Long Low level Poems
Long Low level Poems. Below are the most popular long Low level by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Low level poems by poem length and keyword.
Morrisons it seems? have got into gear, And Sophie Throup i'd buy
Her a beer.' Or a celery juice whatevers her thing i reckon
This lil beauty will bring in troops, aisles will ring many more shoppers
Will visit Morrisons, i'd sary due to the landowners trials
Of today.' For now its our farmers.' So let tomorrow be ours' and all
The days after, I also shout EQUALITY FOR COWS!! May
They eat grass forever.) And arla go broke! the jokes now all
On quyeer karma..Geez he's a strange old bloke' oh thats
Reeves in me gunsight.!! Pr'haps i need glasses let me look
In that cloak.' Must be all that food from tesco's sent me
Eysight askew? Mind you sainsburys is on their low level
What are we to do? I'll say go supporrt all farm shops who'll
Treat you real well, and if you can't there'll always be a Morrisons as far as I can tell.)
From my childhood to adulthood my
Spirit always wrestled with navigating the
Tumultuous torrent of others thoughts
and opinions seeking to discover and
Hear my own voice.
I pen my journey, my spirit, my home.
A masterpiece crafted in passion and strife,
In each fading chapter, my life is a poem.
Each day a stanza, each moment a line,
Ink of my heart in rhythms divine.
With metaphors blooming in gardens of time,
My soul finds its music, its vibrant rhyme.
For my life is a poem, a legacy spun,
A symphony woven until the day is done.
For every lost moment, a lesson was learned,
In the furnace of trials, my spirit was turned.
For the world tried to clip my wings and I still
Learned to fly.
Teenage years spelled chaos, emotions untamed,
Pages marked by heartache, where innocence shamed;
The ink grew more vivid, the essence of life.
For every insult, criticism, wrong doing I let slide
It always felt like a part of my soul died.
Adulthood arrived, with burdens to bear,
Time penned its chapters with wisdom and care.
I pen my experience with the poetry I share.
Putting one foot in front of the other I continue to
Move forward even when life may take me a few steps
Back.
To be true to one’s own poetry roots are beyond skin deep,
My ethnic background or demographical community where
I sleep and rest my weary feet.
There was time where others as well as myself thought I was unable
To speak. Then the seeds of poetrees began to grow, from the soils of adversity
branch out, above the low level shrubs and weeds to embrace the light of the sun.
A poetry that will never have to stand in another’s shadow.
Standing alone tall and strong but never alone.
The quill of experience wrote lines steeped in grace,
each face found its place.
My life is a poem each experience is a totem
So I write, and I live, in this infinite quest,
For my life is a poem, imperfectly blessed.
Like many of us men we are taught not to cry,
Show weakness or express emotion although
We are still human. I let my tears flow through
The ink of my pen.
My life is a poem.
Sandals
On a golden sandy beach.
On a dusty dry footpath with warm air
around your feet.
Music.
Spanish guitars play sounds so sweet.
The evening light is warm and friendly,
the night sky blends into the ocean as
the waves lap at your feet.
A stark sound, a whale crashing helplessly
on the beach.
Bird flight, low level their squawking
screeching, nothing normal is here to
let them feed.
Tide rise, the ocean sounds darker with
fiercer speed. It seems to be saying
something but we don’t listen we just
use it to fill our bellies with selfish greed.
Night sky the moon hides behind the dark
clouds.
Rain comes out of nowhere and
rain comes falling down so heavy the ground
can’t cope and neither can the streets!
People.
People crying on flooded streets.
Their homes now under water, along with their
lives, their belongings, and their dreams.
Nature.
I hear it screaming in the winds.
I stop and turn to face it and I see it look at me.
Like a kraken raising an eye out of the ocean
it wants me to know it’s upset with us,
so upset indeed.
Feelings.
Scared now of forces we can’t control or see.
The dark side of humanity still taunting and
laughing at nature as nature turns around and
glares at humanity so frighteningly!
We live in a day of glorifying man
all the questions are always earthbound
looking at what results their preaching did
God looking down sees an earthly sound
God almighty has higher standards than man
the proclamation of the gospel is His crown
He looks to His glory and only to that alone
so the gospel's purity sings along heavens sound
What indeed makes the gospel pure?
the gospel must be scripturally full
the preacher must magnify Christ
for its purity makes it a sparkling jewel
Today's church lives at a very low level
it needs lifting to look at Christ's sufficiency
for it's enough God doesn't ask for any more
Christ the saviour is sufficient absolutely
We're not saved by our giving
but by God giving His son
who's finished the salvation work
His father gave him to do, Jesus won
(We live in a day where numbers are all important in Gospel evangelism forgetting that the purity of the gospel is what God is concerned with for His own glory.)
