Long Impels Poems
Long Impels Poems. Below are the most popular long Impels by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Impels poems by poem length and keyword.
My admiration grows
with every conversation,
with every new occasion
that's given me to glimpse your radiant face.
I'm stricken by your grace.
Serenity's your essence;
I weaken in your presence.
And nothing is enough compared with you.
I'm driven to pursue
this sweet increasing pleasure.
Not unobserved, full measure
of beauty reigns within your warm brown eyes.
You took me by surprise.
Your youthful, peerless spirit
impels me to be near it!
What lovely interruption when you came.
Now life is not the same.
May my every yesterday
spent with you, Dear, ricochet
into our bright tomorrows' afterglows.
Feb. 1, 2018
In Life’s old garden nations lived who all its fruits enjoyed,
While others longed in vain, while some the winter blasts destroyed;
Its trees are legion; some decay, While others flush with bloom,
And thousands still their birth await, Hid in the garden’s womb;
A symbol of luxuriance, The Tree of Islam reigns,
Its fruits achieved with centuries of garden-tending pains.
Your robe is free from dust of home, Not yours such narrow ties,
That Yousuf you, who Canaan sweet, In every Egypt lies;
The qafila can never disperse You holdest the starting bells9
Nothing else is needed, if your will Your onward march impels.
You candle-tree! your wick-like root, Its top with flame illumes,
Your thought is fire, its very breath all future care consumes.
And you will suffer no surcease should Iran’s star decline,
It is not the vessel which decides the potency of wine;
It is proved to all the world, from tales of Tartar conquerors,
The Kaaba brave defenders found in temple-worshippers.
In you relies the bark of God, Adrift beyond the bar,
The new-born age is dark as night, And you its dim pole-star.
The Bulgars march! the fiend of war in fearful fury breathes;
The message comes: “Sleepers, awake! The Balkan cauldron seethes.”
You deem this a cause of grief,Your heart is mortified;
But no, your pride, your sacrifice, Thus, once again, are tried.
Beneath your foes if chargers neigh? Why tremble you in fright?
For never, never, shall their breath extinguish Heaven’s light.
Not yet have other nations seen what you are truly worth,
The realm of Being has need of you for perfecting this earth.
If anything yet keeps world alive, ‘It is yours impetuous zeal,
And you will rise its ruling star, And you will shape its weal.
This is no time for idle rest, Much yet remains undone;
The lamp of tawhid needs your touch to make it shame the sun!
You are like fragrance in the bud, Diffuse yourself: be free.
Perfume the garden breeze, and fill the earth with scent of you.
From dusty speck, do you increase to trackless desert-main.
From a faint breeze, a tempest grow, Become a hurricane!
Raise you, through Love, all humble to greatness and to fame;
Enlighten you the groping world with dear Muhammad’s Name.
Tao clears mind myriad
Hears gurgled stream trickle
Rejuvenating ease of river
Impels an outlook simple
Verdant steppes imperial
Embrace ouroboros cycle
Joined tail to mouth control
Overcomes chaotic combat
Yin Yan hug in completeness
Temple of self empty vessel
Approaches each hour in Wu Wei
Jaws of serpent ensure return
Iteration eats its tail
Tadpole twirled stronghold
Unhurried harmonious spiral
February finding out
Headpiece filled with potential straw
Play often by the dictates of law,
The day with its fill of silent sorrow,
Filrts with sense, and falls tomorrow.
A motion and a spirit that impels to lose,
Uploads the videos to attract more views,
Time's winged chariot slows down the gate,
Forgets the event, and confuses the date.
Like a burnished throne that packs often more,
Falls from the window, languishes on the floor,
Turning around the road less travelled by,
Burns up the hope to give up with a try.
Infite riches in a small amount of room,
Begin with a blessing that calls out the doom,
An old and worn bilthe spirit haunts the little lake,
Gets up the ladder and unravels the mistake.
Peculiarly pure and polluted wings of poesy,
Terminates the yarn and drowns in urgency,
To strive, to seek, to find and not to yield,
Cracks up too early and stumbles on the field.
The forest of the night gives way to crops,
Fumbles and fiddles and fizzes out at stops,
Why a second coming grumbles like a dream?
Without any care flows down some stream.
Traces of soiled feet and sparrows not in grand gutters
A wasted wayward soul comes and mournfully mutters,
The ignorant armies clash by night under the Casuarina tree,
Makes the lines, breaks the rhythm and turns them fully free.
It takes too long for the last duchess to uncover and sing,
Distances of dissociation constantly throw and fling,
Never the mistress of spice shall ever be there so soon,
And look at mandates of a sudden and savoury tune.
Nine bean rows, poetry of earth crowd up the avenue,
As the lines search the old in the funeral of the new,
Mists and mellow fruitfulness fuel the futile fun,
Ignore the grace, spit out the truth with sixty minutes of run.
The decade, a facade, distills the wilfull muse,
Reverberates, rediscovers, and stacks up glorious refuse,
So this is the beginning of the end and a no way home,
Recklessly strives to the few to find a lost syndrome.
