Long Maturing Poems
Long Maturing Poems. Below are the most popular long Maturing by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Maturing poems by poem length and keyword.
This Citizen Banker
safely in his compound doth attest,
sans donning his typical
gabbling and trumpeting ways,
while legally tendered,
currently being cents
less lee swept away
soul fully - bellow
wing from my chest
(with fortissimo, the
whirling wide webbed
watery tidal swells
rivaling the peak
of Mount Everest)
reef furring to being
nearly reduced to poverty
hence, essentially buck
king the tide while washed out -
since day short and dollar late
circumstances force me
to cash worthless buffalo chips
astutely as you correctly guessed
from deep pull horrible
United States economic situation,
where option non
existent against invest
ting, nesting, and squirreling
financial resources jest
accessible for wealthy people
to sync investment portfolios
region of popular tax haven,
viz Cayman Islands lest
hefty costs accrue
keeping scrupulously stashed re:
sources untouchable,
where Uncle Sam canst
access ex cell lent
healthy maturing outlook
king monies, and understandable
at rage against the machine
if rainy day funds messed
up, but solvent versus
debts drowning oneself
unable to stay afloat,
where declaring Chapter 7 bankruptcy
doomed to bobbing
within a sinking boat,
and where pointless
to pull out all the whistle stops
including abandoning resorting
to heroic measures
while additionally futile
to shed tears and emote
only kidding self to seek out goat
tam ma Buddha, nor will
I resort to gofundme
(cuz ma last name NOT Kardashian),
but matter of fact lee
roll with the figurative punches
feigning tubby Jew Dee
or an incarnation
of Muhammad Ali
during his ready for prime time Box
sing rebellious jabbering
left fist out fox
sing prize fighter un
defeated champ with mox
see, his champion modesty
oozed muscles like rocks,
a bankable one man
Gibraltar with precious
mettle to the core,
not wanting with his pugilistic,
yet homegrown genteel
ringing true mark
solid core state athletically valued
bankable bonded stocks.
Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,
Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;
Conspiring with him how to load and bless
With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run;
To bend with apples the moss'd cottage-trees,
And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;
To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells
With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,
And still more, later flowers for the bees,
Until they think warm days will never cease,
For summer has o'er-brimm'd their clammy cells.
Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?
Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find
Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,
Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind;
Or on a half-reap'd furrow sound asleep,
Drows'd with the fume of poppies, while thy hook
Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers:
And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep
Steady thy laden head across a brook;
Or by a cyder-press, with patient look,
Thou watchest the last oozings hours by hours.
Where are the songs of spring? Ay, where are they?
Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,—
While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day,
And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue;
Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn
Among the river sallows, borne aloft
Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies;
Early one Spring morning, I joyfully walked the verdant hills,
among lemon tinted blooms of coltsfoot, swaying in spills.
Their beauty seemed to drift in a gloriously scented display,
so enticing that honeybees and butterflies visited that day.
Dawn whispered with fruited breath to bid the sun, "Arise,"
and hues of watermelon rind and peach flesh filled the skies.
I gladly welcomed the gentle warmth on my upturned face,
savoring this tranquil scene; a moment I would long embrace.
Tangerine and lavender coral bells had grown quite profuse.
There was one the shade of lime, like the liqueur, chartreuse.
Blanket flowers of crimson were fringed in saffron yellow.
Dragonflies flitted among the buds; a pastoral scene so mellow.
Wild lilac bushes were maturing into a beautiful hedgerow,
then I caught I glimpse of aquamarine water on the lake below.
It was such a serene setting that I lingered for some time
thinking about the pastoral scene I would write about in rhyme.
April 13, 2021
Changing Colors Contest
Sponsored by Emile Pinet
Happy 57th birthday Mama
As a little girl
I used to be jealous of all the kids you adored and loved
Why?
Because I just wanted you to be mine alone
Of course I knew you loved me more
But I just wanted to be the only girl in your heart
I was a selfish hungry little girl...
A grown woman I am now
Totally maturing and understanding your lifestyle
And ever you the same
Never turned a child away from your home or anyone else
You are what a mother should be with a kind loving heart
Your sweet smile alone is my joy
I know some people took advantage of your kindness
But you hardly noticed nor cared
You just keep on giving and sharing your love
Mama, thank you for inspiring me
And setting an example of how to be a caring woman
Today you turn 57 and your family is celebrating you happily
Appreciating and sharing the gift of your life
You are our home
Our everything
And my one true best friend in the World
May the good Lord continue to bless you with many more happy and healthy birthdays to come
I love you with every beat of my heart Mama
Happy 57th birthday Mama!
Smile
Akkina R Downing
11-15-17
Abundances is not a promise to everyone,
Live with joy today and love someone.
Do you know the places we shall go?
When we are not sure what form to follow.
Natural incline is filled with swift transition,
Many personalities now demand action.
Beyond the beautiful banks lies the orphan.
A Psyche in waiting on the abating strand.
To banish childish acts and nurse the old,
Maturing years that makes our wings fold.
While we had moments of light humour,
We sing and dance in spritely demeanour.
Watch pretty blossoms flourish in the garden
Grow with crowds until the edge is broken.
Then looking around for all the branches,
Only an Orphan is left to take the chances.
With softer shoes walked into status decline,
The symptoms of life are so hard to define.
Evening silhouette faded into dreary clouds
Since only joy and triumph memory holds,
Another nightingale dream begins to dawn,
Leave empty showers after rainbow withdrawn.
Welcome the Orphan into a foreign home,
Drove back the fears and tears still to come.
Longing for someone to receive as a friend
And start the journey again to make amend.
But when opportunity comes upon tired brow
The illustrious crown becomes too heavy now.
