Long Indulgence Poems
Long Indulgence Poems. Below are the most popular long Indulgence by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Indulgence poems by poem length and keyword.
With whispered farewells breathed from the fiery lips of The Western Sun, She slips to that dark resting place beyond horizon’s edge as yet another grain falls forever through the glass of time- leaving me spellbound,,, held in trance of passing moment’s beauty and ever mindful of price paid to bear witness of such- for I live not under deception my days are without number.
I cast my thoughts in direction of task yet unfulfilled- living in hope the morrow shall bring more favorable end to such as I take pause to smile in moment of such self indulgence. Still,,,with intent to hurry on my way I find my spirit delightfully brightened by the waking hellos of evening stars and moonlit paths which lead to home.
Peace reigns in it’s moment of glory - suffering no loss in the memories of a well finished day- bringing thoughts of rest, the warm haven of home and glimmer of hope eternal.
Everywhere we look, we see a divide,
as head destroys heart, trampling it to dust
and paths of kindness, most of us deride,
living a life unholy and unjust,
oblivious to soul weeping inside,
bemoaning ego’s indulgence in lust.
There’s a yawning gap between head and heart,
which we can bridge on adding love to cart.
Conscience whispers but we heed not its voice
and thus what may have been remains unseen
but in truth we always do have a choice,
to meld head with heart, regaining soul’s sheen,
whereupon grace in-pours and we rejoice,
transformed as God’s light, blissful and serene.
All we need to do is give love our nod,
dissolving the gap between us and God.
When the mama doesn't cry
She smiles and kisses her child goodbye,
I see the tears behind her eyes,
Sparkling like sunshine:
"Baby..come back soon"
She says,
But her baby was gone.
Baby Jane had left the world
Hung like the mobile above her cot,
As her mama stood beside
She soaked in the scent of freedom..
The bars of the window that separated them
Spilled assurance from the vacuum
That dwelt within her gullible mind:
Mama smiled again..
"Bye my Baby, Be good my child
Homely charms call me...
Back to my village I shall return,
Before the clouds go wild.."
She waved her hand by the turn,
And Baby Jane was happy..
The eyes she had, had the curious gait
Wandered deep and innocence, bait
The dabblers that didn't notice
Had died her living death.
Rosy cheeks and sultry hair
Doe-eyed beauty, thorough fair..
The novelties of charm for her
Had been mere indulgence of ardor,
She saw the dads and the mums,
The beggars with their deceptions,
Families with happiness strewn
Like flowers on Heaven's doors..
Lone warriors with baggage demeaning
The pursuit of happiness,
She wondered if her quest for life
Had been an oblivion..
Nirvana had led her to..
Baby Jane looked by the turn,
Strangers fluttered like wild butterflies...
The waving hand was just a vision
She sat quietly by the window,
On the leaving train.
An Oceanless Beach
What is it to see
but never emerge from the dark?
Children marvel at color,
movement,
perception,
not knowing
control mongers await them,
famished gluttons who relish
adults obviating consciousness.
Some risk pain,
while too few discover
healing is not a poultice
to cover a wound,
but an eardrum,
an eyelid
to remedy contrived storms,
blasts of empty oxygen
programmed to destroy
observation's eloquent gift,
the always present
sense of truth,
or not.
Risk awaits…
Perhaps muddied,
but nevertheless
always at the ready,
actuality's hardened muscles
ready to serve,
to discern platitudes from profundity.
How courageous
this willingness to risk,
knowing to cower
is to embrace that safe place,
ignorance's wanton indulgence,
an anesthetized existence
on an oceanless beach,
where colorless tears
become desolate in erosion’s sorrow.
5 subjects abide within the confines of the walls
Whether or not they are closing in is clearly optional
Patients prefer the term “guests” when visiting
In their few numbers, in wonderment, pretend
3 people read magazines filled with bullets
Between the lines and teeth they see release
Dreaming of machine gun fire
Furniture is there for added comfort
The table does not mind or care if it is there
2 other individuals fall asleep before the call
Turns have no significance within
A nurse curses out a name in the vicinity
There must be a hall near by that listens
Her penicillin voice is coarse
No one responds of course
In psychiatry it is best to shout out “Napoleon!”
You are next!
Take your place and wait behind 4 other walls
We'll call again when we are good and ready
Authors note: The author makes no claims of being rational in this piece but he would like your indulgence in the belief that he is at times reasonable in his conjectures. Also: Please forgive him for using the numbers, 5, 3, 2 and 4 out of their usual context or order. He realizes that this is poetry not math but he simply does not care.
