Long Lowers Poems
Long Lowers Poems. Below are the most popular long Lowers by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Lowers poems by poem length and keyword.
THE SMOKE CLOCK
I bought, as always, for two, two nights' worth of smoke,
it's eight thirty, and your chair breathes empty beside me,
you, who used to come early, never late, like rain
that knows by heart the window it's summoned to;
now it's turned two, and nothing of you remains
but ash of a name on the thin lip of evening.
Fine, I'll light them myself, one by one, like days,
it was never a problem to burn alone, except
this smoke has the shape of your shoulders when you cried
and won't rise, it settles on the rug like a dog
waiting for a master long gone through another gate,
and the ceiling lowers into my chest, heavy, like a lid.
I was the place you ran to when your own house caught fire,
my heart, a steady stove, never too cold, never too greedy,
my ears, two wells where you poured out all your rains,
and you entered me the way you board a train with no destination,
just to no longer be where the walls stood in judgment of you,
just to get far, far away, into a country with no eyes on you.
Our only fear was the descent, the return to bodies,
that ugly moment when the world put its weight back on,
so we took another turn, spun the carousel once more,
put off morning with one more blue breath ~
we believed ourselves healed because the pain had learned to stay quiet,
but silence isn't healing, it's only a wound grown well.
So are you better now? Have your scars bloomed without me?
Did you find a better road than the one we used to take,
one you don't have to pave with your own bones?
I hope so. I hope so hard that this hope hurts me
like a blessing spoken through clenched teeth,
I hope someone taught you to rise without crutches of smoke.
I'm not waiting for you anymore ~ I've gathered my hours off the table like cards,
I've blown out the candle that held your place at the window
and now I'm winding something else: a morning, a silence, a name,
I leave the key under the mat for the man I'll be tomorrow at dawn,
and if, after all, the knock at the door is yours, late, so late,
know that the place you used to run to has moved into me, for good.
aspect allowing imbibes divine bliss
filling our form by gentle osmosis
felt within as a teasing love caress
rapture renewal with nothing amiss
ecstasy unbound within thus present
oft lets out a roar peaking joy current
to which by reflex ego resistant
self blocking bliss our native element
to connect with the divine a deep thirst
yet our fearful desires blockages of dirt
ego doubting that feeble form will burst
lowers magnetic heat fearing the worst
see saw battle within thus continues
even as rapture of bliss throb renews
viewing resolutely bliss waves anew
thus strengthening spiritual sinews
unhurriedly happening this blossoming
lower mind vaporised we cease sizing
moment to moment in joy thus flowing
essence of presence keeps meditating
in timeless time we cease oscillating
29-November-2020
(syllabic rhyme)
On a grassy knoll silhouetted against the rising sun,
Astride his pinto pony sits a Native American son.
A majestic bronzed brave, feathers wafting in the breeze,
Arms uplifted in obeisance, the Great Spirit to appease.
He offers thanks to Him for the grandeur of creation,
For the sun and moon from which he gathers inspiration;
For flowing rivers and the life-nurturing rain,
And for the beasts that roam the vast, verdant plain.
He asks the Great Spirit to bless his arrow and bow,
That with true aim he can fell life-sustaining buffalo,
To contribute to the welfare of his tribal clan,
A feast of roasted meat and many hides to tan.
He prays that among his brothers peace will prevail,
And that he be protected as he lopes along the trail.
He pleads for honor in battle be the outcome victory or defeat,
And that he be brave and not falter against foes he shall meet.
A tear rolls down his cheek thinking of his ravaged, sacred land;
Broken treaties and those who deal with deceitful hand.
With sad heart he lowers his arms and slowly turns away,
Determined that from the paths of his fathers he will never stray.
Entry for Line Gauthier's "Tribute To Native Culture" Contest
The innocent minds that grew up
the hurt that forced us
the effortless smile that appealed through,
quiet nights with breakthrough’s.
The fears overcame covered in love
the ending pain is bombarded often
the rope of hope keeps corroding
the other side of deep end is always waiting.
As the days in a year pass by
closest hearts sublime
the urge of denying harsh reality
fighting it because no one can take my sanity.
The thoughts crossing my mind
the unprocessed feelings like tides
attaining a height then lowers after a while
peacefully travelling in the ocean finding some place to bide.
All the scars caged in the soul
then feeling it and letting it go.
The innocent mind that grew up was unexperienced but strong
now she understands the latent shine of tears and is bold.
Evil minds cannot conquer a beautiful heart
pretending game is for sad people as they know no one is with them till the last.
What we had was the best but what we could have would be magical
pain caged in the soul but then feeling it and letting it go.
I smile eveytime i remember the time we spent
but no one can take my sanity so i dont bend,
I cry and then laugh recalling the innocent minds that grew up
to the dreams that are more passionate and stronger.
