Long Pairs Poems
Long Pairs Poems. Below are the most popular long Pairs by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Pairs poems by poem length and keyword.
Myths About Snakes
By Elton Camp
As to snake myths, a good place to begin
Feel and see. They don’t have slimy skin
Not matter how many this fib have told,
They certainly aren’t slimy, but only cold
Though many believe, there’s no way how
A milk snake could possibly milk any cow
In a barn that type snake may well be found,
But that’s true even if there’s no cow around
A hoop snake can’t make a wheel to roll away
“But I’ve seen it,” the uninformed man will say
If they could do this, it surely would be great fun
When scared, like any other snake they will run
Another myth that need cause no iota of alarm:
Snakes can their victims hypnotize or charm
But when a dangerous snake does come near,
Some animals will “freeze” in the greatest fear
Here’s another story that is simply of no account:
Calculate a rattlesnake’s age by the rattler’s amount
Each rattle show the snake have lived another year,
That a rattle is left at each of many sheds is clear
It’s untrue that snakes in pairs will always be found
In the brief mating season is when the male is around
A snake’s “mate” never on its killer vengeance seeks
Another falsehood is what that particular myth speaks
In great danger any person may become embroiled
If he believe a snake can strike only when it’s coiled
Because that foolish belief most assuredly, isn’t right
The fact is, from any position a snake is able to bite
To believe this dangerous myth, you shouldn’t oughter
A cottonmouth is unable to bite if it is under water
How could a water snake possibly eat and survive,
If it couldn’t feed on fish and other snakes on a dive?
Another widespread belief that is quite a bad mistake:
Is that there is such a fragile creature as a glass snake
Though such an ability would be an interesting sight
If it could, when threatened, break apart and reunite
But if someone whom you know insists these are true,
There is actually not a great deal that you are able to do
The adage may apply: He who is persuaded against his will
Will almost certainly remain of the very same opinion still
P.S. There is a legless lizard that looks like a snake except that
it has eyelids which no snake has. It can break into three parts
when threatened, but can’t go back together. The end with the
head may escape and later regenerate the missing parts.
The rising of the seventh moon in an ornamental lampshade is equivalent to a nice round smiley dinner plate that had been recently washed,
Recently washed is neither a rotating wimpy wishing walker and neither is it a raspberry wafer wobbling,
It takes a lot of effort to squeeze a giant igloo through the eye of a needle,
And this is not pleasant for the spectating polar bears whose fish was being fried inside the dwelling holes,
But only a mini strawberry could flex the muscles effectively to cause a jam in a mile of traffic,
That is not good news for the jars who are already late and to be late is said to be as irrational as using a fork to make a morning brew,
A stew is far more intelligent than a gravy as many components equal more experience and more experience means that even a metric metre of labelled combinations could entice a bear from a sleeping hole,
But only when wearing a jacket made from paper,
It is nice and neat and true to form,
But format was often found to be a flame of frog leg on a carpet of mystical swirling frogspawn,
It is wise to offer up a little cup of cat milk to the buds then sit back as the colours loop in and swirl in a sky of answers,
But this can simply not be achieved nor archived when the moon is in the bin and the sailors are racing in the sun ship,
A trade is traditional and traditional trade can be nothing more then a hyper-fluted mini skirt of a skating rabbit on a promenade wearing 60 pairs of headphones,
Metronomes moaning making moronic motionless mixes,
And a nice little pair of glasses on the mantle-piece was swaying in the wind but not swearing for swearing was reserved for those who act out tanker talks,
Themes then?
Yes.
Where there were many now there are few.
But in fuse boxes the conversations are often quite absurd and who would put a floating camel in a tank then send it into a plane to cross the clouds,
Criss cross is a cleaning duty for a mission opinionated cloth wearing layers of clothing,
So what will one bring to the fair?
A mare
A single bud
A sanctified saint cushion with sparkles and satin.
And a heron in a pan of water with 60 fish to eat.
Consummation is the creational consumption cream of cropped chartered chunks. Said the 90 feet of cat by a door.
Z Leptailurus serval Z at 54 lemon sponge cakes laughing at 21 empty flan cases.
