Long Lens Poems
Long Lens Poems. Below are the most popular long Lens by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Lens poems by poem length and keyword.
I longed for his heart
Vibrant, alive, full of love
Filled with music, a song of hope
Imagination, inspiration
Feelings rich with promise
I yearned for his love
Lingering prayers held my dreams
Fulfilling lights, bold and promising
Opening silence with kisses of faith
Dancing on hearts, pure grace
I craved his kindness, his caress
The way he smiled and laughed
The breath of his kiss, his wish
Pouring over me like dewdrop dreams
Penetrating my pores with intimacy
I ached for his touch, his hands
Whispering soft against my skin
Breathing stardust desires through me
Lighting my heart with moonlight
Flickering bright as my tears gleamed
I hungered for his feelings, his warmth
Enlightening and bold, stirring my soul
Gazing through a lens of purity, promises
Brought to life by vibrant affections
Feelings blessed with acceptance
I coveted his heart, his mind, his feelings
The honest way of his tears, his mystery
Happiness, inspiration, imagination
The fierce honesty that made him so amazing
The love that would always awaken me
I wanted him the way drought desires rain
The way darkness awaits the dawn
The way silence expects a noise
Like pain knows there will soon be pleasure
And my heart anticipates his devotion
It would be many years before I realized
This dream, my fantasy, my hope
Becoming a reality, assured and fulfilling
Like laughter, inspiration, joy - knowing
Love like this is my heart’s wonder, a miracle, a gift!
High on a shelf are some old hard-back books;
Mary Poppins is one on the pile.
An inscription inside, in a neat cursive hand,
Which I recognized, caused me to smile.
It belonged to my mom, which she got as a gift
From a teacher in her junior high.
Though it’s faded and worn, I won’t toss it away,
But it’s hard to exactly say why.
Such a link to the past is, to me, like a lens
Which allows a brief glimpse of a time
When my mother knew not that a mother she’d be,
Years before from her youth she did climb.
So I dusted it off and replaced it up high
On the back of the very same shelf,
A reminder of life when I didn’t exist
And my mom lived her life for herself.
Opened eyes see beyond horizons everything
Behind the dirty ears of crying babies in the bath
Look up to see the future through the galaxies
Go through red lights at 80 miles per second speeding
There is no time for tickets from the traffic cop
Impossible to stop
Blinking is a sin, a sign of weakness
So move on to boardwalks clearly visible
Capture every second in the instant lens
Pretty girls in Atlantic City on the beaches
Sport sunglasses to see glass hours darkly
Shy eyes hidden behind the frames
Body too blue to view from waters depth
Wearing a yellow polka dot bikini very thin and wet
She will never enter the shallows nearly naked
Eye candy you can watch and swim in with a smile
Tender to the touch but never fall in love
Brown eyes blink when they are thinking
Green is their favorite color while by the sea
Envying since they are in to neon reasoning
Never lose sight when viewing through the looking glass
Binoculars are better for sighting pretty birds
Hazel eyes are warm from our perspective
Perception, image is everything
Moving forward in the light of day when opened
Already on your way to seeing
Automobiles can take you there
Adjust your rear view mirror cautiously
When looking from behind with opened eyes
Time
Time spent. Time, spend my time. Here, there, dried reality, broken times
Yes, everything was lost, only the walk remained. In the space and time, walk alone
Walk alone
Walk alone
In the time
In the time
Remebering
The past
I just want someone to come back again. Again. This is the past. Back in the past
Recreate it from the past form again from the past time. Someone is in the past. Love
Her name is the Past. Not a woman. The past is what I want. The time of the lost age
It’s never coming back. I know it. But it’s my dream. The past. I want to live it now
Again and again. And again. Why was that time then, and why do I want it again? Why?
I can’t live without the past. Can’t. The past is pulling me back. This is the love of the past
My soul and the past are a union, they live together in the living past time, there is the dark
Dark and light in my life. The clouds are black in the sky, this is the dark life, so close, so far
Living in the dark memory is a sharp life. Now. Live in two time places, oh this is so high
Internal examination of my soul’s works. It is continuous. The question is why? That’s why
Questions from the past. Pasts from the questions. Questions from black clouds of lost life
My lost life. Others lost their lives. Everyone lost their lives. This time is like a dark hurricane
A storm. Is it the end of life? End of the world? No, it is not that, only a wave of the being
Being, being. I just see life. Is that being? Maybe a projection. Looks real. Strong view
Strong view is strong projection. But where is the existence? In the heart. Life comes…
From there. I want to kill my heart. I want to live without a heart. I want to live without
subjectivity. Yes. I want to see the reality. The real dream of life. The time of present time
Needs it kind. A kind. A lens. A lens without heart. Give me life. The objectivity of life
Time, life. Life, time. I want to live in the next. That’s the future. Imagined realism. Of life
Time
Life
Past
Kind
Next
Cruel?
