Long Or so Poems
Long Or so Poems. Below are the most popular long Or so by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Or so poems by poem length and keyword.
I'm sorry for all the stupid things I've done
I guess I'll leave now before the break of dawn
You made me love you, but that didn't last too long
You belong with me or so I thought while writing this sad song
I'm a terrible guy with a broken heart
Strengthen me before I shatter apart
I'm such a fool for believing in your fairytale stories
Now, I'm left behind and lost in the blemishes of my allegories
Have you been led astray?
What can I say?
Did I make your day?
or did I reduce you to utter dismay?
I apologize
For bringing tears in your eyes
And for telling you sugarcoated lies
Now, I'm frozen in place forever in your goodbyes
I'm alone again in my room of gloom
I suppose I'll try to be happy and like a flower in full bloom
You made me fall short, but I'll get up and be renewed once more
You wronged me and I did you wrong too - I don't know what for
I'm a terrible guy with a broken heart
Strengthen me before I shatter apart
I'm such a fool for believing in your fairytale stories
Now, I'm left behind and lost in the blemishes of my allegories
Have you been led astray?
What can I say?
Did I make your day?
or did I reduce you to utter dismay?
I apologize
For bringing tears in your eyes
And for telling you sugarcoated lies
Now, I'm frozen in place forever in your goodbyes
I'm caught up in the current of my bottomless emotions
Guide me to a faraway place called Peaceful Splendor...guide me away from the many commotions
You pretend that you had nothing to do with me
I can see right through you as you can clearly see
I'm a terrible guy with a broken heart
Strengthen me before I shatter apart
I'm such a fool for believing in your fairytale stories
Now, I'm left behind and lost in the blemishes of my allegories
Have you been led astray?
What can I say?
Did I make your day?
or did I reduce you to utter dismay?
I apologize
For bringing tears in your eyes
And for telling you sugarcoated lies
Now, I'm frozen in place forever in your goodbyes
I see you crystal clear in my shimmering vision
You handle me with such delicate precision
I'm under pressure and I don't know exactly what to say or do
I've been writing this down with a smile and a frown - that, I did so true
Guide me away from here...
Lead me away from fear...
Guide me with utmost cheer...
Happiness and hope will surely appear!
In youthful exuberance I become a culture bandit
Well exposed, but never really learning.
Modernity taking a toll as Papa and Ante chased the goods
For my sake they said... No mistakes... deed was good
Nanny TV with her bright inviting light
My imagination on wide escapades around the world
And farther altering my personality by giving me languages, dress codes, and even an accent.
So I stole, other cultures infused, fitting in everywhere or so I thought.
And Yet
In all my juvenile delinquency I could never, tell an adult to his face you are wrong
Revering old age; what is that, where is that from?
In my Success in Corporate with policy of first names and no regard for age but ability and brain
I could never bring myself to say Pat.
Aunty Pat can you please email the document to me
Wait, what? Am I not her boss.
So I stole…. Other cultures infused, fitting in everywhere, Or so I thought.
Drawn to the immaculate white of that gown
Instinctively I top it off with a colorful Kente Scarf?
The height I can rock in these 6 inch heels
but how Royal the Ahenema slippers makes me feel
This perfect perfect pony will do well with…. no not pearls or sapphire;
Animal bone necklace and earrings
Oh how perfect my manicure will be accessorized with these….no not diamonds
Bamboo bangles
I will wear the jeans, But only with that tank top with Adinkra symbols
So I stole… other cultures infused, fitting in everywhere… or so I thought.
My true culture grasping at my core
As I gasped, when that little boy called his father’s friend Larry
When He picked the carrot stick with his left hand from the bowl serving the community I died
Though it didn’t make sense because as a right handed person I would say my left hand is as clean as dried
I smiled brightly when that couple spoke Twi, while we waited for the A- train on the subway
My Culturally biased heart coveting a conversation
So I stole, Other cultures infused, fitting in everywhere
A cultural bandit … infused with other cultures… blending in well, or so I thought.
Without need of Affirmation, I have Ghanaian blood flowing through my veins
I know the voice of my people, the beautiful colour
Of the soul that makes a Ghanaian.