Form:
Patradoot or The Messenger 38 /Many
English version by Ravindra K Kapoor
Originally written in Hindi by my
Late father Dr. Amar Nath Kapoor
The charm and beauty of her lovely eyes, dear,
I could not find even in the loveliness of a deer,
Such are the fascinating charms of her eyes,
Even the Sun would not come out feeling shy.
If any tears would appear in her eyes by mistake,
It would get burnt by the shine of her eyelids, dear letter,
Even the bunch of deer moving here and there
Would feel shy to behold the beauty of such eyes.
Such lovely pairs of my beloved’s eyes would be luster less
Because of her long waiting for me and her silent sobbing,
The moment she would see and hear you, dear letter,
Tears would start coming out from her eyes like rivers.
Her face use to shine like the full Moon, dear letter,
After the tender touch of my love rains,
In compassion of seeing such beauty of her, dear,
The Moon too would feel shy to appear before her.
During the chewing of beetle leafs dear letter,
Her lips used to get red, darker than the lotus petals,
Seeing even Sun with its alluring redness would feel,
Shy to come out before my beloved, dear letter.
Ravindra
Kanpur India 09th Sept 2010 continues in 39
Based on the true freedom struggle story of Dr. Amar Nath Kapoor
Protected as per Poetry Soup’s copy write protections
Note:
If any reader who is not a member of Poetry soup
Has any question or queries, they can
Send me an email on kapoor_skk@yahoo.com
Patradoot in Hindi was originally written by my late father
Dr. Amar Nath Kapoor around 1932, who was a freedom fighter.
He wrote Patradoot in Hindi, when he was kept in Faizabad Jail for quite
a long time. The Epic was written as a gift for my mother and it was
sent to her secretly from Faizabad Jail. He was imprisoned
by the British, as he was fighting for India's freedom
under the leadership of Mahatma Gandhi. He was imprisoned
many times during 1920 to 1947. After India’s
independence as a true follower of Gandhi Dr. Amar Nath
Kapoor left active politics and devoted rest of his life in
writing easy mass literature and wrote many Dramas,
Poetry books, epics. All his other literary
works were mainly written from 1955 to 1990.
He left this mortal world in 1994.
Sounds of morning, fluid undertones, yet cacophonous;
Rhythmic rustling of nearby trees form the baseline for tropical chaos.
Each added layer draws me further into distraction.
I hear the shadowy neighbors breaking their silence,
Attendant to their morning chores.
A distant train chimes in, noisily announcing its slithering passage.
Sounds of morning vie for my attention.
New, hypnotic rhythms spiral close, retreat and then surround me,
to further crystalize direction for the day.
Can I break into the layers of deepening trance to realize the quiet peace
of enlightenment just beneath the busyness and violent distraction?
Pairs of red chested robins, lyrical cardinals, yellow flittering finches
each visit the backyard feeder in their turn,
While the brackish pigeons, bullish bluejays and sulking squirrels
noisily muscle their way in to feed among the bird-tossed seeds,
now scattered haphazardly on the ground.
Beneath it all there is Silence.
Stillness quietly directs peaceful calmness
to the center of swirling time.
"Just another dream." I smile.
Next door, loud frenzied dogs and deep tinkling chimes
add their voices to the concert of morning.
Busyness abounds, directing all attention outward.
While the Silence of enlightenment, like a stoic sentinel,
erectly stands, patiently waiting.
"They also serve who stand and wait."
Copious mirages pass through the early hours,
rising with the stifling heat, and yet,
Beneath it all I am drawn to Silence.
Yearning for Peace, order, calmness: where joy and childlike wonder
view the world through eyes of young divinity and matured praise.
I realize each moment is precious as it passes.
But I know there is only Now. There is only Here.
As I am here I am everywhere.
And so, I observe as the concert rages on about me.
It is enough to view the contrast within the borders of crystal sanity.
"Just another dream." I smile.
A marble Buddha sits atop a comforting splashing fountain.
It's waters of life spray the arid air with relief.
I wonder what He's thinking, behind his Mona Lisa smile.
What do His closed eyes watch so intently?
Will I ever break through the noise of embodiment
to reach His supreme level of attainment,
And walk beside Him on His jeweled crystal pathway in the sky?
