Long Middles Poems
Long Middles Poems. Below are the most popular long Middles by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Middles poems by poem length and keyword.
History, it has always seemed,
at least it always has to me,
Is not something to be forgotten,
For from it much is gleaned.
It strikes me as more sensible,
if I may be allowed to say,
that's history is not a dusty book,
it's an all-you-can-think buffet!
From the ancients of the Levant
Ten Commandments do I take.
From the doughty Middles Ages:
Chivalry, a fine impression makes.
From the minutemen on Bunker Hills
comes a true love of liberty.
From the trappers in high Rockies
A sense of true independency.
The cowboy age it gives me
an appreciation of the grit,
along with a strong desire
Not to take any lip.
The roaring twenties gives me
the thrill of living it up.
The thirties taste strongly of thrift,
Of how to suffer through the rough.
Of the forties came a craving
for punching evil in the jaw.
From the fifties: Domesticity,
it's great rewards I saw.
From the sixties I take little,
except maybe rock and roll.
Though I admit as I grow older
Its seems tasteless and cold.
The seventies and best not eaten,
On that most will agree.
But the eighties' flavor is the power
of man's ingenuity set free.
From the millennium I consumed the fact
that Islamism is not that great.
And the present taste teaches clearly
not to trust those who cry "Hate!"
And this is just the beginning,
so many ideas out there lay...
A bit from here, a bit from there
A plate built of every age.
You leave behind the gristle,
though it make take some time,
but eventually you plate is choice,
and free of fat and rings.
And why some folks flee from it,
I cannot begin to say.
All I know is that once you start
you will always crave the taste.
I like to start each day feeling safe and happy…
usually this leads to a grin
and the hope that my family and friends are also safe and happy
as their day is about to begin.
And I like to think them at least once every evening…
before another day slips away…
hoping they’re still safe and happy…
hoping they all had a good day.
I believe life is a series of beginnings and endings…
looming in the shadows like silhouettes…
every birth has its death,
every first note its last…
every sunrise has its sunset.
But as we experience beginnings and endings
I know this also is true…
most of our life is spent in the middle…
living between the two.
There is no doubt beginnings are important…
as are also those times we must bid adieu…
but I also believe it’s in those middles…
where all of our dreams come true.
So, for me, there is no better time than the beginning or the end of each day
to sit back
to reflect….
close my eyes…
and think of those times in between…
in the middle…
where happiness lies.
Author's note: My mother wanted me to be a CPA. But of all the countless more useful things I could have done, should have done, and actually tried to do with my life, it seems, I have become, here, nearing the end, a wannabe poet. There are times I sort of wish I had listened to Mama. This piece, dear reader, is semi-autobiographical. I'll leave it up to you to determine which cheek my tongue is in.
Upon no laurels have I rested,
My IQ just once was tested,
And I've known since I was five I was no prodigy.
At Texas Tech I solved no riddles,
Split no atoms down their middles,
Never earned an MBA, much less a Ph.D.
One time I did, though, try to query
Mr. Albert Einstein's theory
About time, and space, and quantum relativity.
I asked the prof why study Al's extended family,
And he expelled me from his class in perpetuity.
My career, though never stagnant,
Neither was a money magnet,
Now in retirement I've more Social than Security.
And my portfolio's in tatters
'cause concerning money matters
That investment mumbo jumbo's just a mystery.
What do the IRS and Charles Schwab expect of me?
To make a living with my pen is my big fantasy,
But it's more likely I will one day win the lottery,
Or make more money in flea markets selling pottery.
If, as they say, an artist suffers for his artistry,
Then as a writer I guess I can thrive in penury
And never prostitute my art nor my integrity,
Though I would gladly sell my soul to publish annually.
But if my effort never pays,
I'll be content I've spent my days
Trying to pen the perfect phrase
And basking in the random praise
When a reader smiles and says, "Ah,
Now that is poetry!"
Foremost apex bird leading the flock flight
United to run the race and fight the fight
Apache, Comanche, Samurai, knight
Choosing to keep victory in mind and sight
Tearing through the darkness till we behold light
March by day, sojourn by night
And because we solely rest upon God’s might
Only being head and not tail feels right
Bracing the weather, weathering the storm
We give and take as we take form
Change is our preserve as we preserve righteous norm
Moment’s heat in a cold world somehow feels warm
As happenings and deeds feed how our deeds perform
In life’s seesaw arena we sow to see what will blossom
From middles and ends, we claim the whole portion by portion
We mark and eke out our ideals and a nation
Advancing, withstanding and wearing off resistance
With passion, conviction and insistence
Feeding on virtue and denying sin any dalliance
Overcoming evil with good and rebellion with reverence
Fruitfulness ousts empty occupation and nonchalance
And so we emerge from the dull trenches with a radiance
With a baffling lustre, poise and stance
Affording a gaze where we couldn’t beg a glance
K. Muitherero
~wonderful faces, beautiful places,
All anchored in glory;
Beautiful God Glory Hallehulia…
So tell the story,
Of my Lord the Savior;
In whom I trust and adore
As I
Oh I
I rest in His arms.
We all should rest in His arms
As we all rest in His arms
I am not ashamed, no am I at odds?
I shall not be alarmed… cause I am
Resting in His arms
I rest in His arms
I rest in His arms
I rest in His Jesus mighty, mighty arms;
I rest in His arms
I rest in His arms
I rest in His Jesus mighty, mighty arms;
No I shall not be ashamed;
And yes God, yes He knows my name;
Sort of like mommy picking up the baby;
She nurtured and cuddles
Surety middles
Gives him substances food to eat, he recovers…
My only wish is
That I’m not throw out with the dishes;
My, my God O Lord please grant my wishes
Allow me to rest up in…
Allow me to rest in your arms;
I rest in His mighty, mighty arms..
