hold water from a fountain
All I want is for to have love and passion
Where it’s tender and wanted and ever so kind
To touch and feel every moment, not the hurting kind
How I feel can be very different with pain to fear
The sort that you hate and never go near
I struggle at times just to be free, so I can be me
My wants and needs are the same for all
But mine seam to find this very tall wall
All I want is to try and mend my broken heart
I am finding it’s impossible as it tears me apart
Do you sometimes use GPS
To navigate your flat world?
Did you ever wonder how all those satellites
Get around to the underside?
Do you use a flush toilet
Or a siphon?
See, fluids can sometimes run uphill.
Your “the Amazon River is flat” theory
Fails to hold water.
Did you ever consider an Antarctic cruise?
Did you ever want to sail around the South Pole?
You could look out for the ice-wall
That you think holds the oceans in.
Do you recognize a metaphor?
When the Bible talks about the
“Four corners of the Earth”,
It’s an idiom for distant lands,
Or is your world-view ‘square’?
Every other celestial body we can see is round.
Why should the Earth be so different?
Phases of the Moon,
Pictures of Earth taken by astronauts,
The “celestial spheres” really are spherical.
If you need a book to tell you what is real,
Try a physics book.
If you need a tool to discern what is right,
Try logic or experiment.
Try to see beyond the horizon.
If your world is really constricted
To what you can see from your limited view,
Then, perhaps, start walking.
“prayer” & reflection
clasping hands together,
getting down on their knees,
squinting eyes closed
(in decent lighting which certainly
doesn’t call for such action),
concentrating on that thing inside
the most irrationally desperate parts of
their mind,
they begin to talk to themselves,
be it an internal dialogue
or actual, physical, muttering
just loud enough so
for some reason,
they can hear themselves doing it &
on top of it all,
outside speaking to a fantasy that
they perpetuate
by indulging in the same fictions
which so many have before them,
they go on to
attribute some greater, collective,
all-inclusive, warm &
“uniquely human”
characteristics
to events which are said to warrant
such truly insignificant time spent---
for only alone
does a concept of reflection
actually hold water,
since any kind of grouping together of
humans, breeds a
mass mentality---
so, to what end does this madness
flow?
what becomes of so many individuals
pretending that their infantile
squinting & hoping
squinting & hoping
amounts to anything more than a
fart in the wind?