Long Impact Poems
Long Impact Poems. Below are the most popular long Impact by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Impact poems by poem length and keyword.
I know I have a special purpose for my life,
I'm just struggling to answer
One question, what's my calling?
I don't know.
God I'm struggling I don't know what to do
What is it that I want to do?
I thought I knew at one point, but that plan didn't go
Like driving in a car but the air won't flow.
I know I'm your beloved son
And in me is whom you are well pleased
But sometimes I feel lost
Without a guide to point me down the right path.
Help me to see who it is I'm called be,
Who am I supposed to lead?
I don't have any answers
I pray you speak to me.
Help me hear what it is you want from me
As I begin to cry, I wish I could wipe my eyes
But tears still continue to fall from my eyes.
No matter how much I try my cheeks will never be dry
God I don't what am I supposed to do?
Pray and wait for you
I remember a few weeks back, my friend sent me a text
Saying she supports and believes in my dreams,
My parents said the same thing
So I know I'm loved and supported
By love from up above
Open my ear God I need to hear from you
What it is that I'm called to do?
Show others the light of Christ
How can I do that, when I don't even know your calling for my life?
I feel like I'm letting everyone down
I have no answers.
I want to make an impact but can't reenact my old plan
I accept that I need help, God reveal your plan.
I put my life in your hands
Please show me your perfect plan
And I will be the best me that I can
I give you full control,
Help me get my life under control.
I know I'll find my place you always make a way
No matter what path I take you will make everything okay
I have chosen to follow only in your ways
And read your word for the rest of my days.
I'm not in this on my own there's no way,
I can't make it traveling my own way
I need help, I need advice.
I know you'll never leave my side
No need for me to duck and hide.
You're glued to me, more like me to you
After all, everything I will ever need is found in you.
My old nature has been tossed out,
I'm a new man with a new plan
Reequipped and reset
Now I'm ready for the next step.
Get a vision, create a path,
Time for me to get my life back on track.
I know I have a special calling on my life
To share the light of Jesus Christ
What's your calling for my life?
I don't know what's my calling?
I was a classic 1957 Chevrolet Bel-Air, in mint condition, admiral and white.
My owner had other beautiful, classic cars, like stars sparkling into twilight.
My owner loved his old cars, saying 'they don't make them like they used to;'
And I enjoyed getting out upon the open road, to show him what I could do.
My fellow cars and I saw lots of sunny days, in bliss freedom of the flowers,
Traveling the length and breadth of this land, in the clasp of jeweled hours.
Flighty friends and I recalled 'good old days,' in rosy sunset times of finally,
Laughing and talking our memories in darkness, as moon shone, indefinably.
Forever friends were like feeling family, in the floral days of fuchsia's reign;
When flitting, green butterflies fanned for long, and falcons flew like a train.
I lived in the house of pleasant shadows, which didn't have many windows;
For it was one huge room without a view, like a path without the primrose.
Sparkling summer sauntered in silently, creating such scenes on my street!
Silken clouds roamed, when Sam ran his errands. Traveling was ever a treat.
Neighbors made admiring noises about me, going off on rides in neon night.
We cars were the toast of the neighborhood, nice nostalgia, in a golden light!
Clown orchids had ceased performing, in gone days of purple, beard orchids.
Now their summer relative had the holy ghost, like bliss from many sources.
Mask flowers held beautiful mystery, in alluring hues of pink, cream and red;
Like sweet secrets of moonlit shadows, and violet dreams after going to bed.
Once, Sam and I were cruising Sunset Highway, for it was my turn that day;
While dear friends waited in the cool, quiet of home, for their chance to play.
I felt a sudden impact on my left, and I knew I was hurt! There was damage;
But if not for Sam's expert driving, we might not have been able to manage!
This had happened to me times before. Such is to be expected in a long life.
As ever, friend Sam was my Superman, my mechanic in times of cruel strife.
My convalescence didn't seem so long, as I laughed about old days with pals.
