Long Narrating Poems
Long Narrating Poems. Below are the most popular long Narrating by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Narrating poems by poem length and keyword.
We turned the pages of our lives, from the beginning
I wonder why I had to live with those humiliations again
Yet his constant voice urging me to continue the narration
Pretending that he was detrimental
To narrate it to someone uncommitted
Those pains were a minute ago
For validation as worthy, perhaps
Yet I was soiling and dishonouring my name to someone who never cared
So he left, without comforting me
Neither narrating his story
I had to heal from the monster in me
With those delicate parts yet so golden,
So I sang my favourite songs to heal again
This time, the lesson was profoundly engraved.
On my untouched white canvas, I hide,
Thoughts flowing like a deep river inside,
A universe of melancholy quietly enveloping me,
Like the sea singing its unknown mystery.
Shades of red like a heavy sunset,
Over the horizon, in the threads of my soul set,
Embroidered with birds returning to the nest,
In the evening's shadow, under the beloved sky's crest.
In my palette, the sunflower's yellow shines bright,
Warm rays gently emerge, narrating their light,
The blue of the sea lightly stains my fingers,
The sky of passion unfolds with tingling shivers.
Luxurious green lays in fine strokes, tender,
Like a mother nurturing her eternal child, slender,
Shadows of people and trees dance afar,
Yet my white canvas remains pristine, a silent star.
Contours sketched on the edges like a string,
Intertwined with flowers and bees taking wing,
My head rests in art's fantastic lap,
Where hopes and dreams take elastic shape.
Moonlight enters through the window's view,
Ink transforms into a hidden rainbow hue,
I draw wings, and the pages curve,
Flying like my whimsical dreams, like a nerve.
In this endless stream of consciousness,
I remain a painter of thoughts, a restless spirit,
My white canvas, my silent witness,
Of an inner world waiting to be heard in its fitness.
Receive
Listen
Be Still
Whispered words arriving on teardrops of the wind
They call to me
Embracing me so that I may exhale
For a moment in time
I look down to see the child woman curled up on my lap
Quietly dreaming
I stroke her sleep dampened hair and
Caress her cheek gently with my palm
Oh, child of mine
Allow me to reach in and
Cradle your wounded heart
Let me carry your pain and worry
Stirring, she turns her face revealing
A half-eyed sleepy smile
A gift I have treasured for centuries
Remembering the day
I walked through the trees of time
Lime, emerald, forest green, moss, juniper, ochre, and kiwi
Yellow tinged velvet leaves ride silver breezes
Tree people
Miraculous sacred creatures
Birthed of mother nature
Beckon me onward and inward
Towards water’s edge where moving mirrors of
Intellect and mystery await me
I walk with my companion who rides on my shoulder
The white hawk of my dreams
Narrating our passage through space and time
Howl Howl Howl
Stories above me, monkeys wearing fur
Play and swing
Screeching, flying, and tumbling through the air
Reaching sacred river’s edge
I pause and hear silent footsteps
Of the others joining
I gaze at the flowing water
Reflections of the lost ones float by
Faces of those who have passed from this life
I reach out and kiss each one with my fingertips
All of us gather ~ standing and joining hands
Collectively we reach up towards the heavens
We rise as one
Taking a moment to listen and
Receive grace from one another
A glimpse and a grin are shared
As I squeeze the weathered hand
Of my fellow human
Up Up Up Up
We float above the majestic green canopy
A glorious carpet of
Lavender clouds awaits
The day moon and the day sun kiss
As they watch us rise
A moment of gratitude shared by all
POTD
9/12/2023
Drawing
into the golden sun streaked center of clouds
Floating
Free on our unshackled journey
Drifting
In the mystified velvet of its tender flight
Searching
For the divine moments of blissful love
Riveting
In our hungry hearts bursting
Singing
To our wanting world below filled with hope
Chanting
With the breath of lifted spirits we fly
Guiding
Us to the light of serenity and revelry
Transposing
Life as our gilded gift and joyful mantra
Narrating
Our story of destiny
In divine moments our lifted spirits fly
To the center of sun filled clouds floating high
With our hungry hearts bursting
To understand...................
Why?
8/15/2019
Contest: Choose Your Own Title Vol. 7
#1. Bliss
Sponsored by Edward Ibeh
This remorse is choking me to death,
taking away all the livable breath...
leaving guilt, anguish, and wrath:
am I another insane Macbeth?
If hours slowly pass making me restless,
and through rageful images
I despise when waking up with screams:
what's their symmetry to eternity?
Much worse are the innate dreams
never imagined having fragility!
There's a young storyteller with auburn curls
who comes from the medieval town of Arthun
narrating tragedies of inseparable lovers,
who died before their given time;
he sits on a bench of the small square
that depicts the sensuality of a nude siren
laying in the middle of a stone fountain
and spewing outflowing water, she entices sensuality!
I won't attempt to fling a silver dime
in its water showing an emotional valence,
but with prudence, I'll toss it gladly and gallantly!
Since I have no luck and an unpredictable future,
his tragedies seem sympathetic to an extent;
I won't be pierced by a blade to prove I'm faithful,
I won't lay in a tomb besides my adored lady...
the times of faithfulness have ceased to exist,
finding a true one among thousands of women who care
is such a rarety, they once were found in a monastery
and their desire was to be the bride of Christ,
and they always kept a holy image never being disgraceful!
