Long Indicator Poems
Long Indicator Poems. Below are the most popular long Indicator by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Indicator poems by poem length and keyword.
The battle between body and spirit
Housed as I am,
in this earthenware vessel
I witness,
the raging between body and spirit.
My mood- sullen and morose,
a telling sign-
a flashing indicator-
pointing to a weakness in my will,
a slow debilitating decline in my convictions-
indicating a buttressing of my resolve-
is urgently needed.
This paroxysm has been a body blow,
and my spirit is reeling.
I am cloistered, incarcerated now these three years,
having served a portion of my sentence.
What is my crime?
These four walls,
such contemptible, wretched creatures-
mock me, taunt me, deride me
as weak and worthless;
but I know better!
I am shackled to the two evil twins-
misery and myalgia-
myrmidons- secret agents of the devil
serving at his pleasure.
Hell-bent they are on a wicked crusade
raping and pillaging the golden storehouses
of my treasured faith and hope.
Sacred vaults protect my integrity,
my zeal is still intact.
As I wrestle with my afflictions
I throw tantrums-like a feral beast
charging towards the drawn sword.
However, I succumb to the inevitable.
I sense the folly of the fight and submit,
although-unwillingly to this intransigent,
auto-immune disease.
How do you fight an enemy who is
entrenched in your marrow?
This enemy is coercing me on this death march
and it is unrelenting in it's insistence.
The gates of Sheol* beckon to me to enter,
I resist the clarion call, although the gravity
draws me ever closer to my sealed fate.
I see visions of paradise, here on earth,
where pain is no more,
and all suffering is a distant memory
until eternity erases it from my mind.
Unfortunately, for me,
looks like I'll be taking the subway,
instead of the train to paradise.
December 17,2018
For Misery contest Edward Ibeh
*Sheol Hebrew for the grave.
Not hell as a burning place of torment
as is commonly taught and believed.
Packed like sardines
inside a jeepney*—
Too full,
with a jeepney strike going on.
Rushing,
mother and child ride along.
Greasy, dirty, malnourished…
The woman holds a can—
a makeshift drum.
Little boy hands out envelopes,
he looks like he's 3 years old,
he's most likely 6.
Woman beats her drum,
nobody listens
chatter drowning out the rhythm…
Invisible ears to go with
invisible envelopes
His head touches my legs,
dissipating heat—
an indicator of how long
he's been under the sun and smog
The thought chills me…
He stares at my sister's shopping bags
with searing eyes…
Windows that I can’t bear to look into,
afraid to see my reflection of clouded guilt and frustration
I shake my head, no food to share
but my hands reach out to his,
to give him some money.
My sister remembers a bottle of iced tea,
and hands it to him.
He has a hard time opening it,
and asks for help from the school girls…
Invisible again.
I reach out and get the bottle from him
Temporary refreshment
for a body that is parched,
for a soul who is thirsty for so much more.
I cannot help but gulp in guilty air.
He sits on the aisle,
savoring the tea
as his mother thumps on the can.
The little boy retrieves envelopes, all empty—
as hollow as the sound of the beating drum.
What do you do,
what can you do?
The jeepney stops.
They alight from it...
The mother looks back
and says, "Salamat.*"
It goes straight to my heart.
Her eyes move me most—
one eye is cloudy, grayed out,
perhaps a manifestation
of the storms in her life?
That single word seared through me,
and I felt how much she meant it…
Her thank you
made me want to give so much more,
to call out to her and give whatever I had at the moment
but they are gone...
Lost in a crowd of faceless people,
and I myself want to get lost,
hide my face in shame…
What can you do?
--For Debbie’s Tell Me a Story contest…
*jeepney—is a public transportation vehicle here
*Salamat is “Thank You”
your left hand was hard, but your right, gracious
putting me in the balance of Love
of which its fulcrum is discipline and respect.
Your weaknesses were classified
just to ensure I see beyond mine
Your chastisement was not without pain
of which its appreciation
is a strong indicator of my gradual maturity.
You always guard the gates of my territory like a Centurion
and fight against all antigens like a warlock.
You taught me how to be complete
and provided the staff and Ass
as I journey across Life and appreciate.
I initially thought of you differently
when you gave me the partially made sandal,
when you refused to help with the air-tight metal box,
when you gave me bone while milk was still my best delicacy
when you laughed at me while I'm confused
and worst of all, stopping Mum to come to my rescue.
I never knew they were task of Life I most needed,
finishing off the sandal made me industrious,
opening the box, made me determined and never relenting,
chewing the annoying bone made me grow up;
your scorn and laughter actually made me decisive
and rescuing myself made me independent.
All these sum up to making me a MAN!
Which makes you my Hero and role model.
