Long Opening Poems
Long Opening Poems. Below are the most popular long Opening by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Opening poems by poem length and keyword.
Let us drift from far away to being there,
and see where it will take us, let us prepare,
bridging that opening from abstract to true,
for a cruise of dreams to the truth of presence,
grasping experience being where it counts,
making the unknown known, mirror that matter.
A broken tricycle, a leg cast, prepare,
for the schoolyard of kids' mouths to ears, matter,
scratched words and sketches of art in my presence.
Parents laughed, "That's not art?" Nope, Japanese counts?
ABC until fancy, 123, there!
How many years of this? Some fun, and not true.
Offense tricky, defense nasty, trophy counts,
ratios and fractions, Algebra methinks true,
cursive script, Calligraphy, I must prepare,
write a review of the movie we saw there,
flip eggs without a mop, takes time, no matter.
Graduation Day, in my parents' presence.
Now, baby makes three, mom, you, and me, matter.
Caribbean in the 70s presence.
I got my first house at twenty years old, there,
Now, I'm 21, and I hate beer; that's true.
Our family grows; road trips, I must prepare.
Oakland, Caribe, and Montreal, it all counts.
Bellman Tom Hanks blogs about his tenure, true,
Tom's the culprit of my wayward poem, from there,
Hustler's Mag. paid me ($). Christian poem, ugh, that counts?
Oakland Airport Hilton Inn, me (?), no matter,
'Apollo 13,' 'Da Vinci's'; post presence,
Ron Howard, a month here, got 'Splash', too; prepare.
Worked the desk, or at home; calls, comp. vids. presence,
Nineteen-seventy-six/twenty-sixteen, counts,
forty years; retired. Family matter,
moving back with the kids as I now prepare.
Spanish wife passed two thousand one; she's missed true.
Four boys, three girls, fourteen grand, five great-grand, there.
Besides my wife, my third son passed in a car accident there, in his wife's presence. The kids will prepare for my arrival, home, and possessions sold, not my acreages of land, that's matter for the kids. My family counts, it's time for us to gather, until my number comes true.
Written: March 2024
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Hold a revered status globally.
Strength only shines through when the glow appears.
unfolding behind them.
I sought out darkness.
I searched everywhere but found none.
I peered into my heart,
discovered the largest one.
Gently, my heart beats.
The future unfolds predictably.
Sailors had many vessels for water.
Fruits won't appear through force.
Explore all available books.
Wisdom is gained, not conferred.
Insight for the enlightened.
Four letters embody love.
We set out from our homes.
Our heads were shrouded with dust.
We bravely dodge forward.
grasping our lives in our hands.
Within our mortal gathering
existence is but a visitor,
A deep longing drives us.
to achieve sacrifices.
Youths pursue success with enthusiasm.
wielding blades to achieve their aims.
The process exacts a bloody toll.
but the stars shine on those
who demonstrate their love.
and pitch their place in history.
through daring and sacrifice.
The ego within forced me to resist.
But now I wish I had effused a love mist.
With aplomb and flair, I left it there.
For self-aware souls passing by who opt to pair.
I was so afraid of being seen.
Of being judged, of being keen,
I hid my true self away.
And let my ego have its say.
Now I realize, I am worthy of love,
including yours.
I am flawless just the way I am.
and I am ready to stand up for myself.
I'm letting fade of my ego.
And letting love flow
And I'm ready to be unfurled.
I'm Opening my heart to the world.
Hey Whiskey Daddy
It’s your booze you liked best
You were a pretend preacher
Who would never confess
Twenty Five dollars
You got that fake degree
You felt full of false pride
as you baptized little me
Your ten year old bartender
Mixing your Whisky well
I kept your dirty secrets
Because I was to afraid to tell
Ya Whiskey Daddy
That thirst you couldn’t quench
I still remember your breath
I can’t forget that stench
The nectar of the Devil
Did it help you to forget?
Losers gamble their futures
and rarely win the bet
Hours of pretend preaching
Without opening the good book
Your demons were plenty
But you had the right look
Holier than though
Cheap whiskey in a flask
They all hung on your words
You so loved your mask
Nothing lasts forever
There’s a piper to pay
Whiskey Daddy you’re gone
and the world’s better this way.
