Long Internals Poems
Long Internals Poems. Below are the most popular long Internals by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Internals poems by poem length and keyword.
The screen kept painting the history for the team
In horrific scenery as the chickens came home to roost:
The wars supported in media by ideologies it would seem,
Whereas deeper was the fight for resources needed for economic boost;
The environmental disaster with each new technological advance
Advertised as "CO2-saving", disregarding the manufacturing fall out
As resources were dug out of Earth's internals, not giving life a chance,
Leaving disasters in the wake of "Eco-friendly" mining in the South;
The over-fishing, over-eating, over-mining, over-everything
Requiring the support of a Nature, willing, but drawn
To the limit of breaking without empathy, care, understanding,
Foresight; just over-reaching to pull all put there from Life's dawn,
To the point there was none left, no-one left.
"Remember the Galapagos heads documentary on TV?"
Tsal asked Pezal. "That was History warning of being Nature-deaf,
But nobody listened." And they turned to get back onto their spaceship,
While the screen continued by looping every truly Eco-friendly initiative conceived
To amplify Nature's warnings, to pause the frantic rush
Of capitalistic gain-hunt. But all this as naught was perceived
And even Earth Hour's darkness, though laudable, in the din of Nasdaq was but a hush.
(c) Nyonglema
Love is not
man’s first impulse,
but what is left
when the world fails
and nothing better
than
to imagine…
the creator
in us all,
were I fearless
I would nurture
such possibility-
to cancel armies
and philosophies
replacing science
with driving spirit
too often thought
in the abstract
though internals
an on-going
self vs self
faith outside the church
seems hopelessly flawed
as love that is calculable
predictable
cannot not float for long
that which the proposed
soul craves,
a body sustained aloft
outside and above
its literature
the best of humanity
not what it can see and touch
but what it can dream
life transcending
our mortal sleep….
I know well of a cat's ear, eye, nose, teeth, coat, paws and claws,
Do I know, what's behind its look and mysterious pause?
I know a dog's acute sense of smell; muscles and fingers,
Do I know what's going-on when he quietly lingers?
I see my neighbor-child stand exuberantly leaping,
I stand in awe, when, within seconds, I see him weeping...!
Fair or black or tanned skins - with smiles show human externals,
Soft or hard or kind or cruel - who, knows, their internals?
Streams and lakes seem silent and gentle, surface still and calm,
Within, hurling currents and whirlpools, don't they, sometimes, harm...?
Seas and oceans have treasures abundant; who, knows, how much?
Midst greed to collect these, who has dared their bottom to touch...?
Stars are matters of joy; we count them; do we know the whole?
Puzzles of constellations and galaxies touch each one's soul...!
Is rhythm of universe and cosmos, fully explored?
In their elegant contours what a mystical concord...?
Faith and theologies talk of God, who is he or she?
Hill or vale or human form - how he or she looks to be...?
Death I know; grave and coffin too; there from where will I go?
Does sun glow there? Breeze blows? Snow falls? Rains with squall? What I know...???
18 August 2022
This or That, Vol 13 Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Edward Ibeh
She's grown old
Having norished many a soul
Leaving her imprints on a stroll
Dispensing knowledge, never to fold
Many have been sheltered from the cold
Inside her strong walls, I was once enclosed
And encouraged to be courageous and bold
Taught to read, write, and do the math,
Preparing me for life's stormy path
Her externals are aged and unsightly
Yet she stands lovingly and waves politely
Her internals portray battles for survival,
And being held together with bolts and rods,
She's very much alive and thrives
She engenders memories of sadness and joy
Reminding me of experiences when just a boy.
With a reddish tin-top roof, she sits by the road
Where she's resided for more than a century.
There are still future stories yet to be told about
The little country church in a little southern town.
What's cooler and juicier
Than a long-striped rime of green,
Whose internals are fortified with
An explosion of mesmerizing desire?
Or a total circle of green without stripes,
Protectively enclosing the best of eats,
Thoroughly permeated by the color of pure red,
And speckled throughout with seeds of black?
Or if you prefer, no seeds at all to delay your treat.
And what's more tastier my friend, than a softly textured cut
Of mouth-watering goodness bite after bite after watery bite?
An oasis of succulence and sweetness to the taste of healthy Goodness awaits our sense of taste each summer with nothing To prep; nothing to waste. A watermelon sweet and cold is Like A free-wheeling bicycle ride along the countryside.
