Long Lesser Poems
Long Lesser Poems. Below are the most popular long Lesser by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Lesser poems by poem length and keyword.
Trinitarian Equations
By Mark D. Stucky
Can you do the math
for Three in One?
1 + 1 + 1 = 1?
3 = 1?
1 / 3 = 1?
You can't find these
enigmatic equations
of paradoxical logic
in new math textbooks.
They are old math.
Very old math.
Older than earth.
Older than stars.
Older than the universe.
They are the origin of math
from which all math derives,
from which we live and move
and have our being.
Beyond Taoist yin-AND-yang duality,
beyond particle-AND-wave nature of light,
beyond quantum superpositions
of ALL possible particle states,
Three Persons in one mystery,
distinct yet together,
a divine Whole,
greater AND lesser
than the sum of the Parts.
(First published in Ekstasis, Sept. 2022. See also my poem "The Invention of Love" and my visual poem “Trinity Dance.”)
(Image by jose_andres95 on Pixabay.)
The culture of any education system,
including a national multi-mediated,
possibly under-medicated,
Education/miseducation
Healthy/pathological
in-between system/chaos
communication relationships
include a "PLEASE SHUT UP"
non-verbal divest of attention
remove from esteemed status,
degenerate into lesser caste
class system
of ignore
and deplore messages.
We speak this language
in silent
stunning
shunning.
Would that a recent former Chief Executive White Officer
could attend such a multi-internationally
co-mediated shunning school
of silent microphones,
still cameras
pointed in most any other direction,
Preferably more multiculturally intelligent
educationally cooperative win/win systemic
more than miseducationally rabid,
win/lose chaotic
Unlike the culture of any education system
practicing
Integral
EcoFeminist
ReStorative justice
ReGenerative green peace
NonViolently communicating
Permacultural Win/Win ZeroZone
Wide Web WorldView
Health/Wealth OptimaLearning Outcomes
By the roadside sat two men
One a soldier the other a poet
One a warrior among men
The other a warrior of pen
One sculpted by war
The other, horrors of the soul
Each had fought a war
For their souls
One had killed in jungles cold
The other in pages cold
Each to save their soul
These warriors of old
Sat by that road
Where it got clammy and cold
Each in their own thoughts
Each recounting days old
When their souls were lost
One to the gun
The other to the pen
But don't think the poet
A lesser man
For as a boy he became a man
The pages were real death
Forced to kill those ugly men
Who took his soul
It was just a dynamite stick
And the fuse went boom!!
No more turns
Being passed around like a cigarette
By those men
There was just no more
Cigarette smoke breath
And don't think the soldier
Anything less
They were just orders
Kill them!
They were just children
Kill them!
The enemy must learn
Here we mean business
So the two warriors
Sat side by side
And stared blankly
Across the cold clammy road
And in the distance
A storm cloud formed
Then sudden thunder
Each warrior ducked
Yes, you're one sexy witch, dear love, but now it's Halloween,
And I've a witchy tale to share, so keep your broom between ...
Five decades hence I knew the thrills of flesh, and did imbibe,
Yet there's but one that's apt to still pop up, let me describe:
It starts with just a tickled tip that twitches toward my toes,
As oft' can be a grandeur glitch, until what's grander, grows.
In dermal terms, my skin can squirm to feel infirmed and wet,
What fairer sexes call 'the glow', (we lesser-fair's call 'sweat').
Now when that glow has burst, I'm first immersed in finding you,
For you've the spunky junk to free the monkey from his zoo.
I'm damned if I can speak, my cheeks just bubble up with suds,
The things that hang or dangle, cursed to tangle with my duds.
I'm apt to find my fingers filled with zippers, buttons, snaps ...
And spouting things like "I love you", to fill the awkward gaps.
Those tickles turn to tingles and they mingle through an urge,
That brings our things together 'midst a single clinging merge.
Its fever gives new meaning to the old phrase come-and-gone,
And your sexy pose, (and fewer clothes), will always bring it on.
Now please don't fear, my vixen dear, when tickling has begun,
No stopping what is popping up, there's lots of hopping fun ...
The barrel of my kitschy gun has schemes it needs to hatch,
And when my love-lust itches, hon, it's you I aim to scratch!
Written and submitted on October 21, 2019
For the "Itch, Witch, Glitch, Or Twitch" Poetry Contest
Nina Parmenter, Sponsor.
