Long Idealism Poems
Long Idealism Poems. Below are the most popular long Idealism by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Idealism poems by poem length and keyword.
The Beauty and the Beast:
https://youtu.be/8w5AvnsvH44
There is a villain in every story.
The wicked witch of the west,
The wicked witch of the east,
The evil step mother if you choose me as second choice.
A monster ,a beast.
What does the villain look like?
Some people may ask.
It doesnot always have a black cap,
Or a witch ‘s broom.
Or a big and scary mask.
I have a villain of my own.
But she’s kind of hard to see.
She has really a good disguise.
She looks a super heroine.
Who love to live a happy life with her siblings and mom.
Who help the poor and wounded people.
Who sing a song for her bright coming future.
Tell me what I need according to my idealism.
And tell me what I will get according to your ideas.
You bring out my scars.
My sadness, fear and aggression
You cause me a lot of envy.
And leave me with depression.
And deprive me of my confidence.
Take away of my self esteem
Cause me to fear Judgement.
And make me yell and scream
You taunt me with your words.
Like this is some kind of game.
But when it comes down to it.
There is no one else to blame.
This villain is not the creature.
Or a devil sent from the hell
It is made by man himself.
There is a villain in every story.
A statement that is true.
But how do you kill the monster.
When it lives inside of you?
What is this life, this reality?
Why do I question it so relentlessly?
So many moments seemingly meaningless,
meandering through this meaningful sentience.
Chronology…
Continuity…
Spirituality…
But really, Oxford will tell you:
Property of being real, resemblance to Original.
Accountable, in my opinion, only through dissemblance.
What I ask, is it original?
It’s all rather subliminal!
Made up by man and the idealism of 'ideal'.
Be like Budda, be like a tree,
pray to Gods, pray for money.
This will make you healthy, that will make you ill.
Where is the free will in all this obscurity?
What is this substance we call reality?
I beg your pardon, Sir and Madam,
excuse my blasphemy if religion is your reality,
But goddamn, Sir and Madam
It’s outrageous and random,
The idea…
The ideal…
Any idea for that matter!
For what is blaspheme?
Speaking irreverently of sacred things!
But what is not sacred down to a grain of sand?
If all by the hand and will of God,
Or aliens...
Or angels…
Or spark of light,
Let us not in the slight pretend,
to know or name a single thing.
Sacred cannot be named,
Or unnamed…
Or claimed…
And yet it is,
as tangible as anything alive.
Let's not deprive a word as 'sacred',
dictated to be, this or that.
Of all facts I know this fact;
Sacred is as sacred be.
As she walks, as she decrees,
she is ancient, beyond antique,
she is the vessel through which divinity speaks.
I could not wait to grow all the way up.
It was my goal since I was a young pup.
Peter Pan was my hero, thunder struck.
I dreamed of having his wisdom and luck.
A fear was to lose child-like thinking
That dendrites would stop winking and blinking.
Forgetting about the homeless and sad,
Aware of the existence of the bad,
Part of my fear was rooted in pure muck,
Idealism had a chance to buck,
I was scared of losing the real me.
And kind ears that heard, and clear eyes to see.
I could not wait to grow all the way up
But stay young inside, as a fresh young pup.
Protecting the Small
How do people in power rise,
when all they are talking about,
is against everything that can be
remembered…
taught in school?
How can people hold high office,
while the people, the poor around them,
sink ever lower into the embrace of death.
Poverty, and poor houses,
living on the streets,
“stay at home moms” a thing of the past.
Now lucky
to hold our families together, at all!
What can be said, for living in your car?
The rain is not on your head,
or covering and freezing your feet.
I would call to their empathy,
their sympathy, their idealism, of perfection.
I would remind them,
that I had a job,
I had a wife,
I had family and a life.
Now,
I only have…
a vote,
and you talk
of cheating me still.
How do people in power rise?
I cycled across the river to Fort Lee
Then on the park roads under the Palisades
At the time it didn't occur to me
Undercliff Park didn’t come free; a man had paid.
I walked the carriage-road of Pocantico Hills
It was early, I saw cows and said "moo"
I vaguely heard of the man who paid the bills
So I could walk through fields, enjoy the view.
I hiked with my brother in Acadia Park
We pitched a tent on Mount Cadillac
High above the sea, lightning after dark
At sunrise, we high-fived, and put on our packs
I didn't know John’s spirit hovered there
The man who paid for all this land
A man who did more than his share
A believer, he made this his stand
Above Jackson Hole I rode my bike up high
Clouds dispersed, snow-peaks showed
I felt the rush, like an advance guard spy
John spent well, this was what he chose
John’s descendant Marion wanted revolution
So it could take away her money, deal with it better
Peggy Rockefeller joined SDS as a solution
Some rich kids see wealth as an iron fetter.