Torn sworn off battles
Not to give anymore madder;
All my hopes and protection is in Him in the Lord;
He will lead me, guide me and shield me
Woo-oh, Oh! Oh! as I rest in His arms~
11/19/10
Written words by James Edward Lee Sr. & THE CORINTHIAN™ 2010, 2019©
Arranged music by Jonathan Kabore for Kabore Music©”
From “KABORE PRAISE ANTHOLOGY©”
Pulses of earth caressing my heart
I feel each grain as if hourglass sand.
Rhythm of life ticking from birth to depart
Cultures softly tinged by the soul of the land.
I hear the call of a presence borne of the past
Echoes of bounty rebound in this world.
Harmonies vibrate, of land ample and vast
Then a warning of future madness unfurled.
I see creation and nurture as they mingle in soil
Seasons reflect within earth’s precise hue.
Figures of mountains implying peace and turmoil
Mysteries are hinted amidst historic old clues.
Lingering scents drift of insatiable dreams
Tastes of the landscape, enrich and contrast.
Cycles and motion of existence and schemes
Undeniable connections, to earth are steadfast.
Cleansed and absorbing I open my eyes
Dirt still caresses and quivers my skin.
Few understand, of land and mans’ ties
Of middles and ends, yet a scene to begin.
We all celebrate happy endings,
But we seldom get to know the messy transformations
The messy middles
where the roads are windy and no end is in sight,
Yet we must continue...
Where life seems like quick sand
yet every moment is ages long
Where we want to find ourselves
Yet we find ourselves running away from self
Where we are bruised
Where hope and hopelessness stand diluted
Where love, trust and faith are continuously
threatened by betrayal, fear and loss
Where the eyes are wet
But we struggle to find what the wetness is about
Is it because how far we have progressed or coz we don't know how much more there is to go
Where the inner noise continuously shadows the silence of the wilderness
The messy middles that we must pass through coz
we are already far out of light in search of a newer light, where we are marching through dark
carefully observing and hopefully embracing
I don't know if a beginning matters
or if pretending it does means anything,
or whether the rain ever started
or if the chair was ever full at all
Maybe it's all a muddle in the middle,
but maybe middles aren't a place
or maybe they are,
but I don't know
how to draw them on a map
if a map exists,
if I exist,
if the plot point was ever supposed to reveal,
or if nothing is exactly what was meant to happen.
I think I was meant to feel something
but I don't know-
profound or ordinary or quietly aching
or maybe the hum of the refrigerator
only hums when I notice,
and I don't know if I ever do.
Is it static? Is it fuzz? Is it grey?
I don't know what those words mean
or if meaning is supposed to be clear
or if I'm supposed to care
that clarity seems suspicious
or maybe clarity is just another kind of noise.
I wanted to say I lack direction,
but I don't know if that's true,
or if not knowing is its own kind of comfort,
or maybe it's unsettling,
or maybe the poem was supposed to tell me something
but I don't know what,
because the ink doesn't know either
and neither does the page
or the left turn or the right
or the waiting for a sign
that I don't recognize
and wouldn't know what to do with if I did.
I don't know what kind of sign I want
or if wanting is the word,
or if arrival ever works
or if the only sentence I can offer
is a circle of not knowing
looping around itself,
never quite beginning,
never quite ending,
never quite being certain
if any of this
means anything
or if meaning is just another thing
I don't know.
Form:
My daddy used to fry up doughnuts in a fryer when we were kids
Not every night, but once a month on Sundays
We kids got to cut the middles out of the donuts our mom started.
Dough was everywhere; we got to shake sugar on them in a sack.
I can still taste those homemade donuts, hot from that sack.
My hands loved the gritty sugar; I licked it off my fingers.
I thought everybody’s daddy fried doughnuts once a month.
I think I was twenty when I knew better.
My parents never ate in a restaurant or frequented a bakery.
I did not know about sprinkled, jelly, or glazed doughnuts.
Until I grew up and then I was horrified by the cost of them.
The first time I ate a doughnut with pudding I fell in love.
Cold Openings
Walking across the universe
I have found many middles
Where the paths became obscure
Reopening doors long tightened
Fear stares through each window
The pen hovered over the words
Where that hostile darkness waited
The steps towards these reflections
Became brighter upon revision
Every thought, every question
And all the answers that transpired-
The chronicle of these, and other things…
~~
From the Centre of My Universe
Unsure of the path that led here
As if on a sleepwalk, semi-conscious
That this was happening to me
Fear lived at the end of a road
On the edge of a cliff, far away
At the checkpoint of another country
How did I know to wake up
With the sun obscured every day
And make the decision to step away?
Calmed by a choice having been made
Momentarily unafraid of death
My distress dissipates in motion
As the future unfurls in a pattern
That shines a beacon
Beyond the dark woods of the past
And for all the miseries they hold
I find myself taking another look back
Realising no one gets out of here alive
~~
Discovery
After years of idleness and slumber
I gathered the proverbial reins
Making incursions out of the woods
First, discovering a clearing to settle in
Where a leopard gave me comfort
Wrapped in her beautiful furry skin
Warned of further dangers along this path
Curiosity won out, setting in motion
Events that returned me to the dark
Undeterred, I found another way
Led by a lioness with a magnificent mane
My hunger insatiable for her wisdom
That bright burn faded again
Falling yet further down the mountain
All undone, by my own hand
Determined to shine a light to see
Various she-wolves presented their paws
As skinny and wretched as myself
Discovering the terrain, mapping my mind
I was able to find sunshine under the clouds
Pick myself up and start all over again
Amongst the bustling of everyone’s business?
I found her bared teeth, shining alone
in a sea of beauties from far away
Her first words shattered my misery
She became my guide to the peak’s delight
To learn our origin and find our joy