Long Orientation Poems
Long Orientation Poems. Below are the most popular long Orientation by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Orientation poems by poem length and keyword.
the Bus – Travels Through America’s Underbelly
I am a bus rider
That makes me unusual
For a white male
From an upper middle class family
Our people are not bus riders
Though some are subway riders
Bus riders are other people
The poor, minorities, immigrants
People who don’t drive
Because they are blind
Or have a DUI
And in my case
I don’t drive
Because I have bad vision
And bad coordination
Just never got the hang
Of the whole driving thing
Fortunately for me
My wife does the driving
But I still take the bus
From time to time
I rode the AC buses in Berkeley
As a child
Line 67, line 51, line 43 F bus
Rode them long before BART came along
And afterwards as well
As an adult seldom rode the bus
But when I did so
I was always impressed
By the sheer diversity
Of the bus riding property
Hundreds of languages
All sorts of sexual orientation
Some were white
Most were not
Most of my fellow passengers
Were nice enough
Some were friendly
And some were lost
In their own thoughts
And a few
Were scary looking dudes
With the look
Of someone who had done time
And were capable of more violence
I also rode the bus
In Seattle as a graduate student
A lot of fellow UW students
And the usual immigrants
Minorities etc
And some white people
Commuting
And in DC
Over the years
I rode a lot of buses
Mostly to and from the metro
But I got to know
And love the DC buses as well
I also took the greyhound bus
Across the country
Several times over the years
All over the U.S.
From Bay Area to Stockton
From Bay Area to Clear Lake
From Bay area to NYC
NYC to DC
All over the USA
Taking the Greyhound
Was always an an adventure
Met a lot of interesting people
As people on long distant bus rides
Tend to open up and talk
To pass the time away
Overseas I took the bus
All over
In India, in Barbados
In Spain and in Korea
The Korean buses
For many years
Were difficult for foreign visitors
As the signs were all in Korean
Most have signs
Now in English, Chinese and Korean
And are much more foreigner friendly
Riding the bus
In America
Allows one access
To the underbelly of American society
The poor, the marginalized
The immigrant communities
That many middle-class white people
Just never see
And for that reason
I am glad
That I am a bus rider
I am not a blank slate to score upon again
Yet there is this gap, this hollow place
That wants a name. I search for it in vain
The alien presence of eyes, and of face
Nothing comes back to memory. We are
Strangers now, and the empty space
Yawns akwardly. Thirty years is too far
For memory to recognize what is it I trace
For family and friends like fluids converged
In a nether space that makes glee brief
I feel the joy familiar as sky and sea merged
But the change in people contests my relief
For man have changed many things, but few
As much as himself - and as if to hide before
Familiar eyes. I remain old in a world new
And hesitance now where once I was very sure.
Time drizzled, drizzled, drizzled and terminus
Came piling up the sands of days for the wind.
Exile was my fickle way of escaping detritus
The sand shy had not yet blown but I was blind
And in the darkness where spins now alone
The white leached of soul calcified by snow wet
As unshed tears, under its stigma do so moan
More than the coming home again, the soft death
Of bonds, and the sense of proprietary loss. Who
Is left to stare in my face blank and expressionless?
And say by angle of shoulder: nothing here for you
I see all my labor like butter in the sun, and I am less
Than all the worth of man because the price of me
Is trickled in the sand. They kept the rules the same
But changed the game, and for lost of this efficacy
I am poured out from the chamber, a pot in shame.
For this I fled the foolish notion fawning in my head?
For this I left the better known of friends? The mills
Of stress do spin there still, the uncertainty of bread
And age from time's trembling vessel nervous spills
The unfriendliness to share because of a narrow dread
That tomorrow stalk alone will not suffice the failing
New. I was tired of my self-imposed exile, the shred
Remains I gathered and came home to true trembling.
There is only one familiar landmark, a true friend, this
Alone give my days orientation to praise. My true pole
Is where such a friendship in the sand storm still exist
The lighthouse in the billowy mist, anchor for the soul.
But I have no root here to hold me firm to one spot
Roots adventitious grows away, and then cold excision
The stem alone left in the miry mud to to swell and rot
Coming out of exile finds coping a harder final decision
What a city I murmur to myself looking at its map.
We approached the city known as Dis,
with its vast army and its burdened citizens.
At last we reached the moats
dug deep around the dismal city.
What destroys the poetry of a city?
Automobiles destroy it,
and they destroy more than the poetry.
Dante and Virgil chased by 7 or 8 dangerous devils
Grumpy, Happy, Sneezy, Sleepy, Dopey . . .
Our heroes reduced from metaphysical philosophers
interested in god and what man has done to man
to improvising primitive tools for survival.
