Long Meaning Poems
Long Meaning Poems. Below are the most popular long Meaning by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Meaning poems by poem length and keyword.
Today I went out into the city with my soul turned inside out, like an old coat reversed,
And on streets filled with shadows and lights, people looked at me with curious eyes,
As if they had glimpsed a stranger in their own story, a character without purpose,
And friends called me, their voices like echoes from a distant past,
Telling me they didn’t know I was a poet, as if my words were hidden,
And I replied with a lost smile, that I didn’t know either, that maybe never.
I felt like a wanderer on boulevards of thoughts, under that gray sky,
Where each step was a note in a melody played softly in the soul,
As the world unfolded like an old scroll, revealing unexpected secrets,
And in every gaze I met, I searched for meaning, a connection, a moment of truth,
As if I were diving into an ocean of silences and whispers, without a compass, without time,
Wondering if poetry is nothing but a reversed coat, worn inside out.
Thus, my steps trod on the cold asphalt of the city, becoming a dance of shadows,
And in every shop window, my face changed its contour, becoming a mask of desires,
While words mingled with the wind, carrying my thoughts to infinity,
And the soul turned inside out revealed itself fragile, like a spider's web under the moon,
Waiting to be discovered, to be understood, to be read like an unwritten poem,
For perhaps, on this day, I discovered that poetry is life itself, worn inside out.
Deep within me, I feel inertia as a slow dance of stars trapped in their own light,
A Higgs field enveloping my soul like a heavy cloak of particles and burdened dreams,
This terrain of life keeps me from falling into the core of uncertainty,
Preserving me from becoming ash, an echo of an existence passed through the fire of change.
I do not seek wormholes to escape into the unknown of other dimensions,
Nor do I wish to meet my entangled double, the mirror of an intertwined reality,
I want to be here, anchored in the presence of the moment, suspended between infinite possibilities,
In a quantum superposition, where every moment is a universe of unspoken choices.
I embrace "zero divergence," to be caught in endless loops of thoughts and emotions,
To laugh like Sisyphus, with an unwanted joy, while rolling the heavy stones of time,
A paradoxical happiness, where absurdity becomes a poetry of a life lived in circles,
And in these endless spirals, I find meaning, a perpetual dance between chaos and calm.
My being becomes a field of silent energy, resonating with the heartbeat of the universe,
And in every moment of stillness, I find hidden beauty, an acceptance of the eternal present,
For in the apparent immobility, there is a continuous flow of creation and dissolution,
And in the center of this silence, I discover myself, a point of light in the darkness.
Love,
I won't be able to serenade you
I won't even be able to write a song for you
I can't even draw, or paint,
So, I won't be able to work out a canvas for you
I won't be able to do magic tricks for you
I won't be able to do much, Love
Except to look into your eyes
And to tell you of that which is in my heart;
That eternal love story which we have been enacting
Ever since Earth and its many creatures have dawned!
Pray, the secrets of this lie in my heart,
As ripe fruits are on their trees,
Waiting to be plucked,
Waiting with a passion which remains submissive,
Even more than that felt by women in love,
When ready they are to chip off their wings,
Merely to allow their husbands to hold their hands and
To take them gliding on their own parasails!
Yet, those ripe fruits, if not plucked,
Fall to their death and are never evoked again
Never ever by anyone brave enough as to dare attempt a walk
On the flowery paths of this world!
Love, my secrets are ripe,
They desire to be chanelled to the openings of your heart,
They shall find there, by themselves,
The hidden pathways leading to your soul!
Once there, they shall feel safe, secured and comforted
Only if you shall love them,
Cherish them and treasure them
As a poet would do with the beats of the meter!
Love, glance at my heart, you shall see in there
The meaning you have been searching for all this time!
Hold my feminine tantrums,
You shall feel in them, the comfort you have been seeking!
Listen to my secrets,
You shall come to know that you are a God, not only mine own,
But that of the whole cosmos,
And I, remain, as I have always been,
That drive which you need to complete you!