There once was a man
Resident of nay
A traveler in a sense
A nomad, you could say
His profession? You ask?
Well, the man is a magician
A performer in a sense
This nomad of a man traveled
Went on tour
His magic earned its marvels
The eyes that all adored
One day, he stands
His opening act and cries
"Come fourth, I need a volunteer"
A little boy stands from his seat
He crosses the room with his little kid feet
Egar, was he, for the magician to meet
He approached the stage and was lifted up on
The magician handed down the mic
And with his little kid hands
The little boy grabbed
The amplifying device
With his little kid voice
He stated his name
Even his age
And when the nomad prompted,
He shared his favorite game
The little boy helped
With his little kid hands
And his little kid voice
And his little ability to understand
He locked the magic man with handcuffs
He drew and showed the crowd his card
He stood around
The whole show
The magic man's assistant
Then, at the end
His participation appreciated
The magician says to the crowd
"Who liked the little boys show?
Who thinks he did swell?"
The crowd jumps and lets out big "woo!"s
But there is one man
A man with his eyes downcast
And his hands on his lap
Who makes no sound
The magician, happily, points the man out,
He says "You, sir"
"Why do you not clap?
Do you think this poor little boy's performance was bad?"
He says "I do, I cannot lie,
I will not shout, or jump for joy"
Now, for obvious reasons
The little boy is sad
Now the little boy
Believes he did bad
The magician leans down
Tells the boy to cheer up
Says, "no matter what it is, an assignment or a job,
"An essay or a project
"Someone won't like it, and that's okay,
"Maybe it's not that person's favorite
"There is no reason to linger on it
"They like what they like
"And you wrote what you wrote
"What matters is not the majority vote
"What's done is done
"Now that's in the past
He tells the little boy
"Now there's where your vision casts"
He turns the little boy
By his little kid shoulders
Says "focus on the good
"And forever be happy"
and that's from the magician
Who's never told a story.
My mind wanders these days, in the familiar space between us, between yesterday and tomorrow. Here, in this now, when the day is unfolding beautifully, I feel more alive than I did yesterday, than I will tomorrow.
And throughout this dawn, when aliveness is the sun, while you lie peacefully dreaming, I reach toward you. From your breath that draws my hand upon your chest, where it rests and lingers on the quiet lifting.
For I will never know the moment it passes; it will go into the wheeling hands of memory. My fear: that you will forever be etherized in the tenderness of my heartbeat.
Here, in this now, when our breathing aligns under a new morning sky, I drum that heartbeat against your chest.
You arise, opening your eyes, and my fear passes. Where it goes remains unnamed. Further, in the distant reaches of your eyes, I see not the sun but the flowering of your soul. From the feet of crows to the crease around your nose, and the freckles in between.
Dawn-kissed and heavy-eyed, you slip like liquid through my ribs and still my heart, squeezing me close and retreating back into little death.
and for our fifth anniversary, wood;
at that age love’s roots are hopeful, flexible,
damp: feeling fresh earth with fingers
stretching and toes padding. A landscape found.
My memories are rings of bark in rotation,
aging and looping nostalgic sap solidified, held
within amber - a slow golden molasses of
year within decade within time within
circular wooden promises moving, expanding.
For my scabs there are bent twigs,
plucked and picked by a curious child.
My eyes have been bugs, dark and closed below trunk,
shielded and sheltered in mud before opening
with experience: growing tails bushy and teeth
sharp, becoming acorns that gaze and look
upward, that blink and spy, that climb with
squirrels hoarding their plunder near clouds -
and my skin, once covered in leaves
green, dotted in crisp morning dew, now
changes colour to curling oranges of
autumn and stubborn brown creases,
cracked into wrinkled veins of bonfire
clusters dry. A prepared pyre.
