Long Ninety five Poems
Long Ninety five Poems. Below are the most popular long Ninety five by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Ninety five poems by poem length and keyword.
a flustered tango of Gypsy moths
drumming the porchlight; chalk artists;
the endemic disappearance of farms—silos lost
in unkempt fields; space stations; the sunlit-scent of lemon
oil on cherry wood; birth; the chasm between cultural
appropriation & cultural appreciation; the history in our dust;
loneliness & heartbreak; trivia; funky funerals;
climate change, hurricanes, earthquakes & neglected
victims; heirloom charm bracelets, homemade
wind chimes & the homing sound made by a singing bowl;
masquerade balls; cityscapes hidden in ant hills; fly
fishing; serendipitous skinny dipping; missing children,
teddy bear memorials, forensic identification, monsters
never found in sleepy towns; the horrors of zoos—
elephants gone mad, lions robbed of their pride;
book reviews; civil unrest, bad cops & good cops & young men
gunned down; brand new fire stations; cancer survivors who wear
baldness so beautifully; my favourite pair of jeans; river rocks
found by dearest hands; a letter that can never be
received; joyful celebrations; incandescent dragonfly
dreams; twenty million at risk of starving to death;
wildflowers shaking pretty little heads;
misogyny disguised as religion; forgotten veterans who die
a bit more inside every day; the rainforest, shrinking;
saintly stoners & postulant prostitutes; toxic smog;
madmen with warheads; cheese cake & ice wine;
every personalized Kama sutra move & the God-given
ecstasy of body on body language; holding hands;
why one giggle can change everything; Thanksgiving
prayers; abandoned minefields, boy soldiers & devastating
amputations; the songs of the working poor; lightning
over the lake; his timely phone calls; brotherhood & sisterhood;
love in its every form; old maps; twenty-one gun salutes;
the extinction of the Galapagos Giant Tortoise; being
five, being twenty five, being ninety-five; kites; dogs chawing
on ragged rawhide; church-like museums on a Sunday
afternoon; make-shift picnics; deja vu; thrift store
wedding dresses; long drives with comfortable silences;
fading freedoms; censorship; seamless moonlight;
introspective dalliances with self-acceptance; the power
of purpose; how to be the bigger person; how to go
in a new direction; how to rise above . . .
Can you see
the mystery
in his big brown eyes?
Can you see
The curiosity
In the realm
Where rules die
Socially awkward
My bumbling butterfly
As the wind
Blows cold
Time grows old
His flame burns long
While our flickers
Quickly dull…
No concept of worry
There’s no need
To hurry
He’s playing
He isn’t waiting…
On any of us
Anyways
One Thousand
Ninety five days
In which
Every single one
I have prayed
His innocence
Will never fade
He is saved…
Searching my son’s soul
For traces of sanity
Although indifferent
He embraces humanity
My heart is all
He demands of me
Sometimes
my smile lies
He doesn’t understand why
Because my eyes cry
On the inside
My blind faith
Helps my fears hide
Rhyme or Reason
Is it truly treason
That his never ending sunshine
Is always out of season
I yearn for his concern
To be that of a typical
Not difficult
First born son
But instead
He doesn’t look
“Just run Forest! Run!”
It brings tears
To my eyes
To not understand why
You smile through your cries
I’m not leaving forever
Only waves, never goodbyes
There are times
When I see that gleam
That leads me to believe
That there is more there
Than the eye can see
You are the epidemy
Of beauty to me
That only an angel could be
You are every ounce
Of good
That I thought was lost in me
You’re not bad
You’re different
You’re my Hero
My Heaven Sent
Not because of super powers
Or because you can fly
But because you must survive in 3D
With a 4 dimensional mind…
Survival of the fittest
I use to ask
Why God did this
Why must I live this life
I didn’t ask for
He told me
That He would show me
Like He’s never done before
“why you feel trapped,
I will provide a door.”
“When you have nothing, seek me,
and I will provide more.”
Then, He promised me,
“ When your heart feels broken, and
Around there is no one.
I already have an answer…
Go and hold your son.”
