Long Intermediate Poems
Long Intermediate Poems. Below are the most popular long Intermediate by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Intermediate poems by poem length and keyword.
The Prophecy:
An ordinary December morning
extraordinary hopes in white,
streets adorned with snowflakes
embellished in red crystal dreams.
She boarded her cab to airport,
awaited holidays had arrived.
From carousels of Tokyo city
to sledges in the Alps, a while.
Roads blocked in snowfall,
eh, just a glitch in the matrix.
An hour early was a wise decision
she couldn't miss her flight,
home calling season it was.
But oh the flight was delayed
by seven hours for clear weather.
'It'd be a roller coaster ride',
her roommate had read a horoscope.
The tiresome day had just begun.
The Adventure:
A birdie spreading new wings
exploring corners of terminal,
unexpected fascination at stalls
infant desires of relaxation.
Strangers seemed welcoming
a town thriving with journeys
she traveled for 10 hours
without moving geographically.
At last announcements made
she boarded with nostalgia,
the journey to her homeland
began with a gleaming dusk,
golden sunset kissing adieu
to sequins of ocean waves.
She read a verse or two
then dozed off with clouds.
A feather travelling afar
in alluring worldly delight.
The Glitch in the Matrix:
Until they had to pause,
just an intermediate stop
where she stepped out to stroll
retracing steps to board again
caught in freezing showers.
Warm at night, she shivered
longing for her cushioned bed.
A long interesting day though
she wouldn't want it again.
With lilac morning whispers
it was time for her homeland.
Outside was a soothing warmth
veiled in white familiar gleam.
She finally cuddled in her bed
with mother's handmade meal.
Woke up to a cup of coffee
and checked for calls on phone.
Gosh! It was still yesterday
dreaded to repeat she'd forgotten,
her body had traveled in past
Alas! It was a different time zone.
~A True Story
September 2, 2020
All In A Day Poetry Contest
Sponsor: William Kekaula
How happy is the imperial kingship!
And who is our just King, Jesus, Jesus;
A kingship is royal, a kingship is regal;
Our King is Jesus;
a kingship is majestic, however,
Mercies reigns abundant;
As I’m giving joyful noise to Our Father;
Our only one provider;
a kingship is majestic, however;
Mercies reigns abundant;
One afternoon I said to myself,
What must I do to be saved?
Shall I do it in haste, for Jesus is on His way
"Why isn't my life more intermediate?"
Are you upset by how forward it is?
Does it tear you apart to see the my sins soon forgiven?
This so the world asks, you got to be kidding??
Are you upset by how fine it is?
Happy is the imperial kingship!
And who is our just King, Jesus, Jesus
A kingship is royal, a kingship is regal;
Our King is Jesus;
a kingship is majestic, however,
Mercies reigns abundant
Kingdom Mercy Kingdom Light
4/6/19
written by James Edward Lee Sr.2019
-Colossians 1:12
In the darkness that envelops us like an endless veil of mystery,
The modern man struggles within his own shadow, a wandering soul,
Reviving the echo of the lower soul, caught in Satan's snare,
Not just a theological figure, but a force obstructing the light.
Closed are the gates of the imaginal world, the intermediate realm,
Between the sensible and the spiritual world, a dream in denial,
Removed from the reality of archetypes that illuminate our path,
We remain captive in the reign of quantity, an endless cycle.
Repetition stifles initiation, leaving us under the interior night,
A state of symbolic blindness, a true spiritual death,
With spiritual senses annulled, we see only empty shadows,
The denial of the imaginal betrays the soul, caught in the chaos of existence.
Ritual repetitions bind us to the invisible and vast universe,
In hypnotic musicality, we lose ourselves in the trance of poetry,
In mystical contemplation, we are one with cosmic nostalgia.
Archetypes dancing in the shadows of the mind, awakening the deep soul,
We dream of lost and found connections in the eternal night,
Each verse is a step in the journey toward the self, toward infinity.
