Long Invents Poems
Long Invents Poems. Below are the most popular long Invents by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Invents poems by poem length and keyword.
"The forest is my loyal friend A Delphic Shine to me."
Ralph Waldo Emerson, Greek Poet
Who is always there, through the good times and bad?
Who welcomes me when I'm happy, when I'm sad?
It's mother nature, my wise and trusted friend
Who teaches and comforts me until the end.
She's a philosopher - look and you can see.
She shows the world how to live in harmony.
Oh, wise and trusted friend -
When will people begin to comprehend?
A psychologist, she gives me peace of mind,
Swaying grass and leaves my troubles far behind.
Oh, wise and trusted friend -
Will you console me, to my mind, attend?
A mathematician, so brilliant and keen -
Renders symmetry in flowers to be seen.
Oh, wise and trusted friend -
How do Fibonacci numbers ascend?
An engineer, who will make things work just right,
Giving owls big eyes so they can see at night.
Oh, wise and trusted friend -
What can you build, from mankind to defend?
A fashion designer who sure invents with flair,
From fish in Tahiti, to birds in the air.
Oh, wise and trusted friend -
If printed on a dress, what would my wife spend?
An artist, she has skill no man can surpass -
The beauty of a lake from a mountain pass.
Oh, wise and trusted friend -
Your creations, can Van Gogh not transcend?
A poet, she gives words to a frog who waits.
This creature, who says "jug-o-rum" when he mates.
Oh, wise and trusted friend -
Have humans, a better word, ever penned?
A musician, she made the sweet nightingale
And creatures up and down the musical scale.
Oh, wise and trusted friend -
Who weaves a better symphonic blend?
A magician, she takes a bug that likes to squirm
To make a gorgeous butterfly from a worm.
Oh, wise and trusted friend -
Who else could cause my mind to bend?
A love coach, who tends to all the heart encloses -
Meadows of swaying grass, beautiful roses
Oh, wise and trusted friend -
Will you still be here if my heart should rend?
Dear mother nature, my wise and trusted friend,
I know you'll teach and comfort me to the end.
First day on the job, co-worker confides
“Bullies here get rough.
When they call your bluff
you can count on me to stand by your side.”
Conversation thrives;
Contemplation drives
my curiosity to hear out Ben’s mind.
Many issues find our positions aligned.
Can I depend on Ben?
Long story he told, how his parents died.
The story towered,
pity he devoured.
Neighbors had raised him, neglect bona fide.
Imagination
defied foundation.
One colleague verified, “Ben invents the truth;
He lives with his parents still, well past his youth. “
Can I depend on Ben?
Last week, he boasted he’d gotten a raise;
deceit’s his onus.
“Twas just a bonus,
which we all got in a matter of days.
As auditor-clerk
he does top-notch work;
his skill in mathematics amazes me.
Yet how (and why) can he lie so blatantly?
Can I depend on Ben?
I will admit unfair apprehension
which causes me grief.
Could he be a thief?
Don’t want to be a source of contention.
Is lying a crime?
Truth will out in time.
I'm considering his vested point of view;
but cannot count any guarantee as true.
We talk, then I walk away from this yahoo.
Can I depend on Ben?
Fraud makes a fearful friend.
written May 17, 2018
contest: Gregory Barden's Qarinage, Any Topic (new form)
I paused—not choice,
for bodies sometimes still,
Before the mind invents a reasoned cause;
The enclosure breathed, obeying its own will,
Its timbers dark with sleep’s residual laws.
My hand received this fact, unbidden, cold,
Somewhere a weight shifted, not yet heard;
A glance prolonged, a shrug half-shy, half-bold,
The breath misplaced between two failing words.
It seemed exact to count the lives I named,
Not tenderly, but as one counts small change;
A moment held as if the world had framed
A lease, while meaning slithered out of range.
I miscounted—always do, the error keeps
Its quiet economy, its stubborn claim;
The heart retains a glance that lingers, sleeps,
A touch not asked, a warmth without a name.