No
Unknown
The life
Dead heart
One powerful tree stands alone on the hillside,
Colorful like a rainbow that is so very bright,
A perfect picture of an excellent painter,
Captured by lens on a sunny September.
Colors blending with a fantastic view,
Red, orange, yellow, combined with green and blue,
Even fairies will adore this beauty of nature,
Calming our souls refreshes our heart so pure.
December 10, 2013
For Poet Undertaker's "Nature" Contest
4th Place Winner
Musee d’Orsay grasps the hands of time.
The clock crowns; its gears move around.
Gallery-goers lookout and grin
from Paris-Orleans to Montmartre;
the clock crowns; its gears move around.
Each eye’s drawn from inside scenes
to the site of Sacré-Cœur without
then back again to the Degas.
Gallery goer’s lookout and grin
locked on the Place de la Concorde,
as the hand moves past a boat
on the still Seine, and the traffic
from Paris-Orleans to Montmartre.
Time passes; patron’s heads spin unwonted,
as the hands of the clockwork pass,
Monet’s lilies await—is there time?
*The Retourne a French form from the middle ages.
Published in Page & Spine 2015
This time I'm doing it
Release...out from me
Snag, pivot, swirl
Up, over, next to,
....around
Where am I found
Lost in the dark
Or maybe the light
Following hard and fast
After LOVE's guide
...REVELATION
Void, pain, agony
Tomorrow, again
Sick of it all
Can I die, already, please
...hope
Film removed
Like the optometrist's lens
Fear, doubt, unbelief
Removed in the cleanse
...BEULAH born
Open and pure
Let all things be
Growth will come
Shedding judgment
...restoration
In the BELOVED
Written by Trudy Schrader on 04-03-2024
Note: Beulah (House of God) Marie (Beloved)
I have come to be real-in-my-eyes,
eyes that only half see,
yet only the half blind may see themselves.
The fine hairs of apperception,
those metaphorical hat brims pulled low
over smiling eyes
hide nothing from deeper insights.
In the moment of looking
I see only that looking,
yet that view is broad, rimless
encompasses all
the mind can develop of reality.
Perception in its narrow lens,
its fractional calibrated cogs
within cogs
fades like a ghost on a white board
that wide-eyes rub out with a blink.
Nothing gets trapped
in a past way of seeing.
Only a clear looking-glass remains,
and it but waits for a wholeness
to shatter its frame.
The lake is a tsimmes; boats, babies, and fish bob in white wakes.
Ah but, the sandy shoal, the small fish nest beneath and beside the docks.
The lens of lake divides but why chose when both are a joy?
Squeals of delight hang humid air steams the Sunday sunbathers.
Barbecues char hotdogs and burgers ladies strap-stripped, barelegged.
Coconut oil on skin or grilled meat wafts both are joyous smells.
Bob Marley on the breeze teens necking on the boulders, hot.
The roar of powerful engines or the driving pump of nubile hips.
Catch the colors, eye the scene you sit reading with a smile.
First Published in Pithy Pages For Erudite Readers Summer 2014
Personas have limits, boundaries veiled by the thin masquerade of pretense
They whisper promises of identity, yet crack under pressure of reality's weight—poet
She puts on her face while vaping smoke surrounds,
Carefully paints fishtail eyes , studs, and crimson lips,
satin scarfs around hug her hips
Bindi adorned when with the Janes
A sterling nose ring pierces a membrane
Azure pools of light inserted—contact’s atop
wistful deeper dark reddish brown longing lens
Riffles through a cosmetic bag,
Faberge`a final touch then off she struts
Spinning the roulette wheel in random realms
Burned through one persona after another
The mask worn smothers
Charcoal tears pour down her cherry cheeks
Personas have their limitations
Reinventions only break the tiresome tensions
Infinite shades of pale, anemic, listless
Darker are the shadows that deem
Her skin is frail, weakness fills a ship and torn it’s sail
Though her wit retains its cutting edge
out on the ledge an empty soul on trial
Tragic trends suit her
Charcoal tears won’t save her
Metamorphosis’s demise, elusive unmasked
Limited are the bounds of weakness,
Marie-Thérès Picasso’s golden muse
hung herself after his death
Now a frozen memory in the dark daze
as nothing else remains its love’s myth
She played the games we may or not resist
Gone those days frozen in merciless mist
where fate awaits