Long Infrequent Poems
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There are times that we see everything but see nothing. There are times we hear everything but hear nothing. There are times we are touched but feel nothing. There are times we lose all sense of smell and taste. Nothing seems to satisfy and nothing attaches to our five senses.
It doesn't mean that we are bad people; it means that "life happens". And again, there are those times that 'magic happens' and lasts forever. In my case, life indeed does happen, but I remember two forever magical moments. I was a little lad and did not possess a camera but captured two moments that were magical.
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Doing the laundry, cleaning the house, and cooking, or simply taking her infrequent leisure. Beautifying someone’s hair, or just chatting with a friend, there was often a small green glass bottle of soda near by. This lady never poured from the bottle to a drinking glass. Such a classy ritual was never required nor desired by her. The most favored and refreshing moment for her was a bag of salted peanuts slowly poured into her favorite strong drink. While MOTHER was capturing a cool refreshing moment, her little boy was capturing a magical moment, an eternal impression. 8888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888
After filling the cup, GRANDMA would slowly pour the steaming hot coffee into the saucer. Then, she would gently blow, making it right for sipping. Perhaps a common practice at the time, and unworthy of anybody’s attention, but with wide-eyed interest in the sipping, a little boy watches and captures a ’magical moment’. Some 60 years later, her grandson sips every morning but never took to 'saucer sipping'.
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Most Republicans I've had the admittedly too infrequent pleasure
of listening to
assume financial wealth
is a greater public responsibility
and opportunity
than very much secondary social wealth
of healthy relationships,
resonant and democratically inclusive resilience.
And, Green Democrats
seem to share a world view
giving primal priority to values of social wealth,
multicultural co-investment
in people,
plants,
planetary inter-relationships,
global compassion.
So, a simple Thought Experiment
in competitive v cooperative relationality:
Imagine you are the ultimate capitalist success story
Playing a zero-sum win/lose game,
you always win,
so everybody else loses.
Eventually all financial assets,
natural resources,
human resources,
real properties
belong to you.
There remains no financial competitor left standing.
You are Earth's omnipotent predator
of all economic value.
What happens to the value
of your capital liquid assets
at the moment you achieve
your perfect monopolistic success?
a perfect vacuum of other economic contenders?
Now, imagine social relationships
are our root source of value.
You develop cooperative relationships
that branch out into a global nurturing
and mutually nutritious network
of co-empowering healthy communication
until, finally, no one stands outside
your robust caring cooperative,
your multiculturally resonant social system.
At the exact moment of perfect synergetic interdependence,
when loneliness,
segregation,
distrust,
apartheid,
dissociation,
antagonistic lack of peaceful relationships
are nothing more than a pre-millennial memory,
what remains of your social,
multicultural
political
and cooperative economic value?
How would you ever finish spending
and extending
your social capital co-investments?
So, when Republicans
and not-so-Green Democrats
sternly inform me
We need a solid Business Model
for a robust and resilient government
and for perpetual economic growth,
I am always curious to learn
which Business Model they have in mind,
Competitive win/lose? Like runaway capitalism,
Or cooperative win/win?
Like sacred Earth communion.