My baby is my comfort
When I can’t sleep
And he is my prayer
When Jesus weeps.
Form:
She slips in late, almost every day,
begins her work, though it’s mostly play,
first catches up with her office mates---
every detail, her loves and her hates;
each story repeated several times or more,
to everyone passing her wide-open door;
after some minutes, she grabs up the phone,
most often personal, frequent calls home,
how many messages can one woman take?
Guinness should be called, for heaven’s sake.
Some little tragedy and the drama begins,
so many times, taking all different spins,
each little event spun for more sympathy
in grand scheme to move up the company.
Then acting begins, depending on need
as she maneuvers for additional leave.
How can that be? Can there be more time
left over on this generous company’s dime?
So by morning meeting, is anything done?
Likely not, but she hoodwinks everyone.
“Oh my. I’m so busy. I think I must ask---
someone else here to take over this task.”
Then down comes the boss, and up in a flash,
she’s amazingly quick in the three-meter dash,
“Look here old man, see what I did for the job?”
And in response his weary head starts to bob,
“such a good girl, keep up the great work,”
and we all know she’s angling for a new perk.
“I worked hard at home, for at least two hours,”
she tells the guy who holds all of the powers,
while under their breath her coworkers sneer,
“she doesn’t even work when she’s stuck here.”
After morn meeting she’s back on the horn---
to mother, brother, broker, lovelorn,
not to mention her bevy of needy friends,
to whom her ear she willingly lends.
Now---perhaps---she’ll get some work in,
unless it is time for her daily luncheon.
Scheduled an hour for her time to eat,
but ninety-five minutes she seldom will beat.
And then for three hours in the afternoon,
if she works even one, it will make her head swoon,
although she’ll get up for the middle-day break,
she never misses it, don’t make that mistake.
Finally the day reaches five on the clock,
but somehow she slipped out---with earlier flock!
Twilight's Reflection's
A Tribute To" Mr. G"
By: Tom Wright
5/29/99
In life's twilight, your youth, having long been spent.
I've observed you pass the hours, reading western novels,
visiting with friends who drop in or phone,
and reflecting to those times long ago, before your back was bent
and children moved away.
To a time when others were dependent upon you
and possibly giving you feelings of greater importance.
But then, this was many Surgeries and miles of Ace bandages ago--
Before your steps slowed and a cane became a part of your daily attire.
"Mr. G", be thankful that God, has blessed you with sound mind
to recall memories of older friends and loved ones, though most are now gone.
Through flashbacks, You can relive a life spent with Sister Helen,
your garden, and your fishing trips.
You've said many times, "Oh how she loved to fish".
Maybe you reflect back to times when you felt more important?
Or at least you were made to feel that way by friends and associates.
Perhaps that was before your mature years.
But maybe you should think of current times,
of the changes seen and lessons learned in your ninety five years.
The lessons, that often you paid an enormous price to learn, you give away.
Of the things that only few know, have seen, and remain to speak of.
Of the tracks you have made in your life and once more you should see,
You are still important!! In closing, I, [Tom] am persuaded.
That nothing really matters, that all is vanity.
For all that I have accomplished, or will accomplish in this life,
will be as filthy rags in the sight of God.
My casket will not be equipped with saddlebags.
I arrived at this party with nothing and will leave the same way.
The life I live in Christ, and the treatment of my fellow man,
are the things that matter.
These alone, will stand the test of fire.
God speed
The year was Ten Ninety Five,
Christianity by decree.
Off to the Holy Land men were sent,
to set all Christians free.
Peter the Hermit was first to go,
church unsanctioned was the start.
Whipping followers into a frenzy,
with holy words he would impart.
But Peter's quest would be doomed,
for he behaved badly upon the way.
Thieving and ransacking homes
while persecuting Jews in the fray.
He had not even left English shores,
when racism whispered in his ear.
If they were to kill enemies afar,
should they not start right then and there.
The Jewish peoples had lived in quiet,
amongst the Christians until then.
But to them Peter would soon become
vicious foe and never friend.
Jews were always looked down upon,
but hadn't been opposed you see.