In the mother land or not. Ghana comes with us.
From generation to generation Ghana is us
Perfect Culture Chameleons
We fit right in
Ghana is our heritage.
In youthful exuberance I become a culture bandit
Well exposed, but never really learning.
Modernity taking a toll as Papa and Ante chased the goods
For my sake they said... No mistakes... deed was good
Nanny TV with her bright inviting light
My imagination on wide escapades around the world
And farther altering my personality by giving me languages, dress codes, and even an accent.
So I stole, other cultures infused, fitting in everywhere or so I thought.
And Yet
In all my juvenile delinquency I could never, tell an adult to his face you are wrong
Revering old age; what is that, where is that from?
In my Success in Corporate with policy of first names and no regard for age but ability and brain
I could never bring myself to say Pat.
Aunty Pat can you please email the document to me
Wait, what? Am I not her boss.
So I stole…. Other cultures infused, fitting in everywhere, Or so I thought.
Drawn to the immaculate white of that gown
Instinctively I top it off with a colorful Kente Scarf?
The height I can rock in these 6 inch heels
but how Royal the Ahenema slippers makes me feel
This perfect perfect pony will do well with…. no not pearls or sapphire;
Animal bone necklace and earrings
Oh how perfect my manicure will be accessorized with these….no not diamonds
Bamboo bangles
I will wear the jeans, But only with that tank top with Adinkra symbols
So I stole… other cultures infused, fitting in everywhere… or so I thought.
My true culture grasping at my core
As I gasped, when that little boy called his father’s friend Larry
When He picked the carrot stick with his left hand from the bowl serving the community I died
Though it didn’t make sense because as a right handed person I would say my left hand is as clean as dried
I smiled brightly when that couple spoke Twi, while we waited for the A- train on the subway
My Culturally biased heart coveting a conversation
So I stole, Other cultures infused, fitting in everywhere
A cultural bandit … infused with other cultures… blending in well, or so I thought.
Without need of Affirmation, I have Ghanaian blood flowing through my veins
I know the voice of my people, the beautiful colour
Of the soul that makes a Ghanaian.
In the mother land or not. Ghana comes with us.
From generation to generation Ghana is us
Perfect Culture Chameleons
We fit right in
Ghana is our heritage.
A magical chemical infatuation
to disregard the tradition
of natures connectivity and diversity
dragged to the will of its subjugation
to dig into the complex cells intimacy
its mass increments of the yields
killing off the birds and the insects
for the sake of crop conformity
in the unnatural fields
A perfectly poisonous promise
released in defusable clouds
through the early morning mists
chugged and pumped out grotesque deformity
in silent avenues of crop conformity
the deathly dew eliminates
all so ripe so well protected
in latent morbidity awaits
Layers by "half-life" lifeless inherited
in this chemists manufacturing of a chemical romance
the inorganic compounds of devastation
bound by an economical tourniquet
to plough again the blighted earth
split breakdown the biological integration
a quick fix to be persuaded
a million years of evolution
the symbiosis of the world in Gods hand
was not a patent so diligently as patiently perfected
or so insidiously infected in the land
Mechanized desert to produce the taste
a tasteless morsel of a savored remembrance
to its colour yet another substance added
organophosphates persistently digested
concentrations in environmental compartments
disarrange the circles tilt the balance
the enemy is natures necessity
needs be defeated
swap it over transmit a hell-bent malignancy
Collusion's by crude oil alchemy
improving on a profitable perimeter
this chemical romance of manufactured efficiency
O = HO - P - HO - NH - O - OH ! OH !
take a look at what marvelous science has made !
broad spectrum killer
needs be to murder off bio-diversity
and 5-enolpyruvylshikimate-3 phosphate synthase
is so much better
so much cleverer than natures ways
so taint the population with polluted fodders feed
killing off the birds and the bees
killing off the fish, the insects and the fungi
and killing off our babies
So perfectly formed
and so perfectly preserved
perfectly free of any blemish
all sitting on the billion shelves
of a million supermarkets
So perfectly wrapped
and so perfectly presented
the perfectly picture of health
and in its cells something so insidious
and the perfectly poisonous
is its promise
So perfectly formed
and so perfectly preserved
perfectly free of any blemish
all sitting on the billion shelves
of a million supermarkets
I had a dream that I was a butterfly
winged iridescent; my life would flutter by
as I was dreaming a dream of a dream of
my own lepidopteron being above.
