Long Maya Poems
Long Maya Poems. Below are the most popular long Maya by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Maya poems by poem length and keyword.
I’m not sure what’s happening in this country…sometimes I think it’s being overrun by fools…in some states they’re banning books…in my state, Florida, they’re banning talking about gender and sexuality in schools.
While closing up the bookstore the other night I was thinking how crazy can this be…
as I was re-shelving one of the books they’ve banned in Tennessee.
Topics not allowed to be discussed…books not allowed to be read…I don’t have the words to express my sadness and dismay…so I walked around our bookstore and listened to what the voices around me had to say.
Kurt Vonnegut was first to speak…at how banning book displeases:
“I hate”, he said, “that Americans are taught to fear some books and some ideas, as though they were diseases”.
Mart Twain was next on banning speech and books…he doesn’t want to see us do it:
“Censorship”, he said, “is telling a man he can’t have a steak just because a baby cannot chew it”.
Next stood Benjamin Franklin…with his willingness to teach
“Whoever wold overthrow the liberty of a nation,” he said, “must begin by subduing the freeness of its speech”.
Stephen Chbosky waited his turn in the bookstore to be heard that night:
He said, “banning books gives us silence when we need speech…
it closes our ears when we need to listen
and it makes us blind when we need sight”.
Isaac Asimov weighted in next…he was succinct in what he was conceding:
“Any book worth banning," he’s said, “is a book that is worth reading.”
Up and down the bookstore I walked listening to a multitude of authors from the present and past…and fortunately for me…I saved the best for last..
It was Maya Angelou whose words are always inspiring, thought provoking and wise…She said, “You may kill me with your hatefulness but still, like air…I rise”.
I thanked Maya and all the other authors for their insights as I turned off all the lights
Then wished them a calm and peaceful sleep as I locked up for the night
Filled with hope that for those who want to ban books and speech…there will come a day when they will take a walk through a bookstore or a library and listen to what the voices have to say,
Silver and gold are the deceiver.
The Material World is maya, is illusion.
(Succor and destruction, the glittering
night turns outside the poor, beleaguered poet's basement window.)
He carefully sets his life's work --- a steamer trunk
filled with his own original poetry --- in a cubby hole under his staircase in the
basement, for safe-keeping for the time being, for both his own sake and for
posterity's sake. He gives the trunk a last, loving pat.
And should the worst come to the worst, should his poetry be destined for
utter obscurity, should he only fail, he knows that, as surely regrettable as
that must be, it's only failure, nothing more.
******************
"Art is the proper task of life." ;
"The great end of life is to strike the imagination with the power of a soul that
refuses to admit defeat even in the midst of a collapsing world.";
"Creation --- that is the great salvation from suffering, and life's alleviation.
But for the creator to appear, suffering itself is needed, and much
transformation.";
"To forget one's purpose is the commonest form of stupidity.";
"No artist can tolerate reality.";
"We have art in order not to die of the truth.";
"What destroys a man more quickly than to work, think, and feel without
inner necessity, without deep personal desire, without pleasure --- as a mere
automaton of duty?";
"Few are made for independence, it is the privilege of the strong.";
"The bad gains respect through imitation, the good loses it especially in art.";
"The man who does not wish to be one of the mass only needs to cease to be
easy on himself.";
"To live is to suffer, to survive is to find some meaning in the suffering.";
"One who has found a why can surely find a how.";
"Error has made man so deep, sensitive, and inventive that he puts forth such
blossoms as religion and arts. Pure knowledge could not have been capable
of it.";
"The essence of all beautiful art, all great art, is gratitude.";
"That which does not kill us makes us stronger."
--- Friedrich Nietzsche
"There's no money in poetry, but there's no poetry in money, either."
--- Robert Graves
Words are like a work of art
The visions they create
They can show us beauty
Or show us how to hate
Words can tell a story
Of romance and of love
Or nursery rhymes for children
Or tell of God above
Words can be persuasive
And create a law
Words can tell the news and weather
And tell what people saw
Words have even caused great Wars
Where many men have died
Sending home what's left of
The ones who did survive
Shakespeare used them beautifully
As did Frost and Poe and Keats
Langston Hughs, Maya Angelou
Emily Dickenson and Yeats
So choose words very carefully
Be aware of what you say
Cause words can really hurt someone
And they can't be cast away.