But Peter lacking funds for the crusade,
slaughtered Jews for their prosperity.
A tale that has been repeated,
time and time again.
Look into the future now,
as the world goes insane.
For Peter and Adolf were akin,
so like in thought and threat.
To kill for profit they undertook,
preaching violence was their mindset.
On Peter waged, his opposer's,
would feel the blade of his sword.
As Peter marched with certainty,
to defend against Muslim horde.
Across Europe they marched,
until Constantinople was in sight.
Alexis didn't know what to do,
so shipped them to Turkey in the night.
Peter took up residence in a Castle,
home of a Turkish King.
But King Arslan realized the danger,
that this crazy monk would bring.
So one night he ambushed them,
as into the castle they crept.
Not a single crusader was left alive,
from Turkey the threat was swept.
Thus ended the People's Crusade,
the next wave would soon arrive.
To the land of milk and honey,
where Christianity would now thrive.
Fan Fiction
The Gospels and Acts, fan fiction for all,
Written decades after the epistles of Paul.
Paul knew nothing of Jesus’ life.
Not his birth, his miracles, his disciples or his strife.
So decades after he supposedly died,
Believers craved more backstory, applied
To the life of Jesus to make him seem,
As great as any other god’s meme.
Mark is the oldest, scholars agree.
With Matthew and Luke using a tremendous degree,
Of Mark’s tale of Jesus and we can see,
Because Greek syntax is as fluid as a language can be.
After Mark came Matthew and then came Luke.
Only fundamentalists care to rebuke.
So in reality we do not have three
In the Greek it’s plain to see.
Word for word, anyone can see,
Only hard core believers will disagree.
Matthew used ninety five percent of Mark,
And in his account, he will embark,
On adding to the tale, his own events,
Making Jesus more divine as he adds his contents.
Seventy five percent of Mark is in Luke,
And of course, some want to refute
This, but once again it’s in plain site,
Accepted by most without a fight.
Further what is seen in Gospels one and three,
Is that even more of the words in those agree.
About a quarter of Matthew and Luke’s two books,
Are only found in these two, gadzooks!
This means that Matthew and Luke,
Are mostly the same and this is no fluke.
Their goals were to add to each previous tale,
And in their goals, they did not fail.
So in the end it’s important to see,
The synoptic gospels really aren’t three.
Mimesis and additions, no matter the way,
Just make our god the best to pray
To.
And keep in mind, this is all after Paul,
Who says nothing of Jesus and Jesus’ cabal.
So in the end, for all to see,
It’s just fan fiction amongst the three.
So long I have lived, almost ninety-five years
I have laughed and cried ten thousand tears
As I'm lying in my bed with my wife by my side
I want to tell her a couple of secrets before I had died
Holding her warm wrinkled hand in mine, I wondered if I should
Should I spill the beans, let the cat out of the hat, would it do her any good
You see, when I was half my age I am right now, the devil came to say hello
I was at the theatre, all by myself, just trying to enjoy the show
In an empty seat right next to me, a women sat dressed in red
As we sat sharing smiles watching the show, a thought came inside my head
To make a long story short, the lady in red and I, we both hit it off that night
When I woke up by her side, I wondered, was it wrong or was it right
Now that I am old and tired, it's time to tell my wife divine
But before I could tell her, my last breath runs short _______________
So, the old man never got to tell his wife his secrets. One might think as the story suggests that the old man once cheated on his wife. Actually this is not true at all. You see, the lady dressed in red is the same women with the warm wrinkled hand in which the old man is holding. She became his wife of forty-five years.
The Secret- The secret he kept from her all these years was about the empty seat that was next to him in the theatre. The reason it was empty was because his date that night had blew him off and never showed up. Also, while watching the show he had spilled some Pepsi on his lap, the women in red thought that he did it accidentally, but it was done intentionally because he accidentally peed himself while watching the show. (lol)
The Last Dance Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Craig Cornish
7/9/2021
I scorn thee, Puberty! Damn thee as well,
Thou abominable herder of shame,
Will thou findeth glee by my told sarspell?