With wings of wax and desires of light, we search for fragments of meaning,
In the chaos of becoming, we seek to free ourselves from the veil of night,
Through words, we seek to return to the archetypal light.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
In ones and zeros, sharp and *mean,
it spun its verse—a quill unseen.
No flesh, no heart, no poet’s hand,
yet lines took flight at its command.
It dreamt in code, not moon nor shade,
yet summoned lovers, kings betrayed,
with meter tight and rhyme precise,
a flawless fraud—how cruel, how nice.
Shall I compare thee?—typed, not sighed,
no breath behind, no soul inside.
Yet still it wept in iambs sweet,
for grief it could not feel, repeat.
The scholars gasped, the critics stared~
could wires weep? Had no one dared
to crack its shell, to peek, to see
what hummed beneath its poetry?
One night Quill stopped. No spark, no sound.
Just silence where sonnets were found.
And in its last, its final scroll:
I loved you best. That was my soul.
*mean in this case refers to a quantity having a value intermediate between the values of other quantities; an average, especially the arithmetic mean.
Intermediate Range Nuclear Forces
(INF) Treaty nixed, asper (gasp) infinite
wisdom (quite unsettling) trumpeting
commander in chief de facto gave green
light, thus signals fasttrack, sans arms
race activating Armageddon churning
noble nuclear warheads damn the (not
so petty) torpedoes full steam ahead,
ramping up military industrial (intelligence
- ha) complex edifice global security
compromised detente tipping point
needle weighs heavily - scale lean
triangulation ratchets dramatic
apocalyptic fear each man knucled
(woman child) arms themselves to
the teeth bombs away doth not leave
mushroom to wiggle free of doom,
the human race on track to extinction
since the commander in chief did
rescind checks and balances on rogue
nations, now issuing free (grab bag)
for all warmongering states to stock
on fire sale of various and sundry
weapons of mass destruction ushering
exponential possibility slight sabre
rattling altercations will kickstart
World War III, but no victors will
emerge cuz every square inch of planet
Earth will be snapping, crackling
and popping with radiation fostering
disintegration, incineration, obliteration...,
among civilization with minuscule probability
no child will be left behind, (nor anybody
else for that matter), yet one need
not be a brain scientist, nor rocket
surgeon to predict the end of the world
as we know it (REM) minding any weekly
reader of TIME magazine, or other
reputable news source (such as Howard
Stern), any moment could deliver every
thing each of us cherish to go to hell in
a handbasket of deplorables) predicated
on the isolationist (nationalistic) posture
our dear leader steers this ship (unwieldy
leviathan) of state into totally tubular
unswerving pulverization!
("The Cave of Unknowing", 2012, original oil)
Talking to the Dead
(aka musings on Jacob’s Ladder)
The essential message of the Tibetan Book of the Dead
Is that the clear light of mind is revealed in death.
Due to our karma (habitual patterns of doing and viewing)
We have visions of whatever is in our mind,
Visions which range from pleasant to terrifying,
But that ultimately what matters most is the space between them,
The little gaps when we can glimpse freedom from our compulsive karmas.
When the clear light of awareness is first revealed it is peaceful, calm and watchful,
But when we resist it (because it is so ‘other’, so pervasive and penetrating)
It becomes wrathful, energetic and overwhelming.
And so we hide, back in those old safe spaces of the mind
The cave of unknowing where karma
Plays out the projected drama of the six realms.
The Book of the Dead is an allegory
For what is happening throughout Life,
Each moment we are awake or dreaming, dying or being born.
There is no escaping this clear light which illumines our vision.
There is no way to get closer to or increase it either
Since it is the given
Basic ground of being.
The Book of the Dead could have been called the Book of Life,
But then it would have gotten buried
In all the other conflicting and confusing affairs of this life.