"O! Just another dream." I smile.
With minds like crystal prisms, they shatter light into every spectrum of possibility, foreseeing storms before the first cloud, hearts bruised by premonitions whispered on the wind. Yet, they dance in the rain, a silent symphony of knowing played on a smile, for theirs is the terrible gift of seeing the tapestry of fate woven a thread at a time, even as it pricks their fingers.? Huzefa Nalkheda wala
Hiking up the mountain, in pairs
You and I, just two more
Who settle the moments with hope,
For the tenderness that comes to life
Inside those who can feel
Feel, like you and I…
Laughter, giggling, ambling
Wandering over stones, dark pebbles,
Gravel roads, meant for those,
Who can see beyond the forest’s singing,
Into the poetry, the faith, the need
For silence that assures and agrees,
Feeling just like you and me…
Words fall between the friends,
Moist in the air – like the slow, soft breeze,
Words in rhythms, tones of light,
Feelings, blessing away the past, suspended,
In the hues so bright,
You and I, feeling so alive!
When the rain begins to melt the sugar sweet
Salty skin, trembling, beginning to believe,
We might make our way to our intention…
Only we feel the showers, melting the hours,
Blessings in liquid, spilling over the naked trees,
Spinning stories of lonely, breathing
Light as the shadows deepen, pouring over the soul,
Embracing the moments, assaulting each of us,
Pouring out a cleansing afternoon cloudburst,
Like music, she soothes and comforts…
And, as the pairs of our friends race toward shelter,
I catch my words in the back of my mind,
Not telling you – yet, somehow you can feel my message
In the heart…
As we move slowly beneath the downpour,
Securing our last place in the refuge of our vehicle,
Where the rain falls in sheets on the glass,
Refusing to listen to our wiper’s urgent swabbing,
Almost as immediately as the hand wipes the tear,
Who appears…
When you and I realize, at last, our dream has passed,
And, we’re merely walking among the shadows of the past,
Where floods of memories, like that downpour on the trail,
Sends us back to that place we always meant to forget.
Inside my chest – is that satisfaction or regret?
Never, in a downpour yet, have there been tears so alive,
As this homesick moment has shuddered and died!
Seeking a better life and with chance at hand, our new life awaits
Wife hires on as servant, daughter and I stowaway as it departs
Our life's dreams sail on the USS Titanic, a new future to create
daughter and I conceal ourselves while wife toils with bunk-mates
We would change places to stay warm from bitter cold and storm
my young baby I wrapped up tight, this kept her warm to my delight
We count days till our new home, I worry and pray my wife is warm
A few days passed till that night I awoke in sheer terror and fright
Hearing metal tear, as cries and screams begin a siren sounds above
We're in warmth deep beneath the decks I grab my joy to face regret
We're not far from mom, I push and shove to get her one deck above
The time is short as I open door, to reveal wife's tears, glad to see, yet
to escape I tie a rope about our waists for in this flight can't separate
Then we begin our quest to the night air knowing we're 5 decks below
scaling 2 decks with speed, all converge but keep moving can't hesitate
Baby in hand we drag and claw moving to air, all moving with the flow
One more flight of stairs to fresh air, I take wife's hand to lead her their
Ship tilts as we get through door to sky then falling down into the night
A sudden jerk as rope catches pipe saving us as others fall in pairs
with bitter cold and death insight, I plan again how to win this fight
A mans wool coat 4 feet above I grab his coat as life slips from hope
Wrapping about my baby and wife, for warmth, in this my last night
Water rising swiftly only a few feet below, I swing wife and cut rope
Their flight to the ocean, as I follow them into the icy cold midnight
We find each other in this dark abyss, then fight to swim to life
We reach trash still afloat raising wife and babe to safety I cover tight
death assured in my last fight I tie raft to boat and tell my loving wife
I love you both fight to save your lives, as I sink from view in the night
Hours passed her body heat spent, pulls to boat in her last attempt
She wraps baby in all the clothes and begs they save her from my fame
Her baby safe as she can plan she cuts the rope with this last lament
When you all survive, let all who ask know my sweet daughter's name
This is a fictional account of the youngest survivors journey to safety, Elizabeth Gladys Dean
Her face pops up on the screen and she stared directly at me looking into her dream and, as the verdict is read, she grips tightly to her symbolic bed.