Number is funny, like I've mentioned before.
It appears one way, but shows us more.
To see it all, you have to look with a dare...
I'll make an example, of MC Square
Ol Albert was keen, a thinking machine...
he left us a rhyme for a future time!
His formula is one to behold...
It points the way to the sound of gold.
========================================
E=MC2(squared).......
E.M.C
5.13.3
Digit Sum...
(5+1+3+3) = 12 squared = 144
(5 + 13 + 3) = 21 squared = 441
441 + 144 = 585 = "sum of some of the 13s" and Venus
============================================
And Fibonacci knew the way,
He showed the Maya how to play.
He said... "This way..."
Four and Four are forty four,
Count the One and swing the O,
"There come a day..." he said,
We'll know....
0 1 1 2 3 5 8 13 21 34 55 89 144 (as hours 144 = 6 days)
...1 1 2 3 5 8 13 21 34 55 89 1440 (and Sunday)
Form:
“The body is strained by practices
The tongue tires of scripture
The mind numbs with meditation
Detached from all this,
I live as I am”
The matrix of in-form body consciousness
Employs limited bandwidths of vibration
Perceiving with defective awareness
Interpreting in patterned grooves of stagnation
Yoga, meditation, service or devotion
The rituals and forms but offer hypnotic solace
They offer temporary peace by reinforcing ego delusion
Falling way too short of connecting with Divine grace
The root of all limitation
Lies in association with the mind body combine
If we be as we are in childlike elation
With the pulsations of the Divine we automatically align
The flow thus being in the present moment continuum
Wherein we are as we are complete
In stillness observing movement of the maya pendulum
Always with the Divine nectar replete
12-December-2020
She writes like Maya
She sings like Aretha
She dreams like Coretta
She reads like Oprah
She speaks like Barbara
She plays like Serena
She rocks like Tina
She rolls like Donna
She entertains like Diana
She cures like Maria
She paints like Edmonia
She kicks like Mia
She runs like Wilma
She throws like Lisa
She boxes like Laila
She dances like Anna
She skates like Surya
She invents like Patricia
She revolts like Angela
She influences like Condoleezza
She paints like Edmonia
She smiles like Mona Lisa
She loves like a mother
She protects like a tiger
She prays like Mother Theresa
And she cooks like momma.
Dear readers, you can add more
A natural woman is never poor
Please, beloved friends, be kind
To come up with more in your mind
She tumbles like Simone
She philosophizes like Simone
She quilts like Betsy
She laughs like Whoopi
She jokes like Leslie
She sings like Marie
She speed skates like Maame
She flies like Mae
She exercises like Gabby
She educates like Mary
She fights like Dorothy
She explores like Stephanie
She sounds like Winnie
She creates like Margaret
She dares like Harriet
She runs like Marion
She entertains like Josephine
She legislates like Maxine
She sows like Catherine
She teaches like Gwendolyn
She lifts like Ernestine
She acts like Diahann
She reports like Diane
She speaks like Michelle
She is serious like Michelle
She is strong like Althea
She is talented like Augusta
She is defiant like Cicely
She is brave like Shirley
She is normal like Marilyn
She is fearless like Maxine
She is relaxed like Rosa
She is inquisitive like Barbara
She challenges like Phyllis
She swings like Chris
She plays like Alice
She is talented like Venus
She is pretty like a flower
And she is like our mother.
A natural woman is not perfect
She deserves honor and respect
She needs love everyday
From trouble, she never runs away
Please add more to this poem
And do not curse or blaspheme
She writes like Maya
She sings like Aretha
She dreams like Coretta
She reads like Oprah
She speaks like Barbara
She plays like Serena
She prays like Mother Theresa
And she cooks like our mama.
Copyright © August 2018, Hébert Logerie, All rights reserved
Hébert Logerie is the author of several books of poetry.