Hope abandoned, we rate our chances of expiring
in the nuclear fire – excellent –
during the decline of western civilization.
On the other hand, I hope
our current problems are only temporary
and it’s just a matter of time before
the public ignores the 24-hour news cycle.
Bad news sells but the good life’s all around us.
One feels love and devotion
even for the 60 million who voted for our opponent.
Vaclav Havel said with a wisdom well beyond brilliance:
“Either we have hope within us or we don’t.
It is a dimension of the soul, and it’s not dependent
on some particular observation of the world or estimate of the situation.
It is an orientation of the spirit, an orientation of the heart
that transcends the world as it’s immediately experienced.
It is not the conviction that something will turn out well,
but the certainty that something makes sense
no matter how it turns out.”
It resembles grief. But it's not quite grief. I'll give you grief.
Certain days planned to be eventful I look forward to for weeks.
Let the peaceful transfer of power proceed. The sorrow and the pity.
Never may the anarchic man find rest at my hearth.
When the laws are kept, how proudly the city stands!
When the laws are broken, what of the city then?
We are moving through some allegory between a City of Hope,
where history has been abolished, and a City of History,
where hope can be slipped in only as contraband.
Failing to achieve understanding, we're searching
outer space for an entity to unite us as humanity.
That person, or city, is consciousness.
Two ancient female poets are a revelation,
the clarity of their complaints: lost lover, lost city.
Our enemy eventually becomes our brother,
his misery lifted by coming to her city.
Woman of the Desert
Lexis of the wise squeezes into the zephyr just to be heard by those in the wildness
But rather it seems the woman of the land-her ears have been blocked by the acrimonious
And hardships of life and decided to pursue the wants and desires of the flesh
Using all her beauty, inwardly and outwardly in exchange for worldly gratifications
With her sexual energy transfer power-she has dragged the innocent into pungent shadows
Promising the innocent and naïve unconditional love-just to suck all their strength and wealthy, because Infamy and guilt are not in her dictionary
Any man that offers her present desires will be glorified
She is the Woman of the Desert
Be careful because her love is wrapped in her selfishness and deceptive vessel
Even if she speaks wise words; it is just the scheme to drive you to her trap
She is the woman without direction, she hounds the wind and its destination is annulled
Given equal rights, chances and clout with the head, she has abused the rights to her death
Please do not slam or judge her, her orientation was corrupted from birth,
Mother, Father or wife figure was not initiated to her in her early age, she create family without a father, being the head-her wealthy is her power and she can hire services of love
Treasure which was met for her soul mate-she has offer it to every stranger she meets
Dearest never mess-with the Woman of the Desert
Her womb is barren but she still produces offspring after her kind
Her Love dried years back but she still lives and draw men to her Lust
She has drunk from her Mother’s calabash prior to her age and eaten the apple of the garden
Now she has no fears just tears, it’s scary because her charisma has been lofty beyond her character
Her breast has been sucked by the beast and woe will be he that touches or tastes them
Soft skin, short skirt, spiritually sick and self-enslaved into sophisticated borrowed life
The birds of the air sings are her songs-and those of the sea drinks her poisoned waters
Her spouse left her for the beast, so she now walks and works in the shadow of evil
Be careful, be warned, be caution, do not fall into her trap
She is the Woman of the Desert
There are two kinds of cultures
- Defined in different ways
In different countries and lifestyles,
Valley vs Mountain, Settled vs Nomadic
Or in modern America, City vs Country -
With their two opposing attitudes,
“Let us tell you what to do!”, and
“Just leave me alone…”
It’s a simple dichotomy really
Of a group and collective orientation,
And a more individualist and self-reliant one
Based on the reality of survival
Each different lifestyle requires.
Different people have different affinities
And many self-select to live around similar types,
But there are plenty who find themselves living,
Out of family or work or relationship needs,
As a minority, a stranger in a strange land
Like that little contrasting dot within
The swirling drops of yin/yang’s polarity.
But these two cultures, as complimentary
As they are, also divide the nation
Not just geographically;
East and West, North and South
But politically;
Left and Right, Socialist and Conservative
To some extend sexually;
Female and Male
And generationally;
Parents and Child.
It’s a conflict of cultures we all experience
But sometimes never grow out of
Or find the freedom from, and peace with.
The two after all are opposites
And the one wanting to tell you what to do
Is by definition more motivated to find the other
And tell them what to do…
It’s the world we live in,
But at some point it seems
It’s just not sustainable.
Things fall apart
When they aren’t maintained and kept organized,
Oh, and here come those who have volunteered
For that job!
Now order rules the day, and chaos
Is always better kept way over there.
