Long Observer Poems
Long Observer Poems. Below are the most popular long Observer by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Observer poems by poem length and keyword.
Here on invigorating fresh lovely day,
one can lazily saunter along the way,
through each winding street so alive,
where the heart’s bound to thrive,
each. and. every person that I meet,
is quite friendly, warm, and sweet,
throngs in cafe with trademark verve,
plot some schedule, sway and swerve,
in my role as that astute observer,
I absorb prevailing charm and fervour,
paths, pavements, highways, parks,
they compel instant recall of amusement,
from impish childhood and boisterous larks,
forever etched and somehow fondly linked to,
evolution of historic town’s bemusement,
never ever shied away from embracing anew,
preservation that monument forever to the fore,
past and present composite of lasting merit,
world so truly modern, vintage world of yore,
impetus for our future offspring to inherit
The wind blows Morning's breath into your wake...
A dragonfly speeds past, a flash of color
To show that spring's advance guards are awake
A rhythm of steps, flurries of flakes,
And all's in a hurry!
I cannot tell whether beauty or wonder
Will win this morning race...
I am a part of everything
An Observer on the Breeze
A Knight on the dragonfly's back
Shall we fly back, he and I,
To greet you? To be stunned?
Or simply to fly on past and wonder
Whether you saw us -- that's not my way!
We'll light on your sleeve
And I'll leap off
Transform into
An ordinary-sized and mellow fellow
Running alongside,
Praising your dogs,
Remarking that the sky is filled with promise
Of rain or snow this morning
And the clouds hide the Sun
Like a veiled meaning...
If I run hard
And steam my many breaths
Into the frigid air
As I introduce myself
To the dogs and to you
Will you slow
Or will we keep running
Or was it just my imagination,
The hint of a smile on your lips
A turn of your head
A nod of acknowledgement
A word...
The frosty air is coming in off the thawing lake
The dawn is five minutes into morning
And everything's just right
For conversation
I absconded with reader rabbit (Peter), to celebrate Saint Patrick's Day
Ah Sheik Hog - Ho!
One "FAKE" Wingman
think Monty Python's
Flying Circus skittering
on thin ice - Skidamarink
a dink, a dink...
hither and yon, to and fro
Via O'hare To Dublin y'know
Cuz, The Leprechaun within
me, no spring chicken bro,
nevertheless oz offer friendship in toto
good day to thee with cheerful adieu.
Though nowhere to be found despite search team
loudly trumpeting thru depleting fresh air
supply terrestrially polluted atmosphere,
asper the unknown whereabouts, regarding
said royally titled quasi legally inherited bare
naked lady loving bastard oven heated affair
son last seen donning Herringbone Wool headwear
supplemented by Irish merrino wool sweater
and custom made Hemp (smoking hot) pants
informing observer with seedy, faux debonair,
and pseudo (reed "FAKE") suave cultured couture
clothing automatically camouflaging to disappear
without a trace, thee alluded to rival to the throne
(Irish to keep ye in the dark) like chocolate eclair
secret recipe (one takes to the grave), unless held
at gunpoint by bonafide Machiavellian consigliere
ruthless if necessary forcing captive to declare
high fidelity, indemnity, loyalty, et cetera to a
life of lawlessness adopting anonymous incognito
guise accepting bewig noggin with long knotty hair
tattoo skin with "FAKE" scars to accentuate fear
factor accepting (cryptic blood bonded) brotherhood till
death do you part loot, pillage, vandalize, et cetera
in a blitzkrieg effort (albeit violently) to repair
evenly distribute disparity between 1% and 99%
grassroots uprising (peopled with migrants) spear
writ ting their exploitation at the (Taj Mahal) bear
sized paws swiping at susceptibility, vulnerability,
inequality, et cetera series of unfortunate events
decreed, instilled, ordained clamped like ironware
shackling one generation after another, an outright
outdated, on par as anachronism, feudalism, stoicism
where stark difference between rich and poor unfair,
especially, cus the latter labor sweat of their brow,
which backbreaking toil essentially endows wealthy
at expense of grunt work signalling ominous nightmare.
