Long Limited Poems
Long Limited Poems. Below are the most popular long Limited by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Limited poems by poem length and keyword.
Serging through life, I whipstitch, weft, and welt,
But always, my thoughts are pick-threading.
As stippled patches of emotion rise and fall in me,
See me, feel me, touch me, heal me
Just too many scars.
The mindless mind stresses itself through mental snares,
I waste away beneath it all, piecing and pondering.
Where the struggling soul and pleating body meet,
I seek significance in life’s lucid-lined layers.
Confronting my inner fears as an owneress,
Time leaves its cursed mark in starched stitches that cut.
Each moment experienced is like a closing zipper,
My calm exterior ridges are often rough, ready, and ruffled.
A life full of scars.
While unique experiences blend like transient ombre shades
My essence feels like a needled complex knit.
Memories form patterns from life’s four-patches
Challenges scissors cut are like shredded sharp diamonds.
Yet more paths diverge along life’s shifting chevrons
I strive to fit somehow; this square is what I do.
Yet my world stands out like tri-recs blocks
Creating stars and pineapples to fight fifty-four forty.
Scars that are hidden and visible, surface and deep.
Like trapezoids, I sense those oblong obstacles loom
Worth or less by my own limited gauge, I measure.
I pray each day new chapters begin casting on
While others exhaust, reaching their bind-offs.
I do seek a pattern master, and I need to pray for one.
I contemplate constantly along selvages of thoughts.
They hang like dangling tails…
I start to visualize my purpose slowly seaming.
Look as I whipstitch, weft, and welt through life, serging.
As I graciously and sagaciously test life’s many swatches,
I devote my life to the Master Seamster the…
Healer of scars.
Aye did not heed the maxim be careful
what you wish for,
cuz now adversity not abate
perhaps helpful for thee reader
if this bard ****
did apprise present woe
by turning time machine backdate
asper how the fickle finger
of thine existence didst create,
a more agonizing situation discerning
scythe leant presaging grim reaper date
now welcomed with
opened arms to extricate
fools paradise by twist,
and shout of cruel fate
e'en locked up in a damp, dank,
and dark dungeon more grate
full, than full blown wraith zing hate
now lemme summarize
woe of this ingrate
where reprieve of death,
would be to good for me to jubilate
perhaps immolation, thence
at the stake burnt offerings
presented to the
"FAKE" trumpeting khanate
hence complete annihilation
the only way to liberate
a guilty conscious weighted down
by Sisyphean sized mill stones
now whit tis time mate
to acknowledge, and try to numerate
whereat one issue found me
reneging and being obdurate
on reimbursing me youngest daughter,
who could not pontificate
why she needed to fork
over monies in relation
to overpayment re
guarding social security,
essentially incumbent on me
on me eek quate
ting to a sizable tidy sum,
finding yours truly i rate
yet refund check she sent
over a year ago, and spate
of anger (born by eldest lass)
unforgivable egregious stonewalling
do to procrastination trait
this papa (rightfully my responsibility)
objects to bearing
brunt of arithmetical error
plus my own meager
very limited fiduciary reserves
induces anxiety to undulate
thus becoming fancy free
and foot loose bachelor
appears as emotionally
cannibalistic (ready
to jump off a bridge)
to shuck off this unbearable weight.
In the silence of the cosmos, life is a dance of light and shadow,
Extraordinary and alive, a miracle not limited to wealth,
People seek riches, pride, security, anchors in time,
But they lose the essence, for life is not measured in houses and cars.
In the rush for a job to pay for cold walls,
They get lost in speed, through car windows that blur the sky,
You see nothing from a car, everything is a dream passing too quickly,
People take vacations as if life were a pause between days.
Why not let life itself be the reward, an endless journey?
In every sunrise, a new world is born from the embrace of dawn,
The song of the wind through trees, the whispers of flowing waters,
All are living poems, but people do not hear them, caught in noise.
