Long Listening Poems
Long Listening Poems. Below are the most popular long Listening by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Listening poems by poem length and keyword.
The Best Way I Know How "
(Verse 1)
To me I see, a view
I'm tired of the old me
Time to be renewed
I seem to forgot
what it means
to love me for me(yeeeeaaaahhh)
ive had so many falls
yes I've stumbled
but through it all
I still remain humble (humble)
I admit it was hard(so hard)
So I had to make a choice
I'm still learning that I have a voice
I still don't understand now
but I will try the best that I know how
(Chorus)
It starts with you
yes it does(yes it does)
to show and represent the love
we can't blame everyone and everything
we have to accept even when life seems(seems so)
we have to not put it on hold
do it now
I promise I'm trying the best I know how
(Verse 2)
Maybe we were not taught the same
To stick with each other
even through the rain
Things change overtime
you get your vision
not going blind
You start to notice
you've been losing your focus
you threw yourself in the ring
Gave up on your dreams
you were never told
everything glitter ain't gold
do you want the sparkle
do you want it right now
You got to get it the best you know how
(Chorus)
It starts with you
yes it does(yes it does)
to show and represent the love
we can't blame everyone and everything
we have to accept even when life seems(seems so)
we have to not put it on hold
do it now
I promise I'm trying the best I know how
(Hook)
I don't know
what I'm doing
I'm listening God
I'm pursuing
I'm trying ohhhhhhhhh
I don't know what I'm doing
I'm listening God I'm pursuing
I'm trying oooooohhhhhhhhh
(Chorus)
It starts with you
yes it does(yes it does)
to show and represent the love (the love )
we can't blame everyone and everything
we have to accept even when life seems(seems so)
we have to not put it on hold
do it now
I promise I'm trying the best I know how
Repeat until chorus fades
Written by:Concetta Hardnett
9/2/2017
I am the keeper of all things
Always closed and never open
Never to share
Never to whisper
I am the one listening to all your frustrations your aggravations and the things that piss you off in your life your job everything
Never to share
Never to whisper
I am the one sinking in the shadows as a temporary guest
Hearing what they all say about everything yet for me
Never to share
Never to whisper
I am the one that slowly defends in the shadows against nay sayers
Yet for your nay sayers I am also the keeper of all things
Never to share
Never to whisper
While you sit there coldly i want you to remember
I am always closed never open
Never to share
Never to whisper
I am the one to promise never to say a word
For me that is a promise held dearly regardless of what is being said in the shadows
The shadows is where the whispers come from take them for a grain of salt for I have not done anything
At the end of the day
I am the keeper of all things for everyone
Always closed never open
Never to share
Never to whisper
Eleanor Rigby?, Huh!, who the heck is she,
honestly though, never heard of her, or her of me.
Upon meeting her, maybe to think she's rather keen,
telling me a joke, I'd listen, whether dirty or clean.
I'd greet her with the grin of a smile,
followed up quickly with a wink of right eye.
I'm not at all lonely, people plainly can see,
able to approach one and all, even this chic named Rigby.
I overheard a man talking, early one day,
bent myself backwards, awkwardly, listening to what he'd say.
The man who was speaking, pretty sure a preacher or priest,
couldn't quite hear, Father Joe Pesce, Friar Fred Tuck, mind's trying at least.
Was said that she gave almost all that she had,
thousands of dollars and note, "for orphanage repairs, fix the bad."
After hearing this, I said to myself,
"must meet this Eleanor, with thanks of community help."
Days they came by, and days came and they went,
even managed a description of her through company she kept.
Time slowly slipped by, never met her at all,
only thing not tried, yelling her name through megaphone call.
One morning I sat, the daily newspaper close by,
picking the black and white up, quickly glancing with curious eyes.
Page five and page six, I slowed down not sure why,
the obituaries, faces of people, words of their life, news that they died.
There it was, it stood out so boldly,
explaining the fact of never meeting, no conversation unfolding.
"Eleanor Rigby, peacefully passed while she slept,
Calling Hours and Wake held Tuesday night, with open casket.
She gave her life savings to children, whose life mediocre, not bad,
upon completion of orphanage repairs and updates,
a cornerstone embedded, honoring donations she made."
I walk the path daily, under cornerstone of a lady never met,
tip my hat softly, her honor, quiet ways, and generous heart that she kept.
Eleanor Rigby, your never be lonely, people and sidewalk always keeping you company.
Solemn Seduction – for contest
soft winds are swallowed
by my wings
stolen
as the breath of lovers
waiting
unblinking eyes seducing
darkness
prying truth from camouflage
rotations of twist top head
listening for the silent
in silence
clinging to a white birch perch
moonlight’s searchlight
shifting shadows
nuances
of prey
soft wings and sleepy eyes
floating focus
beneath the star strewn sky
talons tensing in descent
striking
without pick-up line
the owl’s loft
for dinner
1/29/2016
submitted to – Owls Personification form – Poetry contest
sponsor – Eve Roper
Be with another rather than behold
Sight of the blind gifted to everyone
Absorbing action, instead of what we're told
Big speech shrunk, replaced by worthy deeds done
Closed eyed deep listening, imbibed intent
Disregard for flair, sparkle, pomp, parade
Blossomed from reward of firm message sent
Path paved fearless by honest choices made
Blind sight love allows hearts be truly read
Respect earned according to fair virtue
Judges awarding faith to soul thoughts said
Trustworthy traits, all humans can pursue
Purity speaks more loudly than the show
Sightless tender touch, transparent hearts know
3rd September 2020
Submitted for Contest : A Better Tomorrow
Sonnet Contest
Sponsored by: John Hamilton
I woke up at midnight, thinking that I would be at another place
But reality was staring me once more in my naked face
Everyone has come and gone, leaving me stretched
thin on the dry lawn
and the wall enclosd around me,
did not offer any form of sympathy,
and so I turn my head toward
ceiling and saw the promise
hanging there waiting for you
to come and seal the bond
and suddenly my heart began to fear
no one can remove it until destiny come and prove it
I see them coming and going
humming the early morning hymn
But no one is coming to my side
I can feel my kenethic energy
flowing with the tide,
And somewhere in the deep I can hear your voice calling out to me and the Bishop of canterbury prostrate on the ground in the church vestry with tears running from his eyes and seeking solace for his soul.