My Lord is a very personal God, kind, loving, and true. He's trustworthy, steady, and faithful as the morning dew. Though our times and conditions are
modern, there exists no modern man. I have read history. The present is no mystery. The spirit of man remains decadent. For ages past and for as far as
records were cast, civilized man has been most cruel, mean, and rash. He's found it easy to be brutal, utilizing his punishing rods. And although throughout
ages past, man has always had his gods, their impersonal gods never seemed to have curved man's bitter hate. Perhaps mankind and his gods always knew
that evil was the master of their fate. Perhaps it's because such men formed and fashioned their own 'gods'. And perhaps these man-made gods are
designed to serve their maker's needs. Though I too am human just as they, others and I chose another path, a different life than they. Though I too am
imperfect as are they, I chose not to have faith in a god that way. I don't have many gods, but 'One God' who made me in His image to serve Him gladly.
Both you and I have felt the sting of mankind's depravity and witnessed our atrocities. By God's Grace, I have not found a cause nor a reason great enough
to compel me to hate. With love and joy, with a 'free will' to worship Him, I am not forced to serve Him or His interests. With God's Grace I am infused with
a different spirit which impels me to be caring and loving to all people. Christ is the hope in me, and He teaches me to be respectful and gracious to all.
081920PS
I have been away some weeks, I’ll. Hope poetry will surface again with improved health. Have missed all of you
Fully This Gift. —————-
This overwhelming love that nods
To the rise of each hour’s passing
Throu day and on into night,
Bears God’s full story
Of All, so blessed
With his redeeming grace…
This force striking the heart
With profound feelings
And often mysterious aching that
Impels the inner voice to lament or
to sing...
This driving pulse and, too, this
Stirring
Motion of every hungry breath ,
Existing
By creation in the great cosmic design,
Firing
On within all thought and seeking to persist...
This enfolding magnificence
— from amoebas to mountains —
Which we perceive,
Then compose into prayers
desiring answers, perhaps to come hidden,
in each each individual,
like flakes of snow...
This glorious gift
— not easily grasped —
This immeasurable jewel,,.
This is Life
For each soul:
Cresting on these blue waves,
these scrolling oceans,
glimmer
The points of our passions...
With this open sky displaying
The criss-crossing contrails of our
Pursuits...
This possibly limitless hope to be
Found…
This
Now awaits...
———————————————————————————(c) sally young Eslinger 3/31/21
Thanks be to God
In small proportion real beauty to know,
the full extent of perfection as slow grow.
Sense sublime deeply through all things,
a memory from long ago that still impels.
Chaotic beauty in struggle seen as art,
causing havoc by ego’s hope, torn apart.
Dying memories never reached that dream,
aspiration to inspire before the expired gleam.
Incomplete measures by lofty composition,
when simplicity is the ultimate sophistication.
Clarity by intuitive perception as measure,
to know the real known as treasure.
Making virtues out of faults dims the light,
ideal means and its embarrassing sight.
The imperfect self towards true realization,
hereafter and its other sphere continuation.
The greatest love is covered by indifference,
in admiration by respect as reference.
Divinity by short measures is human perfection,
humanity in long measures are divine limitation.
A Revised Edition
From The Works of the Late Edgar Allan Poe, vol. II, 1850
In the icy air where the stars do sprinkle bright
keeping time, keeping time
with the jingling bells of night
it is there I lay my heart, my lonely heart
Hear the mellow wedding bells
the golden bells of happiness, ringing to foretell
Through the balmy air of night how they ring with such delight
from the molten-golden notes, the liquid ditty floats
A gush of euphony within her dwells
for a future that foretells of the rapture that impels
from the swinging and the ringing of the bells,
to the rhyming and the chiming of the bells!
Later how they clang and clash and roar in the throbbing air
hear the tolling of the bells, the bells, the bells
in a world of solemn thought, their monody compels
in the silence of the night she shivers with affright
And the lover oh the lover, dwelling deep inside the steeple
all alone,.. tolling, tolling, in that muffled monotone
turns her heart to solid stone, as she listens to the bells
the bells, the bells, the bells...
~ Sailboat,
in
~~~ calm
weather
~~ you are wasted
but if the winds gust
and howl you are hastened.
~ So I too, through adversity,
~~ am as you are indeed.
For turbulence
pulls taut the slackened lines of apathy,
it fills torpid sails with purpose,
and impels me to proceed.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
The early morning fog bathes the green slime and trees in a gray hue as birds flutter to and fro and squirrels scurry from their beds, playing a tag game of “You're it.” and an early morning feast among shaking limbs and prying eyes. The Bayou comes awake to meet a new day. Sights and sounds of the early hours impels the spirit of the swamp in a ghostly stillness and merriment. Nature comes alive in small measures of time each in its own place, each well aware but unwavering in its brutality for this is life of pure survival hidden among the Spanish Moss and rotting logs
It’s a rehearsal as old as nature itself for the actors are always on stage and the curtain never falls. Its beauty with a haunting presents and writes its own stories penned day and night in the sights and sounds under the sun or moon. A limb breaks under the stress of the tiny weight that finally snaps the rot in its last attempt to win but is lost to the dark water, leaving only tiny bubbles to trace it decent to the bottom. An echo of a far off acorn as it drops in another attempt to win the fight but also loses to the bayou. Drip, drip, drip, the water insist on winning but never the master for nature always comes with more,
The Gator with nose and eyes peeking above the black water to find the next unsuspecting meal as does the cotton-mouth and gar. All is at peace until all is lost. An epitaph written in sudden violence then back to silence, waiting for the Hawk and Owl to make an appearance on nature’s stage and battling for the leading role.
It accepts the wind and rain as a backdrop to enhance the scene, lending a chance for leaves to ride the breeze and a new story is written. The theater only tolerates man as an outsider to look upon its quiet beauty, accepting but without welcome, giving only a minor role and without applause.