Long Influence Poems
Long Influence Poems. Below are the most popular long Influence by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Influence poems by poem length and keyword.
Its too late your words are not enough,
to justify your actions, so call your bluff.
I knew you where the type, You said you had changed,
i was obviously not enough for you when you felt the need to exchange.
Don't give me that same old under the influence excuse,
I've had all i can take of your selfish abuse.
Foolishly i have sat here waiting for you, night after night,
Well not anymore sunshine! cos i've finally seen the light.
To think you'd get away with it, you really have a cheek,
And that after all that i'd take you back, you must think i'm weak.
just get your things together now and get out of my life,
How did i ever be so stupid to think that one day i'd become your wife.
Its time for both of us to part now and face up to reality.
things would never have came to this if it wasn't for your infidelity.
When they lay me in the ground
And those who loved me grieve
As my restless soul still wonders
What will become of me
My fate will lie within their hands
Once I'm dead and gone
Will they care if I just pass away
Or see that I pass on
Ashes to ashes returning to earth
Helping my soul understand its true worth
If I pass away I guess it explains
How I've failed as a man again and again
But if I pass on and they carry my torch
I'll realize I've fulfilled, my calling on earth
Death will act much like a rebirth
With my knowledge and influence vindicating my worth
Please let me pass on instead of away
Allow my spirit to live, long past the grave
Breathless and lifeless yet so much remains
This box holds my vessel while Heaven I gain
Refuse to let death become your curse
And on your final day
You'll understand just what it means
To pass on and not away
PTSD
Thank you my brother, for spending time with me.
A greeting with a hug, your scars laid bare to see
Reminiscing of times, that felt like long ago.
We’ve earned each fleck of silver that both our beards now grow
I’m broken for you brother, I feel the weight of all you carry
I know your roads been rough, and no doubt you’re getting weary
When you gaze into the mirror, I know you see a lessor man
It gets harder to tell the difference, between the garbage and the can
The trash we are to throw out, not to pile it up inside
When the can becomes too full, instead of dumping it, we hide
I know you’d take a bullet for me, so let me take one first
I don’t want to have to witness you, hauled off inside a hearse
To many you’re a champion, you fought with all your might
To punish those responsible, to make their worlds more right
There is no judgement in this piece, these words flow from real love
If I could just trade places now, I’d gladly give the shove
I’ll step out on the highway, to create for you a path
I’ll stand with you in any storm, I’ll endure the devil’s wraith
Many things I do not know, but this each day renews
Evil has no influence, when you’re standing in the truth
I still see your true worthiness, and not one penny less
Your worst days are behind you now, before you lie the best
So come, I beg you brother, please just lay your burdens down
The price for you was paid in full, you no longer need that crown
Fight with me once more, we owe those that we’ve lost
To prove it can be overcome, regardless of the cost
She can be at home in the humblest of abodes. A calming of the storm. Her sincerity conveyed in a glance, in a hug. A comforter. A soothing of pain. Though she doesn't possess the ability to remove all ills, all stress, she certainly has her influence when it comes to happiness! She is central to charity, to positive wellbeing. So many facets complete her form. Care... Empathy... Love...
~~~
Wrapped like a present
Decorated in sequins
Sparkles of kindness
~~~
Her superpower is her flexibility. She arises for any need. She is cooperative, supportive, a key volunteer in life. Though unpaid she gives her all. She's a gift. She's a treasure to all! But she relies on the people we are. We each have the power to give...
~~~
LOVE is the present
Decorated in kindness
Shown by our actions.
Nothing I have is mine.
Nothing I am is even me.
It was given by chance, maybe something divine.
Even others influence my poetry.
Just because I can’t pinpoint exact
That to which I’m attached
Or it’s origins for me
Doesn’t mean someone else didn’t have a hand in my story.
Life is a tapestry, everything just paint
I owe a lot to the woman who saved me, that motherly saint.
Everything I would say that I’ve built
Would be nothing if she didn’t clear out the silt.
She taught me how to follow the thread
To find why there was so much anger in my head.
She showed me how to not give control to emotion
Because it tends to be a violent ocean.
She taught me to slow down, to breathe
And it helps when clear choices I need.
I know clearly that nothing I have is mine,
That I am a product of those who were there for me.
And I thank chance or whatever divine
That gave me a second hope to live, to be.
There aren’t enough ways,
To emphasize your impact each day.
Such an influence in every way,
No matter the time of the day.
Thank you for everything you do,
No idea where I’d be if not for you.
Bouncing in life around and through,
Loose and unstable as a wild kangaroo.
You brought peace and stability,
I didn’t think those were a possibility.