For Contest Midnight Valentine
Written on 28th January 2019
Sponsored by: Chantelle Anne Cooke
F O R E S T
F U N G A L
F O R A Y S
L I T T E R
A U T U M N
A R C T I C
F R E E Z E
W A R M E R
B R E E Z E
W I N T E R
F L O O D S
G O L D E N
Y E L L O W
C A T K I N
W I L L O W
G R E E T S
S P R I N G
B O N F I R E
B U R N I N G
C O M P O S T
T U R N I N G
S I G N A L S
S U M M E R S
P A S S I N G
Quaternion is a poetry style where the theme is divided into four,the word being derived from
the Latin word quaterni,meaning four by four.The poem maybe in any poetic form
she walked through the fair, a snow cone in hand,
the Ferris wheel turns, I play in the band,
is she alone, or meeting some lover?,
I stood by and watched, with hope to discover,
quickly she turned, as someone was calling,
and as he approached, he looked so appalling,
must be her brother, my fingers were crossed,
before lips were met, her snow cone was tossed,
with my mouth wide open, in pure disbelief,
he wore a black hat, he looked like a thief,
so I looked much closer, and just as I thought,
out comes the money, this woman’s been bought,
so I left discouraged, confused and alone,
my only prize, my new saxophone,
days have gone by, I see her once more,
flaunting her body, looking to score,
nothing to lose, I wait for my break,
and as we both met, I felt like a flake,
my words had no meaning, my mouth had gone dry,
but still she came closer, and gave me the eye,
this game has been played, for centuries it seems,
a beauty for sale, to fill a man’s dreams,
I looked all around, for a teller machine,
none to be found, not one to be seen
tapping her foot, impatient and tired,
clearly I saw, my plan had been mired,
back on the stage, playing music so corny,
this night has left me, frustrated and horny.
Where does a word originate? Latin or Greek?
What kind of meaning doth the new word seek?
Who decided it would be wise to have too, two, and to?
Or was this confusion in the language of the once learned few?
Did they realize the words they created would be twisted up?
Did they realize we would have rhymes like cup, sup, and pup?
Did Homer teach his students geometry, astronomy and biology?
Did he make up the words for astrology and microbiology?
Are the words we have now even the exact words they had then?
When they were translated, could there have been slips of the pen?
I wonder about the etymology of the words that we use.
Are they all truly words or just a whimsical fabrication of my fuse?
The dictionary is full of words that rhyme – gem, hem, stem.
Most of them say originated in Latin or Greek, almost all of them.
I have to ask you do you care if they are Latin or Greek?
Do you even notice this when words you do seek?
now to try to re-formulate; that...
previous hour and a half; which...
ended with a power-off; that...
erased a brew of words; which...
mirrored both context and content; that...
was poetic meaning of a moment; which...
echoed perceived and perceiver as time; that...
had been slowed to an image of symbols; which...
illustrated an embedment of space and time; that...
reflected as a background; which...
cast spells of words from a point; that...
defined a perspective on time as the container; which...
served recipes for any matter; that...
was some form from a concept mechanics; witch...
who worried the power might shut off again; that...
once more all will be lost but the perceiver; witch...
left with nothing but ideas; that...
were a recipe for a context-content objective; witch...
stan sand
Ralph Waldo Emerson: “A woodland walk, a quest for river-grapes, a mocking thrush, a wild rose or rock-living columbine, salve my worst wounds.”
SUFFERING SEASON
broken…
the sediment — a deposition seed,
of what meaning, this scrawl?
splinters splayed, suffering season
comforted by a columbine.
pressed into the carnivorous cranny
of melancholic chords, phantom phenom
appears from sunless shadows,
felicitous with numb heartstrings.
pretense of petals pierced,
potent poison’d creative mind.
woman in white, welded to hatchery,
sings wisdom and solitude —
shy flower cranes its head to listen.
rebirth croons in crannied space,
cramps of convalescence released.
a lonely boy. . . the florid dove lands
on two fingers, he’s mesmerized —
the apparition strokes his hair.
2/21/2020
Flower in the Crannied Wall Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Craig Cornish
I read the same poem for several days
I kept seeing it in different ways
Even though the words they never changed
Somehow my thoughts became rearranged
The first time reading, it made me smile
My thoughts were confused after a while
Second time I searched for new meaning
Like a farmer in a field gleaning
I was confused, by her metaphor
She used a gate instead of a door
The third day I thought I'd try again
Her words, were saturated in pain
On the fourth day things became intense
Why did it take, so long to make sense?
Words may seem simple at a first glance
With re-reading they can start to dance
Each mood I have, helps me to see more
Subtle differences in metaphor
From cooing babe to the seasoned tongue,
I've tasted life, a vibrant song.
Sweetness on fire, bitter sting,
Each flavour etched, a fleeting spring.
A dancer dark, a muscle's art,
I weave a map within the heart.
Spicy heat and creamy bliss,
On this canvas, senses kiss.
But taste alone cannot convey,
The depths of meaning, day by day.
Words take flight, on feathered wings,
From poets' verse to everyday things.
A bridge of language, cultures meet,
In whispered secrets, voices sweet.
Misunderstood, I twist and turn,
A double-edged sword, lessons learned.
A silent plea, a lover's touch,
A playful tease, a mother's clutch.
Emotions bold, in stories, told,
I speak the heart, both young and old.
A fiery cry, a whisper-soft,
The tongue's true power rises aloft.
In silence, too, I find my space,
Where thoughts and feelings interlace.
So let me dance, this tireless tongue,
In the symphony of meaning, ever sung.
A taste, a touch, a word, a song,
The tongue's true power is forever strong.