Once I was infrequent hard to pass ;
As God's righteous movement in my heart and my chest;
Caught up in mine spirit soul dysfunction;
Captured heart beating in my chest;
Why am I constipated with the world's thoughts;
I believe that I believe beliefs attitudes can't be brought;
Feelings emotions travel through the interstate highways of my mind and yet;
Subconsciously, I am abundantly yet still thinking;
reasoning what is my purpose I know my purpose;
And know I ain't been drinking, don't need no control substances to catch feelings;
There're mine, those of yesterday and tomorrows past through the glass;
Outwardly now I've forgotten;
But yesterdays life past stored, becomes tomorrow lessons;
Free will choices, yet in still you have three voices;
Whose do you hear, which one the quiet quietest ;
How I'm I chosen am I loved I know I am loved;
I'm a three-part being housed in a fleshly shell;
But am I instinct with Spirit soul body praise am I aware;
of the right order
Am I a witness witnessing believer more than with My soul;
But the real meaning in my spirit purpose is it love, it's love His love;
But yet through life's toils all along my body to rule;
When my spirit the center of me, should be the reverence of me balanced;
And my soul surrounds my heart endowed with due process;
I am His Child
Captured heart beating in my chest;
Why am I constipated with the world's thoughts;
I believe that I believe beliefs attitudes can't be brought;
Feelings emotions travel through the interstate highways of my mind and yet,
I fly I'm above in the heavenlies looking down with eagle eyes and I see what transpires
And I fly even higher I am God's child I am loose of this world, I am His Child;
Now I am influent infused filled with Him;
Diarrhea out my sins, been washed and cleansed;
Hung, laid up high on the cross, them there those my sins;
I'm a new vessel, under immediate construction;
Potholes been sealed I am influent infused filled with Him;
11/29/22
Written words by James Edward Lee Sr © 2022
a Santa suit-red
snowflake-white and pine tree-green . . .
my rainbow glistens
Like a rainbow after rain, the colors of the Yuletide season appear for many
of us to warm our souls in the cold of winter. This year my yultide rainbow began to glisten brightly right before Thanksgiving Day when snow swirled down rather unwelcomingly, for my son and his family from Oregon were driving in to see us at that time. No sooner had he arrived when he turned around and left, just one day after our small family feast at a buffet restaurant. How lovely that time was though -the food, the banter, and the after-dinner games.
After that brief time with my son's family, I spent the next few weeks mailing off Christmas cards and shopping for gifts, etc. Today I take note that the "big day" is exactly one week away. However, I will not have my son with me, for he lives too far from us, and his visits are infrequent. Consequently, getting together my children and their family members at one time and place is a very special and rare occasion. As rare as seeing a double rainbow!
After New Year's Day, I will return to work, my small vacation time expired. Valentine's Day, St. Patrick's Day and Easter, Tax day!! Then many birthdays, anniversaries, my mid-summer one-week break, and Halloween will lead me back again to the time of Thanksgiving. I look forward eagerly to them all; then I turn around, and they are gone. . .gone as swiftly as those two days that passed when I got to be with my son at my last Thanksgiving time.
Days, weeks, months, seasons, years. . . they come and they go - endlessly revolving through the four seasons of the lives of all humanity. As I keep marking off my calendar, I see those celebrations as the evanescent rainbows of my life and also the greatest paradox of life! The longer we live and relish life, the closer we come to its end.
seasons of rainbows
in a century will be . . .
all but forgotten
Dec. 18, 2019 for Caren Krutsinger's
December Or January Haibun Contest Poetry Contest
Tree Stories
She asked me about the trees
and I laughed, remembering the times I saw her eyes sparkle through the leaves on every single occasion of when I told her what I humbly named "tree stories"
She remembered every single story I told
And even after I stopped telling them, she'd recount every one and begged me to tell more even in the freezing-our-fingers-off cold and when I told her I wouldn't tell her any more,
She silently smiled and knew that my stories were best kept infrequent and special so that that tree never rotted
Now here's another one, made lovingly
I watched the leaves flow through the city and when I walked out of my raggedy old apartment building I felt pity for these leaves
They ran through these sidewalks and crosswalks without a destination and never had a relation to one another, but together made a beautiful creature to which I wrote my plots and storylines for you. The branches themselves stayed put however, waiting for the leaves to come back whenever and ask if it all went well but to be disappointed, for these leaves were gone somewhere, left for a 17 year old boy to be compelled somewhere and so the tree is left forever incompleted everywhere. The tree is left forever, with no other story to tell.
Fall is a hard time for the trees.
I wrote this to make you smile
You know, the one that lasts for miles and for all the while we didn't have the pleasure of seeing one another, so to see that bright smile again I wrote this story for you, my lover in wonder.
This made me so happy to write and my eyes saw even more than what I allowed myself to see at night whenever we have our love filled phone calls and whenever I close my eyes so I can imagine you here with me, your breathing holding over the rough, rough tide.
