Long Overlooks Poems
Long Overlooks Poems. Below are the most popular long Overlooks by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Overlooks poems by poem length and keyword.
A woman gives birth to a new life.
She is not just a 'woman'
But also a mother, a companion, a spouse,
A sister and, a survivor to the end.
We never value her, respect her
Ask her concerns and care for her
We never wipe away her tears,
As they are imperceptible as air.
She works, cooks and cleans
She chuckles, helps comfort,
Yet, she never complains
And shrouds her agony.
At the point when you battle in your life
She helps to get you through
This is HER and what do we do?
Grumble and make a wreck
Give her pressure,
And leave her feeling discouraged.
We push her away
And overlook her exhortation
Reveal to her she isn't anything
Without a man
She was assaulted, tormented
And mishandled by the world
Told her she is nothing
And would be continuously utilized
Only for joy and pleasure
She bites the bullet, puts her sentiments aside
Does as you need altogether for you to be free
Overlooks your obliviousness
And endures your blemishes
You call her a scraper and vagrant
You call her with slang names
But she answers with satisfaction and pride
With a total loss of self
You call her nothing
But I call her solid, keen, erotic, mindful
Yet giving, enduring, lenient and amazing
And I call her WOMAN!
Finally heading home,
going dowhill;
not being afraid
of a sudden fall...
The baseballfield
has the appearance
of a battlefield,
opponents teams fiercily compete;
I glance at them
with great admiration,
lauding their aspiration
as the gusty wind snatches
my blue cap...to find it
hanging from the top of the fence
that overlooks the rusty tracks
of a train that never went back...
The cheers and hurrays
of the applauding crowd
fill the autumn air with promise;
victory is,for certain,
for those enduring with boldness,
but joyful moments
are worthy more than a price...
despite the honor and pride!
Finally heading home from
an adventerous morning spent
exploring the depth of the forest;
where emotions become surprises,
not found in the glamorous cities
or the smallest towns...
Remoteness reconnects the lost soul
to the essential needs
of a-not-so-rapid
and dull existence!
Last night, Lisa, Peter, Leeza and I were in her father’s 50th floor study watching New York City. It’s a corner room with glass walls from floor to ceiling. He likes to watch the city himself and has a small, 5 seat sectional couch facing the view.
The left wall window looks across Hell’s Kitchen to exactly where Sully Sullenberger crash landed flight 1549 in the Hudson river (it was 3:31 pm and no one was home). The right window overlooks Central Park and Upper Manhattan. Lincoln Center, almost dead center of the corner, looks like part of a toy train-set.
The view is a wheeling, ever changing and mesmerizing panorama. Well lit ships, barges and boats move glacially against the ink black Hudson. Jets in expressway-like holding patterns (Newark Liberty, and Teterboro airports left window - LaGuardia, right window) blink, like waving angels, helicopters buzz below like insects and the traffic, far, far below, forms a living chain of red and white lights which can erupt with nugatory hues of police blue at any moment.
While we watch, we’re playing a game of “Would you rather.” It’s a game of situational trade-offs, like “Would you rather listen to the same 10 songs forever or have to watch the same 5 movies forever? Of course, most people say the movies - because they last longer and there would be fewer repeats.
We take turns asking these critical questions - pausing, occasionally, to point out things below.
“Would you rather be in a crowded elevator with a bunch of noisy high school students or pinned in with a bunch of judgemental, middle aged men? The girls chose the students, even though high schoolers can be mean. Peter chose to be with the men.
“Would you rather find your true love or a suitcase with 5 million dollars?” We all chose love.
“Would you rather hike or camp?” Both were unpopular if they involved going to the bathroom outside - which creeps the girls out.
“Would you rather give up your computers or your pets (forever)?” THAT was a stressful one.
.
.
My movies: Clueless, Rushmore, Moonstruck, Shakespeare in love, Dr. Zhivago
He slides open a shallow drawer,
its wood catching slightly
before giving way.