When streets were not very busy, and many listened to front porch musicales.
For we were darling, daring trailblazers, quaint old paving way for all modern,
Leaving lingering feelings of fond nostalgia, like lovely fall leaves which yearn!
I seek not to be a presence. Forces beyond my control dictate the interactions I will have with those who come across my path. These forces disturb me in ways that I cannot understand, yet I react to them with efficiency.
Subtlety is not one of my traits. Even now, I am poised to move in the direction to which I am called. It is a direction that could have great impact. Although I may waver in the course set before me, I am nonetheless committed until another force impedes me.
On the path I seek, I can see farther than one can imagine. Even though I only have one eye, it is an eye that is clear, an eye that makes a statement. You would think that having only one eye, any spinning and turning I do would make me extremely dizzy. Nay, say I, I move ahead on the path I seek.
On course, on time, and always considering my wall. It is not a wall to jump over, or to keep me from something or someone. Instead, it is everything and everyone else who would need or want to have a wall equivalent to mine. Theirs would be a wall to keep me from them.
The path I seek can be strewn with objects that tend to slow me down. Nonetheless, I struggle against them, and keep surging forward. I depend on my own wrath and fury to keep me moving ever closer to my stated purpose, whatever it may be. At some point, I know I will lose all ability to continue down the path I seek.
Along the path I seek, I watch events unfold before me with my one eye. It is an eye that, while surrounded with moisture, does not blink, shows little mercy, and does not cry. It does not cry even as my wall begins to crumble. The crying is only left to those dear beings I leave behind along my path.
I wish I could feel the lives I touch but, the harsh truth is, I have no feelings. I am a creation that will never know what a feeling is. And thus, no love, no hate, no joy, no sadness will stay me from the path I seek.
Alas, my wrath and fury are destined to die a slow death as I continue along the path I seek. I will not be missed, but I may be remembered. I will surely be cursed and called a monster.
And before my eye finally sleeps, I get one last peek at where I have been.
Still, I cannot cry over the destruction and anguish I have wrought during my passing. I only know that I will come this way again, because that is what hurricanes do along the paths they seek.
END
...A child who’d never know a father
that had deserved him more than she could tell,
knowing that she must lie to her husband,
the truth of it would not end very well.
The moments when she should feel only joy,
she just felt despair she could not avoid.
The weight of it all pushed Whitney to drink,
she hid it well, since Jerry worked a lot,
the au pair did most care for the baby,
since inside Whitney was nagged by dark thoughts,
she’d see her youngest, and think of her loss,
then call the au pair, and hand the babe off.
This pattern went on for about a year,
all of her family noticed the grim mood,
Jerry did his best to cater to her,
but despite this Whitney didn’t improve,
when, despite her kids, everything seemed wrong,
when in her own life she didn’t belong.
It wasn’t suicide that claimed Whitney,
at least it was not the conscious sort,
it came when she’d exhausted her wine,
and without a thought, went out to the store,
far enough gone that she didn’t realize
that she had no business trying to drive.
Her car was found at the base of a bridge,
she gone so fast she’d burst through the guard rail,
the coroner said she’d died in impact,
when Jerry heard of the news he just wailed,
he may not have held the love of his wife,
but to him she’d been the love of his life.
JERRY
Jerry found himself in a trying place,
alone with three children, one of them young,
working full time to keep everyone fed,
without nannies he would get nothing done.
But even then, his children were depressed,
not understanding the whole of this mess.
He’d never been an emotional man,
but he tried his best to be there for them,
especially their one-year old baby,
who, of course, needed so much attention,
Jerry’s hair turned gray trying to keep up,
and he was still mourning for his lost love.
He managed to find some sort of balance,
some way to keep his kids going through this,
they were the only good this he had left,
the only reason he cared to persist,
alone he had little time for himself,
it did take a toll on his mental health.