You changed my entire perception,
My idea was based on a misconception.
Took me out of the tornado’s eye,
Brought me over to the other side.
Endless gratitude fills my heart,
You repaired the pieces that fell apart.
Happy Birthday Dad, I love you!
Photo #2
Incineration of Indian Love God Madan (Cupid) 7
Originally written in Hindi by my late father Dr. Amar Nath Kapoor
1899 to 1994
English version by Ravindra K Kapoor.
Prelude to this epic.
According to Indian mythology Madan the Love God or Cupid was asked to divert the attention of Lord Shiva*, the supreme God of Hindus, who was lost in deep meditation, so that Lord Shiva may be requested to help the Gods from the attacks of the demon supreme immortal Tarakasur. However, when Madan disturbed Him in meditation Shiva became too furious and opened His third eye. Madan the Cupid God got burnt by the fire of the anger of his third eye. This epic reveals many interesting incidents about this story later in this series…..
Hindi name ‘Madan Dahan’ 07
Buds were all smiling to bloom and
To welcome the Lord of the day,
By opening their pretty mouths
To absorb the dew bubbles kissing their faces.
The living and even the lifeless too,
Were all fascinated by the charms of Nature,
Madan* entered in such an intoxicating arena,
And became mad with the flowing passion.
But finding Shiva* in deep meditation,
He thought about his domination,
And its influence on the entire living being,
Which exists on this pretty Earth.
Ravindra
Kanpur India 27th April 2012
To continue……….
Protected under the copy write provisions of Poetry Soup as per US laws.
Clarifications:
Madan*- Hindi name of the Love God Cupid
Shiva*- The Lord of destruction and creation as per Indian mythology.
A GOLDEN AGE
It was the early Sixties when music changed
Rock Around The Clock had paved the way
But many previous styles had seen their day
As modern songs were differently arranged
The Mersey Sound burst out upon the scene
The Beatles in particular, led that revolution
Then almost very year adding a new solution
Along with many others, all young and keen
Of course there was always the U.S influence
And Motown lasted longer than was expected
Loyalty to the favourite radio station selected
But soon, instrumental tracks made less sense
Electric guitars earned their permanent place
But distortion spawned so many a new effect
And much studio tech that helped to correct
But the Pop TV shows filled a popular space
Much music of that era did sound simplistic
But with classic songs and arrangements too
Yet committed to embracing what was new
Despite some Hippy overtones of the mystic
But that memorable decade drew to a close
Whilst colour replaced old black and white
A beat generation was mostly treated right
It shall return and be welcomed, as it goes
Hope was Burrow's substance, where he poured his time,
Pedalling steadily.
Intended path made smooth for those in legacy line.
Sliced through wiry roots,
Watchguard Wombat dug safety spaces.
Safety albeit empty,
claw shortening scooping to prop up progeny.
Plodding stoically.
Muffled praise from mollycoddled recipients who forgot
to congratulate wombat.
Chirps trill between ear orifices, a cheerful bell,
twinkling creek,
Thrill of apparently sucidal bird ledge leap,
harks updraught as capacity for flight.
Her name is Rainbow, though only he calls her so.
Optimism is Burrow's skeleton, firm fragile scaffold not broken
Bloodstream good Samaritan convinces him those closest know
that he would give everything
- devoid of return, satisfied in striving.
Fallen from insipid clouds, risen to a wide arc -
Squadron Observation squawk when the sun reemerges.
Related inseparably, sweet candy stripes are strings,
Harnesses of translucent hues.
Rainbow holds a cauldron in her wings
Shivered salute feather plume pom poms, her support
Altitude albeit not born to
Chimes a celebratory chortle, rain's finishing touch
Firey refraction stacks medallions of precious metal.
Magnetism draws, claws refuse to dig, Burrow closes.
Academy of affluent fly close to burn point,
- risk being scorched
Hypnotised by the increments his digits indicate.
Prospective friends and followers fill up his hollow
Lucrative lure curates karma, demanded by lorikeet
Marionettes dance, tuned to bushland command
Pinnochios pulled by Burrow's Rainbow.
Creativity cannot of course, be forced
Any more than we can influence the earth,
Sun, moon and stars to move beyond
Their perfectly preordained positions within
The infinite limitations of this ever-expanding universe.
The intangible stuff that pervades us
To continually attempt to stretch
Ourselves beyond current bounds
Is imperceptibly profound. Such as the sound
Of a baby’s cry because it tries
To walk, talk, reach, strive, seek
Everything within his or her sphere.
How far he gets is never clear.
Mountaintops
Were made to climb
As music needs rhythm and paint needs brush.
Creativity, no less
Can never be rushed.