Jesus, help me to look to You
When I’m seeking a true friend
Jesus, help me to know the truth
When I’m so unsure of what to do
Jesus, help me to pray the right prayers
When I have questions about life
Jesus, help me to ask what I should
To make my life into one You know is good
Jesus, help me to be the woman You choose
To live with the assurance of Your love
Jesus, help me to be wise and strong and sure
To be filled with the Holy Spirit within me
Jesus, help me to reach out to the lonely
When I need to give of my heart’s honesty
Jesus, help me to be generous with my kindness
To give from my soul all that You’ve allotted me
Jesus, help me to give love and compassion
When someone is in need, to be available to them
Jesus, help me to know the answers from my heart
To give precious joy to those around my world
Jesus, help me to whisper faith into the world
When there is a reason, show me what to hope for
Jesus, help me to reassure the ones I know and love
With promises of hope and faith sent from up above
Jesus, help me to have faith in God’s word and plan
To listen to the still small voice that will take my hand
Jesus, help me to care about those lesser known friends
Who need to hear about Your love and gentle giving to them
Jesus, help me to know that everything will work out for the best
To hear the words from scripture and see the way it effects me
Jesus, help me to always put my full trust in You, my best friend
And allow me to give my whole heart to expressing your tenderness
In the Gallery of Life, where deeds hang on display,
Not all can see the masterpiece amidst the gray.
For excellence, that rare and radiant art,
It is visible only to the excellent heart.
Like calls to like, in silent recognition,
A secret language, a hidden coalition.
The mediocre gaze, yet fail to see
The brilliance that sets true greatness free.
As diamonds know the cut of their kind,
So do great minds illuminate great minds?
In the sea of ordinary, they stand apart,
These beacons of skill, these masters of their art.
The Symphony of Genius plays its tune,
But only to those who wish it a commune.
The rest may hear, but cannot comprehend
The depths to which true excellence can descend.
In labs and studios, on grand stages,
Where innovation flows from mind to hand,
The excellent discern what others miss:
The spark of greatness, that ethereal bliss.
So let not lesser judgments cloud your view,
For they know not the heights to which you flew.
Your peers in brilliance, they alone can tell
The magnitude of how you've done so well.
In this world where the average often reigns,
Remember: excellence knows excellence's pains.
Your light, though bright, may not be seen by all,
But to the excellent, it stands forever tall.
SHADES OF BLACK
Always look forward, they say, not back
Yet some of a certain age and persuasion
Would find that contrast of lesser appeal
As dull grey everyday issues are too real
Trying to keep daily life on an even keel
Just a smile and nod to suit the occasion
Still to recognise several shades of black
How things were, are now, and will be
It’s like a gradient leading gently down
Perhaps slow to realise that it is a slope
And yet never doubting if one will cope
Saving a devalued currency that is hope
Behind the eyes, one can wear a frown
Such that there’s no need for sympathy
There is no map nor any clear direction
By now, none should ever be surprised
What earthly inheritance is for the meek
When it’s only written words that speak
Some may consider such a future bleak
But there’s still joy that can be realised
When finally discovering the connection
I don’t believe Donald Trump should be impeached,
He’s brought light to the Presidency, a dynasty,
Of a long line of ‘born again’ believers, screeched,
Wiling government into a god-inspired fallacy.
Burocracy is not an heuristic term or value judgement -
It’s a rational roll of reasonable deliberations, business,
Mirroring the typical American citizen as sediment,
Which Mr Trump places, to his credit and best guess.
He’s not a force for power without love and freedom,
Stealing smiles from unlikely Democrats, Pub’s alike,
He gives the lesser the right to arbitrate and custom,
When climbing the hierarchy an eager workers’ hike.
He’s not killed five people, an individual’s sadness,
Another quinquennial would see America great again,
With Covid faced squarely and firmly by flatness,
Joe Biden will take it as efficient, practical and fain.
Let the people speak from the Representative’s House,
Not one view, but proffering all view’s to regulate,
Bold with speech, he’s turned the stiff upper clouse,
Into commerce’s flutter, so please give a vulgate.
Dominique Webb
They call them dragons,
winds such as Rashabbar the black
who darkly binds the unwary, or dust spewing Calima,
she who herds madness from outside-inward.
Then there is Bayamo, the tree killer,
Tebbard the sultry doctor, a fever-wind
that dispenses fire and delusion.
Chinooks and Mistrals scour and skive.
The Haboob hunts where hunters hide.
Those named winds; gales that chisel faces,
as if they were cliffs.
Squamish, Elephanta, the Williwaw,
swirling thieves that steal babe,
crib, wimple and shawl.
I have traveled through some,
and avoided most.
When, in tornado season, I occasionally
roam from my Ohio home,
I think of those dragon-winds,
and scan the sky
for signs of a scaly whipping tail,
or talons clawing some fluffy clouds
before blowing a Dutch barn to bits.
Sometime between birth and death.
Smiles soften like pastels in a mountain mist.
Truths harden like unearthed diamonds.
Social circles expand and contract with little warning.
When loves wither and die.
The Lesser hearts and diggers soon arrive.
In surprising numbers.
The humanity sextant veers off track.
We become a lonely black hole.
As hope slowly descends a worn rosary.
At the old folk's home, they're lined up outside.
Looking like baby birds in metal nests
Soft white heads mimic spring flowers.
A final breath of fresh air.
A final glimpse of a world.
Then they're wheeled back inside.
Into hardened, minimum-wage hearts.