In the winter of my years, stands my barren tree
Its leaves stripped by autumnal winds
Against hope, it had one life left to give
I blew a warm breath into a lone branch
Hoping against hope, I stood transfixed
As spring approached, I beheld a bud
I cupped it in my hands frozen in wonder
I watched its growth in amazement
The spring sun came, and I saw it change
I began to miss the bud growing to a calyx
It’s pinkness unfurled with relentlessness
Observe, readers, a dress wrapped inside a bud
I coveted this awakened bud blossoming
I shielded it against summer's onslaught
But, toiling bees siphoned its very nectar
Its chiffon gown blown off by the solstice
I held on to my once bud defrocked
Miracles abound in nature if you have time
Even now, I hold on to that childlike bud
Knowing it will grow past adolescence
Still holding tight, I saw its fruit maturing
Week by week it no longer needs my hands
A fruit was being born minute by seconds
It ripened on the fragile twig despite hands
I remembered when it was a babe in my palms
Now, it grows fat and juicy tempting to fall
I learned to let go giving to gravity
It was never mine and never still
It grows larger than my hand will hold
That peach is growing hairs without restraint
Its stem strains against that barren tree
It will fall off the tree and grow legs
It will run off to college leaving me in debt
It will find a girlfriend and make seedlings
My little seed must tell hands to let go
My barrenness will then be my reward
The tree and I will be left alone
At times the peach will text or call
I will wonder if that fruit is all right
I hope the endeared pit will find fertile soil
I hope my Persian plum will come and visit
Me and my barren tree are exhausted
My winter has no more spring left in me
Knowing a peach was born is enough
Hope will sprout far from this barren tree
With blossoms bursting like candy stars
GodTalk,
like ManListen,
unfolds on a monotheistic
anthropocentric
prefrontal cortex map
Where cosmological belief systems
are either True
or bipolar oppositionally False
Either God is
or is not
recreated in Human sapient images
Intelligibly cognizing
an underlying
deeply sacred Gaia Hypothesis
neurosystemic
polyculturally connected
polyvagal sexsensory territory
Peak panentheistic sacred-felt
root to crown
body to mind communing experiences
emerging
maturing from organically inclusive relationships
Multigenerationally redundant
multiculturally reiterative
trustworthy
safe
healthy
peaceful
co-empathic pronoia belonging.
Normally trusted intrinsic values
and not always mistrusted extrinsic disvalues
FatherSun sacred enlightenment maps
polyvagally crown-rooted
in EarthMother trust and distrust
empowering democratic intention
and disempowering autocratic over-extension
Organically felt healthy values
deeply etched
in elder RightBrain stem
embodied pleasure/displeasure
sacred sexsensory nerve communication systems
Of nonverbal and preverbal
paranoia anxious
and pronoia anticipating
dissonance questioning
and resonance questing
complex neurosystemic
dipolar co-arising
both/and felt paradoxical appositions
Dissociative body conservation
and/or
associative mind liberation
Dispassionate root
mind and body
map and territory organic systems
surviving
and/or
thriving
compassionate crowning flower
of co-passionately rooted
anthropocentric co-intelligence.
Nonverbally felt intuitions
upflowing toward verbally thought cognitions
informing win/win bilaterally communing
thriving/threatening polyvagal communication
Inspiring
irreligious dissociative retribution
and/or
re-ligious associative restoration
crown/root sacred transformation
Discontented uneasy organs
and/or
peace-contented healthy brains
Cognitively longing minds
to autocratically survive
and/or
intuitively belonging bodies
to democratically thrive.
MATURING
Yesterday, I plunged into a whisper.
The fiery red marquee that blasted my existence disappeared,
Like a B-film star at the Oscars,
And only a faint shadow obscuring its source remained.
Today, I began to climb a mud puddle,
Sweating brown slime and panting organic putridness
Like a Ferrari submerged in flood waters
Needing to be recognized as a treasure hidden by an unnatural disaster.
Tomorrow, I will rest on a bucking bronco,
Riding the turbulence with ease and poise
Like a skater glides across smooth, glassy ice
Experienced and unfazed by the bumps that once threatened to unseat me.
April 26,2016
Entered in free verse, judged 5/2
THE VOICE
What has been silence is now a soft sigh
Although not yet words, it’s still a voice
It will soon be maturing and have its say
And a message shared, come what may
Leaving none in doubt, with no choice
All to be somehow affected, by and by
Ever more deeply, it penetrates the soul
A resonance and rhythm, not just sound
A certain resolute tone may be detected
And yet nothing less was ever expected
With vibration in the air and the ground
As comprehension is always a final goal
Words are just like bullets in the magazine
Some fired wildly, others carefully aimed
Those who are targeted can gasp and fall
Yet some can never even take a hit at all
One can be inspired, but others shamed
A few may have turned to flee the scene
But finally, all the sighs do become quiet
All words spoken have played their hand
Some voices were softer, but others loud
Others to have just got lost in the crowd
But a critical few must try to understand
With such impact that none can deny it
In the independent life,
I do believe we grow tired of self-love
We encapsulate ourselves in our own hearts
Tirelessly, we are self-devoted
To the richness of love we can offer ourselves
A richness that the dependent life cannot learn to simulate
Their desire to find self-love, in another, elsewhere, to truly understand self-love
I find confusing
In the independent life, there is no loneliness
But I do believe we grow tired of self-love
A maturing of an aged old self-love into a self-less love
A cynical need to prove our ability to be fond of someone, whole heartedly
A sudden yet long awaited aching heart to love someone else more than we have ever loved ourselves
In the dependent life, self-less love comes innately
In the independent life, self-less love is a course, a teaching, a feeling approached with a scholarly mind, out of place and often misunderstood
Or rather, unconquered