There are no frontiers left to explore
And escape into anymore
Other than the inner realm of mind
Imagination, dreams and fantasies
Or an addiction, dysfunction and disease
- Plenty of chaos available in those -
Or better yet, a good book in the man cave,
A quiet sit on the cushion
Or walk in the woods…
Something, anything to give us the peace
We all need
From that nagging persistent voice,
Outside and within,
Telling us what it thinks we should do
While we just want to be left alone
To discover it on our own.
(3/8/25)
Amidst distractions
he’s simply focused
minding his business
so special to him
yes, his bathing spree…
With mirth-filled freedom
he enjoys sans fuss
such hygienic feat
making himself clean
unmindful of me…
Confronted by mindfulness’ enjoyment
I’m resolved for functional settlement
Thankful to God for every blest moment
Optimizing His rich grace endowment.
Choosing to be joyous is my heart’s goal
With peace prevailing over mind and soul
Blissful present engaging welfare whole
Triumphant in fulfilling every role.
Thus, I pray with faith
trusting the Saviour
for our special child
who in his stature
is a great blessing…
While smiting spasm
gripping his movements
he zooms with wheelchair
praising the Lord Who
is mindful* of him.
Possessing a cheerful now perspective
Illumined for Christ’s divine directive
I stay in my ministry objective
Serving with ardor to be productive.
Propped wisely with “today-orientation”
My spirit claims its maximization
Propelled by Holy Spirit’s direction
Jubilant to fulfill designation.
Conscious of schedule
I’m still flexible
with time so precious
for Bible stories
my boy delights in.
Thus, may God forbid
my swerving away
from blest mindfulness
He’s involved me with
Since HE is my life.
*Psalm 115:12 The LORD hath been mindful of us: he will bless us…
June 12, 2021
7th place, "MINDFULNESS" Poetry Premier Contest
Sponsored by Unseeking Seeker; judged on 6/13/2021.
You have been persecuted.
You have been oppressed and depressed,
Wronged and aggrieved, even violated,
And for what?
Because of gender,
Because your body lacks a certain appendage,
Your chest is more pronounced, or your voice more pleasant?
You have been slighted.
You have been affronted and blasphemed against,
Insulted and abused, your rights neglected
And why?
Because of your orientation,
Because you chose to love another man,
You’re not attracted to the same thing that men like me are?
I know you hear me,
Because we all have been disregarded.
Why have you been dismissed?
Punished and censored,
Rebuked and cast aside, sometimes battered,
Ask the world why?
Because of the color of your skin,
Because your tan does not match that of another,
Your lips are fuller and your hair has more texture.
You have been shunned.
You have been ostracized and badgered daily,
Bullyragged and junked, even tainted,
And for what?
Because of your religion,
Because you have faith in God,
You say grace or pray five times each day?
Hear me NOW!
You have been besmirched and blemished
Shackled and shattered
Crucified and cursed
But why?
Why?
Because you must persevere
You must triumph and persist
You must overcome and conquer, even rejoice
And for what?
So that the next man who loves another man
Or the next woman who feels unequal
Child that feels different
Or for the next man’s whose faith becomes fragile
For them.
For these people we suffer
We take their burden
So tomorrow they can walk with their heads high above adversity.
For their children.
So their children will know not of the experiences of these hardships.
Today we brave the senseless hatred,
Tomorrow we smile
As the next generation finds a love we were able to receive.
Today we must not judge so that tomorrow they will not judge us.
We will not be angry at those who cannot understand us,
Instead we show pity.
PITY!
We pity them,
Their incapacity to open their minds and welcome anyone who differs from them.
Today we live this day
Today we wear the garbs of misfortune
Today we live so tomorrow will not live today over
Today
TODAY!!
14.3
“I have realized the Supreme Self,
the Witness, the One
I am indifferent
to bondage and freedom.