He’d no time for dating, didn’t want to,
it still hurt too much to not see Whitney,
all his time was spent with his three children,
there was none left for fun or for hobbies,
Jerry felt himself a shell of a man,
everything was struggle, there was no more plan...
CONTINUES IN PART V.
THE CONCERT
The members of the orchestra had each gone to his chair;
The audience was waiting now for the conductor there.
And when he stepped on to the stand, applause was heard, and then
He lifted up his white baton and music soon began.
It started out quite beautiful, each person played his part,
But soon some went on their own way; they thought they were
more smart.
Some put their music on the floor and stopped playing at all,
While others stared around the room at all the lights and walls.
Some started playing other tunes, some played too sharp or flat,
Some even talked among themselves, some even got in spats!
The leader was beside himself, not knowing what went wrong,
For he had planned this concert night for oh, so very long.
And now he was embarrassed by the actions of the band;
He tried to calm confusion there by raising up his hand.
The members of the orchestra just went their separate ways
Each thinking they were doing right with music they did play.
The audience was quite disturbed, for what they came to see
Was surely not a show like this confusing, sad melee!
This story is a parable of Christendom today:
We started out as one in Christ, but each went his own way.
Denominations, sects, and cults, all claiming to be right,
But all they do is disagree on everything and fight.
We can’t agree which Bible is God’s word for us today;
We can’t agree on how to sing and sometimes how to pray.
We can’t agree on baptism, security, or gifts;
It’s sad to see how very far from early truths we drift!
And some have even now denied the basic gospel truth
That many died for in those days of the church’s early youth.
They say that Jesus was not God, the blood was not required,
Or say that there are other books that God has now inspired.
They say that hell is just the grave, that Mary is the way,
That purgatory is a place where we could go someday.
Yes, many doctrines have crept in; just like that concert hall,
It’s hard for many to believe there’s any truth at all!
Yet our Conductor wants us back! We have a job to do!
If we would follow as He leads, what impact we could view!
It’s time we got back to the Lord, Conductor of our life,
And put away these selfish ways and arguments and strife!
It’s time to come back to God’s word, not ideas of man,
And follow our Conductor, Christ, and trust His guiding hand!
What’s left of Octavia glides down the hall
Past the portraits she painted in life,
Now framed in mahogany, rosewood, and oak,
And they’re hers for the haunting tonight.
She looks for the canvas she started the day
Her desire became indiscrete;
A nude on a balcony under the moon.
It was one she would never complete.
What’s left of Octavia passes the wall
Where her art is the featured display,
Recalling advances she made in the past
That went far beyond being risqué.
She goes to the window and conjures the scene
As it happened those long years before,
And thinks of the model who posed for her then;
A temptation too ripe to ignore.
What’s left of Octavia mourns what she’s lost
Like a dreamer deprived of her dream.
Her husband threw open the studio door
To discover her subject and theme.
He looked at the model, he looked at his wife,
And he saw what a fool he had been
To blindly indulge her artistic pursuits,
Which she took as occasion to sin.
A new moon at midnight. She whispers a name.
Her face in the shadows, a study in pain.
Still searching for what she can never regain,
And she’s out on a haunting tonight.
What’s left of Octavia longs for the time
She felt anything other than numb.
The smell of the paint and the feel of the brush
Being foreign to what she’s become.
A specter deprived of the flavor of life.
An obsession that won’t fade away.
A monochrome canvas, a faintly drawn sketch
From a palette with ten shades of gray.
What’s left of Octavia stands on the ledge,
And considers the landscape below.
The moment of impact still fresh in her mind,
Because time has not softened the blow.
Her family gathered to lay her to rest,
And the ring was removed from her hand.
Though people would gossip, and ponder her fate,
There are none who in truth understand.
What’s left of Octavia comes to him now,
Late at night when he puts on her ring.
A family heirloom entrusted to him
When he married his lover last spring.
He stands in the dark as she enters the room,
And the séance is set to begin.
She watches him pose, while he takes off his clothes,
With her brushstrokes caressing his skin.
