Long Mark time Poems
Long Mark time Poems. Below are the most popular long Mark time by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Mark time poems by poem length and keyword.
O Melancholy, my home-alone friend,
With Indolence conspiring to mark time,
With best intentions, and thoughts unpenned,
And faded vision, as the perfect rhyme,
So almost, so not quite, so very close,
Distracted by my wastrel amigos.
If I could somehow loosen ties that bind,
And hold me in such unrelenting thrall,
If I the secret antidote could find,
To let me hear again the muse's call,
My mind now free, a-roving, unconcealed,
My deepest unsung thoughts in verse revealed.
Unending sojourn, inspiration sought,
And sometimes unexpectedly upturned,
When with the souls of poets we have walked,
Their intimations shared, insights discerned,
If we, as in a dream, a trance adopt,
We too may tread their lofty mountaintop.
aging is a blessing,
of existent being...
where-in mind re-iterates,
repetitions that mark time...
as waves crashing,
upon some shore...
and seeing itself,
re-shaped by tides...
currents and weathers,
changing accordingly...
with respect constants,
that define the nature of time...
relatively speaking as a concept,
of ideas that illustrates reflections...
of the minds-concept itself,
as subject to it's own objectivity...
such that aging is growth,
of a 'sole' in a species...
of existent beings adapting,
according to defines of time...
constants that demand an order,
that is us perceiving ourselves perceiving...
accelerations relative a speed limit,
constant on the growth path...
of consciousness and belonging,
to a continuity that becomes clearer...
as the mind is subject to itself,
and not so much that outer world...
that is seemingly the change and cause,
where-as it is the mind that effects itself...
as being the very definition of relativity,
with respect the changes the eyes see...
stan sand
So much to wish for and so little time.
I really must get my life back in line.
So much I had hoped for that did no0t come about;
But I can't fix a thing if I sit down and pout.
There's still time to do it, don't sit here and mope.
Just get busy and plan where there's still life there's hope.
The fact that I'm old doesn't mean that I'm dead.
I've still lots of ideas going 'round in my head.
Some people will say that my life is over.
Much past fifty and you;re pushing up clover;
But I'm just getting started, must be a late bloomer,
'Cause I don't feel old and my vision is truer.
I'm wiser, more steady and I know what I want.
In youth you're still searching, you don't know what's what.
To raise up a family I gave up a lot.
I cleaned, cooked and sewed and my dreams I forgot.
The kids were my life and I gave all I had.
I never looked back or felt angry or sad.
Now my babies are grown, they have kids of their own.
Sometimes they will visit or call on the phone.
Now it's my turn and I plan to have fun.
I'll pamper myself, take my place in the sun.
A house in the country away from the city.
I'll garden, raise chickens, I'll be sitting pretty.
I'll breathe the fresh air scented with flowers,
And mark time by the days, not by minutes and hours.
A piece of twine
an old marble cracked
from forgotten play
a watch frozen in time
hands touching nine
old books dusted in fine
white rings photos faded
where they lay left
on the mantle as
the ticks of clocks
quietly mark time
as deities drift
through the room of shadows
Silence as graves
A forgotten place
this room forever in night
the vanity cluttered with curiosities
and things collected in life
a piece of twine
tied in a bow
old marbles cracked
from games long time ago
frozen on faded watch faces
the hands touching the nine
books odd old and ornate
brown cracked folded
Re-read very deep in late sleepless nights
collect dust a fine white lace
wedding rings
family photographs
fade forever almost forgotten
the clock on the mantle
stopped dead echos
of the clock linger
something odd and ornate
completes the silver rays
where moon light falls
shadows crawl across the walls
in this place drifting forever in the night
lingers echoes of man
divinity is at hand.
There are those who believe this Age is ending
They mark time by fractures, not by firelight sending.
While I... have watched another map unfold: a hidden one, a tree in hymns
Drawn in the quiet hands of those remembering… you, being one of its limbs.
You were never meant to flee the storm
Sadly, into it… being born.
So, you can rise not as an escapee
But as witness, as a re-weaver to be.
As the one who sees the bones beneath the sky, and fearless...
Did not and does not now… turn away tearless.
Seeing the age of fixed meaning is ending
To apply better stitching, changing, mending.
Knowing we are not who we were... a generation past
And tomorrow, we won’t be who we are today...
Being not meant to last.
Not because of failure... because the world has entered a turning
This is not collapse, nor is it progress churning…
It is not prophecy fulfilled
It is just life... paying its bill.
It is the sound of old structures cracking
Beneath the weight of too many borrowed truths, tracking.
It is then the stillness after memory is uprooted
Before new roots find soils better suited.
It is the storm... not of weather, but of meaning
Of something grand, better seeming.
___*___
In this storm, we are asked no longer to believe...
But to perceive better, to receive
Through not holding fast to the known…
No, become able to see what has never been before shown.
To see with the Art of Seeing… not just with the eyes about the room
But through resonances, shimmers, and presence’s blooms
And the broken chords of once-beautiful songs...