And now this is where it ends. Till another story I hope this holds you over and again I say, I made it lovingly.
Form:
I see, and fear, a trumpian landscape,
usually, and more casually, outside any safe inside sanctuary.
Infrequent glances inside windstorms
and rivers of underground currents
surreptitiously culture shape
mold
transform vertically visual landscapes,
motherlands of ecotherapy above, outside
forests and deserts,
Earth's inside
farms and gardens, windblown
oceans and continents in-between violent storms
and ego-magnetic rabid inside voices
from underground aquifers
reappropriating information originally borrowed
from outside sacred spaces
Now over-invested in big WhiteHouses for patriarchal elites
purchasing trumpian ego-greedy competitions
to conquer physical elective losses
with mentally unhealthy unbalancing wins
against SuperEgo's timeless ultra-violet, climate
Green Gaia/Diana Goddess, client
Holy Matriarchal Spirit, common
EarthSoul's ZeroZone, everyday
whatever within healthy core
LeftBrain label you prefer, bling
because of early childhood market language
and competitive culture, nurturing
neurological and psychological development.
EarthSouls learns more in an outside voices hour
observing our trumpian landscapes within
and without
than would be possible in a humane domesticated lifetime
of ignoring what neither God nor Goddess could love,
Absence of prime WinWin creative relationship
robustly ultra-violet not not light
ecstatically deep resilient color speaking
non-trumpian resonance, positive energy
multiculturally peopled
and polyculturally populated, democracy
within merging bilateral inside-outside health, integrity
in religious liberal loving consciousness
with multicultural soul-conserving unconsciousness
of cognitively dissonant trumpian winds
and cold, wet winter estuaries, hope
terrorizing elite polynomial faith
in irrational left without right
unloved remainders.
She was quiet
Almost shy
And kind.
I was crude
Rough
In a hurry
I only thought of me
She thought of us.
When we dated
We frequented local places
Never venturing beyond
Our quiet town
We had some good times
But I grew tired of the sameness
I wanted to see the world
Meet the smart money
Feel the hustle
And take in the give.
Eventually things faded
Our calls were infrequent
Her voice became cold and formal
A tiny crack seeped between us
Growing into a fracture
That couldn’t be healed
When it ended
We went on our own
But it hurt me more
Than I admitted
Walking home that night I bit my lip
To keep from crying.
One day my mother said
She thought she saw her
In town
Holding a young child by the hand
She looked happy.
“I thought you didn’t like her” I said
Stopping, my mother searched my face
“I was used to seeing you as a couple that’s all.”
We met by chance years later
We changed
The world changed
Things happened
We stared at each other
Not speaking
Just staring
Standing
At arm’s length
In awkward silence
I was going to ask about children
But I didn’t
The anguish
And bitterness of rejection
Was still buried somewhere inside.
We parted the same way we met
Awkwardly
Memories came back
And I realized
She was comfortable where she was
A place where time moved
In its own peculiar way
A world of
Small shops
Familiar strangers
Clean streets
A place where mothers
Kept an eye on their children.
All in all
Not a bad place to live
And certainly not a bad life.
A voice inside my head
Whispered “Who was she?”
I pretended not to hear
When I look back
I remember the time
A girl walked into my life
For a brief moment.
Maybe it was love
Or infatuation
But whatever it was
She was the girl I once knew.
[ edit poem ]
Life Is What Happens
What a long, strange life it’s been.
Childhood and adolescence were close to normal,
I never felt quite right,
Never fit my image of a normal kid.
Dealing with internal demons for so many years.
Adolescence was hell,
The frigging dybbuks took control
Internally screaming, “your not good enough”, “your dirt”,
Externally, manifesting as cystic acne, ugly, festering sores.
Then long hair, drugs and rock n roll.
Feelings of compassion, and forgiveness.
For awhile the voices got quieter,
Infrequent periods of contentment,
First love, and then the Voices were back.
Alcohol, anger, self-hatred,
Move away! Leave L.A.!
Transplant to Sonoma County
Twenty-three years old, alone, frightened.
A period of relief, enjoyment, discovery.