If someone is being tormented by constant remorse
for a fault which wasn't his own attempt to contemplate revenge,
or the cruel intent of harming someone without a hint of knowledge,
then he should cleanse himself thoroughly of the false belief
and continue living without idiocy until he overcomes his grief,
not exiling himself on a deserted island and suffer the worse:
neither should I who has isolated himself and writes in pathetic rhyme
avoiding to compare himself to Othello who repented for his heinous crime!
Whom do I resemble most: Othello or Macbeth?
One had dark skin, the other had fair skin,
wasn't their vile character wrecked by sin?
They were murders stripped of moral and worth!
It all comes down to
Do you believe more
in enlightening original Earth creation stories
or
in empowering messianic passion narratives.
What comes down
inhaled
drawing in light
may reasonably appear like a monotheistic weapon
to avoid patriarchal-capitalist loneliness
loss
What goes out
exhaled
empowering polytheistic tools
to embrace polypathic-cooperative
co-passions.
What are we coming down and up
in and out toward?
Life,
love,
purpose,
destiny, I suppose,
whether secularly and democratically
universally enlightening multicultural stories
or sacredly and theistically
unitarian narratives
co-empathically empowered.
Yes, I see
your massive LeftBrain verbal story
Truth OR Fiction
AND then raise our RightBrain cooperating feelings
mythically narrating more.
When I rose from ashes to rebuild;
Vulnerability, and Strength, came together
as the odd everlasting couple.
I was humble, and brave, and birthed Hope, and Passion
like any other navigating and narrating parent.
They’re all a part of me, and I would guard these qualities
with determination, with c o m p a s s i o n, with authenticity.
While failing and trying again,
Anxiety and fear moved in
[I allowed them to be only temporary]
While showing up,
I met doubt
[Learned to choose my friends carefully]
And while succeeding,
I learned to dance, to laugh, to feel free
so that I may remember that
I’m OK
I’m Good Enough
I’m Worth it
... even while losing.
See?
I learned the need to breathe, and rest,
at the standstill’s.
I learned to Flow, be aware, be alive.
I found Passion - the fundamental puzzle piece of the game.
And I b e c a m e
Hope.
Dreams sow seeds, and through the realignment of opportunities;
passion and hope nourished it all to come together;
to have my road rise up to meet me.
I harvested what I sowed,
remembering that any seed can root,
and any seed can grow,
which was why Mindfulness, and Kindness, were essential techniques,
while tending to my crops,
but also while tending to myself.
And Love?
Love was, is, and will always be, the Tree of Light
the guidance,
the very Force of my Nature
while I'm Becoming a part of it.
Thats what we are seeing.' Its going to take rank and file
Disclosure..Or maybe a recording to be found in a boot
Sale i'd hazzard' to get (a grain of fresh disclosure) from
The locked up case? Of the island predator.' Strange how
Much time this luggage has done already? Will there be a
Liable case about the case? Is it a case of its a trunk in the
Drunk tank? Sorta misplaced?? I bet some heads of states
Are sleeping a little easier.? All over the world and in stardom there heve been so few.' Movies on this.! Maybe
A feature will pop up.? Some one might screen it on a
City wall? In a very busy time ( thats the only way i''d say )
Out from the ' sound of silence?'
I believed you when you say u watch
Me grow.
Believe u say your the first person
In this family.
Making me look up to be you
Days to come.
Believe you say will move nations
Won't enter into all, at least fly over
Them.
Pride profound in all my nerves
Circulating all corners , narrating to
Every creature how it will be.
Am broken and thrown against the
Wall.
Every time you hasten like a lion that
Is greedy of his prey.
Counter attacking the cell phone,
Believe you say its not worthy weeping,
Weeping, weeping is all I remain with
Whenever you approach to leave us,
Fine , your a business man.
But we are far off crucial than that.
Believe you say you will watch me grow
And its the moment
Your leaving us for an argent business.
You have never observed my yearly
Celebrations.
Wonder if, I ever mattered to you.
Wonder if I will ever know love, love
And laughter as a united family.
Pett Ezra isaac
Even today in Texas
after twelve decades
people are narrating
the story of John,
the courageous little hero
who fought two heartless outlaws;
was he allowed to own a gun
and protect his mom screaming?
One of them resembled Deniro
with a trim beard and green eyes.
The horses frantically neighed
frightened by his fast bullets,
the older outlaw felt a sharp pain
and fell off his white horse and died;
the other tried to shoot John twice,
but he missed and fled...
how could a young boy
have shooter's skills,
was he trained by his dad who killed
a jail-breaker as he attempted to halt a train?
That makes any joker laugh realizing that
surviving in a violent town is the only way
to show others one's acquired vice,
not considering taking a life a disownment!
The outlaw's body was buried the next day
by an ironwood tree with a bright color
and the lushest foliage, but does this outlaw feel anything
going above his graves dug in red clay?
Shade or sunlight matter not to him, only someone praying
and disapproving of his death curses the young rambler!
Even the hot stones remember that fatal shooting
no rainfall could wash the bloodstains from them
and the square was proudly called John's Place,
even a monument was built to commemorate his valor;
kids gather around it and sing a hymn to his brave comrade,
anyone thinking of harming them must remember
who took the fatal shot proved that attacking
a defenseless woman is an act of cowardice that dishonors him.