Long Misers Poems
Long Misers Poems. Below are the most popular long Misers by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Misers poems by poem length and keyword.
She rises, she rises like the sun that knows no shame,
this woman-teacher-poet-mother-flame,
her soul vast as the sky that holds all storms
yet gentle as the dewdrop kissing the earth at dawn.
O Universe, behold your daughter who has learned
the sacred secret whispered by the wind,
that worth is not a treasure buried deep
but seed-song scattered wide like prayers across the hungry soil of sleeping hearts.
For thirty-five years, she has danced this divine dance,
her feet steady as mountains, swift as rivers,
Her hands, like mother birds preparing nests,
for 131,000 dreams to take their flight toward horizons bright with possibility.
They spoke their "no's" like thunder without rain,
but she said ‘oh’, she became the monsoon miracle,
teaching girls to read is like learning to breathe,
writing policies like love letters to generations yet unborn.
Her kitchen table glows like a temple altar
where the sacred and the daily merge,
stirring soup and stirring revolution
with the same blessed hands, like prayer and practice.
She rises, she rises, phenomenal woman,
her self-esteem flowing deep as Ganga's grace,
not hoarded like misers count their gold
but poured like oil upon the lamps of those who thought their light had died.
The eternal sings through her: I am not what I grasp
but what I give, not what I hold
but what I release like is, birds in the morning
to fill the sky with songs of freedom.
Like the underground river feeding the surface springs,
never asking why?
‘Twas the night before Christmas and baby
Liz-Beth cried, crawled, and sat waiting for me.
My police neighbor trains a NARC doggy
Liz sees, does, and sits by her need…daddy.
‘Twas the night before Christmas with kitty
run up our tree limbs from NARC-BARK doggy.
Families oldest—not me—son Kenny
went out on a limb. Said, ”Come here Monkey.”
‘Twas the night before Christmas…Slippery
slides on floors and walls. Very neighborly
keeping feet on chairs and tables. Snotty
caught a cold it can’t shake—from son Franky.
‘Twas the night before Christmas…Alexy
is a skater. All seasons with Nosey
her bandit raccoon get very messy.
Alexy’s coon will be skating someday.
‘Twas the night before Christmas—misers turn
as a Fifth Avenue trunk is well-earn
for the unwrapped gifts are of no concern.
Emptied pool covers bike/motorbike--yearn.
Initialising silhouettes submit to midwinter dawn
Beginning willingly to swallow colour of choices
Fledgelings' flamboyant campaigns display oblivion
Audacious adolescents distribute chafing thoughts
Attach entire esteem to securing peer approval
Frivolous get transfixed in youth's lurid allure
Bustling balloons launch from high vaulting hearts
Adventurers revel in joy during jaunty occasions
Concerned observers avoid havoc's banquet
Money cascades proportionate to patrons' appraise
Circumspect travel with kaleidoscope analysis
Attentively pensive address torrid scheduling
Pallid consideration accompanies shaded misers
Assorted sections bolstered by merciful sharers
Principled accord favoured by fate's ultimation
Aura of agitation promotes copious desires
Hushed heeders find freedom in relinquishing
Dilating ease determines to exit temptation
Plethora of pleasures pledged by reoccurring sunrise
Replenished spirit operates as a doting shepherd
Validates delight in desiphered silence
Supreme reckoning denounces pretentious credentials
Clarity invades tainted captivity's insatiable tirade
Mortal manuscript mirrors sequel's assembling
20th April 2020
Submitted to Chantelle Anne Cooke's
Best NA Poem 2020 Re run
The end of days draws in so fast.
Nothing we know will ever last.
For some, time feels like real ice;
Be it lousy, or be it so nice.
Time flies against their will.
Nothing stops it, no one will.
We can change how we live.
We can learn how to give.
We can live like frowning isles.
We can live with shiny smiles.
We can be as mean as misers.
We can be as kind as givers.
The choice we make time will tell,
How we honor or how we sell!
The choice we make remains ill.
