Long Itself Poems
Long Itself Poems. Below are the most popular long Itself by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Itself poems by poem length and keyword.
We must not belittle the strength of shadows
Though tongues christen them bad.
They wear the surname of darkness
Because their hands sometimes borrow without return,
Because their footsteps bruise peace,
Because blood has learned their names.
Yet see........
Even the thorn tutors the careless palm.
When you drop gold in the open field,
They are the swift reminder,
Bending to pick what your wisdom forgot.
Next dawn, your pockets learn vigilance
Thus, sense is schooled by loss.
They are society’s sharp mirror,
Reflecting negligence without mercy.
They steal today,
So you guard tomorrow.
In corridors of labour,
They rise as resistance
Antagonists in tailored suits,
Whose bitterness becomes a whip,
Driving the diligent to run faster than comfort.
In homes, they sit at the same table,
Wolves wrapped in kinship,
Testing patience, pressing purpose,
Forcing sleepers to wake into relevance.
They bruise, they block, they burden
Yet by their weight, muscles of destiny grow.
They dance as agents of hell,
Frustration stitched into their smiles,
But I wonder
If the devil retired,
Would faith still find volunteers?
For pain is a loud prophet,
Adversity, a stubborn evangelist.
Sickness kneels the proud,
Loss lifts eyes heavenward,
And tears teach prayers their alphabet.
So let us confess this uneasy truth:
Light learns definition from darkness.
Gold proves itself in fire.
And goodness sharpens its spine
Because evil dares to exist.
Yes.............
Bad people are not blessings,
But they are lessons.
Unwelcome, unholy, undeniable
They are society’s hard teachers,
And growth often answers their call.
Arched corridor of quiet,
a long stillness unfolding forward
as if the air itself remembers
how centuries move.
Light drifts in thinly,
a pale wash across the stone,
touching each figure
with the gentlest insistence.
Statues keep their marble vigil~
solemn faces turned toward a brightness
that never fully arrives,
as though waiting for a footstep
that history forgot to send.
Busts line the passage
like a council of still minds,
each one caught mid-thought,
each one holding a silence
that feels older than the room.
Shadows pooling like old thoughts
gather at their bases,
soft and deliberate,
settling into the floor
as if memory has weight
and knows where to rest.
The vaulted ceiling
holds a quiet reverence,
stone and time slowly exhaling,
arching into dimness.
Here, history holds its breath.
Not in grandeur,
but in the restraint of stillness~
in the way the corridor narrows
into a vanishing point
that promises nothing
and everything at once.
Macpherson’s lens consecrates the quiet,
turning the museum into a threshold
where time folds in on itself,
where the past stands watch,
where the present enters softly
and leaves changed.
Loom and doom escapes the rational mind..
Darkness oozes ..
A menace to itself
A fearful mind self destructs
As fear separates itself from logical thinking..
It creates a world of its own..
Where there lies hopelessness
Chaotic events unfold..
Seen through the eyes of fear
Lying on a bed of needles
Pricked by a thorn of a rose
Where rose petals no longer have a scent
When one escapes..
One must return to love
Wipe the tears of anguish
To replace them with tears of joy..
Shackles and chains unlocked
Freedom gained ..
Burden lifted
Take a breath of fresh air..
Breathe the breath of life..
As the heart is opened to receive love..
A threshold of light illuminates..
Embraced you are..
Held in the loving arms of Divinity..
Lifted you are
Carried by the Divine..
It was a tin-roof wooden house standing
Across the red brick cobblestone street
Adjacent to a wide open field full
Of shady live oak and sweet smelling tangerine trees where
My father’s boyhood home was nestled
Quietly in his home town.
Often times we’d travel to visit
The grandparents still living there
In that Americana corner of our lives.
We didn’t know much of anything at all except
The sky was blue, love was true and we
Youngsters were the apples of the old folk’s eyes.
We’d sit for hours in white wicker rocking chairs
I helped paint one time with newspaper on the floor
And a horsehair brush grandma gave me
To teach me that painting needn’t be a lesson
In staying between the lines. “Sometimes,” she’d say,
“It’s better to let the paint flow
And speak for itself in time.”
And granddad liked to watch the sky – especially at night
When stars were burning bright and would point towards Polaris and say:
“Heaven’s over that a-way.” And during daylight hours
When storm clouds appeared and we could hear
Thunder and lightning all around, he’d laugh and dance
As if the circus were coming to town.
We watched mocking birds and blue jays flying in and out
Of all the tree top branches and leaves singing
Their love making lullabies to us and one another and then
As quickly as they arrived,
Disappeared into the wind.
It seems we’re not much different
Rather family, foe or friend.
Accordingly, the old house still stands today
But the dear old folks have slipped away.
Perhaps to the place once pointed to
High above that night sky view
Where comets roam and grandpa liked to call “Up yonder,”
Leaving me with thoughts of gold
And memories made to ponder.
Love is not a volatile shallow stream,
There's whirlpool of passion and zeal within;
Liking is not love or vice versa seem,
Love is its sole kind; love alone can win;
Love can be concern, union, emotion,
Affection, evaluation, tight-bond,
Ready, even to sacrifice one's self;
With these, love moves like a locomotion;
There are, often, hopes that look like mere fond,
Love, like its name, contains all in itself...!
Love, I could feel, is reciprocity,
Give-and-take; take and give; joy overflows;
Wherever there seems an atrocity,
Though be alone, love stands and does oppose;
Love is not merely a flesh-blood substance,
It's heart-piercing ardor-filled fine feeling,
Love is greatest of divine fellowship;
Though, at times, it does things in reluctance,
Owing lack of therapeutic healing,
Conviction-filled duties, love does not skip...!
