Long Misread Poems
Long Misread Poems. Below are the most popular long Misread by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Misread poems by poem length and keyword.
LOVERS POINT
I'd watch the waters of the bay
mingle with the rocks and sand.
Failing stars misted in gray
Again fail to illuminate that strand.
Lovers Point won't understand.
Lonely people seem to like it there.
I watched them all as they passed by--
Nodding to my equals there,
Gentle ones who came to tearless cry...
For what? Only the rocks know why.
One night I left that lonesome band;
Reaching out to you I touched love's flame.
You held me close and took my hand.
Once 'twas a lonely place of pain,
Until you gave Lover's Point back it's name.
LOVERS POINT REVISITED
I stood above the misty shore,
My time was short as it was late,
And watched the reflections once more--
lover's Points nocturnal state--
Our meeting place of misread fate.
Nice it was when we were there,
Except there's no more 'you and I'.
Only a memory of a brief affair,
Not lasting long as it went awry.
Cold and dark: Lover's Point's sky.
Every so often it seems to me
My life is like the waves off the shore:
One special person comes near to me,
Retreats again, is then no more.
Even the Point knows not what for.
Night Time Like A Lover
Someones feeling lonely, I can hear it in the night.
Reflections of a teardrop deep in my candle light.
I search my mind for the words that I might help them through.
Suddenly I realize that I am lonely too.
Stepping out beneath the stars I look up at the sky.
My candle had gone out from the teardrop in my eye.
Instantly it came to me I misread what I see.
The night that came for loneliness had come only for me.
I smiled and said I'm okay there's been done no harm.
You needn't do this all for me it is a false alarm.
I tried to send the night away but it refused to go.
The truth I am aware of. The night will always know.
All at once down on my knees anguish deep inside.
While the night stood watching tears I could not hide.
I tried to stand I begged the night. Please. Won't you just leave?
Silently it waited while it watched me grieve.
Angrily I stood upright. Have you not one word to say!
Softly night time held me and took my pain away.
I felt completely foolish how could I be so wrong?
Night began to weaken it had stayed with me too long.
It faded into morning I cried stay a little longer!
Please I'm sorry don't leave me at least. Not til I'm stronger.
It was gone as it had come so silently it crept.
I would have missed it all! If only I had slept.
I'd have missed the night time calling me bidding me come out.
I'd have missed the moment, of my reason and my doubt.
I would have missed the shame I felt for screaming at the night.
I would have missed the moment night time made me feel alright.
Sunlight bearing down on me birds singing in the trees.
I don't know when it happened I'm back down on my knees.
Suddenly an echo I began to smile.
Night time like a lover said I'll be back. In just awhile.
Edwin C Hofert
Sometimes the fine print is not so fine. Yet the product has proven hard to find.
It was my misread, not the print's misdeed. Perhaps it's because I was not duely focused.
Was I tired, hurried, and stressed, or just getting old? At any rate, I came home with the wrong ice cream.
It was suppose to be butter pecan, not peanut butter ice cream. I do like peanut butter on bread or crackers, but not in ice cream.
Yes, I should always read the fine print, and most times I really do. But this time, I should have put the 'B' in front of, not behind the 'P'.
01162018 PS Contest, I Should Have Read The Fine Print, John Lawless
You stir your tea a bit o'er long,
The sugar just won't melt,
And someone thinks you're trying,
To draw attention to yourself.
You're listening to music,
Relaxing with some friends,
And someone says this song must make,
You think of some love's end.
You're concentrating on some task.
Just work, no time to brood;
But sure as shootin' someone thinks,
You're in some kind of mood.
You sit alone, relaxing,
A blank look on your face.
You're told you gave a dirty look,
And you're put in your place.
Again your mind's on something,
That requires some thought,
And someone's talking to you,
But your answer isn't caught.
You're told that you are rude and crude,
Antisocial to the max,
Though you tried to be polite,
Show patience where it lacked.
The preconceived impression,
One may have of someone else,
Was probably concocted,
In one's mind and nowhere else.
Just because one may misread,
One's unconscious gesture,
Or an expression on a face,
It's all one's own conjecture.
You think you know somebody.
You think you know them well.
Where you got that impression,
No tongue on earth can tell.
AI's and the future
On YouTube, Elon Musk was pontificating about
The future of AI, yes, I agree with some parts of his lecture
One thing is clear: AI in the form of robots can be helpful
But we must resist the idea that AI takes power
humanity most always comes first, and not an artificial construct
We, humans, are real; we have a mind, we have compassion
and love in our hearts
Art in all its forms springs from the human, be it in novels
painting or poetry, an AI can only pretend it knows
I read once on X, E. M. had a negative view of compassion
I must have misread. Why else would he offer to help
The victims of Epstein, other than compassion.
Another point that has been overlooked is about
human dignity if we sense that we will destroy those
Robots, with no intelligence, cannot beat human anger
I'll color you in red
My blood is in my hands
Your vision blurs
When you look
At me in pictures
My arms cut wide open
The drugs in my veins pour
I drink down the alcohol
It makes me bleed more
I'm up to my knees in
My own blood pool
Lemme take this pill
To see a different world
I choke it down
But it does no good
Why can't I die
IMmortally misunderstood?