I saw a child sitting on a seawall
She had her legs tucked in to her chest with
Her arms wrapped around them talking to a
Beautiful mermaid.
I wondered if it was natural for a water lass
To come to call
As the sun was setting like a fireball.
I thought it must be obvious even to a casual
Observer that her tail sparkled in the water like
An expensive piece of jade.
I saw a child sitting on a seawall.
I couldn't tell if she was small or tall she was
Kinda tucked up in to a ball
Looking unafraid.
I wondered if it was natural for a water lass
To come to call
At just about nightfall.
A passer by said the water lass has been
Coming for almost a decade.
I saw a child sitting on a seawall.
The child and the water lass became friends
After the child's terrible fall as I recall
Which has made the fear of water deep laid.
I wondered if it was natural for a water lass
To come to call?
All in all
I think one day the mermaid will be able to
Persuade her to not be afraid.
I saw a child sitting on a seawall.
I wondered if it was natural for a water lass
To come to call.
We came, We saw, We conquered " Julius Caesar "
We conquered
then turned on ourselves without mercy
tens of thousands slaughtered
in the name of religion or boundaries
There have been many who wanted to rule
the world..but all is vanity
How does one rule what can't be ruled
with such a short lifespan?
The concept of a single ruler over the world
is incomprehensible in its doing
Many have tried, all have failed
Their lives are buried in the scrap heap of illusions
that is our history
Wishes and dreams is all that it is
and the cost from those who've tried
is death by the millions
their blood has soaked the ground of insanity
since we crawled out of the first cave
a small and frightened creature
Who am I..but a lone observer
to the passage of time
where life forms have come and gone
as new ones take their place
Only the seas and sky remain
mountains crumble, continents part
and man..he who wants to be King
is nothing more than a joker in Nature's court
She decides who lives and dies on the grandest scale
Man's wars are nothing in comparison,
they are mere battles
With a single plague we could all be gone tomorrow
Who would be King then?
2/20/17 contest Rule the World
I enter a cave of somber gray
feeling despondent and in dire straits.
For in this cavern night swallows day
and in its bowels my fate awaits.
Ravenous shadows consume color
giving black a sense of completeness.
And darkness pours forth like molasses
a syrup of ebony sweetness.
Stumbling blind I approach an abyss
oblivion's just inches away.
Yet fear’s subordinate and silent
a mere observer, voiceless today.
A bright light flashes before my eyes
and hesitation backs me away.
For although I can't see anything
some phenomenon caused that display.
Doubt relentlessly tests my resolve
explaining the reasons I seek death.
Yet light pierced the walls of this cave
and a feeling of hope steals my breath.
Faith penetrates my fog of despair
guiding me to recognize God’s sign.
And I cling to His loving embrace
feeling in my heart, all will be fine.
Soldier,
age 23,
interest in veterinary science.
Shot
back of the head.
Political affiliation
never mattered.
Lies still in an open casket,
draped over with an American flag.
How patriotic.
How patronizing.
Lover,
left of mother, right of father.
Me, observer,
bearing flowers.
Priest, front and center,
babbling on, reading
the same old retired lines,
dust to dust,
ash to ash,
and the like.
Bagpipes play.
Twenty-one gun salute rings out,
echoing in the hollow hearts
of family members.
I drop the newspaper containing
the boy’s obituary.
Can’t remember why I came,
wanted to pay respects.
The best thing a brother can do
is leave roses,
wilting like the paper beneath
my feet,
crumpling like his mother
on her knees now, crying.
I begin to cry, too.
Not for the boy,
more for the people who knew him.
Good man.
Too young.
Wanted to help animals.
Animals are probably locked in a cage
somewhere, yowling the same way
the ravens perched and pecking
at the ground are.
They are hungry for flesh,
the same way the dirt is,
the same way old men
who start wars are.