Inside, the day’s minor slips:
a receipt with a transposed digit,
a label peeled at one corner,
a measurement off by the width
of a pencil mark.
He sorts them without hurry.
Each paper earns its place
only after he reads it twice,
sometimes three times,
to be sure the flaw is real.
A pencil rests near his hand,
shortened from use,
its point dulled by careful work.
He sharpens it only when needed,
never in anticipation.
Some errors he sets aside~
not rejected, simply waiting
until their purpose clarifies.
He has learned that small mistakes
reveal themselves slowly.
Near midday he finds one
in his own notes:
a digit written too quickly,
leaning out of line.
He corrects it without comment,
then files it with the others.
When the drawer closes,
the room settles.
Nothing finished,
nothing abandoned~
just consistency and
the quiet record
of what the world overlooks.
Let me clarify my thoughts:
We love each other, yet I am completely confused.
I had locked my heart away and sealed off my desires.
My bank account keeps growing,
while a sense of peace surrounds me.
I’ve been smiling every day, never feeling the need to cry out to God for
protection because I knew He had been guiding me all along.
Then, suddenly, something shifted.
I started craving youthful and vibrant energy.
What is wrong with me?
There is a word for a woman like me,
I am a cougar, hiding behind the AI filters,
What is wrong with me?
I would love to deeply kiss the Dark Horse
Without feeling guilty,
Memories linger; they can stir emotions,
And rekindling a youthful spirit shouldn’t frighten me.
However, somehow it does,
. Society often overlooks my value.
I embrace my identity,
I am proud of my heritage.
My free spirit is my treasure.
Findlater Castle overlooks the Moray Firth
In Scotland's north, situated on a quartz perch
Norse named, fyn leitr
The white cliff, for King Alexander
1246 historical note
In the books of the past
Historians quote
Built to deter an attack from the north
From Norway's, King Haakon the IV
Viking marauder, plunderer of Scots
Perishing's of both, after they fought
The Castle that stands
In the year 2009
History in its fading walls
Stand the test of time
To the Mullery family
Who breathed the air
Around the history and memories there
In its Aura, they have shared
" A short poem dedicated to Patrick my colleague
whose daughter was totally taken by their visit to Findlater Castle "
This mountain of tall firs and pines
overlooks a placid valley with a hut,
meadows of wild flowers intrigue.
Hikers go upward meeting clouds,
their adventure is kind of unique.
Bell-shaped trumpet gentians spout--
rain on the pretty flowers of the Alps.
No mountain in this region is gaudier
than the unfolding new discoveries...
boulders and cliffs with sparkling dew.
Alpinists adore mounts that are greener,
they snap lots of pictures, not a few;
below, sheep graze in open grasslands--
they shiver when the breeze gets colder.
Away from sunless and urban settings,
one feels free doing the extraordinary;
breathing an air not spoiled by smog.
Alpinists have lived here for many ages,
tending their herds watched by a dog.
The blinding sunrise ascends gleefully--
joy overwhelms the heart that dreams.
Calm valleys with wooden huts, amid mounts,
are prone to avalanches with a rapid force;
violent storms can deform the luscious green.
Locals are afraid, they pray holding hands;
strong faith may avert what could have been.
It's twilight, flowers droop looking morose;
brightness fades--an evening of sad sounds.
Its sundown, the day’s been reduced to a crack of lavender and fiery pinks along the Massif des Maures mountains. This evening we’re sipping cocktails at “Les Toits,” the Hôtel de Paris’ rooftop restaurant. The French would call this a lounge.
Les toits translates as ‘the roofs’ and its stunning view overlooks the provincial rooftops that slope down the foothills to the gulf of Saint-Tropez and it’s world-famous beaches. The well lit boats are settling down and dropping anchor for the night as we complete our orders and get our second round of drinks.