It dies away without a will.
The choice is just one tiny step,
There will be more you have to prep.
Between the cup and the lip.
There is but many a sip.
13/7/2014
The doors of the churches and the schools are closed.
No decent people are on the streets,
Where we see sad crimes and horrible abuses.
Many windshields are broken by badly thrown stones.
Violence rains in the streets and in the corridors;
No dogs or cats dared to vent outside.
A few meager birds, on the branches, stare with disdain
And amazement several thugs and charlatans with masked faces.
It is sad to see these heinous crimes. How awful!
There is a hostile war? One wonders which party will win?
We can hear the voice of an old man coming somewhere
Who shouts faintly, "We are all poor victims, sad tramps,
Who are committing suicide for bad politicians, for misers. "
Not too far, we can see a crazy woman with a close friend,
Both in rags. It's a nightmarish image that proves
That the country has become a hell on earth. On the radio, they say
That some ships of the United States Navy are in the harbor.
What are they doing on our territory? We flee,
Or we do not flee? We cannot. Everyone is in prison.
Violence snows blood on the streets of a tropical country, where fear
Reigns. Children do not dare to play in the streets, where terror
Hisses like snakes, like machine guns of the enraged demons.
No war is civil or civilized; war among the same people is also violent
And nefarious. My God, things are very bad in the streets nearby.
Violence is raining and everyone is crying. Victims are everywhere at bay,
Waiting for the arrival of the good angels, who shall come perhaps in a few months.
Copyright © June 2019, Hébert Logerie, All rights reserved.
Hébert Logerie is the author of several books of poetry.
This is a translation of the poem La Violence Pleut Dans Les Rues by Hebert Logerie.
There are clock of all shapes and sizes,
Clocks that are given as prizes,
Clocks that hold surprises,
Clocks that are collected by misers.
There are clocks slow to unwind,
Clocks that can withstand the wind
Clocks that readily spring to mind.
There are clocks that regulate,
Clocks that articulate,
Clocks without a date,
Clocks we use to decorate.
Clocks that are second to none,
Clocks that tell us when our work is done,
Clocks that stand all alone.
But there is one clock we should pay more attention to,
Your body clock is made especially for you,
And if you want to keep doing what you do,
Then it is time you listened to what it is asking of you.
Brazil is for lovers
it's not for amateurs
not love only shiny things
but also the drought of the hinterland
Not just love of riches...
Brazil of nature and the sea
not only of jewels and subtleties
but from poverty to care, to love...
Not only do future project
but give the people safe shelter...
shelter the poverty that cries out
donate Brazil to the people who loves...
Not just gorge self in Capitals
displaying pomp and minerals
but shine the people in progress
leading the poor to success...
It's no use in advance
if the people don't even know what it is
nothing avails, which what?
High growth is nothing
if after all the trifle
always goes to the pocket of a few
and the hungry and suffocating of people
suffer from all this scum...
Brazil is for lovers,
not for dilettante misers
power thieves...!
Brazil is for everyone
elite, middle and people
also be able to be...
and be able to live well...
The lover loves people and land,
the amateur conflict and war,
so we won't grow... !
She has a heart of gold.
No I think. She was a witch to me.
I want to get as many golden things in this bathroom as I can.
I shudder; hating all the mismatched gold that is already there.
This gold coin came from my grandmother’s.
Is it worth anything? Maybe. But it is too late to ask grandma.
She probably kept it for some reason.
Too bad you did not talk to her when she was alive.
A solid gold Christmas tree. You should see it!
I have no desire, but I do want to see the gold butter cow.
She is molded out of pure butter
Living at the Iowa State Fair every single year.
Misers all of you. Wanting more and more gold.
Collecting it from the N.R.A.
At the expense of lots of innocent people
Who will die thanks to your AK’s and your lack of concern.
Gold – more important than lives.
We would have never guessed this in the 60’s.
Or the 70’s, or the 80’s.
What has happened? Gold over lives. Sadly.