Long Naturalness Poems
Long Naturalness Poems. Below are the most popular long Naturalness by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Naturalness poems by poem length and keyword.
Flame, burning flame
Not of the still mill’s furnace
Not of the scorching summer sun
Not of the volcanic hazards
The flame is youthful age
The burning flame is juvenile biological time
It burns inside the heart
It instigates the biological demand
It shows the path to douse the fire flame
Teenager comes as lover/beloved
But loses own sense in its dark flame well
Cause of naturalness in its allurement
Teenager finds not here crime, feels not guiltiness
Cause of naturalness in its enticement
That’s a divine crime adolescent body
That’s a disease of youthful biology
That is Lust………L-U-S-T thru L-O-V-E
01.09.2020 Chattogram
Scrambling over each other, trying hard to be heard, interrupting, yelling out, being yourself.
We knew how to do this when we were two, and three, and four, but they socialized it out of us.
So we grew up un-learning our naturalness, un-learning our playfulness, unlearning our potential.
Sure, they say, we are going to help you with your potential, but as we fit into the lines, conforming,
Winding our real selves into the pretenders others accept, we lose our potential, because it is
Not ours anymore, it is your idea of what ours should be. When we break ranks, and run for it,
You lament that you cannot control us. Thank goodness you cannot, for the leaders, the ones who have
Stood for hundreds and thousands of others have learned to scream their truth from the roof tops,
Challenging those who think controlling others is normal. There is nothing more abnormal than that.
The old house stands still.
Rot has set in.
A flying termite caught in the webs of a dead spider, sway to the shrill of a ceiling fan.
All things sway.
Dreams rise and suffocate in the mouldering mortars
Falling on the adjacent tiled roof.
They scream, laugh, make love, declare the infiniteness
Of their finite existence through diatribes of reality and unreality.
They are passionate bunch,
Bound by their common desire to be. And blood.
And the house just is. It still is.
Once there were sparrows in the ventilators.
And envious swallows on the palm trees.
The ripples in the pond sing their dark, merry tunes
Licking away its edges,
And they shove and trample for the whiff of north wind.
Life persists in slow, lonely decadence.
The cactus on the roof thrives in monsoon and in summer.
Basil live and die, live and die trenched in the never ending circle
Of micro-civilisation.
The house harvests its own sustenance in the whispers among its bricks
That become a collective
And a roar is heard.
They pray to Earth.
The old house is defiant,
The old house is tired.
Its melting skin sizzles and stinks of industry of old,
A glorious past always in the distant like the horizon,
The promise of bright future exposed to the misery
That is naturalness of time.
The hammer rusted, weed has grown over,
They clinch onto the sickle, like oxygen.
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Form: Free Verse
Date: 02 / 11 / 2016
Growing up in a state of the country where all the magnificence is limited to either history books or fictional literature, one hopes for something more. This is definitely a political reflection than anything else, but 'the house' is not just a metaphor, it does exist, and so do the people living in it.
The poet says that war is a wasteland.
But there is a crueller breeding.
Where those who drink coffee
And breathe the secondary smoke of their lovers
And drink the Scottish honeyed poison
And those who make slavish mortgage payments
And chase the tinselled glory of the cup
Or the greasy position
Or the fickle adulation,
Waste away in their own self.
Where the innocence of the childish
And the trust of the good man
And the naturalness of a pure women
Is hijacked by their sin nature.
The playground of the cheerful dying
is found in the skeptic of the extra dimension
who says seeing is believing;
those who are blinded by unbelief of truth.
The wasteland of the Adam nature separates death from life:
What is true from the truth,
The game from its purpose,
The mask from the face,
Tradition from it's reason,
Oil from water,
Salt from pepper,
Heaven from Earth.
Nothing eternally remains there
Nothing spiritually remains there
Only an inhabitanted wilderness
Where the heat breeds the life that rots.
What a waste.
delicate leaf faerie
clothed in naturalness
befriended fox kit once upon a time
his all-knowing amber eyes trusted her
She knew she would never let him down
hypervigilant fox recognized her benevolence
Her empathetic soul spoke to him
there was a mystical connection
together they became a beloved duo
united by their love for the woods
oaks and elms kept their secrets
gentle northern winds whispered to them
other creatures cleared a path
their allegiance recognized and revered
their leaves glistened with joy
delicate leaf faerie
and her trusted companion, fox
patrolled the ancient woods
inspiring unity, listening to ancestral voices
beloved together
There I go…watching a young girl across my garden,
her body language exposing both pleasure and piety—
soil roots tended with naturalness amidst soft gust…
Like so, she mirrors this eleven-year- old within,
curious though kind with an appetite for daring
the unknown: But I’m not prepared to replay this game—
I mean, a comeback of my innocence when nights
barrage a mind with past transgressions still in need
of hubris’ final release …totally unforgiving,
an inner critic seethes from unresolved anger.
This jovial angel is not me.
My pissed off womanhood soaks in an outpour
where catharsis escapes me,
unless I embrace battles won lost humbly :
I am not there yet.
O that little girl by the garden and my eleven-year
old self vanish that I am left alone
to bear new flowers , their tender plea…my choice.
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5/03/2019
A John lawless Contest: The Crap Shoot Poetry
As if it is whitish blanket on the body of weather
The smoky fogs are running with the morning air
Through the muddy path of village we are walking
For the juice of date tree eagerly we are searching
Delightful scent of fresh evaporated cakes of winter
Stirring up our thirst to enjoy this with full of devour
The sweetest raw sunlight of the dawn thru chirping
The environment of the Eden Garden as if composing
Drops of the wintry dew are twinkling in the crops field
Farmers are busy in caring that as true natural shield
Frosts of grassy leaves are soaking the bare feet softly
Winter coolness awakes the naturalness in man naturally
©Mahtab Bangalee
Chattogram
12/01/2023
'12 Lines of Rhyme - Winter Nature Themed' Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Tania Kitchin
RULES OF ART
so painterly
executed
considering
the innovative
&contemporary
in true naturalness
space
of
utmost import
unusually
displayed
outshone by
admiration
unsurpassed
yet
involved
as
aspects
alluding
to
handling of light
sensations viewed
in discovered
differences
admirably
singled out
then
amplified
though
connections
relaxed in
numerous
hypothesis
where
motivations emerge
as notions
surviving
in conceivable phases
&
attributes
THIS IS AN OPEN(organic) FORM VERSE without grammatical symbols the ' open' relies upon 'the one breath limitation' & so inherently requires the 'reader' (reciter) to input and respond thus making the form a two way interplay and often a unique interpretation by the enigma so derived
WILDE had a mirror
that mocked the ugliness and
deified the beauty...
Whitman had the pure
mirror of the waters with
that exalted naturalness
of the human...
Rousseau hid
in the hidden mirror of
caves of the soul, to
understand the world...
DALI everyone refuted with
mirror design
the absurd...
Sappho was mirrored in the
lust and in the wealth of the
sensory pleasure...
Wallada had the mirror
of love, so free
as existential....
me poor apprentice
of poet, I only do
and did attempted to decipher so much
beauty in so many shades... !
Wilde had a mirror
that mocked ugliness and
divinized beauty ...
Whitman had the pure
mirror of the waters with
that exalted naturalness
of the human ...
Rousseau was hiding
in the hidden mirror of
caves of the soul, for
understand the world ...
DALI refuted everyone with
mirror design
of the absurd ...
Sappho was mirrored in
lust and the wealth of the
sensory pleasure ...
Wallada had the mirror
of love, so free
as existential ....
I poor apprentice
as a poet, I only do
and I did a attempt to decipher so much
beauty in so many shades ...!