Before I was, there was you;
in fact, I am in existence because of you.
I've always clinged unto you as my Life's support
but you allow me make my mistakes
so as to be the best gadget.
Your regulation of Mum's affections
only makes me be an unspoilt egg.
I always increase when you sweat
and your headaches are stepping stones to my zeniths.
You are such an irreplaceable asset
and your love, so refreshing as the evening air.
What more can I say and how else can I show gratitude?
As much as I know, you need none of these,
One thing I must always say is,
I LOVE YOU DAD!
With a sizzle, and a woof and a squish and a zoom,
I jumped in my spaceship and I flew to the moon.
The moon was sticky, not smelly, and no cheese around.
I was irritated by how earthy was what we found.
We jumped back into the spaceship, and I pressed the red light.
We decided to go to Mars next; it was plainly in sight.
The gas indicator light said, you are all out, sorry my friend.
So here I was, stuck on the moon’s earthy west end.
Try the spare fuel tank, my crew said, pointing out the right button.
I tried to remember which one it was, and I found tasty mutton.
My first mate leaned over and pressed a panel that was green.
And fuel began filling my gas tank, clearly seen on the screen.
We all laughed and we joked as we sailed on to Mars,
And we pleasured each other with stories as we sailed through the stars,
And I made a note to myself, but avidly failed to mention
That the next time I took the commander’s course, I will pay more attention.
A Song from my book in progress - The Boatman’s Song
Its part 1 to 26 already on Poetrysoup.
NOTE: For my Poetry Soup friends: I may not be posting any comments and new
Poems from 18th Feb onwards owing to a minor eye surgery I would be under going
On 19th or 20th. Feb. As such I hope to resume my writings around Feb. last. Till then
I would be taking a short leave from all of you. With love……. Ravindra
A Song
O beautiful indicator of the season of Vasant*
How blooming you feel in the wake of spring
My heart is still in the grip of autumn
Trying to wipe out the hidden agonies and pains
I am waiting for the clouds to shower some rains
O beautiful indicator of the season of Vasant*
The Earth is spreading its beauty in the colors of spring
And yellow flowers of mustard are singing a tune of love
The Sun has started spreading bright light on everyone
To wipe out some of my agonies and pains
I am waiting for the clouds to shower some rains
O beautiful indicator of the season of Vasant*
The colors of Holi* are waiting to get mingled in water
And the beloved hearts are trying to embrace their lovers
Dipped with the heart touching color of Tesu*
Which arouses powerful sensations in every lover
To get lost in the arms or dreams of their beloved
To wipe out some of my agonies and pains
I am waiting for the clouds to shower some rains
Ravindra
Kanpur India 15th February 2010
[email protected]
*Vasant = Spring
*Ritu = Season
Holi* = Color festival of Hindus in which water colors made from flower
Tesu only used to be played to truly celebrate Holi. Use of other
types of colors are a distorted form of Holi and should not be played.
*Tesu = A natural flower which leaves its colors when dipped about 12 hours
Have a beautiful enchanting effect on the skin and mind of its players.
Now very rarely used during Holi in India, but it leaves a lasting
impressions on the one who plays Holi from Tesu colors.
There is a specific kind of silence that happens on a phone screen
when the uncles in the village post a picture of the dried-up borehole.
They do not add caption text or dramatic emojis;
they just let the cracked mud speak for itself to the cousins in Gaborone
who are busy paying off car loans they can barely afford.
My phone vibrates against the wooden table like an unwelcome heartbeat.
An aunt text-messages a Bible verse about enduring the famine,
typing it in all caps because her eyesight is failing under the dim solar light.
Nobody replies with poetry or clever metaphors.
We just type Amen because it is the only currency we have left to share.
In the city, we pretend we have cut the umbilical cord,
moving between air-conditioned offices and scanning barcodes at the mall.
But you cannot block the dirt road from your bloodline.
A notification pops up about a contribution for a broken tractor part,
and suddenly the salary you haven't received yet belongs to Kachikau.
I remember when news used to travel by foot or on the back of a donkey,
arriving late but carrying the actual breath of the person who brought it.
Now, the emergency arrives in blue ticks and instantaneous panic,
breaking through our neat, modern routines
to remind us that survival is still a collective hustle.
So I don't look for rhymes to soften the blow of these text messages.
I write this down exactly as the screen glows against my face in the dark.
We are a generation caught between the data bundles we buy
and the old soil that still demands our sweat,
waiting for the typing indicator to tell us who we have to save next.