Descent and ascent
Through vibration spectrum
May fan fires of feral sentiment
Enmeshing our soul in ego residuum
To feel fully by touch we enter trance
Leading to dreamy state of stupor
Indulgence in earthy dalliance
Makes endless our caper
Upon reaching exhaustion
We exit the thought form stream
The void of silence, desire cessation
Offers a chance to wake up from the dream
The underlying truth is right before our eyes
Space between us and myriad objects
If restless heart ceases it’s sighs
We see dream life’s defects
Unfocused gaze held thus
In boundless space all around
Resting desires that tend to nonplus
In but not of the world, we’re no longer bound
Mind-body and ego identity then an apparatus
We employ it as of need to navigate life
Playfully going where God takes us
Awake, aware and with joy rife
14-March-2022
The Humans Terrain
Undulating mountain ranges that cry out for slow release
Ambulating strangers that are covered in polluted grease
Dictating derangers that covet the Golden Fleece
Translating trainers that have broken their contractual lease
Commiserations for the silent ones who never speak a word
Invigorations of the violent guns who deal in the gratuitous and absurd
Continuations of the resilient suns that shine like they have been heard
Obligations for the wires bent for runs that have had the lines all blurred
Contamination of the water sources and slights upon the proud
Observations of the four main horses that come down upon the clouds
Celebrations of the multiple courses that defy the logic of the loud
Condemnation of the armed forces that illuminate a mushroom shroud
Ideological premises that combine to fill a season
Phenomenological nemesis that refine to environmental treason
Categorical messages that define philosophical reason
Allegorical sentences that design an artistic state of glee’s ion
Affluential indulgence circulating around the priveledged few
Monumental divergence insulating the poverty stricken from the news
Transcendental convergence incubating as the profundity is used
Non judgemental resurgence confiscating the subtle shades of colour among the hues
Copyright Elizabeth Moroz 2025
so slowly -
I have traveled this way before
crept along this route with deliberate intention
allowing myself the enjoyments that
each next measure brings
savoring the odyssey as if for the first time …
that mindset -
allowing me the discovery around each bend
of sensations, new and inspiring
each twist and turn offering a new reveal
a perspective or feeling or taste
that my previous numberless journeys lacked
how many roads -
do we travel in life?
some over-and-over, in haste
and those footsteps, retraced, so often taken for granted
the world bustling by our window
without notice or regard
yet -
each time I make THIS sojourn
it reveals something fresh and wondrous
a tremor, a flavor, an aromatic scent, heavenly
feelings, sights, thoughts, even sounds, anew
that my previous courses missed
but, oh my -
this adventure!
never again shall I take a centimeter of
this trek as a given
for it is the wandering that matters
oh, the destination holds wonders of its own
but -
this sublime adventure is never to be hurried
for it is made on a vista, divine
a landscape of unequaled beauty and breadth
that unfolds before me in amazement and portent
the sugary softness and voluptuous indulgence ...
inside - your thigh.
~ 1st Place ~ in the "Strand Choice 12 Any Form Any Theme" Poetry Contest, Brian Strand, Judge & Sponsor.
(For all the girls in Gauteng)
The Rose of Rathanda
I am the ultimate ruby blush of Rathanda, so overwhelmingly fragrant the moon faints .
My petals, spun from stolen starlight, dictate the very tides of the Indian Ocean.
Kings forfeit crowns just for one blinding glimpse of my of my majestic, blushing, burning Rathanda beauty.
When I bloom, the world holds its breath, fearing the sheer, searing, staggering power.
I make the sun feel like a mere flickering candlelight in a dreary, dark, drafty hallway.
I am the eternal, ethereal, existential epicenter of all divine desire.
I am the Violet
I am a
Reoccurring episodes when my spirit and mind, are in fight or flight. I recognize and identify in moments where I feel completely blank inside. It’s my body’s way of reminding me to unplug, just take a break. Things are overloading, I need to mentally and spiritually escape. Detach and let go of everything, especially from those moldy framed memories. Clear my plate full of moments, where I’d rather not hold space. A mental memory cannibal is who I may need to feed. It would have been a bigger memory feast, if I didn’t start those sessions sponsored by an MFT. And before I learned to appreciate the undoing of the override, built by some old version of me. I am allowing the Indulgence and consumption of those poisonous memory plates. Right from off my table of shame. Feasts of anger, sadness and pain. From a past that serves no source of fulfillment for this version of me today. This process takes place quietly, beneath the skin, bone and tissue. It’s more of a spiritual and mental misuse issue . I am sure my consciousness is trying to take care of me, as it turns on the exterior autopilot & power save mode intermittently. Which works at protecting the positive good memories, from being sorted plated, and digested, pointlessly. Helping prevent episodes where fight or flight are the only options I see. Because when I have too much on my plate, it becomes daunting and too heavy a task to overtake. So my body’s override sorts every memory good or bad inside. It plates everything, and that’s where we get to decide, do we want to keep feeding our spirit sadness anger and lies, or memories that support hope growth and peace inside. Your choice. Dinner's at 5