John Senior and John Junior, would they plea?
Be dismayed at the causes to which their money now goes?
Would John ask the fund’s new trustees
Not to fund radicals, and NGOs?
Maybe its intuition, that makes a man decide
But take a hike in the Smokies, or Yosemite and recall
In this kind of charity John took pride
An Idealist whose legacy still stands tall.
Now in Pocantico I wear a disguise
I’m full of shame, it’s true
Because whenever I come over a rise
Some kid laughs and points and says “Moo”!
Speaking from the podium, to thank
all for my Poet Laureate Award;
overwhelmingly glad to receive it
from the hands of a famous critic...
I discern how the audience loves my lyric!
I have never spoken so openly
about the idealism and realism of my poetry;
and they are listening, focused on my lines
recited softly to them with emotions and tears,
and their positive response is my reward.
Applaud me for creating new rhymes and rhythms,
poetic words inspired by the wilderness of frontiers,
by the truthful insights I expressed with my momentum;
unlikely other poets, who are perpetuate in memoriam,
and lie into tombstones never having been given honor.
Entered in Brian Strand's Poet Laureate contest
Copyright 2009 by Andrew Crisci
POSSIBILITIES
a sense
of
idealism
romanticism
worthy
of attention
a
retrospective
of
a radical
decorum
yet
attractive
whose
influence shows
in
a mixture
of
wonderment
&yearning
considering
attention
as
an as
intercept
of light
a
compliment
fine
& captivating
to illume
the
darkness
to
a blur
pictorially
a paradox
then
to
embrace
theatrics
NOTE:THIS IS AN OPEN(organic) FORM VERSE using spaces&breaks without grammatical symbols ,the ' open' relies upon 'the one breath limitation' & so inherently requires the 'reader' (reciter) to input and responds thus making this enigmatic form a two way interplay & interpretatIon unique to the moment& changing according to mood is inherently variable.
Copyright © Brian Strand
Life building challenges
seemingly buried in oblivion chest
yet so vivid inside touched heart’s memory bank
resurrecting midst warm reunion testimony time
bursting out mixed feelings glow…
Before, tears of struggles drowned me
during my first months
as a volunteer orphanage Mom
persevering to take care of abandoned children
with devotion along God’s compassion I vowed to show…
Admitting reality-idealism conflicts
I had bouts with my spirit’s sacrifice-tenacity
over my carnality’s convenience-pull…
My soul is grateful to the Lord
Who with His mercy upheld my faith
preserving me to keep on pressing on…
thus, driving me serenely
to fulfill utmost best in building lives
so by His grace, I would persist
in my entrusted task with bliss.
Now, laughter of victorious sheer exuberance
constantly fills conversation
with children already grown-up
as they recall how I reared them…
making me bask in triumph by the Saviour’s love*.
*Romans 8:28 And we know that all things work together for good to them that love God, to them who are the called according to his purpose.
August 5, 2020
4th place, "Dusty Old Memories" Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Constance La France; judged on 8/6/2020.
Part of being young
Is a belief in the power of hope
Part of growing up
Is the realization that hope
Has nothing to do with actual life.
Like Yoda said, you either do or don’t do
There is no try, as there is no hope.
This is just part of growing up, but
Some of us have been dumbed down
So our growth has been slowed
And so our idealism lasts well into adulthood.
It takes a combination
Of high hope and low IQ
To support communism, you know,
The political and economic philosophy
The depends on other people’s money.
Its supporters are usually divided into two groups;
The poor without much to lose and lots to gain
(Or so they hope)
And the elite who know wealth concentrates at the top
No matter what economic system is followed.
Low IQ is essential,
And sadly also accompanies being poor,
Because the actual result of communism
Is just more poverty and less freedom.
All around the lessons of history are clear
And yet all around its students put on blinders
Hoping, against all odds, with their stunted IQ
That this time they will get it right.
(8/20/26)
My Dream within a dream streaming
on foams of creamy passion
in frolic fervent fervour
may touch the desired goal
or may just evaporate.
Yet we can't help to survive
drinking dreamy desires.
My dream within a dream rippling,
propagating dancing
ceaseless in ebb and tide,
sometimes shameful, need to hide !
sometimes sweet, soothing inspiring ,
again some may push me
to abyss of despondency.
Yet my Desirable Dream
is dream of ambition
based on idealism
formulated by truth,
honesty and devotion
along with righteousness.
My Dream within a dream
of positivity
floats free till my last breathe.
I am truthful to my dream
in delighted desired dream.