She leaves Southampton
This Titanic ship
Her maiden voyage
New York trip
Channel crossings to Cherbourg, France
To Queenstown in Ireland
Where passengers dance
To some, a new life awaits
The future will seal their fate
Newfoundland waters
Temperature drop
Impending disaster
Without a thought
Lookouts, Fleet and Lee
Spot a large iceberg close to she
Sitting off her starboard bow
Sweat dripping from their brow
Telegraph indicator
In confusion state
This colossus of ice
Sits and waits
Inevitable meet
As natures diamond rips
Starboard side
Of this most wonderful ship
Rivets pop, buckled hull
Atlantic intrusion, in volumes now
Compartments fill, this White Star gem
Will we ever see her likes again
Distress signal sent
As the crew are readied
This ship of ships
Emotionally unsteady
Lifeboats launched
Woman and children first
On this terrible night
Many fear the worst
So many passengers
Few lifeboats
As all around
Bodies float
Stern raised, props showing
Metal talking, funnels choking
Lights flicker off and on
Blackout
While Shepherds watched their flocks by night all seated on the ground
The ewes collected up their lambs and gathered them around
"Listen now," the old Ewe said, "you young lambs listen well,
If you all want to grow to sheep then hark to what I tell
You may see lights up in the sky, or coming cross the downs
They could be aliens my dears, from space, or other towns
They may use flashy coloured beams or other fancy sights
But sometimes they have dim headlamps and indicator lights"
"It does not matter how they come or from what other lands
Aliens are just as bad who drive white transit vans
So lambs who plan to wander off and get up to no good
Can get sheepnapped to Cygnus Prime, or maybe Cricklewood
And whether you are beamed aboard, or bundled in a sack
The aliens have got you, and you won't be coming back
A simple truth for young lambs to, within their noddles, keep
Is alien companionship is never good for sheep"
"It matters not a sci-fi whit dissected in a lab,
Or spiced and served with napkins in a curry or kebab
The preparations, much the same, occuring on the way
Are what you can undoubtedly expect to spoil your day!"
The little lambs were chastened much and some quite overcome
And resolved that they would keep themselves close to their mum
But other things were happening and shepherds on the ground
Beheld an Angel visiting, with glory spread around
"Fear Not", he said for mighty dread had seized their troubled minds
"Great tidings of great joy I bring to you and all mankind"
The sheep reckoned that was not them and were much relieved
It did not really matter if the shepherds were deceived
But still, they thought, 'twas best be off, although no need to hurry
And one or two thought shepherds might improve turned into curry
The night was dark and shepherds eyes were full of holy light
And so the sheep all silently crept off into the night
Leaving shepherds to their fate somewhere among the stars
The sheep hit Bethlehem's nightspots, the clubs, the pubs and bars.
A rag of a paper from a lifetime that's gone,
Replaced by a small microchip.
The feel of those words in the palm of your hands,
That the ends of your fingers would grip.
And the hands of a surgeon juggling his craft,
Or the journalist reporting the news.
All replaced with perfect mechanical arms,
On an internet with millions of views.
Already we yearn for the art of the human,
Who'd do the best that he could with few fails.
Spinning their yarn with small human insights,
And yet covering all important details.
And the car indicator you pushed to turn off,
Or the window you wound to pull down.
We miss the old life of being involved,
When computers didn't run the whole town.
Old sage of the forest
Old sage of the forest, wise inhabitant of Rickmansworth, thy statue and wisdom are true, true and true,
The true existence of the eternal sun, the stone of which is the foundation of life, an ancient world whose work has been preserved as a fossil in the ancient world as a memory,
Your heroic demeanor and your wise look towards the sky show, mean, but also offer the future an instructive new life and opportunity.
The light of your eyes for life looks up to the sky, hoping for life, and with its image, as a creative and eternal masterpiece, you reveal to us,
Which in the wisdom of life is the faithfulness that springs from you.
The faithful, which through you will be a masterpiece of life, which through life will be the life sown before you and the grass of the forest and field,
A masterpiece, a creation, a masterpiece, which is a work of life that breaks out of your self, um, breaks out, breaks out of a real past.
Old forest sage, your old age is always young, but ancient and faithful to the truth.
The truth seemed like it without you. It's gone, but it's still here, you're its pillar - a past reality...
A reality that points to the sky even in the present, and you will remain here forever as a signpost and a stepping stone for the future.
The truth is with you, with you, that's why you live, your existence is eternal, the future is watching you, you are the indicator of the direction of the road,
You are followed by the life that is future, there you are green, in the future your existence is green,
You are a dazzle, the splendor of your wise colors in the future radiating reality, dazzling and shining,
I look up to you, your pure being is the noble, steely, shiny diamond stone,
Your soul is the noble wedge of the world, whose ornament shines bright throughout the world,
You remain at my side as an ornament, example, life, decency and honor, immortal, who is forever doing and striving for life.