I have no need for liberation”
14.4
“The inner condition
of one who is devoid of doubt
yet moves among creatures of illusion
can only be known by those like him”
What is realisation
What is awakening
If there remains doubt or hesitation
In conclusions arising from our contemplation
Then we are still searching
There being a gap in our so connecting
Our consciousness with supreme awareness
Blockages impeding full flow of Divine fragrance
After the initial witnessing or experiencing
There is a long road in consolidating & assimilating
The knowing
Not quite the becoming
As long as the current is intermittent
We are short of full enlightenment
And whilst the glimpses are encouraging
We need to surrender fully to cognise the Supreme all pervading
The symptoms manifest may yet be as stated as unseeking
We may be content in the Divine stream within us flowing
Yet to be truthful can we affirm the validity
Of being connected to the Source in an unbroken continuity
Being detached and desireless is an orientation laudable
But to say that we are free of doubt is a concept laughable
So whilst we patiently and trustingly await our blossoming
We are humble in confessing that we are still unseekingly seeking
(20-August-2019)
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Verse 14.3-14.4 revisited on 17-November-2021
Mere affirmation
Not a confirmation
Although we confess
That there’s been progress
With glimpses offered
Wisdom proffered
In a slow tease
That does please
Essence of presence
Blissful joyous innocence
Knowing God in-dwells each form
Birthing magnetic rapture warm
No sooner ego disappears
God Himself appears
The way is simple
Though mind fickle
Once it melds with heart
Feel therein bliss ignition start
Soma nectar flows through nadis
Heightened ecstatic joy in continuity
Each pore a door, do we yet need more
There is no one here keeping a score
All is, as is, a bliss continuum
Each node our sensorium
Love meads, we follow
In stillness mellow
Volition, orientation familiarization aahing
and oohing within restrictive paradigm molding
inviolable honorable gentility -
flagrantly, desirously, clearly boyz abandoning
willfully skirting, panting (heavily)
forfeiting abominably, (no Joe King) abiding
chomping at bit, damning delineated, or obscure
parameters, between one acceding
Earthlinked selfish living
psychosexual pining human bing,
and another ardently avowedly ambitious
altruistic agent provocateur (lol)
at first blush hinting Moulin Rouge adulation
under dim (witted) lighting accenting
individual randy salient
traits savoring tête-à-tête
tasty hors d'oeuvres accentuating
nuances highlighting flirtatious countenance
initially unconditionally stubbornly accepting
dire hormonal straits
as prickly fledgling acquaintanceship
quivers, negotiates, kickstarts abolishing
inchoate biochemical protracted coupling
conveniently interpreting accessing
breeching, catapulting Dickensian estuary,
non verbal communication nsync abridging
painstakingly erecting complex edifice
suavely, urbanely, wittily accessorising
tried and truevalue tricks acclaiming
debonair heroic manliness princely
qualities dutifully dominate directing
demure damsel in distress absconding
convincing, foreplaying, jimmying,
rollicking readily acclimatizing
challenges thrust up gracefully parlaying
most savvy serious similarly sophisticated
totally tubular testosterone tactics
versatile repartee accomplishing
dynamics cultivating atavistic romantic ballet
on duh poe whit tick abutting
metaphorical foot accoutering
trappings adorned since mythological
Adam and Eve accrediting
latter, sans virile unavoidable temptation
savoir faire verboten fruit, accelerating
action whereby unsuspecting, slithering,
lurking serpent teen accounting
rattle unheard by apse cent church fathers
subsequently excoriating, condemning, accusing,
nonetheless indomitable transcendence achieving
pinnacle of prostrate poignancy
inexpressible ecstasy acquiescing
nonpareil acquisition adulation activating
ascendence assaying administering
amorousness activating. aching.
I can hardly wait reading welter of books...
courtesy Karen Windle a gift horse
ponied up late afternoon May18th, 2020
over roan nay bore lee volition.
Unbeknownst how she raised (cane),
and loudly wrapped outside the door
every ounce of her eighty plus pounds
slip of elderly lady petite bow legged
spry late 60's though older looking gal
argh – I expect unpleasant fallout after
piercing eyes unexpectedly discover
references made regarding aged waif,
who inexplicably signalled presence
in toto i.e. presents to comprehend, a
bounty, nah, not worth causing mutiny
nevertheless heave on lee delight hup
pea zing helter skelter discombobulated
alienation courtesy coronavirus lockdown
concomitantly venues to borrow books
puts serious and perilous bind aggravated
assault upon cerebral cortex regarding a
forced hiatus deprivation to binge read
reduced to peruse the daily toilet paper
no stimulation for imagination to indulge
magical mystery tour thwarted helter skelter
ye silently ask rather infer "what me bored?"
Despite severely circumscribed choices
whiling away hours, who knows lockdown
courtesy coronavirus (COVID-19)
warrants near indefinite closure accessing
literary material buzzfeeding noggin,
an egg gone eye zing torture rankles
healthy predilection to binge osmotically
passion for written word all the while
authors unbeknownst evoke quintessential
pleasant provocation dredging up
10,000 leagues below the jewel bedecked
cease son bewitched (Alder time) tremendous
metaphorical pristine hinterlands
Matthew Scott's vernacular semantic
hodgepodge orientation withered away
figurative gripes wrath and rail against
series of unfortunate events ala defiant
Lemony Snicket, when despair plummeted
to all time low, who should unwittingly
telepathically hear plaintive SOS sent
none other than intrepid Karen Windle,
who's mysteriously rapping announced
dog send appearance bore deliverance
(cue Banjos), where ecstasy didst delve
where still waters run deep, nevertheless
welcome respite when printed material
weekly magazines offered scant respite.