The search had begun!
A time of growth, feelings of great love,
for life, for spirit, for myself.
Politics grabs hold,
Open to new friends,
Seeing myself as worthy to be loved.
Christine, daughter of the Motor City,
Nancy Marie, the wild one,
And then she picked me up hitchhiking.
How do you measure a life?
Marriage, children, many good years.
But the demons reappear,
This time as a progressive, degenerative disease
I watch the life I thought I knew, disintegrate little by little,
until I’m stripped close to the bone,
And I watch!
Three decades spent creating a structure,
A way of being, a persona, a box,
In which to place all our preconceptions
About love, family, commitment, hopes and dreams.
Like Schopenhauer’s “Will to Live”, life moves on,
Refusing to address the petty personal dreams, wishes, and prayers
Focusing instead on the perpetuation of a far less then perfect species
--Updated 1/25/2013
Cogwheel Ballet
by Odin Roark
Hot
Humid
New York summer
Industrial commerce 24/7
Textile scents of humid wool
Acerbic edge of chemical dyes
Permeating wood and air
Thick oily lubricants
Layered enslavement
Nowhere to escape
A century’s senses imprisoned
Drawing on all he has…
One work-for-rent dreamer
Of agile body
Holds forth
Awaiting his nightly concession
His arabesque of glee
2 AM break
The precious pause for moonlight’s silver
Thrusting its presence through
Floor to ceiling windows
Refracting off bare metal frames
Arcing visual life across the radiators
Curling over his labor station
Arcing across planked floor
His rough hewn dance surface
Awaiting…
From floors below
Dissonant seduction begins
Printing presses come alive
Rhythmic noise
Machinery’s first chaotic movement
Changing its accelerated pace
Into allegro’s process
Then back to a scherzo finish
The imaginative sounds
Many dismiss as noise
Even as others hear music
This crescendo of background rumble
Joined by circular rises and falls
Sustains the dancer’s cocoon
His undaunted confidence
In iron cogs gnashing
Creaking gears kissing
Turning belts lathering
Pistons rising
Falling
Pounding energy
Echoing its creation to the imagination above
Gracefully
He moves about the floor
Contorting his body
Bending into pain
Releasing into pleasure
But
Nightly sensations end too soon
Midnight shift perks infrequent
Labor’s drudgery winning
Rendering body vapid
By morning’s sunrise
Squinting at daylight
Infused with a Spartan workout
Of fantasized dream movements
Between lifting warehouse containers
His aching arms of no-questions-asked effort
Hang limp beside legs often of steel
Now mere precarious stilts to make it home
Face Maps
How often we ponder
The portrait of life,
Some without a face,
Some with but war as a canvas.
The experienced face
Reveals folds above eyes,
Disengaged as a draught-laden wilderness,
Yet reliable as an infrequent desert storm.
For amidst nature’s wisdom
Directional signs are forever available,
Even though some may be
Subtle and wanting to hide.
Still,
Few pay attention.
Perfection makes no judgment,
Even as history is difficult to cover up
When presented by a face
That has obviously seen
More than most of us
Can dream of.
Archiving such potential realities
Begs the opening of discovery,
Often challenging one’s patience,
While the forever-our-partner in waiting
Smiles back sagaciously,
Wanting only to be part of one’s smile.
The face
What was,
What is.
Such might attract
Veracious seekers of life,
Accepting their journey
As the worth of engaging years,
Infused with honesty,
Allowing chiseled erosion
To live forever in the eye’s mind
For those who might also
Wish to perceive relief’s valleys.
Mountains,
And tearless tributaries of the face.
Projecting the wonder,
Life,
Peace,
Waiting for the next iteration,
Remains a journal of the spirit .
Some will fortunately
Embrace with understanding,
Knowing weathered landscape
Is but captured wind and weather,
Mind and soul,
Body and suffering,
Wanting only to remain
Without airbrush deceit.
As is,
As was,
As always to be.
Yet…
Others
Will address
One’s life map of travels
With fearful retreat,
Hiding in the shadows of delusion