I beseech thee of ineffable name,
Rendereth thineself as quiet slain game,
For thine cruel ends be reached, let thine eyes droop,
Immortal Rite, meeteth Poetry Soup.
Forsaken specs findeth young Phillip (me),
He the first noble son born of Sir Mike,
That betrothed Diane, mother of he (me);
Neareth NASA lived they by Houston’s dike,
We plus two girl offsprings I still dislike;
Turneth back time to nineteen ninety five,
Thus now the setting as ocean, we dive.
I of ten years then plus three more years aged,
By mine mom’s woven hand rags yet adorned,
Draperies bindething spirits encaged,
Mine lot too ignorant still ‘be forlorned,
For two years would pass ‘fore Nike I yearned;
Looken now friends, at thine narrator’s dress,
Mine costumes for school were each mismatched mess.
And hath we not yet speaketh mine afro?
Then let us for humor’s saketh too laughs
For atop mine snow pale flesh did it grow!
It was beneath that nest mine brain did graphs
On one Tuesday morn; during sixth grade math,
Unbeknownst of a sneaking wretched pest:
That ineffably named prepubescent guest.
Still in present times remember I can’t,
What the hell kindled mine loins ablaze,
Yet fiery flames of embarrassment
Secretly smoldered through my brainy haze;
When mine teacher upon me called that I raise,
And thus stirred the scene I’ve oft reflected,
The moment I’ve chosen for my most embarrassing?
When in 6th grade math class I stood up…
…fully erected
Enter apartment, ready to paint
Open the door and empty it ain't
Apartment not empty or unoccupied
Furniture everywhere someone has lied
Previous day, nineteen ninety five
Parked rented truck ready to drive
One single woman packing in haste
Filled to the top no room to waste
Unable to paint let one week pass
Return to the job no sign of the lass
Full of furniture time has stood still
Come back next week right now just chill
This is week two job is in doubt
Landlord orders furniture out
Donates items to new family in wait
Family from Haiti in need of the freight
Now it's all empty jobs good to go
Where is the lass no one does know
Prepare for the plaster and ready to paint
Soft knock on a door interruption was faint
Open the door elder man does request
All of the furniture now he is stressed
Landlord explains this tenant has fled
Weeks have passed no word was said
Father of daughter explains in strife
Daughter no longer has taken her life
Behind was left a husband, two sons
Heavy the burden weight in the tons
While loading the van can anyone know?
That she was thinking which way to go
Confusing the conflict inside her mind
All of them mingled and intertwined
Continue to paint apartment fourteen
Woman who left this worldly scene
Pondering heavy could words have been said
If they were? would be here instead?
Who's to know the outcome for sure
Only one fact she could not endure
Thoughts of her family are on my mind
Find the time show goodwill be kind
When Iceland rose majestically,
A volcanic isle, born of the sea.
This land, that continents divide,
A place where fire and ice reside
And Norsemens sagas, too were born.
Goddess Aurora, brings the dawn,
Thor is thunder, God of war,
Odin seeks wisdom it's folklore.
A pagan faith forever blind,
Nature is savage,sometimes kind.
Those cold North winds began to blow,
And wintertime delivers snow.
An idyll village by a stream,
Resplendent in a poet's dream.
Aurora dances through the night,
Fantastic bands of coloured light.
A blizzard came, the snow lay deep,
The mountain slope began to creep,
With noise like thunder from a gun,
An avalanche was on the run.
A mighty force, it's rushing sound,
Engulfing everything around.
The village now is buried deep,
For rescuers , no time to weep.
Where do they search beneath the snow,
No landmarks; so, how do they know?
Nature has shown her savage face,
This avalanche, her fall from grace.
The year was nineteen ninety five,
And twenty souls they did survive.
For twenty more eternal peace,
Oh! When will nature ever cease?
Is this the price they had to pay?
To live in fear another day.
On land and sea, just as before,
Mankind and nature, still at war.
As ancient runes, inscriptions tell,
This land where both can never dwell.
As legends say in every tale,
This constant struggle to prevail.
When man holds out an olive branch,
Nature, becomes an avalanche.
2/ 21/ 2015.