In every breath, a universe opens, a story begins,
But people seek comfort in things that won't keep them warm,
Houses become boxes, dreams are lost in dusty office drawers,
Forgetting that life is a cosmic dance, not just a predetermined path.
Why not live the moment, explore the mystery of each morning?
To be travelers on unknown roads, without maps or destinations,
To lose ourselves in the beauty of simplicity, to embrace the ephemeral,
For being alive is a gift that cannot be bought, only lived with the heart.
In the flow of consciousness, let yourself be carried by the river, without fear of the abyss,
For life is an unwritten poem, a dream waiting to be lived,
Without limits, without fears, just you and the infinite smiling at you,
A magical journey where the soul dances with silent stars.
Drop dead gorgeous dark eyed bus boy chased
Peer assured status, focus of my fascination
High fiving idol guffawed and elbowed adjacent
Mates in droves, admirers in rows, dreamy Damon
Enriched to glimpse soap opera face as I boarded
From boys' school nearby, the greener gender pasture
Glance at my rolled up skirt spoke to thoughts sordid
His fleeting grin sent collapsing knees, mates' laughter
In typical teenage fashion for the times, mid nineties
Before social media blinked million comment designation
Our exchange over months limited to several niceties
Emptying bus afternoon he asked me out, supreme elation
Profile examined in mirror the evening of our due movie
Re primped the pair of socks boosting breasts non existant
Had my (only) half decent outfit chosen for past two weeks
Prospect of dating Damon held no heart slowing assistance
Uneventful night pursued, spun by overwhelming innocence
Being too naive to encourage moves, nerves running riot
Our chaeffered lifts to cinemas knew no lip warming kiss
Closely guarded phone each evening, obstinately quiet
A month later, bus reverberated his revised standards
Update explained to his mates, his tastes were narrowing
One percent of girls bore requirements Damon demanded
Variety other than curvaceous blonde, saw attention souring
Perfunctory level of awareness, lack of inner dignity
Allowed me to continue, lust bound, blindly desiring
During next year, Damon must have woken to scarcity
Blonde eligible youngsters for his affection aspiring
Mirror had become a somewhat closer companion
Make up added maturity, curves came, and confidence
Outside brick walled front of school, squinted in sun
Damon boldly suggested our courting should recommence
Sideways glance with my fiend, Suzie, enclosed chapters
Desperately I pleaded with my fifteen year old foolishness
To keep a straight face as I turned him down, lustre lacking
"I don't know, " faux deep thought, " Chance is one percent"!
2nd August 2020
Dusty Old Memories Poem Contest
Sponsor: Constance La France
The excitement of going to grandma’s
I remember like it was yesterday
The smells the big windows the projects
Learning to draw sew read write
Even learning to knit with wool
And all before grade one
There was nothing I couldn’t do
I was a bundle of fiery energy
Life was one big ball of fun or more precisely
Creativity only limited by our mind
We could create anything our heart desired
Out of cardboard pencils fabric and glue
All we had to do was dream it
My grand-mother was my universe
I saw the world through her eyes
Her love her life and kindness
Her smile I’d never forget
AP: 1st place 2020
I've tied my shoes, as I fold my hands to the completeness;
Of the common area, walking on coals of fire;
I combed my hair with every desire to refresh myself
And as I fix the flat tire;
Whose gonna mop the kitchen floor;
While locking the basement door;
Keeping out the old fish, who's cooking out of old ceramics;
I apologize as I wonder whose gonna dry my eyes as I cry;
I washed my feet with gasoline,
While the police officer treating me mean;
Wasted collard greens, someone place my silk handkerchief
in the washing machine ;
Watching the new today what am I to believe, how shall we receive;
Whose gonna mop the kitchen floor;
While locking the basement door;
Keeping out the old trout, as the elderly shout;
saying the youth the young today don't know what it's all about;
There is nothing more than two pair, nothing more than two doubles;
Add each scenario together and you have the number
4
Want more, one plus one plus one plus one is
4
so just relax, your limited max out don't pout
Want more, ten fingers minus two thumbs and fold the
remaining four fingers you show the remainder is
4
So you still want more then I suggest you go to,
the golf coarse place the ball on the ground prior to you hitting it holler;
4
Line of inquiry from unseeking seeker:
“I am not the body, which is but dust
I am not fickle and limited mind
To whom then comes the feral of lust
Or for that matter, thoughts loving and kind”
To Whom Does This Come?
