Long Intention Poems
Long Intention Poems. Below are the most popular long Intention by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Intention poems by poem length and keyword.
Do you know the concern?
"S/he knows just enough
about a through z
to be dangerous."
I am uncomfortably familiar
with this analysis,
a weapon often wielded
from ivory towers
overly influenced by ideology
masquerading as theory
rooted in statistically measured experience,
severed from historical-cultural,
biological-neurological indigenous context.
Even so,
one feeling I am sure of
my own too robust expertise
is Intolerance.
And, now I am discovering
I have chosen to join a community
with a multicultural intention
to embrace,
or at least tolerate,
all souls,
all species,
all living systems
except those deemed too intolerant,
too wounded,
for multicultural health
as a resonant indicator
of economic and political wealth.
We are exclusively intolerant
of intolerance
because we would provide safe sanctuary
to all souls,
especially victims of monoculturing intolerance,
of win/lose economic and political supremacy,
strategy
gamesmanship.
I find a tension here
between unconditional love
and lacking sufficient curiosity
and courage
to discuss shared values
and disvalues
with those too defensive
too hurt
too lost
too conservative
to tolerate intolerably ***** me,
to tolerate the alien Other.
This reactionary intolerance
of intolerant prejudice
bigotry
often straight white male supremacy,
feels like further breeding ground
for misunderstanding,
segregation,
mutual divestment business as usual,
more win/lose devolutionary anger and fear,
more potential violence,
hate,
war
More egocentric privilege
rather than universal ecosystemic love power
Actively hoping to cooperatively uncover win/win
polycultural resolutions
resiliently curious
and courageous
when in the presence of win/lose competitions
intolerant of active hope
for restoring peace
by retiring retributively inflicted punishment
shunning
non-communication
anti-communion
for past sins of intolerance.
The Layers of your Heart
By David J Walker
Everyday I empty my heart
And after the dark
There is a place a space for the
For things unsaid… undone unorganized things
That beg for my undivided attention
The touch of a confident
hand, and
Every morning it is my intention to make good
Before the sun to decipher
the prayers
As best I can the layers of your heart
Though I am of a flawed man
Trying to know
On a silver morning, when the sky drips its light over dreams,
the poet walks the path of art, a road of stars woven with whispers,
where sages shake hands with shadows, and the soul becomes a harp of wind,
singing of infinity and hearts that open like flowers under the sun.
It is a silent symphony of desires, a dance of light among leaves,
where intention is a fine canvas capturing the unseen colors of the sky,
an offering to time, a song that tells of love and eternity,
of who we are when we lose ourselves in the brilliance of the moment.
Here, the poet becomes a window to unknown realms,
a portal through which viewers find themselves in the echo of their own thoughts,
where each verse is a crystal refuge, a sanctuary of silence and dreaming,
where art becomes a prayer wrapped in light, and words,
a bridge of dreams carrying us beyond the borders of the day, to the depths of being.
For truly, the path of art is an adventure of the heart, a labyrinth of desires,
an endless road, a search for beauty that reveals itself in shadows,
where each step is a metamorphosis, a revelation of the miraculous,
and each thought, a star igniting the inner sky, lighting the way to infinity.
My grandkids gather around my hearth and think it's so great,
To listen to tales of my youth that to them I love to relate.
They sit with mouths agape and with attentive ear,
As I tell them how it was in good old yesteryear!
"There was no such thing as television or amazing videos,
Tho' we had picture shows and mysterious radios.
The baffling computer was far beyond my generation,
Tho' we had typewriters and ciphered on fingers for calculation!"
"Cars now start with the twist of a key and are so very swank,
But we started our old jalopies with a knuckle-busting crank!
There's even a turn signal now to relay your turn intention;
We hung an arm out the window prior to this invention!"
"We had no fancy phones with touchtone, pictures and such.
Our phone hung on a wall - you turned a crank to get in touch.
Scratchy platters spun on a Victrola, playing music to please.
Today the latest and greatest is boom boxes, DVDs and CDs!"
"We had no comfortable facilitiy nowadays called a bath;
We wended our way on moonless nights down a dark and lonely path!"
My grandkids can't believe it when I tell them all this stuff!
All they can say is, "Grandpa, you sure did have it rough!"
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired, (© All Rights Reserved)
Today. Repost
-------------------------------
Meeting Andy Gibb: Today is His Birthday
Some moments in life we just
cannot totally recall,
Like rapid moving waters one sees
in a waterfall.
But meeting Andy, I will
cherish and remember.
His eyes, his smile, far more
than warm and tender.
I can't think of another soul,
so glowing, bright and beautiful.
Oh, how I want so to make a
picture,
Of this singer gone much too
soon!
His demeanor, so gloriously
blissful.
I was blessed enough to touch
his hand, and that
smile indeed, so loving.
I had no intention of giving
him a gift.
But I felt in that time-moment,
I was en route to heaven on
a starry chariot!
With no reason or rhyme,
my visor with sparkling,
Multi colored lights~ I
suddenly gave to Andy!
He was as pleased as punch.
Just before getting into his limo
for lunch,
He turned, smiled and spoke:
"Thank you Mate!.
On the Southern California beaches,
this sure will come in handy".
Today is Andy Gibb's birthday,
Bet you anything he's singing
away with a sparkling visor, on God's
holy moon.
By angels, serving him a large,
sumptuous buffet.
With his brothers, very close beside him.
Humming a tune.