Hither and thither I flightily flitted,
or so it seemed, as illusion befitted,
with troubles, eidolons, and nebulous fears.
And thus it continued for one hundred years.
In the Nymphalidae family was I,
akin to the nebula high in the sky
with beauty Cithaerial shimmering bright
in colors that cover the spectrum of light.
Knots and shells detailed in this Hubble capture
glow in light show that can bring about rapture,
cause soulful poets to sing about gladly
(seeing a butterfly wing about madly)
or brood over sadly with soft doleful sighs
the ultimate stages before its demise.
Stargazers perceive it with scientists’ eyes
and give facts and figures astronomer-wise.
The lobes of Twin Jet PN M Two Dash Nine
expand ever outward in pinion design
from central star system, in gaseous streams
of splendorous rainbows pellucid in gleams.
The binary stars at the nebula’s heart
go round one another in luminous art,
spending a century in this rotation,
and form the wings through their stellar gyration.
But let us return to the classical theme
of the Chinese philosopher’s famous dream
(which these rhyming stanzas have sought to extol),
where I found myself playing a starring role.
Diaphanous butterfly wings had I then
in the long-lived dream that I dreamed ten by ten
decades lastingly onward in cosmic time,
as did Sleeping Beauty in legend sublime.
Yet when I awakened, no alae had I.
No longer was I slender winged butterfly,
but veritably was a human once more,
with life to engage in, encounter, explore,
or just suffer through in a sentient state.
How would I create my tellurian fate?
Still I wondered if this was ‘reality’.
Could I be a butterfly dreaming of me?
To die, perchance dream; ay, indeed that’s the rub
that makes us endure the heartache and hubbub.
For death claims all beings as part of its sum.
And in sleep of death, who knows what dreams may come?
~ Harley White
______________________________________________
Inspiration for the poem was from the article, “The wings of the butterfly ~ New Hubble image of the Twin Jet Nebula”, of August 25, 2015, on the Hubble Space Telescope Org website.
“All their comings and their goings were so closely scrutinised
as the prosecution’s trump card was the evidence they prized.
Though the wily prosecutor gathered facts to build his case,
some old bushmen too were scheming and a plan was put in place.
“They were crafty, artful dodgers, who’d been slipped a quid their way,
and could see to it the evidence might somehow go astray.
The bold band then took advantage of the absence of the guard
for some twenty or so minutes and then broke into the yard.
“In the small hours of that morning they absconded with the stock
and the speed of the audacious theft had left police in shock.
These bold bushmen used a vehicle which, much to their delight,
lured the cattle through the darkened streets and quickly out of sight.
“All available policemen joined the search to find their trail,
but their roadblocks and sheer numbers proved to be of no avail.
Then at sunrise the black constable, a tracker of renown,
traced the mob out to the stockyards on the outskirts of the town.
“All the cattle had been slaughtered and not one ear could be seen
and a piece of hide was missing, where the owner’s brand had been.
Still the heads and hides were proof enough … or so the lawyers thought,
but the judge dismissed the evidence and threw it out of court.
I just sat there flabbergasted as the old bloke rose to go,
‘cause the way he’d told the story he was really in the know.
But he sensed I sought the obvious and said “I need a drink.”
Then he hobbled down the street away … and turned and gave a wink.
In the book Champagne Country, which explores the history of Roma and district, there is
a chapter on Bushranging. In part it discusses how the notorious Harry Redford was tried
in Roma, though found not guilty and also there was another account of an incident which
took place in 1952. A number of head of cattle being held as evidence in a cattle
duffing offence disappeared from the Police yards about two a.m. in the morning while
supposedly being under constant guard. The culprits were never apprehended. Years
later my wife’s dad, who went droving at the age of ten and a well known identity around
Roma, shed a little light on the subject. The above tale tells what took place. Certain
facts have been hidden to protect the guilty.