I am still here watching and listening to everything that is
transpiring over there and when my heart is full,
I meditate in the dark
and something more powerful than me
comes out and touch me
It's just two hours since I closed my eyes
And found the angels standing by my side
with an unseen surprise
one with thirteen stripes painted on its face
And a straw blowing soap bubbles all over the place
And a cake elvated on a stand and everyone
gather around me singing a jubilant song
I suddenly remember that it was a special day
when the stars, the moon and the sun become one
And pull me up me out of the deep
and we finally meet to celebrate this poem with me
The Sleeping Watchman
The things I had lived through demanded another translation through my tired body,
there were so many roads, so many doors shut with keys made of wax,
I walked through fog, exhausted, and by mistake fell asleep in the cold sand,
far off towers were collapsing, bell towers swaying without sound,
in the heavy silence of things an old man made signs to me from the dark,
"I am your watchman," he whispered, "come and lie down inside my sleeping wolf."
I would lie down and wake in the green light of a foreign moon,
a ship passed by with no masts, no sailors, only shadows on its deck,
it was the hour that calls toward forgetting, the hour with no hands and no name,
my eyelashes still held the world shut, the dew had filled them with salt,
somewhere closer the old man kept whispering, "come, come, I am your watchman,"
with a light wave of his hand he wanted to lead me toward a gate of smoke.
He made strange signs to convince me, old gestures from forgotten centuries,
he was my watchman, asleep in a very narrow place, in a cave of salt,
beyond it were others, wandering on that same endless field,
like a blind man I could see past their borders, I could only listen, not look,
three crooked trees grew there and the sky above stayed silent like a cracked bell,
it meant stillness stretching far into the distance, a stillness heavy as wet earth.
The others were on that field, I listened, I didn't speak, I felt their breathing,
each one claimed to have wandered the same endless road,
my poor watchman, condemned to a silence harsh as a river stone,
led them through the glass forest (they howled in fear, he fed them ash),
from every side dark springs flowed, the forest was inside each of them,
they slept on ash, a forest poured out of their bodies like water from a broken jar.
Someone said, "if we got out of here we'd see how many of us there are,
we swarm everywhere like shadows with no home,"
I called out to them, "sit down quietly on the shore, sit down like shadows,"
I was their watchman, lost within my own silence,
a woman had climbed into a tree, wanting to listen to the depths of the earth,
the sky showed stillness stretching far into the distance, I stood there with a horizon over my eyes,
the others had lain down inside wolves, staying deep within them, listening to the earth weep.
I ride the bus to work,
and sometimes I put on a very displeasing look:
I complain with sardonic humor,
" These city buses are never on time! "
The scruffy man beside me sweats and scratches his hair,
" It's so damn hot and lateness is a crime! "
And we both complain about
the bus schedule during rush hour,
" I blame the cops for taking away my Cadillac,
all they found in my car
was an empty bottle of Rum...
they smelled my breath,
and started to laugh;
I didn't drink any..it was my chum! "
A bunch of teens, chatting and cursing,
were listening to his conversation
and derided the reputed drunker
who lived in their neighborhood...and they went on
with their silliness, " You lost your clunker, because
you were drunk and stunk like a pig! "
" Listen, you good-for-nothings punks,
at your age I had respect for older people,
never said an unpleasant word to anyone! "
And venting his rage with frantic hands,
" If I were any younger, I'll zip your filthy mouths
with duck tape...dare me and you'll be so sorry! "
There was a brief silence, but animosity
for those kids was strong but he restrained his thoughts.
Winter
Freezing winter nights
Falling, whirling white powdery delight
Falling from the dark night sky
A carpet of glistening sparkling white
Lovely forest dark and deep whirling pleasure
Dancing around the evergreens
I breathe crisp winter day
My breath rises in visible puffs
My eyes marveled at the dazzling whiteness
Falling snowflakes kiss my rosy cheeks
Bringing joy to my heart
Sigh ... As I sit around the fireplace
Cozy and warm sipping on steaming hot chocolate
Listening to the crackling fire
While
Outside
The sound of the wind and downy flakes dance and prance in the cold air
Falling, whirling white powdery delight
Falling from the dark night sky
11/14/2015
Each year the earth returns
to its annual remembering~
a vow stitched in root and rain.
I stand along the garden’s edge
holding the morning
like a mirror tilted toward hope.
In its silvered surface,
the world gathers itself~
petal, stem, sky~
a dress rehearsal of becoming.
Purple arrives first,
a subtle rush of color rising
from the cool breath of soil.
It whispers through the lupine,
the verbena,
the small wild blooms
that refuse to be anything
but brave.
Their voices are subtle,
but I lean in~
listening for the way
they say again,
the way they say still,
the way they say yes
to another turning of the year.
And in that whispered violet,
I feel the season
lift its face toward light,
reminding me
that hope is not a shout
but a soft returning~
a color that keeps blooming
even when the mirror of the world
seems dim.
Purple persists.
Nature remembers.