Long Might Poems
Long Might Poems. Below are the most popular long Might by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Might poems by poem length and keyword.
I've always proudly worn my pride
On the fact that I was right
Could it be perhaps that I was wrong
On most of what I knew
In everything I do
Heaven forbid, perish the thought
It hurts more than you know
When you find out you've been told
Over time a hefty share of lies
Just to keep you in the dark
Of who and what they are
The ones on top who wear a thin disguise
They like you where you are
Kept tight in a jar
Keeps the focus off their slight of hand
So they can do their tricks
Without you knowing it
Whether they're on the Right or Left
If you think you know
What all is going on
You might want to sit down and think twice
That what you think is true
Might be you without a clue
Whether it's coming from the Left or Right
You and I in a wrongful strong connection,
Is this too much and a real big vexation?
You loved me at first and it was ill sweet.
I find it so bad but a real great mistake.
We’re all different in all angles of our lives.
Our age and culture are like those opposite knives.
Love is ruthless and I’m playing things hard,
Fearless to put my things in those bloody thorns barred.
Will love suffice if we’re not the same?
Imagine us in a one trouble fool game.
Odds are waiting and are incredibly thrilling,
Take a flight and risk things that are worthwhile living.
You and I came from different wonders of the world,
Opposite attracts like a melodious songs of unfold.
Trying to be ready facing these unseen consequences,
Odds might be surreal but a risk taking breathless.
The blooms drip dew drops in misty moon light,
their silver leaves wave a gentle goodbye,
as delicate petals dream through the night.
Longing tendrils search with all of their might
weaving latticed lace, while in darkened sky,
the blooms drip dew drops in misty moon light.
Shadows darken and the flowers sleep tight,
awaiting the morning with silenced sigh,
as delicate petals dream through the night.
Cold, the wind's breath whispers growing delight,
as the buds thrill in their brushed rainbow dye,
the blooms drip dew drops in misty moon light.
Emotion's warmth grows in this lovely sight
and deep in desire she knows she must try,
as delicate petals dream through the night.
In the glow of her dreams, her heart alight,
she waits a time when we'll watch, she and I,
the blooms drip dew drops in misty moon light
as delicate petals dream through the night.
06-19-16
Villanelle Me A Flower Contest
SERENDIPITY
commercialized like dippity-do
— the extra hold hair gel.
sounds like supercalifragilisticexpialidocious*
so fresh; and clean —
a nonsense word used
when you have nothing else to say.
and let’s not forget serenity now**
yelled uncontrollably
when you need to calm down.
one more, s’il vous plaîs:***
serene, dip, dippity-doo-da-yay!
s-e-r-e-n-d-i-p-i-t-y
yes, i love to play with you
my loquacious love.
defined as: (remember to say it fast and pedantically)
the faculty or phenomenon of finding valuable
(take a breath) or agreeable things not sought for****
i close my eyes in a honeysuckle fog.
the scent surprises me, dabs on my pulse points.
!!!!!!!!
i open my lids, and a friend,
i haven’t seen in eons, says hello.
!!!!!!!!!
my husband twirls me about
“serendipity” he says as he whisks me away to Paris.
!!!!!!!!!!
thus, i shall place my favorite word
in your hand like a flutterby,
i mean, of course, a butterfly —
the prism-break of
r-o-y-g-b-p and moonbows.
perhaps... i’ll look into my palm
and see your word placed there.
i draw a breath, my heart races — and yes —
it’s serendipity all over again.
8/16/2019
Favorite Word Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Chantelle Cooke
*Mary Poppins
**Seinfeld
***s’il vous plaîs - (sel-vü-ple) French meaning “if you please”
****from Merriam-Webster
You might wonder about my use of flutterby.
My brother used to give this word as a one
word clue to get me to say butterfly.
People say there's no such thing as time travel.
But if you sit outside in the early morning sun
Versus inside in front of half-hour TV shows
The quality of time experienced is chasmic.
The house protects, shields, nourishes
In its finite space.
The World is an infinite bombardment,
Like a child gleefully displaying all his clothes
While fabricating new items on the spot, sweetly, angrily,
but in every way for you, without fee or formality.
It is the world to which we belong,
Not the house, nor the show.
The morning sun may not re-locate us (physically)
Through our own construction of time
As a properly gadgeted time traveler might,
But it slows it with mystic ease and rhythms.
Which is more than Oprah Winfrey could ever do
Stuck inside a glowing, square box.
So rejoice! Your problems are small, definite, and digitized.
As this poem is written I sit
In World's slow time
As it beckons me forward in search
Of the soul's blue and glacial bliss.
A sky wrapped around a fist.
A rising sun crackling
The mountain mist.
A time traveler awakened to
Love's first kiss.
This Saturday morning.
Outside with tea.
Just you an me.
With the television's "secrets" within.
And the World open and naked without.
There is a thing we never talk about
and try to push it from our minds each day.