070422PSCtest, Watermelon contest, Mystic Rose Rose
I look down
Upon its frosty glass
And wait
For the internals
To settle
Should I
Move northward
Into the heat
And bulldust
Humid air
And all that is
Unfair
Among
The green and black
Do I go west
Beyond the setting sun
To beaches and tracks
To walk
Before
All is said and done
Or do I tread south
Toward a gulf
And burnt out plain
Where people believe
They are more enlightened
But really
There just frightened
Turn back east
And get back into
The fray
Add my shoulder
That rugby crunch
Where old boys
And new chums
Dook it out
There is
A fifth choice
One can
Look within
To find
That
Moral direction
Nature nurtures blooms and blushes
With redbirds, bluebonnets, and bulrushes
And peacock-curtained cirrus evening skies;
That unveil a Milky seine before our eyes,
Alluring our awed admiration
With magnetic, majestic fascination;
Easily eliciting an emancipation
To unparalleled faux freedom;
Fostering fleet-flying feelings;
Sending stunned senses soaring
Inevitably inducing intoxication
Which connects our inebriated emotions
That persuade our treasured, deeply hidden internals
Into exaltation of the high supernal.
"for contest FINETUNE THIS COLLABORATION sponsored by Line Gauthier".
Why do mechanics need manuals when they’ve fixed it before?
Answer my question or I’ll walk out the door!
Didn’t they attend trade schools or get OJT?
Why need repair manuals? That what gets me.
I just want a mechanic who won’t refer to a book.
Just fix my car already, don’t give it a second look!
Why do pilots run checklists and reference their charts?
Just push the dang button and hope the plane starts!
Didn’t they go to flight school and pass all the tests?
Pilots fly most days, so who needs all the mess?
I want a pilot who knows without referencing a chart.
Just get on with the flying and prove that you’re smart!
What about the doctors who are practicing still?
Why can’t they get it right? And that includes the bill!
They’re always researching new studies in journals
When time’s better spent attending patients’ internals.
I just want a Marcus Welby, Ben Casey or Kildare
Instead of keeping up to date, I just want them to care.
Why do lawyers review case studies and legal decisions?
Such antics in my book leave them open to derision.
All that studying in law school should have been more than enough.
After passing the bar they should already know their stuff.
I just want an attorney who’s a know-it-all ace,
Not a book worm mouthpiece to plead my case.
Finally, the poets, being wordsmiths their art
You won’t see them referencing a checklist or chart
But look, in their hands, just what can that be?
A dictionary? Thesaurus? Are those what I see?
A real poet never needs help reading Shakespeare or Keats
Using Webster and Roget would make all of us cheats!
If a poet is real, the words should just flow
I think that all poets should automatically know
The right words to use, and literary crutches forgo
How dare they try better vocabulary to hone
They should come up with good things to say on their own.
I’m looking for poets who’ll just know what to say
Like Lewis Carroll’s poems in his heyday:
“Twas brillig, and the slithy toves, Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:
All mimsy were the borogroves, And the mome raths outgrabe.”
Don’t bother looking up his words, for that would be a dumb thing.
Using a dictionary or thesaurus, you might actually learn something!
"If you wish to make an apple pie from scratch, you must first invent the universe," ... Carl Sagan
Subtle crafts soundly, using euphemisms,
yet cluelessness dealt a sheltered abyss.
When one confront internal mechanisms,
whatchamacallit ... orphaned hit-or-miss.
A conundrum conspires an endowed soul,
behooves postmortem liken achievement.
Where'er wits helix baptism, buried hole,
an urchin crawlspace, be I foundling sent.
Newborn bid birthright a pardoned envoy,
of mature absence deemed as uncharted.
Internals blueprint designed, bad employ,
indeed, tunnels end--will be lights outed.
Rare conscientiousness temper unknown,
infiltrate hallmark translates as dethrone.
With me, during my high-school-days, studied a little boy,
His father was a doctor. This filled him with immense joy;
At his constant demand, once to his dad's study I went,
Seeing the skeleton, to my feelings, I gave vent;
Inquired my friend; he said, oh, in syllables innocent,
He is, (the entire city knows), my father's first patient...!
Not less than ten you should kill to become a doctor half -
This we say colloquially; But, what's a doctor-graph?
How many servile souls should one kill to become full-fledged?
Shouldn't be their operation-sword and shield double-edged?
They might cut your internals to pieces; who could ask why?
A good physician, all know, has ethics endlessly high...!
My cousin is a renowned physician; we loved her much;
Many babies and women, they said, had felt her soft touch;
I do not know still, why she not treated my sister well,
Her kidneys she did operate; why did things go to hell?
She had no reason for us, when she clipped them together,
One is dead-shrunk now; when will the time come for the other...?
They operate eyes instead-of nose; hand instead-of legs;
Visitor instead-of patient; just anesthetic-pegs;
What if they dare to leave their operation-knife within?
They have other knives; they'll operate; expose their win;
Human body is not more than matters within a sack,
Cut; stitch; if seen weak, dump like train-coaches gone out of track...!
Doctor Harold Frederick's actions, hence, do not scare me,
Psychopath might be! Lacking perhaps, some essential glee;
Realization of sins? Feeling of shame? Gloom-future?
His life seems to me just like his unconnected suture;
In a world, where killing thousands, many blissfully thrive,
(I am not justifying his acts) He could not survive...!
30 August 2022
Dr Harold shipman Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Joe Maverick