We are God’s children
made in His image,
each of us with infinite powers.
Of what we are exactly capable
we cannot truly know.
We are spirits in time’s limitless flow.
Upon our birth on this earth,
we have no recollection
of where we came from and just who we are,
but spiritual gifts were given us
in another realm
which in distance from us seems so far.
If we open our minds,
God’s light can find us.
Wisdom will come if God’s love we embrace.
Then we shall know to whom all things come
It’s to us, His children -
saved by His grace.
I have written a lot of poems and stories about this, that, and the other,
but none has captured the interest of "Soupers" more than my poem about
a CAT. He/She wasn't even my CAT, and presently, I don't know where she's/he's at. That's right; I'm sorry to say that I never became friendly enough to learn of the CAT'S gender. In fact, I have not owned a pet of any kind for more than 25 years.
That particular neighborhood CAT did me a tremendous service,
and I never got to meet her/him. I told of how the CAT ran off all the rats that had camped out at a rental we decided to move back into after 14 years.
The tenants trashed the property both inside and out, and that CAT was
instrumental in assisting us on the cleanup.
Anyway, I took the time to gather some data about that poem I wrote about the CAT. Out of more than 1500 postings about people, pets, space, weather, church, politics, family, friends, etc., none comes close to the number of views of the poem about that CAT. I tell you, that CAT is ahead of the pack by far with just over 3300 views; and the closest rival comes in at just over
1400 with a theme about 'Changes'. The third highest was 1378 with a theme about 'Coffee'. I must say that my point of view is a most limited, although unbiased observation. Notwithstanding, my only conclusion is that people really love CATS more than other pets.
061721PS
There's a dramatic ebb and flow in our system now,
And the turbulence leaves the weak in its wake.
As the roots between liberal and conservative,
Have spread wider across a barren landscape.
The growth of weeds has limited the harvest,
Choking off the discontent and seeds to survive.
While efforts to irrigate and allow growth to prosper,
Have been victimized by drought to deprive.
This climate has been changing for some time now,
With weather slowly reaching new peaks.
Yet many of the storms have been realized,
And the damages have extended beyond weeks.
Although seasons change, at times, without warning,
Our nature has a firm preference to predict.
Where we critique and draw upon the truth,
Applying wisdom before deciding to convict.
When it's believed the only constant is change,
Where the pace requires bipartisan support.
Maybe then, we can confess to the rational,
And get back to governing, without those to extort.
Across the limpid and serene river, the oasis of the Wild West pioneers,
there are ivory and charcoal peaks waiting for mountaineers
to discover as they rest under the long-leafed pines that sway;
on this side, the saw-tooth oaks and the daisy bushes are lovely greeters.
Not long ago, this abandoned upland was the home of gold-diggers,
sarcasm and violence went hand in hand...even eagles could have lost their feathers,
and those cluttered wooden shacks weren't not built for comfort,
but with limited space, they could hardly stretch out their legs and sleep like bears.
Travelers are very fascinated by the peace and scenery, not seen from their urban lair;
come to enjoy a short period of tranquility and breathe in the crisp air:
some write, some paint...others dream away to visualize that great era!
Look past that river, willow oaks and maples can soothe the travels of a trudging bear.
Find your spot, whenever you choose and be vowed by an imagination so rare;
take off your fedora hat and go beyond those mountains brightened by the sun's glare,
let a mockingbird or shrike delight your senses with their beautiful song...
with a fervid wish, let them take you where they have watched the new moon's mare.