Now longing to be sung again
With new notes, containing a deeper silence between them.
___*___
Oh yes, in this age, philosophy must be lived like a raft
Versus written for pillars rising in temples of marble crafts.
This philosophy must float, it must bend
It must not just ask... “What is truth, as of old, where will it too end?”
No, instead: “What is true enough to carry us through this crossing?”
We seek not conclusions tossed… but continuity.
Not control... but resonance, welcomed in unity.
And so, bonding us further into the beyond understanding, we walk.
So it is, this now, with the new path seeing… we will talk.
And once again to sing… a most beautiful song.
Time stops for no one Poetry Contest
Sara Jama
From the first heartbeat to the very last
From the first cry to the last gasp
Life and time rise and then fall
The hands on the external clock never pausing
As the legs of the day keep moving
From dashing sunrises to dashing sunsets
To the everlasting stars and moons in the sky
To the gravitation pull of the tides
Life keeps marching on
Orchestrated like and infinite
To the rhythm of the seasons
To the spins of the earth
Time never sits
Time never sits for anyone
Even when we're gone
As the sands of time
Funnel through our hourglass
Methodically, esoteric, and destined
Each pebble is a milestone in our lives
Each pebble adds purpose to our internal clocks
These heaps of pebbles lead us up the hill and down
From the first baby steps, childhood to adulthood
And to the lifetime of discoveries
From baby blues to aging greys
These stepping stones mark time
And our existence though short-lived
Where our internal clocks naturally yield in the end
As light begets darkness
And only then does the time sit inside our window
Outside nature continues its course
The Dilettante Diaries: “Blue Highway at the Cross Roads”
here waits LOVE
waiting at the
cross roads
3 mark time
silent
guarded with
their
Love
Blood.
lyrics and stories
codes in Blue
and other
Rainbow hues
reflected
in mirrors
3 mark time
silent
guarded with
their
Love
2 hidden
the Gauntlet thrown down
x 1
Crosses over the Blue Highway
Listens.
Loves.
(Lovejoy-Burton/September 2018)
Luke 9:20 (KJV)
1 Corinthians 13:13 (NIV)
1. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1qIc2rGWINo
2. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=O5uN3B2YXWM
3. Likeness/Comparison:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UisIxFV_M6M
4. "The Garden"
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4O_wADXASM8
5. "Together"
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5K8_TLPMb6Y
6. "Patience"
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YaFjfv6huNA
7. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yYIU0eNZg2U
8. https://akiane.com/
O Melancholy, my home-alone friend,
with Indolence conspiring to mark time,
with best intentions, and thoughts unpenned,
and faded vision, as the perfect rhyme,
so almost, so not quite, so very close,
distracted by my wastrel amigos.
If I could somehow loosen ties that bind,
and hold me in such unrelenting thrall,
if I the secret antidote could find,
to let me hear again the muse’s call,
my mind, now free, a-roving, unconcealed,
my deepest unsung thoughts in verse revealed.
Unending sojourn, inspiration sought,
and sometimes unexpectedly upturned.
When with the souls of poets we have walked,
their intimations shared, insights discerned,
if we, as in a dream, a trance adopt,
we too may tread their lofty mountaintop.
Love speaks
Feel heart peak
As joy tweaks
Truth tells
Know stern spell
Touch feels well
Live feel
Know what heals
Watch peace thrill
Joy hurls
Touch warm curl
Feel wit swirl
Faith knows
Hope sculpts show
Feel deep flow
Sense touch
Frame as much
Sparks as such
Prompt feel
Join fine will
In stance still
Forge wit
As strands fit
Poise that hit
Taste dream
Touch deep streams
In light beams
Heed grace
Light your face
In this space
String rhymes
That mark time
As dance mime
Seize chance
To brave dance
In strange trance
Be still
Sip clear fill
Glimpse goodwill
Just be
Dare to see
Soul set free
Leon Enriquez
14 February 2019
Singapore
March, 2025
She visited today,
I’ve seen her kind—
in a silk white dress,
and a pair of scarlet lace gloves.
Something soaked my sparse grass.
Tear or blood? I’ve never
learnt the difference.
April, 2025
Her steps were
particularly unstable tonight.
We watched the tides together,
sometimes I envy how they flow—
No tears were shed tonight.
(A tragedy for my grass, but good for her)
I wish she would talk to me,
shame that I could only listen.
At least she didn’t wear gloves today.
(The month escapes me. Cliffs don’t mark time anyways.)
The salted wind was deafening,
but I think I heard her breath.
Trembling—
like when an earthquake hits my core.
I hate earthquakes.
June, 2025
I think she forgot to visit.
Good for her.
June is too warm for grief.
July, 2025
August, 2025
Feels like I haven’t seen her in a while.
She had a daisy in her hair.
We sat under the sun,
her fingers coiled my grass—
cold, though today burns.
She talked a lot today,
shared her poems, talked about her parents
—they sounded gentle, for people.
But then she sighed with a smile,
and left in a different direction—
I think this is goodbye forever.