Yet my mouth – forever poised,
forever responding – is fern, is evergreen
that doesn’t wilt but gapes and breathes
and learns and beckons: planting seeds
and watering saplings young, word by
word, syllable by syllable, bulb by
bulb
Marcus Garvey you were a trier, but never destined to be a king
Easily made a fool of, if only you had half a brain, you could win
Famed by your own notoriety, ideology based on incompetence
But; you've not gone through history, without acknowledgment
Giving birth to Malcolm X, who in 1965 dreams were shot down
Martin Luther King, another black, whites didn't as want around
Where Bob Marley's assassination attempt, rumored by the CIA
Black's standing up for their rights, never to see the light of day
Muammar Gaddafi, taken out on the orders of white supremacy
Opening the borders to African blacks, he's shown no clemency
I tell you I've met God in my dreams and he is not flamin' white
When he reigned before me, black, black as any moonless night
Clear as black and white, they say,
In Occam’s razor slashing terms,
Exempting endless hues of gray.
Despite spotless reputation,
“The Obvious”, on occasion -
Subject to interpretation.
Findings depend on where we look,
How far we venture to explore
Beyond the cover of the book.
The most erroneous of all -
Character sketch at a quick glance -
An eye assessment of one’s soul.
Through the prism of closed mind’s sight
A premature line is drawn,
Assuming either black or white.
Unless we deeply delve within
We scratch the surface of what seems,
While substance lies beneath the skin.
Hard proven facts one can’t deny,
Nevertheless, each story holds
Second, eye opening blind side.
“Stating the Obvious” I deem,
Unless they're clearly black and white,
Things are not always what they seem.
April 17, 2021
Contest : Just Stating The Obvious
Sponsor: Brother Jacob
In the deep darkness, where the soul draws its night curtain,
I write with the blind cruelty of children throwing stones,
Hitting a madwoman like a crow in chaotic flight,
No—not writing: opening a passage in the twilight,
So the dead may send cryptic messages,
An equation of shadows and light.
What is writing, if not a whirlwind of senses,
To steer through the light of mirrors in dense darkness,
To imagine places known only to me,
Like a song of distances, a melody of untouched faraways,
Hearing the vivid notes of birds painted on Christmas trees.
In the twilight of the soul, every word is a breach,
Through which silent spirits pass, shadowing star paths,
Like messengers arriving on ancient wings,
In a world of consciousness, where silence tends to be the universe,
Caught between thoughts, dreams, and old memories.
At the edge of night, words stand like sentinels,
Guiding paper steps through whirlwinds of aims,
Unraveling roots of unfulfilled desires,
In rhythms of painted birds, screaming under blue worlds.
Writing, this ancient art, a dialogue with the unknown,
The mirrors in which we see faces we have not known,
We lose ourselves in labyrinths of narratives, like lost children,
Hitting shadows with stones of poetry, outlining new skies.
Who am I, but a shadow sculpted by ancient times,
A speaker of those unspoken non-words,
The storyteller who lights up silent galleries,
Letting the dead sing their longing among speaking pages.
Breaches open in twilight, shadows gather,
Like a mysterious choir of paper birds, caught in Christmas trees,
Where pain and joy meet in vivid notes,
Of a song written in the depths of my soul.
This is how I write, not just with words, but with crushed echoes,
Drawing dream scenes in the black night,
Guiding through mirrors, led by the eternal call,
To give voice to the unknown, in tones dressed in melancholic magic.
It lacks every rhyme or reason
To bake a cake and not serve it
It takes away the season
And leaves a bad taste to sit
Here's a baker opening shop
Who's a few slices short of a loaf
Abruptly brings his sweets to a stop
To the abandonment, me, the oaf
I had looked forward to his cake
Is Connie not allowed a sugar rush
Yet no reason given to the break
Only an indelible slight and hush
What I'm driving at is not that sweet
But a contest here at Poetry Soup
Where the sponsor got happy feet
And skipped out on the group
His slight, "no winners chosen" ... gang
As every criterion followed to a tee
Yet his answer leaves mouth's to hang
And a body of work to drop to a knee
10/27/22
Tell It Like It Is Poetry Contest
Sponsor-Mystic Rose Rose
N/A
That's all she wrote.