Unkillable
Until I am
Only if i could
Until I succeed it's
The end...
The End...
Damn that's what joy
Feels like
I forget that a gray world
Would look prettier in red
I die every night,
Alone in my bed
Screaming and clawing
At these thoughts in my head
I tear off my flesh
Until theres just nothing left
Slit my thoughts on my
Last breath
It doesn't matter if it's still fresh
I died tomorrow a long time
Ago.
Ago...
Ago my words meant something
My life felt something
Goddess that became nothing
Except!
Only dread
Misread
This pain is
Left in my hands
Red
Red. Red. Red.
It's red again
Burnt finger tips
of the red fire
Now extinguished
Those that matter
Touched and turned to ash
So its only that
I love you so much
To let you go
Grant me the same manner
Or leave me in sorrow
Just remember love isnt red
Red is the color of what I left
The crimson canopy bleeds out its light,
to clear the stage for an eternal night.
We misread beauty in the dying leaf,
a gilded cover for a timeless grief.
For every joy is a borrowed loan,
and autumn reaps, to turn earth to stone.
The twilight deepens, cold and unappeased,
as life surrenders to a slow disease.
No sanctuary stands against the frost,
which counts the tally of the loved and lost.
The heavy fog absorbs the last faint ray,
and suffocates the memory of day.
The branches reach like skeletal despair,
to pull the pitch-black sky into the air.
Whatever shined was merely an illusion,
a brief distraction from the dark’s intrusion.
The final ember drops into the deep;
the void reclaims the promises we keep.
So let the shadows drink the remaining red,
for all things good belong among the dead.
The Monarch Who Thought He Was King
Once there was a butterfly
who fluttered by a gate.
The gate was closed, that’s when he said,
“O shucks, now I’ll be late!”
He danced and pranced and shouted
and did not hesitate,
“I demand,” he said with power,
“please, open up this gate!”
To his surprise before his eyes
the gate did open wide.
“A lovely thing; I am the king!
I’m surely qualified.
I had no choice so with my voice
the command I simplified:
‘Just open up this gate!
I need to get inside.’”
He told to all who’d hear him:
“I am the King,” he said.
While some bowed down and listened;
some would not turn their head.
They huffed and puffed and scoffed away,
“We’re sure that you misread.
To open up a gate is easy;
like falling out of bed!”
His shoulders drooped, his forehead sagged;
his eyes filled up with tears,
“You cannot make me less a king
with your scoffing and your sneers.
I am the king,” he fluffed with pride,
“the ruler of my peers.”
Then off he flew without a thought
of all their laughs and jeers.
He fluttered to a purple bush;
the hue fit for a king.
And there he sat to contemplate
and other kingly things.
“I’ll show them all; the small and tall,
and all the scoffs they bring.
A proclamation for my nation:
we’ll hold a royal fling.”
From low and high, from far and near
they gathered close to see
the monarch make his grand command
and show his identity.
A thousand monarch butterflies
watched with frivolity
with five or six ambassadors
from the queendom of the bees.
And there he came with pomp and pride
the self-made king to share
he was a monarch butterfly
and worthy of their care.
He preened his wings and listened for
the sound of his fanfare,
but all he heard was rustling wind
which threw him in the air.
He crashed and tumbled to the floor;
they could not believe their eyes.
The kingdom they had counted on
was built on fibs and lies.
The king was crumpled to the ground
ashamed in his demise.
He let the rain fall down on him
from clouds in the gray skies.
And then he woke up from his nap
and turned inside his bed.
He saw the flowers of his home
of purple, blue, and red.
Right then and there he promised
and to himself he said,
“I’ll be the best of butterflies,
than to be king instead.”
The cypress trees at water’s edge hedge an entrance.
We circle senseless, aimless, wheezing from the stench.
We are unprepared for this netherworld mischance,
this lifeless pool without birds where we entrench.
Drawn into the grotto leading to the abode of the dead,
we are alarmed to find the design is quite familiar.
Our handwriting and signatures cannot be misread.
All around our cacotopian creation seems so peculiar.
Dank alleys crowded; COVID corpses decompose.
Back when, we passively handed the reign of power
to a petulant fiendish bully we might not now depose.
His smirking cult spews contempt like a shower.
Meanwhile conspiracy capers cavort clucking tongues,
and we view our nihility specters, seeking our escape.
But this vortex germ befouls the air, attacking our lungs.
Our vertigo fatigue means our breakout can’t take shape.
This is long lost Avernus, the black hole of our making.
Thoughtless, this virus only preys on any for the taking.
A spectrum of colors
adorned the garden of love
Heavenly beauty,
the rose has a timeless allure
Tiny petals whispered
romance in the garden
A yellow flower,
not from a noble family
He focuses on
a newly sprouted beauty
She didn't misread the signals
He was attractive,
different from the others
Humble and simple,
symbol of the sun
The other roses turned away their heads,
gave him a sense of insufficiency
Love is much stronger than fear,
sometimes you must lose to understand
Regardless of the outcome,
the flirtation itself was a golden moment