I let your eyes to visualise a garden on a loom;
Bluebells and marigolds in sway and lavender in bloom;
And there to play in a luscious green two kittens wrestling;
Up high in chirping swallow's play are feathered friends a-singing.
A figure of a handsome man is settled on a chair;
And by his side a beauty pure strokes lovingly his hair;
The Witch, or so the story plays, is set to work a-stitching;
For everyday she works to lay the groundwork for her witching.
The "Loom of Dunkele" is dark and glistens as if new;
That which it forges is by spelling set to render true;
This vessel handed down through time where Witches are sure wed;
Commutes it powers to the offsprings through that marriage bed.
At 35 she must be bride and to a handsome beau;
For Dunkele demands that beauty seeps through row to row;
The Witch beholden to this pact must honour this or else;
The Dunkele will take her beauty for its very self.
Dunkele demands a beauty in it's natural mould;
The Witch must weave the magic seams without her vêtements;
As pure as a newborn should she display her nakedness;
For Dunkele gave a perfect body not to be redressed:
No blemish, painting, marking, piercing for her skin to bear;
No jewellery should adorn her parts no braids within her hair;
Should she ignore these rulings and would set about to loom;
The magic would reverse all workings never to resume.
Above the loom, portraits in rows, of Witches one and all;
Each face a picture of a beauty unimaginable;
Throughout all time the loom has served and must forever more;
Or else a terrible curse be laid upon each maiden's door:
Indeed, to pander verily to a Dragon's carnal needs;
The Witch must feed on blood and guts and do as Dragon pleads;
Forever trapped in a darkened lair, no view of sun or sea;
The Witch would disappear from sight, no trace or history.
For 20 years this loom she spins as was the bargain made;
And in this time her beauty shone, success and wealth her aid;
Now in an hour the carpet loomed but for a patch to fill;
A slip of hair should she prepare to weave into the mill.
Then once complete the spell to speak releasing her shalom;
To lead her to that wondrous place where there awaits Handsome;
This rite of passage like forebears would guarantee the Witch;
Leaves on the blood line of her ilk a rich continuous stitch.
First times
are meant
To be special
Or so I wish.
With a lack
Of experience
And a timid
Demeanor,
I never learned
How to say no
To a person
That I liked.
When I look
Back on it now,
I think to myself,
How stupid could I be.
Our very first date,
In an empty cinema.
I heard the clink
Of his belt buckle undone.
Tension held on
As he took my hand
And guided it
To what he pulled out.
His breathing grew heavy,
And I sat stiff
As he moved my hand
Against his.
I should have said no,
But I wasn’t taught how.
Uncomfortable
As he asked
If I’d put my mouth around.
I shook my head,
Shaky
And nauseas with fear
As I pulled my hand back.
He claimed ‘blue balls’
And asked if I knew
What that was.
I didn’t.
Every time he touched me
Or the very least tried,
I’d grow sick
And he, upset.
He yelled at me once,
For getting sick to my stomach.
I didn’t know he’d yelled
Until someone told him off.
He’d apologize,
But only half hearted.
It was clear from day one,
What his intentions were.
‘I need to get laid’
He’d tell me on repeat.
Guilt sucked me dry,
But that was what he wanted.
First times
Are meant to be special
Or at the very least,
Consensual.
After the first,
I was glad
Nothing more happened,
Or I’d regret.
But in the second half,
I grew comfortable.
Believed he was
A changed man.
How silly of a thought,
For someone like me,
To be so naive,
I’d given in.
First times should be special.
That’s how I wanted mine.
Instead, what I got
Was not even a choice.
In the secret of the bed,
Doing nothing more than touching,
He guided his
And my head tilted back.
When he told me
‘It’s in’,
I almost felt sick.
Why hadn’t he asked?
Where was my consent?
My thoughts became muddled,
Filled with disbelief.
It couldn’t be, could it?
But he confirms it the next day.
I sit on the thought
That my first time
Was taken from me
Without question.
But if I were to tell someone,
They wouldn’t care.
It could count as rape,
If it never happened again.