Life is not made up of moments
moments have to be shaped out of an unstable life,
so i stand proud because so many adventures are left
not allowing the rope to pull me away with it and falling in the deep end.
The strangest Creature !!!
On this little blue planet.
Everything was created to perfection.
Order and harmony was its reflection.
The strangest Creature !!!
On this little blue planet.
Are a world unto them selves .
Man portraying his pigmy elves.
The strangest Creature !!!
On this little blue planet.
We - a voice creating a wilderness.
Many try not to, this I must confess.
The strangest Creature !!!
On this little blue planet.
|Are we able to become the salvation ?
for Mother Earth, Mother Natures creation.
The strangest Creature !!!
On this little blue planet.
Will the meek stand up and tower
over the strangest Creature’s power ?
The strangest Creature !!!
On this little blue planet.
Is faced with inevitable doom
as this little blue planet lowers the boom.
The strangest Creature !!!
On this little blue planet.
B. J. “A” 2
July 22nd 2015
The harvest has been in full swing
Swathers finishing the last of the standing crops
Combines blowing dust out the back
Grain dust fills the prairie landscape
The first of the frost has come
Harvest has to be quickly removed
For the frost lowers the grade of grains
The harvest gold must go to the grainry's
The gardens now have to be cleaned
for frost ruins all plants still left in the ground
The food now gets canned or frozen
or stored for the coming winter season
The once green fields now become a golden color
The leaves are turning colors and gently
blowing off trees and into the wind
Harvest season is coming to a close on
the Saskatchewan prairie land.
9/20/12
City life turns to sparse assortments;
Of local pubs and country homes.
Tall brick walls fade into fences;
Amongst hedgerows and mossy stones.
Crowded bustle soon lowers its pace;
Those now free, move unconfined.
Only thoughts spent are of contentment,
Peaceful surroundings heal the mind.
As roads turn to paths unbeaten,
Dipping and climbing, alongside the fields.
Views everchanging, revelling new pastures,
Filled full of beauty from treasures they yield.
Awaking from the brief city escape,
Thoughts soon creep back to the hubbub.
Before it all end though, the passenger pleads,
Can we go for a pint at the pub?
The chances, remote
that a dog and a goat
should strike up a friendship this way.
It’s important that you know
that Broccoli and Juno
spend hours at play every day.
Now Juno’s a force
as big as a horse;
her long white hair flows like a mane.
The size of her paws
would sure give one cause
to give that dog plenty of rein.
Sir Broccoli’s a nubian
who loves to be butting in;
he’s never far out of the mix.
When he lowers his head,
he fills them with dread,
but Juno, she gets in her licks.
They both get to snorting
with gleeful cavorting,
and you wonder if one will get hurt.
Two birds of a feather
In all kinds of weather,
lying side by side there in the dirt!
A lways seeking the light, a beacon in the dark,
B oldly facing challenges, leaving a lasting mark.
C reating dreams in the canvas of the sky,
D ancing with the stars, reaching new highs.
E ternal hills, majestic and grand,
F lowers blooming in the sand.
G reen meadows stretching far and wide,
H armony in nature, a soothing guide
I gniting passions that blaze like a fiery sun,
J ourneying onward, the adventure has begun.
K eeping faith in the power of the human soul,
L ifting spirits higher, making broken hearts whole.
M ountains towering, touching the clouds,
N ature's wonders, mysterious shrouds.
O pen fields where wild creatures roam,
P ure and wild, nature's own home.
Q uestions and answers, a dance of the mind,
R eveling in knowledge, the treasure you find.
S eeking the truth in the whispers of the trees,
T rusting in the journey, guided by the breeze.
U nderneath the moon's soft glow,
V alleys deep where rivers flow.
W hispers carried by the breeze,
X anadu in nature's keys.
Y earning hearts find solace in the earth,
Z enith of beauty, nature's rebirth.
It doesn’t happen loudly.
No thunder, no shattered glass—
just the quiet subtraction of you.
First, your edges soften.
You stop correcting them
when they get you wrong.
Then your voice lowers—
not silence yet,
just… less insistence on being heard.
You begin to edit yourself
mid-sentence, mid-thought, mid-feeling,
trimming away anything that might not fit
inside the space they’ve made for you.
Love, you say.
This is love.
But love should not feel
like translating your soul
into a language that has no word for you.
Days pass, then months—
you forget what you sounded like
before you became agreeable.
You forget what you wanted
before wanting became inconvenient.
Even your reflection hesitates now,
as if trying to recall your name.
And still, nothing looks broken.
No bruises, no smoke—
just a life tidied down to nothing.
That’s how it kills you.
Not with endings,
but with edits.
Not by taking your breath,
but by teaching you
not to need it so much.
Until one day,
there’s nothing left to erase—
and no one left
to notice.