Long Objects Poems
Long Objects Poems. Below are the most popular long Objects by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Objects poems by poem length and keyword.
THE PAINT MOVER Artist
In the brilliants I grasp my brush
Blending color so glorious
THE PAINT MOVER Artist
My tints, shadows, and hues
Transposed such a view
THE PAINT MOVER Artist
And when I’m done with this work
For I am an artist
And I paint with a brush and other objects
My works are stared at…people come go see'em
At book clubs, library's and museums
THE PAINT MOVER Artist
For the paint moves
As I hold my brush
The paint moves
As my loving touch
THE PAINT MOVER Artist
I am the paint mover
A renown artist
I am the paint mover
I paint with a brush
THE PAINT MOVER Artist
10/09/18
For The Paint Mover(s) Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Anthony Slausen
The need to do things escapes me
However, there are things that must be done
I have eliminated dishwashing
Well not entirely
Just wash the one plate and fork
After every meal
Cooking has been modified
Can opener and/or microwave
I only vacuum when the cat complains
The dust “kittens” look like large mice
Fashion wise I have a rotating sequence
Flannel shirts, pants when required,
A sketchy seven o-clock shadow beard
Exercise primarily consists of
Picking up items I have dropped
For mental stimulation
I lose arguments with inanimate objects
And battle with AI “customer service” bots
For excitement I sit by the tracks
Waiting for a train to stir up a poem
"And so it is, that both the Devil and the angelic Spirit present us with objects of desire to awaken our power of choice. There is an invisible strength within us; when it recognizes two opposing objects of desire, it grows stronger."
( Rumi)
The Narrow Line
There are divisions on life’s narrow line
where paths on left unite with paths on right.
Those crossroads we encounter, intertwine;
must choose which way- and oft, by dark of night.
On left, perhaps the Devil’s wish we turn;
on right, a path more blessed by God we find.
The choice can lose the soul with no return,
or help it rise to happiness refined.
With God and Devil, we must live our years;
the balance is an act we face each day.
At times, the narrow line is blurred by fears;
go right, go left- a choice to make and pray-
the one we choose will be a soulful quest;
our only judge- a conscience well at rest.
Her story ends in a storage unit;
she wrote it quickly in-between bottles of Liebfraumilch
- her life so far,
an autobiography hard to imagine
could have been told in any other way.
The editing took many toll-taking years
decades that squeezed themselves into her soul
fearful of being overheard.
A tell-tale flotsam of hurried escapes,
the litter of abandoned rented apartments,
dockets of disarray, a tally of wrong choices,
unkept residue locked away for a better day.
Among the put-away, a ‘little brother’ manual typewriter
in a suitcase marked ‘mine,’
one edge crushed by a jumble of household items.
Various chunks of collateral clutter,
now stricken in a clamshell of dinge,
objects acquired when the idea of a ‘household’
had a life raft attached to it.
Perhaps one day she will be in place, perfectly set
and equipped to fit somewhere,
but as yet she finds herself unable to write
about certain uncertain matters.
Could have pawned the typewriter.
Could have found less impoverished lovers.
Could have paid the storage bill
before it was emptied,
Should have retrieved the typewriter,
would have then rewritten her life
from a muddled manuscript of memory
forsaking all other versions.
The defamatory claims and the offensiveness,
The capacity to distinguish objects by the swiftness
Direct statements related to the correctness,
Enhancing one's level of moral effectiveness.
Contradictions throughout the course thickness,
We've come to a fork in our trip to homelessness.
All hopes and dreams have faded with happiness.
The truth was concealed behind the darkness.
I'm arriving familiar with the ending of the loneness.
Human integrity is hidden under eternal nothingness.
Where to learn receiving peace via sin forgiveness?
How can we beget abounded generosity and kindness?
Furthermore, strive for the most exact faithfulness.
And find the urge to feed and feel the gracefulness.
We will not be conveyed criterion of moral rightness.
Spirit of unrest rouses me from my wakefulness.