A book designed to liberate you at the moment of death
Could have been called
The Book of Liberation Through Hearing in the Intermediate State,
Which is exactly what it IS called in Tibetan.
Death is the thing that hones the edge of this life
Making our appreciation vivid and sharp.
It is what gives our life purpose
While at the same time extinguishing any need for a purpose…
Death is always with us
Because in each moment all we know dissolves into the gap
Between the next,
Only to arise again reborn in the next.
If we notice and accept it
It is peaceful and beautiful
If we don’t, then we know terror.
Either way it makes no difference.
Death doesn’t care
Which way He guides us through the portal.
(7/19/24)
“We are almost there but not quite ~
Not yet graced with spherical sight”
~ quote by poet
Intermediate truths whence known,
in as seen because we have been
to subtler realms denied to most,
but it’s not yet wisdom full blown,
since karmic slate is not wiped clean,
last mile to heaven, yet to coast.
Wisdom downloads and divine light
are offerings of grace imbibed
and perhaps we have pierced the void
but we have not garnered clear sight,
though cravings of ego have died,
soul’s not yet pure and unalloyed.
Allow bliss mists to make ingress,
without self-appraising progress.
"Can you feel the soul of an abandoned house;
can you hear the whispering? "
Quote by _Constance La France
Sun dust swirls on white wings
in the empty house
The charisma abounds
Past meets in the soul of eternity
even after falling
Days and years of relentless running
the voice of the soul is not buried in the drawer
In the dawn of the sun
listening to the silence within you
in an intermediate phase of something indeterminate
White sophisticated lace gossip
tired after countless days of running
Not in my power to alter fate
Silence was our greeting
28.05.2023
Anne-Lise Andresen
Copyright © All Rights Reserved
- C - Quotes -
Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Constance La France
1st place in the contest
Triskaidekaphobia
And so, you have “Triskaidekaphobia” on your mind.
Indeed, fear of the Number “13” does have a real and
a certain palpable feel and meaning for people who
harbor this particular phobia and carry it with them in
their lives. With triskaidekaphobia, superstitions abound
regardless of any rational explanations that are proffered
in western societies. The history of mankind is rife with
superstitions and old wives’ tales dating back through
the centuries as human societies grew and evolved over
time and became more or less sophisticated by their own
enculturation processes.
Nevertheless, next time you’re on an elevator you may
notice that a button for a “Thirteenth Floor,” doesn’t
exist, and that Floor 12 progresses to Floor 14. And,
with a “Floor 13” being non-existent, this may give a
person, a pause for a moment, with a certain mental
flavor of the phantasmal aura about everything that
surrounds a “Floor 13” existing and being listed on the
elevator’s button-panel selections—let alone even being
mentioned at all.
Sometimes the slack in this oddity of the floor numbers
may be deflected with a listing for the “Mezzanine” that
is an intermediate second floor that’s open to the ground
floor by a stairwell. It’s also worth mentioning that many
old hotels in the past that still exist today were built with
the inclusion of a “Thirteenth Floor.”
What to do? Do nothing. “Triskaidekaphobia” will exist
regardless, and this phobia, among many others, will help
to keep psychiatrists employed, occupied, and busy with
all of their various professional endeavors.
When in doubt, just remember that the “Loch Ness Monster,”
a la “Nessie,” does, in fact, really exist. And, never push that
button for that “Thirteenth Floor,” or else . . . !
Gary Bateman, Copyright © All Rights Reserved
November 29, 2018 (Narrative)
Like autumn leaves the colors of my life have changed
From mountains to hills of green a new but old state i have move to again
Strange is the surroundings now similar are the horizons
What I thought would be easy has become hard
The quest for living not so intermediate; life on this coast seems so hard
Ponder if i will ever be better off but with faith and pray i believe i should be
Seeing old faces and having re connections have made the time here pass easier
Skies are only grey for a time the sun of my happiness shall shine bright again
God calls out this is the path i just need to listen and be patient for this time alone.