It's a Langston Hughes kind of day
filled with dutiful hints of Robert frost
within the sudden humor and vague
eccentricity of Ernest hemmingway
the quiet freedom of Nikki Giovanni
with a cunning soul shaking enlightment
of Maya Angelo tinged with the noble
excitement of John keats as the clouds
move into this rapture an intriguing sheer
fondness of William butler Yeats while
the soft dem lights over the lake hits
my minds eye just so as I'm quite
taken by the sinking thoughts of
Virginia woolf beckoning my innermost
calm peeking through wooden slats
exposing the granduer of Gwendolyn Brooks
smile mastering greatness beneath broken
planks on the sunscreen porches even so
i dare change a thing about this glorious
day this Langston Hughes kind of day
My assignment drill, exercise, practice…
I live-Is to live this life, life that I live;
I die-To be a sinner first straight out of the womb;
I live-To repent one day before my doom;
I die-My skin shall dry out, my blood will stop its flow;
I live-My teeth will yellow, my legs will bow;
I die-Memories will I forget, I live yet so I die;
I live-My eyes rings under them, hair receding;
I die-This life’s part dreaming, Salvation entreating;
My assignment-As my flesh digress, I live yet die first…
I die-Help! Me Oh! Lord my God I rebuke this curse
I live-Death has no hold of me, you see spiritually heaven home I be
This the beginning and completion of my Assignment
11/23/19
Written by James Edward Lee Sr. 2019©
Based on The Lesson by Maya Angelou
Written for class November 19, 2019 assignment (WIPS)
North Omaha Writers Group (NOW)
I see Maya as a video game
If its software gets decoded,
No more a tiger, life looks cat-like tame
If source code’s breached, its secret spread.
By mere digits, by dots and dashes made,
Innocence still’s no bliss, but shame,
Where so knowledge burns bright if ignited,
Fun fizzles out and life walks lame.
If players we are in a pre-planned game,
Let Maya a magic toy be.
Peas prosper well in a pod’s confined frame,
A man purblind looks, scarce can see.
If ignorance is child-like innocence,
To bask in bliss, I feel, makes immense sense.
___________________ ___
Sonnet (Tongue-in-cheek) | 04.11.2016 |ignorance, bliss, joy, world
It’s that time again,
that airy hallmark intro, the vibrant soul ensemble.
Signpost to an hour long journey where passage, paean and piece come out to play.
Odyssey for fantasist and literary scion.
Earnest open invite to the madcap mind,
mine and those of others.
Each and every Sunday I’m religiously transported to exotic beaches known to veteran nomads.
Boundlessly I leap across the airwaves only to be stranded in some Middle Eastern plot,
the likes of which would put twin peaks to shame.
Without a fear I flit medieval back streets like
this ghost from other worlds,
cobblestone character
on wings,
melting pots beyond our daily grind,
landmarks that I’ve never seen before.
Out of body drama for us
fervent wishful thinkers.
Roles from ancient history now assumed but for an inkling, the icons I become, those rapid twists and turns of me the centre piece.
Maybe I’m that innocent abroad, clueless hiker, stony broke,
wandering a land whose complex tongue I’ve yet to master
or that moth-infested secret of the thirty year rule.
With a little latitude I’d silhouette my reverie landing on some poet’s scented flower or just as likely eavesdrop on the mocha sipping Monet, coffee cup aloft,
cast among the butterflies,
harvesting my thoughts on barren canvass.
Going back in time to famous childhoods
I’m some regal mother’s one and only joy,
a fragile baby cradled by maternal soothing sounds.
Imagine for a moment me the swimmer,
wallower in oceans Maya blue,
driven by the prospect
of Olympic medal glory,
fuelled by live wire rushes,
or the influential orchestrator sculpting drafts so lyrical they lift the Sony user into orbit.
But alas this wondrous flight ends far too soon, as that sonic rich arrangement slowly morphs into the haze.
Perhaps one day I’ll be the voice that hypnotises souls,
filler of a void with vivid wordscapes,
teleporting lives to fourth dimensions.
There’s always hope