They've been working on this for years
Inside the government
To try a replace the brain of man
With that of a purple eggplant
This idea to me sounds genius
If you know what it is that I mean
People round here might start making sense
Pass the veggies if you please
They called all the top notched scientists
And vegetarians throughout the land
To see what would be the best variety
In this eggplant transplant experiment
They settled on the aubergine
Great Brittan's joy and pride
When it comes to the perfect eggplant
Those Limey's will not be denied
They were afraid if they went to the private sector
That person would surely be missed
So they grabbed someone unsuspecting
Inside of the government
They told the low level employee
A bit of truth mixed with a little white lie
They needed him for his vast understanding and knowledge
Plus they'd be serving cookies on the side
They added a little something to the cookie dough
That knocked the governmental genius to his knees
Plopped him down on the gurney
...Let the experiment proceed if you please
They cracked his skull wide open
Where upon they couldn't believe their eyes
Right there inside of his cranium
Already an eggplant did reside
The combat in Ukraine
I have a problem; we know that Ukraine is a corrupt country
we also know it has fought a low-level war against
the Russian-speaking people in the Donbas region, so Russia
intervened, so far so good, but what is the next step?
If Russia holds on to the territory gained without having
an army station in the freed territories on a permanent basis
because Ukraine will cry foul and attack when they can.
Russia has always been a magnet for intruders because
of its potential riches and vastness.
There was a time when Yeltsin and his cronies were popular
they grabbed the state's assets and sold them down the Volga.
This was abruptly stopped, to the chagrin of the west
once more; Russia was the enemy.
I’m not partial to the Russian government’s plan, but as I see it
Russia has to occupy the whole of Ukraine and install a regime
that is permanently neutral and let Ukraine be a member
of the Russian federation.
In any case, the war must stop as thousands of young soldiers
die for the wrong reasons and the civilians are bombed senseless.
Flowers blossomed as times travel through low level hums. Time turned water into ice and my lovely daughter into earth; naturally so grateful for such time.
Busy bees, pollinators of the year; eighty-five billion consecutive times in a row; both honey and bumble bees celebrate, together... No kind of man has discovered a better way to pollinate crops than the reigning pollinators of the year.
Deep inside what limited jungle remains, some kind of man ties a white feather to hornet, so to seek. A long, dark, skinny finger points at the nest as the hives form a defense; the hornets quickly break the feather free, just moments too late—the hive has been made.
A bamboo shoot is rigged with a clothe, bathed in ignition agent; true organic pesticide. Set ablaze, once steadily smoldering, a bamboo catapult is raised into perfect position to kill the queen and run off; the swarm—remnants left behind this tactical slaughter—tasty larvae delicacy for these kind of people.
But these kind of people are rare; honorable kinfolk, kinds of people that civilized kind of people degradingly refer to as wild, third world beings.
As man continues his rampage against time and earth—third world civilization would appear the more civilized life for all kinds of people; bees too.
Every day closer to death
One more day further
To eternal light
Demons gather gasping for air
The sounds of fire crackling
Flowers grow wild along the roadside
Indians cultivate wings
Birds flock flying in circles
Winds grow deeply
Silent moons burn bright
Her love has takin a back seat
To his true passion
Years have passed
Lust has takin place of true love
True love blistering
His thoughts of yesterday
Feelings towards her
Dysfunctional thought
That places him on
A low level of respect.
Comparing the filthy ways of
The true Black American
And their traditional
Animalistic inherited trait
Monkey like patterns of habit
He parks, cuts the engine, sits for a moment,
headlights dimming.
He tries to rationalize why he is here,
why he is still racing to be free of his own gravity.
The store is a low level spaceship in a starless lot.
The few parked cars have leagues of loneliness between them.
Cars have emptied out their occupants,
empty carts bump over yellow-signed borders.
The store has icebergs, chunks collide beyond aisle G.
Late night shoppers wade anchorless
between high stacked cliffs
seeking to land a glittering neon wrapped desire,
something to radiate their dreams with.
Anyone that matters is not here.
The manager is a nightshift knife attack,
if asked, ‘where to find’ he will gut you with a metallic grin.
Then he sees her, she with topaz moons slung from each ear,
she with the dragon tattoo arm sleeve,
her fierce half-cupped little breasts
daring anyone to be kind.
He understands,
the long night is pouring into castaway hands,
he and she are waiting to be mesmerized,
willing the faceted bottles to be the sparkle of their eyes.
He wants to be kind to her, to take her home to his pod
on the wrong side of the moon,
but she is feral, she is warpaint on a wild horse,
and he a broken purveyor of bad news.
Beyond G, a ruffled toll-keeper with hatchet arms
checks-out the sundry of departing misfits.
They will all leave separately and secretly
to tunnel into more makeshift hours to come.
The cheap booze is in the back,
yet it will stay rattling between his eyes
until he drives just far enough away
to be a distance from himself.
Myopic muddle
as beauty swirls
hues of heaven
yet bypasses
static statues that
pose as sentient
beings beknighted
dawn’s divine dream
seen as bland mirror
on ebbing eyewash
cathartic colour is
a universal uplift
even for low level
lustrous earth dweller
Immersed in skewed slant
I bandy icicled retort
as though taut timing
ever swayed rigid
stone age postures
elysian echo a speck
in azurite caves
to auditory aloofness
allied to blinkered
whim ‘s wanton
plight with dull
and dim twist
dispersed among
trivial terrains
alienation personified
vessel vacuous and void
rehabilitation of
the wayward faculty
a burst balloon blip
outsider ostracised
from gilded gardens
and sumptuous bloom
of ripe recrudescence
still limp laggard
on hackneyed cue
might yet stumble on
the fig of wakening