Her eyes were motionless, her lips speechless and her body is relaxed and from the looks on her face, she was begging for mercy. There was nothing on her face that express remorse for such a vicious deed but the evidence revealed that the judge has given her a bad deal; life sentence.
Her face looks beautiful and strong carrying a heavy conviction in her hand, but she still held on to her truth that she did not murder any of those youth.
She has been called many names that could drive the whole world insane from a crocodile gallivanting on the aisle, a murderer spinning dice and a serial killer that has paid a painful sacrifice. They call her a baby killer and a cold and relentless murderer.
Sometimes you can match a face with a crime but this one look overtly divine. The angelic look on her face tells a different story of someone that is longing for a date. She was aiming for glory and got side tracked on the way appeasing her ego and displeasing the super-ego but when you read in-between the lines you can see the sanctuary dangling over her head and the crucifix lying in her bed.
I could not help but weep when I see young woman succumbed to her feet waking with bloods on her hand and polluting the whole of England a young woman with a pretty face has stunned the human race.
Was it scientific research that gone bad or was it Dr. Mengele 1930 experimental blog? Mengele human genetic research uses twins to study the hereditary basis of diseases.
At Auschwitz, he collected hundreds of pairs of twins from among the Jews and split the in two for his experimental data to come through. He records the twins’ bodies drew large amounts of blood from them and sometimes performed painful procedures on them.
There is a similar contrast here. They say that she injects air into the bloodstream, the stomach, overfed them with milk, assault them physically and poison them with insulin oh what cruelty?
Dr. Mengele or Nurse Letby destiny will decide, it looks like a research that has gone bad covered by an umbrella to make the boss looked glad but at the end it made everyone sad. Faces can be deceiving.
On the first day of Christmas my loved ones gave to me,
And a plate of turkey butties.
On the second day of Christmas my loved ones gave to me,
Two girly books,
And a plate of turkey butties.
On the third day of Christmas my loved ones gave to me,
Three CDs,
Two girly books,
And a plate of turkey butties.
On the fourth day of Christmas my loved ones gave to me,
Four board games,
Three CDs,
Two girly books,
And a plate of turkey butties.
On the fifth day of Christmas my loved ones gave to me,
Five gift vouchers!
Four board games,
Three CDs,
Two girly books,
And a plate of turkey butties.
On the sixth day of Christmas my loved ones gave to me,
Six dodgy jumpers,
Five gift vouchers!
Four board games,
Three CDs,
Two girly books,
And a plate of turkey butties.
On the seventh day of Christmas my loved ones gave to me,
Seven cuddly creatures,
Six dodgy jumpers,
Five gift vouchers!
Four board games,
Three CDs,
Two girly books,
And a plate of turkey butties.
On the eighth day of Christmas my loved ones gave to me,
Eight pairs of knickers,
Seven cuddly creatures,
Six dodgy jumpers,
Five gift vouchers!
Four board games,
Three CDs,
Two girly books,
And a plate of turkey butties.
On the ninth day of Christmas my loved ones gave to me,
Nine TV specials,
Eight pairs of knickers,
Seven cuddly creatures,
Six dodgy jumpers,
Five gift vouchers!
Four board games,
Three CDs,
Two girly books,
And a plate of turkey butties.
On the tenth day of Christmas my loved ones gave to me,
Ten hours of nagging,
Nine TV specials,
Eight pairs of knickers,
Seven cuddly creatures,
Six dodgy jumpers,
Five gift vouchers!
Four board games,
Three CDs,
Two girly books,
And a plate of turkey butties.
On the eleventh day of Christmas my loved ones gave to me,
Eleven scented candles,
Ten hours of nagging,
Nine TV specials,
Eight pairs of knickers,
Seven cuddly creatures,
Six dodgy jumpers,
Five gift vouchers!
Four board games,
Three CDs,
Two girly books,
And a plate of turkey butties.