We speak of belonging when we mean
This has not yet departed, still it clings;
The tongue crowns what dwells, though never seen,
Mistaking presence for the flight of wings.
I came with that old ache, inherited,
Not chosen—bone and breath alike conspire;
To call a hand, a voice, a hearth, my bed,
And heat the interval with own desire.
Family.
Friend.
Love.
Words held their place,
Until the shifting light dissolved their claim;
Not treachery, but nature’s quiet grace,
That alters pattern while the frame stays same.
This life is not a home, but transient fire,
A canvas lit for those who pause awhile;
We share the heat, exchange the glance, the mire,
Then shoulder packs and walk another mile.
I thought the peg might root the earth, remain;
That dawn would pause, if asked, to hold its line;
It does not; yet the folly leaves no stain,
And still the moment presses, sharp, divine.
Change is exact; it finishes its task;
It needs no malice, no apology;
The hands withdraw, the truths themselves unmask,
And leave me here, implicated, free.
And now—between retreat
and memory’s claim,
I want what cannot stay, cannot exist;
Unsure if love erred—or if nearness came
To teach me loss by way of what I missed.
—The Heart’s Wandering—
I went abroad to trace thee.
But the first step faltered—
for the heart had already begun
to trace me.
The heart keeps maps
of places the earth has never known.
Thus we wander, it and I,
through hedges that refuse a road.
Fields lie mute beneath the wind.
Each step invents
a further absence.
I questioned dusk—
ancient registrar of partings—
whether thy shadow crossed its amber courts.
It answered with crows.
Yet once—
within the skull’s dim firmament—
a brightness tore the dark:
A ladder of fire
rose through the mind.
Each rung remembered thee.
I climbed.
But heaven refused its grammar.
Then grief struck iron—
and rhyme, compelled by pain, declared:
Return, return—where’er thou art concealed,
For night grows vast, and solitude unhealed.
The echo faded.
Grass bent.
Clouds deliberated.
Stars convened their patient parliament.
And then the thought—
slow, terrible, luminous—
descended:
Perhaps it was never I who sought thee,
but thou who placed the map within my heart.
Beloved—
thy habitation I know not.
Yet I carry a small compass of bone;
its needle trembles, turning always
toward the place where thou art not.
Still it leads.
And I begin to see:
Each step was learning
the absence that would draw it.
So long as breath inhabits this mortal province
my heart proceeds—
not toward a place,
but along the path
thy absence has already drawn.
The mobile mind rides indomitably the rolling waves of life,
on their curled crests caressed by the fractured moonbeam.
The gloomy troughs of agony drowning the fading stars
spread with silver lining on the shifting shore of the past.
The collapsing sheets of sand carve seaward faint footprints
in the weathering antique contours of the destined decay.
The time arrow points to the tapestry of tempting topography
of the sanguine shore far away from the eroded wasteland.
The landslide of anguish devours all the abandoned hopes,
the weed-webbed terrain languishing livid deep within,
piles up the wreckage of life lingering so long to be lived,
as the gorgeous garden turns into a lonely bare landscape.
As the mesmeric meadow of tomorrow waits to be walked,
the alchemy of memory invents the magical glitter of gold,
coating the patina on crumbling crust of the wilted present.
That’s when marigold blooms in Midas-touched metallic mind.
February 10, 2021
Contest : All Yours (Feb 10)
Sponsor : Brian Strand
A Champion must lust for that ancient adrenaline
the primal prize alive in the eyes, trophy of thunder in the pulse,
a Champion's heart welcomes adversity with teeth gleaming sharply,
worships the battlefield with risk righteous in ripped tradition,
doesn't celebrate the strikes that knock the foe into awe
finds glory in striving for the impossible
creates Legend from the unthinkable become visible,
buries the adversary's soul in the winter of forever woe,
the Champion says with disciplined effort and presence pure in practice,
lightning is comin for you, blasting your bones, bashing your boasts
tear you up and down and all around
your dreams nor dare, will not be found,
The Champion must adore the trauma of training,
remembers the humility of a Beginer's trouncing,
must pray with innocent instinct, thank Providence with confident conviction,
makin bravery out of bruises and being headstrong amidst hecklers,
invents technique like a Freeborn freak,
they shame the opposition into reverence with indisputable excellence,
true Champions are unforgettable, architects of shock and hope irrevocable,
indestructable like a titanium pyramid,
To be a Champion is to have a demolishing drive,
they must excel when underestimated
and must dominate when expected to succeed,
the Champion's Faith devours fear and punishes pretenders,
to finish the foe with decisive declaration, " Check Mate! "
a Champion always defies, and never dies,
there is no calculation of defeat for an Angel following a Divine beat -
J.A.B.