Yes, push it, shove it, try to force it out
though if we fail we know that thing will stay.
It's in that empty chair that's in our sight.
We want to push it, shove it, even kick.
Yes, that could snap its legs, and hope we might
shove down that thing, forbid the sight to stick.
Each day we shut our eyes, but yet that thing
remains within our mental sights, is then
consistent, leaving such a pain, a sting -
a sting that's like an echo. There again!
That thing we never talk about remains.
It will not let us go. Remove its chains!
(29 Jun 2023)
I’m having a garage sale
Though I don’t have a garage.
Come check out all my offerings –
You’ll see a strange montage.
I have similes and metaphors
So old that they’re clichés.
There are sentences and verses
Budding writers can rephrase.
From a stack of nouns quite towering
Are so many you can choose;
Mix and match with all my adjectives –
You simply cannot lose.
There’s a vat of verbs just waiting,
Some with adverbs still attached;
And a box of prepositions,
With its lock no longer latched.
There might be a spare conjunction
Hiding underneath the rhymes;
As for interjections – Ha!
They’re rare as Mercury-head dimes.
Yet if you pay me a visit,
You might find the words you need;
I’ve been cleaning up my clutter
And there’s good stuff, guaranteed.
So come pick through my possessions
‘Cause I’m lightening my load.
Then feel free to write a sonnet
Or a limerick or ode.
For garage sales held by poets
Are, to me, the most inviting,
Since your purchases may point you
To the pathway paved with writing.
Ilene Bauer
September 6, 2012
(this was accidentally deleted from my poems list, so i wanted to reenter it)
Carry on through the struggle
carry on through the pain
carry on through it all
until you rise again
hide to survive
stay alive
then you’ll thrive
don’t capitulate
just wait for the fight
the enemy is mighty
but might he remain
you might be mighty
when you come to reign
now is the night
wait for the light
out of the darkness
shining so bright
you’ll be forgotten
they won’t know your name
or you can keep plotting
with victory is fame
you won’t be remembered
as one who surrendered
but you’ll be a treasure
fighting forever
you live on your knees
you beg and you plead
or rise to your feet
you can fight and compete
If you have the option
give up is not one
defeat must be forced on you
no one can force you too
there is much more to do
dig deep and force it through
if you give up
it’s because you lack will
success is a mental state
more than it is skill
it’s the act of resilience
unable to move
the fact that your brilliance
can’t be removed
they think it’s all over
well, it isn’t yet
you won’t rollover
you’ll give what you get
no act of closure
no way you will quit
everyone knows you
fight and you hit
fight to the end
grow strong and grow fit
creating your destiny
waiting and desperately
hate grotesque enemies
greatness eventually
All through the crux
never crushed
never beaten
never rushed
never weakened
patiently waiting
all the while underrated
steadying nerve
go forth with worth
never surrender give up or give in
making the memories of a time you did win
Some have ambitions to knock others down
Make your ambition to still be around
They will use gossip or slanderous sound
but you shalt be moved standing your ground
If you’re in the right
then just carry on
they don’t want a fight
they just want you gone
Julius Caesar not Napoleon Blownapart
defeat would be easier but for your heart
give it your mind give it your soul
giving your being giving it whole
victory at all costs that is your goal
Under the cover of daylight, beneath the mill
and hustle of teaming crowds; a need
and a life-grinding poverty
swept her down a wrong way.
She strayed into streets so narrow
entered them as a shadow-less shadow
stayed where rank rooms were rent by the hour
where tussled bedsheets her only ownership.
A small child might have slipped past
the ranks of pot-bellied loungers,
but the pimps were as thin as switch blades
and their eyes scavenged
for any walking flesh.
No one kidnapped her; abused her much,
she was taken by her own weakened self,
nabbed by an ever willing surrender.
Did she come to a dark end?
Only the flickering city lights
at the end of a day
can both ask and answer
that long searched for question.
________________________________
Written on 18th April 2004, a Maundy Thursday, one of the three
sacred holy days forming the Christian spiritual calendar: Maundy Thursday, Good Friday, and Easter Mark. A contemplative piece set in Shakespearean sonnet style depicts profound human transition from spiritual exhaustion to divine surrender. It talks of stripping away the external ego to find internal sacred peace.
____________________________
When hope feels thin, and your horizon far,
When righteousness your own for little counts,
Broken and bruised and battered when you are,
When your wasted shadow forever haunts;
When rites and rituals robbed are of magic,
And piety nor pilgrimage might please,
Belaboured worship loses all its logic,
Divine grace seems to gasp for fresher lease;
When you are keen to off-load your old self,
To fill life’s vacuum with His holy presence,
Too keen to leave behind all power and pelf,
The heart whilst craves a deep unending silence;
Ready thence you’re to embrace divine bliss,
To fill your life with fullness that is His.
_____________________________________
Sonnet | 13.04.2004 |