In memory of Andy Gibb
With love from~
Panagiota
Reposted 3/20/2019
through the wind i hear your solo
each note nicely placed for me
slipped back to this journey i lack
miss led international direction
my own intention is to communicate
a feeling , an emotion , anger gets the best
how will i live in a sea of forgetfulness
turned away by anything that would care
a language i don't understand , but i feel it
somehow underline the thoughts of it all
you are speaking , no more stone wall paintings
i sense your words ,they are cutting my soul
enter in a part of my being your speaking
nothing is sacred anymore here
i have had it with my self-doubt and pride
you don't exist to me , this war is over
my hand has the power to change
the launch of the power button
tv off. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Passion and love
By Michelle Morris
10/04/2022
Passion and love so often confused
Only time reveals the roads we choose...
Oh-oh-oh, Oh-oh-oh...
Sparks with lovers can pull you down
Sparks with lovers is how you drown
No one can touch you now
No one can save you now
You took a sip from the Devil's cup
Inhibitions dropping with your clothes
The spark between old lovers
Never entirely goes away
Playing with fire is always dangerous
Unless you're a Phoenix rising again
Put down your box of matches
The oxygen always gets eaten first
Moving around the stage like a singer
Putting on a very big show
You always underestimated the danger
Of throwing all your cards in the air
Round and round, round and round
Getting dizzy, getting fuzzy
Seeing double, seeing trouble
Back away, back away
On and on, don't you know
You're in danger, what's the hurry
Get your feet back on the ground
Pull the stars back into you
You keep drinking from the Devil's bottle
Losing yourself with each and every sip
You chase that enticing little spark
As though it will light your soul
Playing with fire is a pastime
That you focus with intention
You keep hoarding all those matches
Like conflagration will save your life
Moving around your hotel room
You are dancing with your Angels
Getting closer to the edge
Remember heights are bad for you
Round and round, round and round
Getting dizzy, getting fuzzy
Seeing double, seeing trouble
Back away, back away
On and on, don't you know
You're in danger, what's the hurry
Get your feet back on the ground
Pull the stars back into you
Round and round, round and round
You're not making any headway
What's your game, what's your aim
Flying high, flying high
On and on, don't you know
You are floating to the edge
Untethered from this earth
You're heading out to the stars
Close your eyes, feel the rush
Look on down, see the clouds
You're out there in the Universe
And no one can touch you now
Yeah, no one can touch you now
Sparks with lovers will pull you down
Sparks with lovers, how you drowned
Yeah, no one can save you now
Passion and love so often confused
Only time reveals the roads we choose...
Oh-oh-oh, Oh-oh-oh...
© Michelle Morris, 2022
To all who wonder to all of you
An urban myth, or is it true?
A story that happens after dark
A story set in a city park
An escaped deranged one-arm man
Who wears a hook in lieu a hand
Has gotten free the radio blares
He’s homicidal it declares
Two young teens lost in love
Practicing their craft then a shove
Was it the wind moving the car
Was it the maniac with the metal spar
They both jumped up to attention
He’s going out is his intention
Oh! be careful she did rave
No apprehension he was brave
Another scrape upon the doors
Her fear mounts, terror soars
I’m going out he again proclaims
She panics now, No! she exclaims
Before she knew it the handle scrapes
out the door the lover traipse
he looks around to her dismay
he jumps back in and wants to play
she’s too upset I want to leave
disgusted stomps the gas one big heave
as they roar out she takes a look
and on the handle a bloody hook
So if you’re out on a darkened night
Be careful make sure to do things right
It might be true it might be fable
But beware the hook if you are able
A concert hall was filled to capacity,
with revelers unaware of the atrocity,
they were about to face.
Evil dressed in black, intent to kill,
aimed their weapons with precise skill,
and fired into that place.
A favored cafe on a Paris street,
where friends, loved ones oft would meet,
drinking their cafe au lait.
Assassins came and took their position,
to kill and terrorize their intention,
on that tragic day.
Chaos ran rampant in Paris, France,
as ISIS took its murderous stance,
against humanity.
Many were wounded and many died,
and all the world was horrified,
at such insanity.
Anger rises alongside mourning.
Retaliation swift, without warning,
the French fight back.
The world must stand up to these thugs,
destroy them, squash them just like bugs.
We can't be slack.
We mourn with France for those who died,
and we will stand close by her side,
until we win,
this war against cruelty and hate.
Annihilation will not be our fate.
We won't give in.
11/24/15
For Debbie Guzzi's Rime Couee-tail-rhyme
contest for France
Tied for 3rd place
my style
the sky is blue
so is time to
mingle
in a lonely
atmosphere
were love is the
reason of life
so my blue pen
never seize to
pure it reality
from the deep
heart of willingness
my style
fire and water
are two deferent
liquid contents
it differs in action
so am different in
my world
I am of a water
yet I burn like a
fire
cos God order me
to spit fire to the world
of evil
so who are mine
to disobey
the order of the
Almighty
I don't wish more
all I wish is to do
the will of God
and that is nothing but
my style
my style
I believe in God
I love to be close
to him
that has earn me
a lot love towards
humanity
cos my love for
people is divine
and I decided
not to live alone
in a world of equality
turn in to levels
by intelligent human
who destroys the
the innocent souls
of the innocent
with out mercy
nor love
so I pledge to God
for nothing but the
redemption of humanity
that is nothing but
my style
my style
remember fire and water
are not same liquid
substance
no wonder the men
of brave mind
spit fire to the wicked
no wonder the fight
in the world of brutality
can never end
cos at one hand the water
strike
with an intention
to quench the fire
yet the some stubborn
fire reiterate and strike
back
so the battles of life
never end for the Goodman
no wonder is easy to be bad
and that is not
my style