The migratory mind indomitable,
the spirited surfer on surging waves of life,
creates the curled crests of fractured moon,
and the dark troughs of sinking fallen stars.
The swell recedes with the ebb of time,
seeking the secluded depth of the past.
The shifting sands etch the seaward footprints,
contoured as the corroding design of decay.
The time arrow finds the destined course,
seeks the serene topography beyond the shore,
away from the eroded wilderness abandoned,
where emptiness engulfs the hues of hope.
In the weed-webbed terrain deep within,
piles up the wreckage of life unlived,
turns the flushing garden to template of wasteland.
The pathway paved outside its frail fence,
waits to be walked fascinated,
reach the mesmeric meadow of tomorrow.
The innovative memory then invents
the arcane acumen of alchemy,
glitters gold in the rusted existential ruins.
Marigold blooms in the aureate junkyard
on the scrap stack of the bleak being,
with the touch of the Midas mind.
Painter paints with a brush and hooded mind.
Dentist extracts, injects with a pointed mind.
Mind of cacophony is what a singer has.
Orator hails, evading a faux pas.
Chef cooks with an aproned mind.
Scientist invents, minded with formulas.
Cartoonist strokes, gifted with artistry
Dubber voices over to cover up travesty.
A wrestler can break anybody with a ranting mind.
Audience can just watch and listen with a calming mind.
If a dancer prances with a swirling mind
then a choreographer can relax to unwind.
So many other occupations with distinct minds,
Instructive of vocations and interests
descriptive of master minds.
What is your job?
A child scratches a spacecraft in the dust,
He does not call it a 'spacecraft'
because it is 1911. The Colt Firearm Company
has patented the first reliable semi-automatic pistol;
it does not look like any other handgun.
Decades earlier, Karl Drais invents
the meat-chopping machine.
Delmonico's has long served breakfast steaks.
All at once and singularly, an ethnic sandwich
becomes the 'hamburger'.
New shapes feed bodies and minds;
inevitably, there are consequences.
ideas are left over - like ketchup.
Meat fueled notions activate ray-guns;
cattle are mutilated in Idaho.
In front of his Osaka home, the boy
drops his stick, stares open-mouthed at the dirt.
Things get messy. Mushrooms and red sauce.
Millions of people are annihilated
by atomic meat-chopping machines.
The boy survives, has a son of his own.
The child finds a way
to contain the machines inside a computer-game
called, 'Space Invaders'.
Tomohiro Nishikado does not like ground meat.
Ketchup is now often dispensed in small packets.
It is eaten with fast food while playing war-games.
Unfortunately, there is residue,
ideas escape. Flatulent cows cause a global warming;
civilization cannot eat them fast enough.
New improved meat-chopping machines are activated
by computers;
there is collateral ketchup.
The 1911 colt pistol is still popular.
When I am still full from the meals I eat
Why is it that I still crave something sweet
Between meals the desire to snack
Is something I fight but lose the attack
What harm in a fun size candy bar
And finishing off the jellybeans in the jar
A scoop of ice cream or two
A root beer float ever so smooth
A slice of pie, a piece of cake
Got to try those cookies you baked
Easter candy can't go to waste
Spread that jam on bread thick as paste
Some hard candy or two becomes the bag
A banana split that would make Dagwood glad
My taste buds explode with the sweet flavour
Of all those sweets I forever savour
I lose my will to stop snacking between meals
It is time science invents that fat scat pill