Written: December 10, 2021
The world doesn’t tend to give you what you want
Give me a locked box, the indescribable taunt
What if she was feeling generous?
In a moment of empathy, some severance
My fingers delve deep and rummage
I’d pay your entry fee, some sort of tonnage
Reaching past the gold, the silver
Some objects the victims to pilfer
I can feel it beating at the bottom, submerged by guilt
Picking up the shattered pieces, always knew you needed rebuilt
I'll spend all night putting you back together
Please let me talk to you, I can feel our tether
Your heart was broken in the bottom of my box
Why you left it with me is a total flummox
I chose to return your heart back to you, as you repaired mine
Maybe this time my act of kindness will cause us to intertwine
The world doesn’t tend to give you what you want
But if you give me a chance, maybe I can
Unfit Gifts
by Rabindranath Tagore
loose translation by Michael R. Burch
At sunrise, I cast my nets into the sea,
dredging up the strangest and most beautiful objects from the depths ...
some radiant like smiles, some glittering like tears, others flushed like brides’ cheeks.
When I returned, staggering under their weight, my love was relaxing in her garden, idly tearing leaves from flowers.
Hesitant, I placed all I had produced at her feet, silently awaiting her verdict.
She glanced down disdainfully, then pouted: "What are these bizarre things? I have no use for them!"
I bowed my head, humiliated, and thought:
"Truly, I did not contend for them; I did not purchase them in the marketplace; they are unfit gifts for her!"
That night I flung them, one by one, into the street, like refuse.
The next morning travelers came, picked them up and carted them off to exotic countries.
Memory obeys laws we haven't written yet:
conservation of moments, entropy of joy,
the way certain scenes remain in perfect focus
while entire years blur into approximation.
Like light, it bends around massive objects
grief strong enough to warp the space around it,
so that walking through a doorway twenty years later
you emerge in a state that no longer exists.
Forgetting is not subtraction but transformation,
a change of state from solid to liquid to gas,
the way ice becomes water becomes vapour
still present, just harder to hold.
Scientists say nothing is truly lost,
only converted into different forms of energy.
So perhaps the birthday I can't quite remember,
the name that hovers at the edge of retrieval,
have simply changed frequency, moved beyond
the narrow band my brain can tune into,
still broadcasting somewhere in the spectrum,
still real, just inaccessible.
Or maybe forgetting is mercy in disguise
the mind's way of editing the rough cut,
removing the footage of ordinary happenings,
leaving only the scenes that mattered most.
But sometimes I wonder what's archived
in those deleted files: what casual afternoon,
what throwaway remark, what ordinary touch
might have been the thing worth keeping most.
“Ceasing to sway, get out of your own way ~
That love and light bursts forth, like a sun ray”
~ quote, by poet
____________________________
Believing ourselves to be mind-body,
we pursue objects of our heart's desire,
more oft than not, employing thoughts shoddy,
immersed in delusion, until we tire,
whereupon we internalise focus,
shifting baton of awareness to heart,
divine entwined along the love locus,
deeming all souls as one, with none apart,
ascending thus, along octaves of love,
as bubbling joy becomes rapturous bliss,
enabled when head and heart, hand in glove,
feeling here now complete, nothing amiss.
We stoop to conquer, when we surrender,
as resounds within, soundless bliss thunder.
04-July-2022
HMS, Rhymezone
Theme: Life
It's All About Three Q's Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Constance La France
Hidden in plain sight
Enigmatic space abounds
Omnipresence quiet
Beyond skies, below ground
Objects crystallised therein
Of which we too are one
Awareness in each within
As subject, objectifying the sun
Unified space, singular awareness
Flowing through flickering transience
Imbibing from each consciousness
Experiences garnered in this parlance
Dreams within dreams, thus play on
Void in stillness exiting this dynamic play
Each breath released, as we be reborn
We surf the waves, yet do not sway
Thus when subject and object merge
When our will to the That One bends
We feel in permanence divine bliss surge
As the purpose of dreaming ends
19-May-2021