Love bestows values of every nature,
Love lets revaluation of values;
Love is love's unrivaled nomenclature,
Whatever is not love, love devalues;
None knows where did and does this love come from,
Do tempests bring this here on endless earth?
Do volcanoes and tsunamis accord?
When hostilities turn me wholly numb,
When inertia finds its dearth of mirth,
Love and love could be the only concord...!!!
29 April 2022
In this world, ridden with sickness and heaviness
Nobody cares anymore
About God's words and their meaning!
When whispered these are to fallen souls,
Instead of being lauded and followed,
They are thrown in the garbage cans
Ready to be burnt along with the thrash!
But then, the fallen souls realise not
That the time will come
When the Truth of their own lives
Will unveil itself in front of them
And of course,
Then,
It will be way too late
To amend things
To be as they should have been!
In this world, people are ready to jump and clap
At any new sensational item which would crop up,
However stupid and bland this may be
But of God's origin and of His words,
They would simply mock and ridicule,
Fearing not the stroke of bad luck which
Will eventually be stuck on their souls!
Written on 11th March 2020
For Contest : Does Anyone Care
Sponsored by: Emile Pinet
Did mirrors ruin our world?
Or merely persuade us
to resurface
as our mirrored selves?
Before mirrors
there were only still ponds,
waiting for the wind
to stop speaking.
A face appeared
looking upon itself,
then drifting away.
The breeze was kind;
it never let
the face linger for so long.
Polished obsidian came,
then bronze,
then silvered glass.
Each one promised
a sharper truth
of self—plain and simple.
Mirrors decked our halls
revealed in bathrooms;
handhelds to look behind;
little compact ones;
to put makeup on.
The mirror created
more than a reflection.
It quietly invented
comparisons—
with yesterday
with others.
Impossible without
first seeing
self—plain and simple.
Narcissus bent low,
believing he had found love.
Instead, he embraced
an image.
"Mirror, mirror on the wall..."
never flattered.
The Queen hated
the answer,
hated the looking glass.
Alice stepped into
to another world
through her looking-glass.
Later came
the age of the selfie
staring back from every
wondrous place,
only to be upstaged—
by that face—
in front.
Oh yes...... That face!
We look in mirrors
less as we get older!
with less selfies
looking back as well.
Then came the Corrector.
The mirror asked
"What shall we improve today?"
Lighten the hair,
Soften a few wrinkles
Ease the furrows on the brow,
Touch-up the scars
Remove the crow's feet
Reshape those lips a little?
Anything else?
The question now is:
"Who am I?"
"Who do I see there?"
in the mirror
which asks
"Which version now?"
"Oh! Corrector Mirror
on the Wall,
who's the fairest
version of all?"
"In the Corrector Mirror on the Wall!"
I have a dream of affluence.
Of dripping gold and bread..
To feed the mouths of children
Save the hungry from their dread
I have a hope of heaven.
Where the generous are free
To liberate the captives
Where compassion is the key
It's not the stash I'm after.
It's genuinely not.
My rainbow ends with colours
Not some ever roving pot
I have a dream of fruitfulness
That though my days are few
I hope investing wisely,
Is the thing that I can do.
For wealth is not possessions,
Acquisitions, portfolios or stuff.
It's justice, hope, contentment
It's being just enough
It's sharing and it's caring.
It's not a hand-out spree..
It's never so a spotlight
Lands itself on me
Quietly I'll gather
All the will I can
To be the earthly angel
Out to help my fellow man.
So when the curtain closes
As I'm sure it will one day
Those seeds that have been scattered
Bearing fruit to plant an orchard;
Feed the hungry on their way
The thoughts washing over me
Confused with reality
Gripping on to my mind
They never let go
The things done to me
That eyes cannot see
Will never escape my head
Forever scarred by the abuse
The physical and the mental
Causing flashbacks to those moments
When the abuse was at its peak
Losing the ability to anchor
Being uncontrollably swept away
By memories I want burned out forever
Those unspeakable experiences
The fear that if I say them out loud
Than they will become real again
And use me in the same way that they did before
A never-ending worry that puts a filter on the world
And makes every person someone to fear
Feeling like prey under their eyes
The innate instinct to run
Overpowering all other senses
That if they were to happen again
My mind and body would not survive
But would be shattered
And the pieces trampled through
Until they become unrecognizable
Every touch causing a flinch
An uncomfortable sensation
Having to remind yourself that you are not in danger
Becomes an impossible feat to accomplish
What lurks in the dark doesn’t haunt me
But what goes out into the light of day
If only I could become a venomous creature
That could keep itself safe from the predators that are all around
Then maybe I would not be so broken
But until that happens
All I can do is hide
What eyes cannot see
Oceans ebb and flow as do the winds that blow
spinning eddys into whirls dragging the trapped through
dizzying holes.
Material things are just the same they come and go,
fleeting ,mundane things that do not stay
only obstruct the way to cause delay
of better things to come.
A shadow's here one minute ,gone the next
same as the sun that rises and sets.
Shifting sands play hide and seek
the moon itself so often peeks
between the clouds ,knowing all too well
material things stay only for a spell.
Seek that which lasts and never ends
as we journey on the wings of time,
attachment to material things
is surely a child's pastime.
Store up blessings ,instead of riches,
they last forever and a day, and help you
along the narrow path towards the golden gates.
When you arrive on that happy day
wouldn't you like to hear God say
Peter.... Open up them Pearly gates
my friend has come to stay?