On the twelfth day of Christmas my loved ones gave to me,
Twelve tons of chocolate,
Eleven scented candles,
Ten hours of nagging,
Nine TV specials,
Eight pairs of knickers,
Seven cuddly creatures,
Six dodgy jumpers,
Five gift vouchers!
Four board games,
Three CDs,
Two girly books,
And a plate of turkey butties.
Sharon Bell
1
I say I'm a designer of systems, plans
Man's
Parts that stand together, set in place to serve
Trees and planets, too, which are unplanned by us
The observant, wise man
Tries to understand
Name the parts, pistil and stamen
Rocks, eskars
Elements.
Winter is shuddering to an end, mud roads
Cardinal pairs
Robin flocks return that will soon pair off
Buds
Soils swell
Will I live to smell it again, learn the lobelias
Understand and name the parts
It ought to be a great comfort to be so insignificant
Go among weeds, a wind
Thinking to myself
One's never alone
A dichotomous key is needed, a book of twigs and fruits
Accumulated over time and generations
Without it mine would be a blank mind
To be blank but knowledgeable
Without any machinery
In a perfect silence
That is the definition of death for which we have only to wait
But in my panic last night I thought death's inert
Grace requires consciousness
Hold on long to the senses
At least a century, maybe more
A boy hanging upside down from a fence at sunset, counting clouds
2
Now we go to our daily practice
And chosen disciplines
Sustained by the satisfactions of being good men among our fellow men
Women
Choosing to do this and not that
With the finite days allotted us that at first seemed like a lot
They're now few
But the chickadee's life to the chick and the cankerworm moth's to the
worm
Seem as long to them as ours to us
What question am I asking today
By now, past half a century, I should have chosen a discipline
And been satisfied
To be a war president one must have war
May you live in interesting times?wish or curse?
Squirrels, high in oaks,
Fiber, fat and protein in acorns
Strong runners, leapers, climbers
Should stay off the roads which some cannot avoid being where they're
born
Natural selection is occurring
Those that look for machinery in motion
Hesitate or don't as needed before crossing
Live in larger numbers than those whose modus operandi's
Guessing
The ravens eat the fur and guts of bad guesses off the roads
I impose my own small order
Having chosen mountains over plains or shore
Go to my daily discipline
And estimate the motions of the seas and stars
Measuring my satisfactions by my children's satisfactions
I still have that dream of us
on what would be my last day in Uruguay
sitting on a low stone wall
overlooking the vast sea
while the sun is chased away behind us
and the wind gently brushes the hair from your shoulder
to tease at my arm.
Between us is a slice of cake; Chajá, like promised
picked up while strolling Montevideo
the real tour being your form in three dimensions
a whisper of peach still on both of our tongues
still secretly wondering if it would taste any differently
if stolen off of lips instead.
Conversation scarce and unneeded
lulled in favor of kicking legs and staring out at birds
as they glide from blue and into orange and magenta blooms
all the while hyper aware
of how charged your long, lithe fingers seem
and how mine, coarse and calloused, are busy supporting my weight
as I lean back with my shoulders
and itch to crawl them closer.
Just the wind carrying unspoken wishes
in a moment so serene and encapsulated
in the lives of youths coming together in ebbs and flows
light crashes of waves
against a smooth stone wall.
"Can I kiss you?"
not knowing how but moving forward
brushing brows and cheeks with the pads of a thumb
and landing on a chin to hold
so that a featherlight brush might be delivered
with the proper mix of shy yet the most bold they've ever been.
And peach does taste especially sweet
when bitten off juicy lips.
As how salty air becomes a balm
when breathed fresh between two pairs of lungs
Though time is short and shy and chaste
this moment lingers like a false memory in a bottle
thrown from the wall to be lost at sea
a message to the future when this may be realized
and held precious like a gem and not fragile glass.
I don't want to taint this beautiful delusion
with the reality that is far too unkind
But now if I visit I fear we would both be ghosts
me, an intrusion
a foreigner retracing the steps of a familiar stranger
mourning the echoes of memories
resenting the setting sun behind the low stone wall
and the parting gift of an overdue first kiss
stolen not by the warm summer wind
nor even the strains of money nor pains of distance
nor "best laid plans"
but by something as simple and foolish
as wanting too much
the wrong kind of slip of the tongue.