This has been the best vacation. I think we’ve all reclaimed our calm after a tense freshman year. We’ve been at the beach for 10 days. Leong and Sunny are actually tan, Lisa and my hair are half a tone lighter and Bili’s black skin has taken on gorgeous, purple-ish highlights.
I’ve known Lisa now for ten months, but we share a deep connection that seems older. Lisa’s lovely, brazen, and naturally flashy, without trying. Unfortunately, though, Lisa draws men like a keig-light draws moths - whether she’s looking for them or not - I don’t envy her that. Young men, middle aged men, old men.
Lisa said it started when she was 13. She’d be in a store or restaurant with her mom or dad and a lady would introduce herself, “Hi, I’m with the Ford, or Elite, or IMG, or DNA modeling agency, has your daughter done any modeling?” And another business card would be wasted. Her mom nodded as she recalled this sordid past.
Attention just shifts to her, the party comes to her, she can’t seem to avoid it. About every 30 minutes some man comes over and introduces himself to us (to her). This man owns a local night club, would we (she) be his guest? (He’s looking at her like desert) This guy owns a yacht - “that one, there,” he points it out, in his Russian oligarch voice - he clicks a fob on his keychain and the lights blink. Oh, sure, join a strange foreign man on his yacht, what could go wrong?
There are 8 of us girls at the table with Charles, our escort and confidant. He’s a 50-ish, red headed ex-NYC-cop who just sits there quietly and sips his drink like James Bond. He seldom says anything. I lean in to him and say, “Maybe they think you're her pimp?!” Leong coughs in her drink and Charles gives me the same, serious, “behave yourself” look I’ve gotten since I was 9.
I have been a member of The Soup for over 10yrs now and have seen poets the I have come to love and respect disappear one by one, for reasons I do not know. I know there are many reasons of us losing our great poets, But I find it sad just the same. So I decided to make songs from some of their poems in Honor and Appreciation of having them as friends and fellow Poets.
The First Tribute is to the very talented
Robert Andrew Lyle
In The Poem titled:
Homesick
From the Faughan river valley
To Binevenaghs mighty brow
I love these roads to travel
Wish I could tread them now
To in an instant be propelled
Landing on that grassy slope
That overlooks Magilligan strand
Would be my greatest hope
To take the road to Donnybrewer
And walk down by the Foyle
To see the fields of Kerrs Pinks
Where my father used to toil
To listen to the Corncrake call
As it hides in the long hay
How many happy times were spent
Trying to glimpse her on my way
When you’ve walked up Kilnappy brae
You’ll hear your legs complain
Saying don’t you ever try to
Bring us up this way again
The walking up can wear us out
But when we turn around
The view that lays before us
Will never fail to us astound
The beauty of the patchwork quilt
Of fields enclosed with stone
The distant hills of Donegal
That was my parents’ home
I miss not just the countryside
My family I miss dear
Many times I’ve spent just wishing
I was there or they were here
Copyright © Robert Andrew Lyle | Year Posted 2014
The crescent moon overlooks
The pink taffy sky as it melds
With the grey mist that rises
From the creeks and gently rolling hills
I read a long time ago
To avoid criticism one should
Say nothing, do nothing, be nothing
But even in doing that one gets criticised
Many politicians say a lot
Buttering everyones' toast
But when it comes down
To doing anything worthwhile
They are like a phantom, ghost, or apparition
That disappears at first light or close observation
They have to hide in shadows
So that their half-truths, lies, straddling of the fence is not found out
So how can we learn from this
What can we do with our lives
What can we be, say, write
If we say, be, write then can we
Follow through with action
Moon is getting fainter just a bare
Silver almost hair
Against the very gray-blue sky that mixed
With the mist of the earth two have combined
Seemingly forming one body
Duty has called me from the carefree moments
That exist out on the porch as the roosters begin
Their crowing, the crickets have quietened,
And the birds have begun their morning chirping
And life calls me away to do the responsibilities of day