Nobody needs to die,
foolish, worthless, unnecessary.
The reward for a life well lived
seems to be a gravestone
with your name written on it
in a margin far too small
to capture the complexity
of what you stood
and now lie for.
What will they do
when there is nobody left to kill?
Weep?
As if they could.
The next time God floods the world,
it will be with the tears of the lonely,
and the vermin who made them feel
that way in the first place
will drown.
Angel flies overhead,
wearing uniform.
Hope lives on
even when the goodness
cannot.
Hope lives on
even when the goodness
cannot.
Believe that.
Please.
I know I will,
at least I will after I’ve finished
crying.
One hundred pushups every morning,
followed by breaking my fast with some healthy nutrition.
My outdoor activities involve miles of walking.
My indoor activities are pretty much the same thing,
however, the average observer would probably see me as nervously pacing,
but I'm not, I'm just getting my walking exercise in.
I daily practice transcendental meditation,
and when I sleep, I practice lucid dreaming.
I am either working on a poem or some invention.
Rarely do I have idle time on my hands,
and as a result, my creative process continues to expand,
whether I'm at home or on a wilderness trail endlessly hiking,
taking advantage of that time to do some external thinking.
I feel just as vibrant as I've ever been.
So happy birthday to me.
Today I reached the age of seventy,
and I'm still giving many much younger than I, a run for their money.
Half past December the dim light comes
Transfers gray images reflected on the lake
From clouds crowding the sky about to cry
Huddled near by are the strange mountains
Holding scenery together just close by
Calm facilitates a kaleidoscopic morning rite
Maneuvers with blue birds dipping down to take a drink
Makes ripples in the time line they deserve
Thirst works with maturity in harmony with nature
The common observer takes it all in at once
They come to the conclusion that all is well
There is more to be perceived if given more time
To a paradox generated to facilitate the calm
There is no sin in simply breathing
In the twilight of existence, where shadows whisper secrets to the restless soul,
Man seeks to escape himself in myth, weaving tales to hide his truth,
By any means at his disposal, he dances on the edge of oblivion,
Drugs, alcohol, or lies, each a mask to hide the fragile self within.
Unable to withdraw into the depths of his being, he disguises himself,
Crafting stories and illusions, each a fleeting sanctuary from the storm,
Lies and inaccuracies, like gentle lullabies, give him a few moments of comfort,
In the flux of consciousness, where thoughts flow and ebb like an eternal tide.
In this river of dreams, I see him, a wanderer lost in the labyrinth of his own mind,
Seeking solace in the myths he creates, a painter of unseen realities,
His heart, a canvas of longing, each stroke a metaphor for escape,
And I, a silent observer, am drawn into the melancholic magic of his journey.
He walks through the corridors of memory, each step a whisper of forgotten hopes,
The shadows of his past intertwine with the light of his aspirations,
In the depths of his despair, he finds an appearance of peace,
A fleeting mirage in the desert of his existence, where lies and truth converge.
In the darkened corners of his mind, the myths take on a life of their own,
Each a beacon of false hope, a star in the night of his solitude,
He clings to them, these fragile constructs, like a sailor to a sinking ship,
In the endless sea of his thoughts, where reality and illusion blend.
Through the haze of his deceptions, a fleeting clarity emerges,
A moment of truth, like a fleeting comet in the vastness of his mind,
He sees himself, unmasked and raw, a soul stripped of disguises,
And in that moment, the melancholic magic of existence reveals its true face.
But the moment passes, as all moments do, and he returns to his myths,
Comforted by the lies that shield him from the harsh light of reality,
In the flux of consciousness, where each thought is a wave in an endless ocean,
He finds solace, peace, in the myths that allow him to escape himself.
And so, in the twilight of existence, where shadows and light intertwine,
Man continues his dance, a seeker of myths, a creator of illusions,
In the melancholic magic of his journey, he finds the strength to endure,
A wanderer in the labyrinth of his own mind, forever searching for the elusive truth.