Confessions at midnight. She whispers a name.
Her face in the shadows, a study in pain.
Still searching for what she can never regain,
But he's hers for the haunting tonight.
Season of death plays her melancholic tune,
tragedy portrayed through a chorus of birds.
In regret, I ponder why you left so soon,
still mourning the impact of your last words.
Demons hid some pieces of your jigsaw brain,
lost in your black abyss, troubles began to form.
Alcohol, drugs and abuse turned your life insane,
but your tongue was silent, battling the storm.
Sometimes I read the note you left behind,
saying you were sorry, but life was not kind.
If only I knew a way for time to rewind,
maybe I could have eased that troubled mind.
Guess you felt death would bring an end to the pain,
hope you found peace from a life you left in vane.
Silent One
27 October 2020
I lost a very special friend to suicide, on new years eve 1996.
It was not my only experience with suicide, but it was one that had a big impact on my life, because, I was the last person she spoke to.
Sadly, I did not get to her in time and she had already departed the world that troubled her so much. At the time, she was only 18.
For years, I struggled to come to terms with it, my coping mechanism was to blank it all out, suppress the emotions. But every new years eve, I would not do anything, it was my way of rebelling against it, I guess. I lived with regret. Sad thing was I never spoke to anyone about it.
I learned to deal with it through writing. My first poem about what happened was in 2015.
Some think suicide is selfish, but it is not. It is difficult for those left behind to deal with it, but we need to understand, people who leave the world in such a way, do not want to die, they want to end the pain.
Sometimes, no matter what we do or say, it may not help.
Always keep an eye out for family and friends, who you may think are feeling low and at times worthless. Many of us, at times, feel we do not belong.
Sometimes, the smallest act of reaching out could make a difference.
If you are feeling suicidal, there are helplines available in your country. Please call someone to talk to them. It could make a difference.
When we feel confused, oppressed, worthless, low, unloved, live a life without affection and understanding... Please remember there is always someone out there who loves and cares about you and will miss you so much if you are gone.
Sorry for the sad poem and thank you for reading.
When I was 16 years old, I walked into the English class on the first day of school of a new year. I’d been waiting through the long hours of Economics, of Chemistry, of Physics to get to English class, the subject I loved most.
My teacher stood in front of us and explained that we’ll be studying the theme "Coming of Age" – the transition from childhood to adulthood. We were going to read many different novels that tell this story in diverse ways, and as we read, we’ll discover the universal themes across diverse accounts of this rite of passage.”
Then he told us about the books we were going to read – Lord of the Flies, Black Boy, A Separate Peace… I noticed something odd: none were written by women and none were about a girl coming of age. I knew it wasn’t right for a classroom of girls and boys to only read stories about boys.
But what was most remarkable about that day was this: I felt a strange surge of energy. It wasn’t anger – it was more like momentum, vitality, passion. It came with a feeling of “I’m going to do something about this.”
At the time, I was a little lost – in teenage rebellion, in hating my body, in being bored with high school. Suddenly, I wasn’t bored, or lost or hating. I was excited about something. I was working toward something.
Years later I turned out to be a biology teacher even without attending any teaching school or training.
And used the opportunity to enlighten lots of female students on maturity (the transition from childhood to adolescense and to adulthood) and several female related issues that wasn't in any textbook nor in the curriculum.
Today I might not be a very rich man but I am a fulfilled man. I am fulfilled because I know deep down that I have made an impact in the lives of several females out there.
So whatever is that drive, that burning passion inside of you, that push to make a positive difference, to contribute to humanity, I just want to tell you "don't give up on it. It's only a matter of time"
Together if we all put in our little effort, we can make a huge difference.
So whatever field u find yourself, be it entertainment, music, acting, poem writing, YouTuber, blogger, teacher, student or parents, let's all join hands to make the world a better place. All it takes is for you to use your field to make positive impacts.
#POETICLORD#
(c) JANUARY 2019.
