Long Of import Poems
Long Of import Poems. Below are the most popular long Of import by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Of import poems by poem length and keyword.
I find myself in this moment, reflecting on many instances -
ones that brought great joy or pain, some that brought change
or love or death, extraordinary moments of memorable things,
and a million moments in-between of varied levels of import ...
The thing that ties them all together, the common thread that weaves
the tapestry of life - that ties this blessing of breaths and heartbeats
into a bow - is that each moment, each precious period of time's
steady passing, is given to us to make of as we see fit ...
To take into our spirit's hands with care and intent, as a raw, soft clay
for our molding ... to think deliberately on its design and purpose,
allowing for space, order, simplicity, and contemplation, and focus not
on the destination, but accept as a rare and precious gift.
We ALL have the power within us to shape that clay to our choosing ...
to form blessing or a bane, to create something to recall and cherish,
or something to cast onto the breath of indifference and apathy ...
to receive with joy and reward, or let drive us into defeat.
No one moment is any more or less extraordinary than another,
except in regard to how we shape it, or how we let it shape US ...
for learning to appreciate ALL the moments in this journey,
is learning to be truly happy ... truly ... at peace.
~ 3rd Place ~ in the ZEN Poetry Contest, Line Gauthier, Judge & Sponsor.
~ 9th Place ~ in the "In The Moment Of Time" Poetry Contest, Kai Michael Neumann, Judge & Sponsor.
he watched …
as it fell to the slate floor
glinting its polished golden husk in the
late morning sun
it should’ve bounced, as any
ring would of normalcy
but this, it was NOT …
leagues and lifetimes from it, actually
its behavior betraying the
dark matter within
as it landed with a single loud thud -
‘too loud’, he thought, as he
watched his dear little friend turn and
trudge away down the shire path …
he stood static to the floor
head dipped and eyes peering suspiciously at
it over half-lens spectacles -
as if looking at the devil himself
(not far from the truth) …
and after an overlong consideration
he stooped slowly and reached,
pausing a moment
(more debate)
then pinched it between thumb and
forefinger to lift it from the floor
but … it stuck …
he pulled harder, then harder yet
and finally picked it off the stone tile -
with much too much effort afforded an
object of its diminutive size
and this, as he placed it on the mantle beside him
(leering at it all the more)
quite disturbed him …
so, as was his usual custom at such
concerning moments
he ‘humphed’ to himself,
sat down on a leather hassock behind him
and dug his pocket, deep …
another pinch, this one unseen, and out
came a wad of Old Toby
straight into his churchwarden pipe
and lit with care -
weed-scented brume rings circling
his straggly silver locks
and disappearing high into the
shadowed eaves
along with his now shadowy thoughts …
this simple gold ring had
no simple history
this was a dark object of malevolent intent
forged in the fiery bowels of Mt Doom
and melded with an evil power to
obliterate all such talismans that
had come before it
and all to be made hence
he knew its history well, as any
wizard of import would
and he knew with dreadful certainty
that his life AND his path had now
changed in a troubling and
sobering way,
and that nothing in his once bright and
enjoyable existence
would ever again …
be the same.
Control of breathing is quite complex
And if you really check the specs
You find all kinds of balances and checks
Within the medulla, cells playing their role
The DRG, inspirational control
Using cyclic neurons for their goal.
Actions potentials from the DRG
These cells are cyclic and fire intermittently.
Then muscle contract to the best of their ability.
To the external intercostals and diaphragm they talk
And these muscles, at the neurons’ stalk
Follow orders and they do not balk.
And when they stop, the muscles relax.
Air is forced out as muscle slacks.
Volume decreases and Boyle’s Law acts.
So breathing in costs ATP
That means the use of energy
But calm expiration? It’s just free.
But when you need to force air out
Or at something, really shout
The VRG is what it’s all about.
It talks to abdominal muscles as well
As internal intercostals to make pressure swell
And air in the lungs can no longer dwell.
The Apneustic center in the pons is a source
Of a center dealing with force
Of an inspiration’s course.
The pneumotaxic center deals with duration
And both centers talk to each medullary station
And help regulate breathing condition.
The limbic system has some sway
In breathing fast or slow at bay
More than most realize, an important say.
