Long Minutia Poems
Long Minutia Poems. Below are the most popular long Minutia by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Minutia poems by poem length and keyword.
Our path, sometimes grows arduous with bends and twists.
Trials of life keep tormenting us and others.
It's miserable to watch or endure such suffering.
But despite all heartache, we feel we are not done.
When I see the swamp bird with broken wings
Struggling to rise from the water’s edge.
When I see the deer, running away from its predator,
With all its might, I am filled with a zest to fight all odds.
In my doubt, such scenes fill me with reassurance,
Making me feel the rush of blood in my veins.
Today is the only day, a minutia of life,
To get all wrongs right, to seize all opportunity.
Adversities can hang heavy on us, pulling us down.
But muster courage and catch the bull by its horn.
Winds may blow, tempests may rise,
But don’t relent, persevere, and endure.
Never allow your fears parade victoriously
Through the spectrum of your dreams
When you feel life as bland and monochrome
Think of the colors of the rainbow arching in heaven
To make life sweet, recall all the sweet moments,
Those that you want to re-live again
Sure, there are a million of them, joyous and sweet,
Exciting, and engaging, pouring balm on our scars.
Let us freeze those moments in time!
Too precious to go off our heart.
They make life worth living, worth cherishing,
Giving each fresh morning a kick start.
Have you forgotten to laugh over a prank?
Have you stopped watching a lovely scene?
Have you evaded a gregarious company?
Have you failed to enjoy a savory cuisine?
Break free of all the ropes that bind!
Let loose the spirit within and let it fly high.
Shed out your dry reticence n’ reserve!
Let your geniality, many hearts win!
___________________________________________________________
As I sat ...
in slight immersion
amongst a pond
of varied sprites
depth rippling tryst
trend simple reeds
in distance fair
partitioned pure
claimed by three
spartans affair
the mere sight of me
sacrificed precious lamb
midst circle of life
selective attends
their genteel swim
o'er cupped fingers
a ringless hand
begs of pleasure
this glorious realm
enriched am I
steeply blessed
the rewards of privilege
the shallow benefits
their minutia smiles
in that pond
... as I sat.
We are the unsung heroes of the predawn light.
No we may never have fought in a great war,
or saved a soul from the snapping jaws of death.
People wave to us, but few know who we are
and most on a good days run could care less.
Like the organ grinder's monkey from days of old,
we have been repeatedly trained to do a task.
We do a job few would even consider doing
and most would not even attempt to try.
A job burdened with ever growing responsibility
due to the minutia of a ever expanding bureaucracy.
A grossly undervalued, underappreciated profession
designated part-time by thoughtless administrations
that mouth how important we all are once a year
only to persecute us for every trifling thing later.
If you are lucky enough to survive a number of years
without resigning or becoming a sacrificial lamb
on the altar of a fearful self serving public face,
you will get a tiny pension for your devoted service.
We are the unsung heroes of the predawn light.
The tolerant souls that routinely put up with
a few rude demanding manipulative parents
and their insolent misbehaving little darlings
just to be able to serve the greater majority
of decent well meaning thoughtful parents
and the precious treasures of tomorrow
they have temporarily entrusted to us.
Like a hamster running on a little wheel,
we go around in circles every single day,
but unlike the hamster we must summon
every instinct and learned skill to insure
every turn we make is executed flawlessly.
We are kept aloft on our spinning wheel
by the deliberate hands of a caring heart
and the many small souls seated behind us
that come to trust us not to make a mistake.
We are the one person in their little lives
that are not allowed to ever let them down
for neither of us may be able to live with it.
We are their school bus drivers...
Whisper Of Your Soul
(Soul Listens On A Whisper)
Murmurs soft are sensed, mimic nature, diaphanous clouds spread wide
Settle softer than a translucent butterfly on spring light snow
It is the moon flirting in ebullience, fog rising on a thin film on winds side
Lifting skirts or is it veils? Unknown in this muted light of whispers glow
Mist rolls across the bog, pulls along reluctant virgin night
By golden glow, that holds the sky in humble hush, abeyance in a trance
Tracking down the birth of morning, bursting full of light
Barely able to mutter the words, “the light of day”, the endless dance
You feel the vibrant tones, fold over meadows as you go
A vestigial tiny vessel of a virgin’s secret opens here
Chasing dark away along the marsh with pounding heart to know
The open glen is near, fills up in brilliant colors clear
Soft luscious sounds fall silent on the morning air and then
Listen, it whispers on the minutia of the moment something true
Holds on to quiet in the silent glen
Waiting on a whisper Imbued with truth, soft thoughts of you
Created on 12/16/14 for “Whisper Of Your Soul” Poetry Contest Sponsored by Gail Angel Doyle
I sit and watch.
Changes come so slowly.
So, vigilance is required,
an attentiveness to minutia.
There are layers of wardings
erected between
the watch and I.
Thoughts, which flit and skitter
fight for outward movement.
Flesh that is too weak to hold attention,
leans toward the walls of cracks;
where even the plaster pulls
from its sheaf
and the dirty
double paned glass
waylays the eye.
Enthralled by the changes:
rain to sleet, to snow, to hail, to rain,
the maple buds leaving
their pointillist, rouge-lacquered shells,
dropping like the wings
of an emergent butterfly; I root.
Nights of storm-slapped branches
unfurl orchestrated by wind –
How the maple now dangles leaves like earrings
from the tips of the smallest twigs.
Tomorrow they will open
to palm the morning breeze
and welcome the spears of Lilly of the Valley,
as they emerge overnight beneath the mother tree.
The deer have eaten the tender,
green, tongue-rolled, delights of Hosta and Day Lily,
but they are stalwart plants and will return.
I’ve watched and watched but not seen the deer
though I have seen their bedding spots
among the mulch beneath the maple
in the winter and their hoof
prints in the snow.
Today, I will watch
temperatures are rising
and soon there will be
lilacs.
First Published in Latchkey Tales 2014
The grand cosmos gifts us
With both mystery and discovery.
While the intellect grows with more
Questions, by an insistent curiosity.
If one follows the graphics of science,
Depicting the remnants of time and space.
We might find galactic stews brewing, in a
Temporal tube that seems to lead to no place.
Yet while we can see an ongoing expansion,
Our own neighborhood seems infinitely small.
As we appear in a sliver of this time cone,
Where grand movements dictate the next fall.
Through all of this cosmic radiation,
Our lives witness the passage of time.
And while we struggle among the minutia,
An elusive big picture evades any crime.