My Poem on Christmas
‘The Ringing Bells’
NOTE:
I have yet to shape this Poem as a Christmas Song. To do so I may have to make some changes here and there, but I am hopeful to make it later on.
If at all I get success in converting it into a Song I will let all my PS friends know about it. With Best & Warm Wishes
For a Merry Christmas & a Very Happy New Year 2015
to all poetry soup members and the team of Poetry Soup.
Ravindra K Kapoor
The Ringing Bells
I love to hear the Music
Which comes
From the ringing Bells.
When the sounds
Of Songs are sent
With each rising prayers
To Heaven.
When words travel
From Earth to Heaven
Arising from different parts of Earth
When faces blooms with happiness
And joys are celebrated.
While listening
These beautiful words like Songs
My heart began to throb
With an unknown
Joy and happiness.
I love to watch
A big Bell
Hanging in the air
When I began to imagine
The circles of its sounds
Floating and rising in the air
Where it gets mingled
With words coming from prayers
And it creates a magic
In my Music thirsty ears
And then my heart
Began to feel a thrill
Even before these sounds
Reaches high in the air.
I believe
These sounds
Coming from the ringing bells
Which floats in the air
They first try
To clean their surroundings
And the whole air
Before they reach
In the ears of God.
Even they try to clean and purify
The idle corners
Of the listener’s heart too
Which often remains empty
In want of Music and Prayers.
And then these ringing sounds
Rise high in the air
To get mixed
With the voices
From the Earth
Which comes from
The heart and soul
Of the singers and men in prayers
When they open their hearts
In the form of words
Or Prayers.
The impact of these
Mixed voices and sounds
Which comes from the rising prayers
Are often very different and deep
As it moves the God
To listen to these Songs and tunes
Coming in the form of Prayers.
Blessed are all those
Who creates such wonderful
Songs, Sounds, Tunes and Prayers
Which take the messages
Of a simple common man and women
To God
To quench the thirst
Of every
Music & God Lovers.
Ravindra K Kapoor
Kanpur India 24th Dec. 2014
Protected under the copyrights provisions of Poetry Soup.
Where‘s The Bull?
A few years ago at the close of the morning worship service in the lobby of our church, a young teen greeted me with the words, “How are you doing Mr. Curtis?” My reply to him at the time was, “I’m hanging in there.” This was a time when the nation’s economy was in disarray, and my personal finances were not much better. Some weeks later I saw him again in the same area of the lobby, and he greeted me with the words, “Hi Mr. Curtis, are you still hanging in there?”. I almost answered him in the same manner as before, because things had not really gotten any better. However, I caught myself and replied by saying, “No, I’m not hanging in there. I have the bull by the horns, and he’s going down”.
I believe that the 'Bull statement' triggered something inside of me that made a big difference in the future outcome for my life and circumstances. No, my belief system did not change, but a “God Moment” came to the front and overpowered me to overcome any attitude of doubt or negativity that had existed in my spirit. A fresh fire was kindled, and a ‘knowing’ within me was born that in essence said to me that I did not have to ‘hang on’ or ‘hang in’ there for dear life. The fresh fire enabled me to stop hanging on to the tail of the bull to be slung about and around wherever the bull desired.
The bulls of life are always on the loose, and bulls will do what bulls do. We must decide and take courage to do what Christians do. Our bulls of life will never go down as long as we are fighting at the tail by hanging on. It is when we take on the bull by his horns that we are enabled to bring him to the ground.
At the time of the young man’s question, we were in a season of life unlike any we had faced before. The seasons of the year can be defined and generally described, but they are never the same. We know that they are coming and going all the time, but we never know the character and the magnitude of their impact. So is the case with the seasons of our lives.
So. What is your bull’s name today? Where is he, and where are you positioned in relation to the bull’s movements? The bull’s movements are always strong and are designed to destroy us. We must not be content with simply hanging on for survival. Because God is with me, I can trust him in the stormy seasons of my life.
10022014 cj PS