And the hypothalamus, always of import
With its influence never falls short
In aiding ventilation, it lends its support.
For other than limbic, it deals with fever
When it tips the temperature lever
And makes ventilation a greater achiever.
Lastly there’s the cortex of the brain,
Whose job most think, is always to reign.
But when it comes to breathing, it is quite plain.
You can’t stop breathing by your will.
The lower centers always still
Make breathing a reflex, cortex input almost nil.
And just what drives this reflex to ventilate?
From where does the need originate?
From the chemoreceptors, it does emanate.
Receptors monitoring proton concentration.
Then messages sent without cessation
To the brainstem for increasing ventilation.
And hydrogen ions, where are they from?
Carbon dioxide and water, voila, they come.
The magic formula, carbonic acid does succumb.
*** In Simple Lines Poeetry Comes ***
(“You must habit yourself to the dazzle of the light and of every moment of your life…” Walt Whit an, “Leaves of Grass”)
My lines —
My life…
Riding moments,
Raising poetry
Like Beauty feels
Glorious
As Mother Nature is — when her winter here ends —
Brought on to her time of re-birth —
Sprouting life on toward the sun
From and within layers of earth
As Springtime’s newest whimsies grow
Dew-tipped on all and dawn vibrant ‘tho ephemeral…
Words of import
In simple combinations
Phrased memories come
To waves of fields of grass —
With their repeated reciting
Of Poetry’s honored lines’ past
And then, in sequenced words,
Time has amassed
The little aspects of me —
Presented and quite apt for pennings of similes,
Or for drawing on some imagery —
In my heart —
My simple lines were found
Stemming from radiant peace
Or ardent hours,
With persistence versing inspirations
Into my simple lines.
With all attention closely given
To reverberating echoes of a quintessential metaphor
From melodies ‘oft playing unnoticed in the air
Always
Some distance from just so close
By the fields of Spring’s fresh grasses —
Lyric-tipped all
Invite…Await
Wandering poets with thirsty pens.
E——————————————————————————————-
(c) sally young eslinger 1/21/2023
Thanks be to God…
Ever have a day that felt meaningful
for little to no reason at all?
A day where little happened, naught of import,
and yet by the end you know just who you are?
Today was a day like that, for me.
Today was nothing special, wasn't even that fun;
I had school, I had work, and not much else,
but something is undeniably... right.
Yesterday marked a year since I left the Corps,
a year of freedom, adulthood, choice.
If anything *that* should have been the day
causing me to write anything at all.
Besides some excitement and rejoicing, though,
it felt just a day, any day.
Today, some annoying things happened,
some pleasant, some funny, none amazing;
today, by all reason, should have also
felt just a day, any day.
Yet it doesn't, and in memory won't,
and only the muse knows why.
A year and a day ago I watched those chains
slump from my body, but the nightmares clung.
Yesterday I heard echoes of them
hitting the floor, but also recalled their grasp.
Today I watched the mist and the rain
and felt free to be human, to live, to smile;
today the sun came out at night, and I watched
those ghosts succumb to it, fade just a little more.
I thought today was just a day, any day -
but instead it was a gift.
Sometimes it feels
as if I am carrying it as a child in its womb.
It is yet unformed,
but it has searching plasmid eyes
that see in the dark.
It is unnamed and dispersed as threads and fragments,
but I sense its weight.
In the beginning (that ‘beginning’ is always nebulous),
there is an impulse,
a motive pressure that cannot yet
be translated into words;
at that time (‘that time’ is always uncertain),
it is a kernel of import, yet still meaningless.
If I don’t force it to appear
it will gestate, gather a form around it.
If we are sensitive to the creative process
we will know
It is not the words we hear inside us
but the passing of muted footsteps
as they enter a reason to be born.
Perhaps after all. it’s not the poem coming through us
but we coming through the poem?
I sit alone, invisible, on this chair
In a climate conditioned 22.
Surrounded by pin-boards, computers and boxes
At a grey corner desk in a zoo.
Detachable shelves hang, offering a space
To put all our things of import.
People whisper and gossip and mutter and moan
Complaining about public transport.
Glass walls are spotless, cleaned beyond clean,
I sit quiet and silent and wonder
Who fills these filing cabinets with heaps of piles
Of forms too many to number.
