Long Measuring stick Poems
Long Measuring stick Poems. Below are the most popular long Measuring stick by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Measuring stick poems by poem length and keyword.
A mind not filled up is just empty space
I'll decorate mine to stay in life's race
With silly string so I'm not too stoic
And badge of courage to help be heroic
A rainbow of colors when I'm feeling just blue
For my wife, some thick paste to stay stuck on you
A bright red heart to remember to love
Wrapped up in mercy that fits like a glove
A Labrador puppy will teach me affection
A compass implanted to show me direction
Scents that are common so I don't be a fool
And measuring stick to follow the rules
Some mathematical facts to say what is true
A river of patience when I don't have a clue
A funny face clown for acting a ham
And people who love me just as I am
So fill up your mind with whatever your taste
A brain not decorated is such a big waste
He's been a ruler you
can't see
like a measuring stick
in hiding
He's been hiding the fact
he can see
but would you believe
his findings?
They've been watching
his back intensely
while he fills their heads
succinctly
Being light years ahead
is empty
guess that's why
they assumed he's ditzy
Couldn't be further from facts
he's shifty
while he raises the bar
he's shifting
On a whole other plane
he's flying
into spaces that match
his timing
Snuffing the wick of a witch
that's scrying
trying to see where his light
is hiding
In the dark many eyes
are crying
in disbelief of results
from spying
He just gives of himself
as tithing
is as natural to him
as rhyming
As for all of the ties
& bindings
it actually helped to
release the shining
Look to see what the All
is designing
it's unique dare I say
inspiring
They say the temp of
the earth is rising
so why isn't he
like the rest perspiring?
Beyond my consciousness,
in stark relief
A place beyond reason,
all spirits unleash
Beyond my awareness,
I inherit the wind
Each breath I blow inward,
new endings begin
Religion, a concept,
that God can’t abide
Dogma a pretense,
where idolaters hide
In my dreams there’s a voice,
that comes unannounced
Its structure on fire,
new words unpronounced
Time but a weapon,
to use on the weak
Its measuring stick,
to never complete
One question—one answer,
for all that transpires
In primacy wrapped,
no logic hard wired
The years I’d spent looking,
those moments I’d waste
When deep from inside,
with subliminal grace
The great Crazy Horse calls,
chanting words once unknown
“Your vision has freed you,
—its voice now your own”
(Villanova Pennsylvania: June, 2017)
. With the dreams of yesterday's journey vibrating through our path let us not forget that our party have taken us on roads of sadness and joy it's the measuring stick that defines our end. The memories of our ancestors is but a tool for choices today. Be the change maker and let it echoe into the hearts of the ones that dreams of better tomorrow. To be alive itself is a journey of discovery and our paths are filled with many obstacles. Let it not be a stumbling block for you to Excel. Grow,advance choss to be the one that not look back but build your destiny will pride so as to achieve your full potential that is waiting for you.. remember you decide your end result and you are the master of your destiny. Looking back should be the key to your decisions so don't fall into the trap of slavery to others dreams.
Reflections
Reflecting upon – it is a dangerous game for one to play
for it leads to flawed judgements – unreasonable expectations
for expectations are seldom realizes or met by others.
Expectations are difficult to live up to, by others or by ones self.
Images projected, those reflections are often built upon fantasies,
illusions, delusions that distort or blind the perceiver to a reality.
Personal history is just that – personal – and not a measuring stick
by which to quantify, see, judge, to comprehend what is here and now
nor is it the mirror by which to bring forward – into the future.
Judge not but by that which is in the moment – the here and now.
Yesterday is history, it’s past, not the story upon which to create – today.
Today is all we have !, yesterday is gone !, - tomorrow is promised to no one !
B. J. “A” 2
January 12th 2007
Hello, and thanks for coming
Please come in and take a seat
It’s nice to get familiar
With each of you I’m supposed to meet
I know I was just born yesterday
But that doesn’t mean I am naive
And I welcome the chance to adjust some of you
Before the maternity ward I leave
I know most of you are generated
By my parental units, of course
And some of you through society
And cultural norms will be enforced
But please respect me as an individual
With unique talents and some faults
Don’t paint me into corners
Don’t make my freedom pay the costs
Expectations can be a burden
As well as a measuring stick
My journey will be challenging enough
Without too many of you interfering with it
Reflections
Reflecting upon – is a dangerous game to play.
For it leads to flawed judgments – unreasonable expectations.
Expectations are seldom realized or met by others,
difficult to live up to by others, or by one’s self.
These images, projected, especially if those reflections
are built upon fantasies – illusions, delusions -
delusions that distort or blind the perceiver to ,
true reality before one who thinks she sees .
Personal history is just that - personal – and no measuring stick,
by which to see all, judge all, comprehend all and make it the
total essence of the here and now, nor is it the mirror
into which you project and say “ it reflects ”
bringing it, forward into the future.
Judge not, but by that which is in the moment – the here and now.
Yesterday is history, passed, not a story upon which to create today.
Today is all we have, yesterday is gone – tomorrow is promised to no one
B. J. “A” 2
The letter to Monica, 1 pages
January 14th 2007
My Dear Monica :
AS I reflect upon the many diatribes you have pierced my ears, my soul , my heart, my spirit with during these passed seven months – July 13th 2006 – that we have shared time and became intimates ( stories of intimate, personal knowledge ), I have to wonder ?, just what do I really mean to you .
Love
Bill .
Gentle power rises from the west mad prairie like settlement
Driven as a demon from above the mountain grays discontent
City dwellers know this as cumulonimbus low altitude weather
Traveling their way at 10 feet per second by the satellite projection
Commencing surface to 6,500 feet up or better or so they say or let on
Variables here suggest wind speeds come on quickly
Heavy precipitation drinks up the sun in low lands down
The better to get wet with high level winds if sanity prevails
Influenced by no one in particular on the solar ecliptic measuring stick
One drip at at a time or drop if you prefer or please
Out comes the sun
It knows what to do