It happened more times
Than I can count
(that’s a lie, I could),
With my consent
This time.
If I had it my way,
I’d go back
And do it over again.
I wouldn’t let him touch me,
Because my body rejected.
I should have listened then
Instead of crying and begging.
Am I a waiter or a warrior, a visionary, or wall watcher?
Am I a strategist or fighting activist?
Sometimes, I feel that I'm just a nesting dove.
Perhaps at any given season, I'm all the above.
If we care enough to share in the intimate places with
God, we must dare to breathe that great and rare air of God. .
Come with me to a world of questions and mysteries.
Allow me to muse my way into some unpleasant places;
Places of craving for the face of God but finding no trace.
I speak not of people wearing holy halos or holy Joes.
I'm talking about Ordinary Mary and Everyday John going about
Their routine lives with a longing desire for a God-centered life.
You may not concur; yours may be a different world,
Or perhaps you've never ventured into the murky waters
Of your soul as have I. Anyway, this place is real.
On occasions, my soul longs to see, to hear, to feel,
To touch and be touched, to sense and taste God
In unusual, yet Biblical ways. That longing, that deep
desire of which I speak is not always or should I say, is seldom
reciprocated. It could also be that I get distracted and fail to
recognize God's reply. Am I making sense so far, or am I stranded
On an island alone? Anyway, the sign I long to see is a 'no show',
And it seems that God hides himself from me, for my good of course.
It's when the voice, the sounds I expect to hear are not there or so faint
and distant as to not be useful. Or when God is silent, or so it seems. Or
when I do not feel Him or His Presence, and/or in fact, none of my sensory
faculties are in tune sufficiently to benefit. My best guess is that we are in "a trust only zone" where we feel at our lowest, but in reality, there is that side
of us being informed that we are experiencing our finest hour. I tell you, this
present muse was inspired by a conversation last night with close friends.
We concluded that we, whether dove or warrior, are always benefactors of his love because God is faithful, and in His time, he makes all things beautiful.
092720PSCtest, Completely Your Choice(33), Brian Strand
Contest entry11220, HM's and NA's October 2020, C. La France. 2P
Judged and NA on October 26, 2020 by Brian Strand
I woke up one morning in a world full of lost things,
with no recollection of how i got there.
They curled around me and taunted me, examined me carefully with their hands so that they could better see me.
And when they found my ears they whispered in voices so soft I could scarcely discern if they spoke at all,
and told me of epic lovers until we bled together.
They shared with me what it would be like to be a lost thing too.
So full of inaccessible power, of sinful yearning, wanton longing, so full of empty space.
And then they presented me with a second hand clock,
small and brass and on a chain for my pocket so that I may never lose it.
They showed me and told me "fill it."
Then they felt behind my eyes and turned my senses higher,
Made everything so bright and lovely that it caused me terrible pain.
But with it I made life. I made such wonderful oceans,
I fostered worlds and tried to use them to follow out what I had been commanded.
And when the hands on my watch no longer ticked beneath the weight,
I forgot there was ever anything before my silent command "fill it."
Their voices ring out like angels,
they still sing to me of lovers. I want to sing too.
But the next thing they touched was my mouth,
and from it removed all its memories
yet left and burned in it the faintest ghost of what it would be like to ever have felt.
So that in its efforts to resurface,
it forgot how to speak.
At night, though less over time, (and I had long since lost track of that),
the other lost things will weave themselves around me like slippery shades,
and nuzzle into my neck as a purring kitten until I let them into my arms for the evening.
They'd hold me down and keep me awake as they sang to me foreign folk songs.
Occasionally they would break their song, and wait for me to pick up their melody,
and when I would it sounded too conspicuously like wailing.
They'd be gone.
I am not ready and I am not even sure for what.
I think about deliverance,
but less so with every passing phantom tick.
It is beautiful here, or so I think. I have no comparison.
There are so many oceans.
It's a wondrous case of Stockholm I'm sure,
but nonetheless a purposeful one.
One of vivacious heartache, of my own design,
When the lost things, my strange companions, come for me again and find me,
and we find other lost things -like me,
And we make worlds together.