The clock, the exit sign, first aid, water bottle
There’s so much fun stuff to look at.
Nah, not really, it’s dull as all heck,
My earphones block out the chit chat.
This music blocks thoughts, blocks phone conversations,
Blocks noises of office and drawers.
Allows me to focus on the book I am writing
On how to teach maths to the scores.
Teaching gifted, and strugglers, hotshots and lazy.
How to engage every single school student.
To inspire their minds, how to make them solve problems
So their life can experience improvement.
I sit alone at this desk, this desk of deep thought,
In an office of busy and clean,
Not to be entertained or amused or treated
But to strengthen the mind of the teen.
Dear Fellow Humans,
Why are We Here?
To Me, It is to improve and Make this place better.
To Add and Not to Subtract.
To help and or Assist where Ever We Can, Whenver we can.
Urgently-We Need to cut the Bull and lies.
Those ain Helping.
And Focus More on Honesty, Kindness, Love, Trust, Justice/Fairness, Freedoms.
Try Your Endeavour Best to be able to boast that you did at least 1 Good Deed Every Single Day.
Give It A Thought. And if you find or conclude that I omitted something of import,
I Humbly Invite You and Beseech you to Put it in the Comments Please, Please.
If You come up with Anything no matter how small or simple.
I Challenge You To. Take Me up on My Challenge.
Contribute to this all important summit or check on Humanity.
Share Your Thoughts/ideas.
I May be wrong , But I am convinced that there is more Evil in the World Than Good.
So If possible help me in this Constant forever Battle of Good vs Evil in any way you can.
In A World where we keep seeing Bad Mind and Bad Mindedness keep triumphing over Goodness.
I Forgot to mention More Peace, Peacefulness, Peace Of Mind required and Less War, much less Warishness and Conflict and unmitigated Strife. Stop Skin Fear, Terror, Injustice and War(s).
Bring More Togetherness, Unity, down with division, less deviousness, and Malice/Malevolence and Deceipt.
I have a friend-Not So Much Me- who has this odd, crazy, ***** belief that one day the world will be a sweet peaceful, tranquil haven void of warfare. I really really would like her rather arcadic dream to come true..
Perhaps we can each make an effort at least.
Please Remember I will Cherish your imput. I require and solicit yur kind indulgence.
A busy wife and mom, she always seemed late
But she didn’t know why, at times she would wait
When a sense of urgency was of great import
Especially to those waiting, most in need of her support
For those of us wondering, “How could she always take so long?”
Since it wasn’t obvious why, oft was heard a car horn
But many times I noticed, even as a small lad
There was intent in her lateness, usually to aid something or someone who had
A need greater than ours, or those we were meeting
Like our dogs needed water, or the horses needed feeding
Or, stopping to talk to an elderly neighbor
Who had just learned of an illness that caused them great labor
There was the time when she stopped the car to explain something of import
We got to ask many questions, she never cut us short
I also remember a stressful day, one where we were late for carpool
And an irate father took it out on her, very un cool
Later that night I could hear her crying as we went to sleep
And I prayed for an angel to visit and tell her not to weep
And to show her how her small decisions to be late
Greatly affect people and other’s lives, which then go on to create
Such a wonderful world for us all to enjoy
If we just keep in mind, that if all of us too employed
A sometimes-slight hesitation, a thought of others before plunging ahead
We’d all get to experience a life with more threads
That fulfills that promise to our creator who asked
Only that we fill our lives with greater weight
And maybe, just maybe, it’s because we’re a few minutes late
SURROUNDINGS
lfestyle
discerned
in
billowing
images
of import
a
foray
with
shadows
a
source
of inspiration
a
genuine
suprise
to
illustrate
&
reflect
fascination
in
an
etched
manner
susceptible
to
the
particular
to
emulate
&
experiment
ensuring
an
effective
self conscious
perfection
NOTE:THIS IS AN OPEN(organic) FORM VERSE using spaces&breaks without grammatical symbols ,the ' open' relies upon 'the one breath limitation' & so inherently requires the 'reader' (reciter) to input and responds thus making this enigmatic form a two way interplay & interpretatIon unique to the moment& changing according to mood is inherently variable.