Long Pane of glass Poems
Long Pane of glass Poems. Below are the most popular long Pane of glass by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Pane of glass poems by poem length and keyword.
I cannot presume to know the motives of those outside my own heart
And counted are the moments that I realize my very own
But I do know that human nature is irrevocably raw at its core,
And this acknowledged by its Designer
Is a necessary balance weighing the uncompromising laws of love
Some despair at this unyielding hard truth
Or so flee from its cold reality altogether
Choosing to close their eyes and cover their ears
'Til light turns to dark and the music of their souls is silenced.
Mocking those who take each breath in hope and song-
Tossing them aside as fools and madmen.
But what madman will rejoice when goodness prevails
And who believes a fool to comprehend divinity?
And yet, this is of no matter to the believers of the unreal
Felt though not touched, always alive even unto death,
Never to be captured, for what of faith then?
Why? Why would they? Why would you? Why would I?
You ask, as if you do not know...
The courageous, genius, famous, powerful, royal, revered
The cowardly, ignorant, obscure, weak, common, rejected
None are immune
ALL relentlessly intent to self-deceive
Through an invisible pane of glass and viewed through the warped mirror of
"Science"
This- the carefully crafted frame from which the enemy's portrait laughs
Why, you ask? You know why...
But do not dare, can not bear, to believe
Conquerors
Earth and element
The moon and beyond
War and oppression
Masters of nature
Art, innovation, philosophy, exploration, invention
Conquerors of all but the TRUTH
The conquerors become coverers...
Smothering, twisting, reshaping, redesigning, reinventing
And denying TRUTH with imitations, poor reflections, and even carefully crafted illusions
From conquerors to coverers
Children with their heads in the sand
Sands of gold... fools gold.
Unless, you've dared to pull your head from the sand
Dared to stand, dared to look up
And let the golden grains fall away one by one
Until you're naked, worthless, unwanted, unloved
Like a newborn left to die in the trash of the cold alley called "truth"
No longer the conqueror, but the conquered.
NOW you are where you can be found
Rescued, Saved, Redeemed, Covered in TRUTH
Freed in LOVE
the humid thick air of a July 10 evening
streets of new york city in july
heat that invites two wretched souls
into the beatnik hall
coffee pouring- smell of tobacco burning
a squares mistake of showing up and thinking he is in paris because the men with their
old ladies berets are donned and wearing the personality of that such cat
sunglasses omitting the last of the natural light through that lone large pane of glass that outlooks the street ad the lamps illuminate
the death of the smoke will not kill them tonight
there bodies are still young and lean
they think their destiny is darkened as misplaced tweeners
movement of the fan of iron and tin blowing across the floor of tables and mugs
its cooling methods of no use and remorse it just keeps turning those fans no grateful
no on caring.
black girl sitting alone at a table in the corner trying to blend into the corner that gives dark not to be seen by her last lover as he runs his hand through the golden hair of latest old lady
white guy standing at the rear not more of two feet from the girl in the corner his eyes seething with his lost love sitting with the mature black fellow with the eyeglasses and sharp goatee running his hand through that golden hair.
the tow of them strangers since her time here, depart different doors broken hearts.
evening of walking for them both one walking one way the other another.
but that cool wind of the river is a non-conforming consoler of the two he leads them down to dark waters illuminated before the blue clear water. Suddenly one pair of eyes meets with the other.
attraction of the two as no other that have both felt.
one walks over to introduce to the other
which one it never mattered
their eyes meeting souls touching
wounds of the heart healing
doors to the homes of separate houses reopened with new vista of a greater American journey
my beatnik attempt
Form:
Tears from the horse eyes are longer than a pane of glass
Tears from the horse eyes are piercing the riders heart
He mounts the horse with courage and confidence
And leap a thousand meters towards the heavens
The mountains appears like giants in front of him
And forced him to ride above the wind
Knocking the weight of his body to and fro
And the saddle shifting from the horses back
The stirrups is waggling his feet from front to back
The bridles are falling from the horses face
The wind is tearing the branches apart
But he kept riding with a gigantic heart
He is galloping away crushing everything in its way
But a magpie sitting on top of the tree warned him that heat was
approaching a hundred degree,
the magpie voice could not slow him down and he kept riding with a with a sorrowful groans
And the horses’ tears kept pouring down.
The harness on the horses back kept him on the track
But and the desert wind in front of him sends off a pool of dust putting an end to all of the fuss, manpower horse and beast
moving like a lion towards the East
He could neither see the left or the right and he could not tell
The direction of the flight, the heavens were bellowing down upon him
And dust kicked up a terrible storm and blocked his vision and destroys his ambition. He stretched his hand towards the breastplate, held it firmly and slid underneath the horse.the horse was also covered in dust so the horse and the rider ran out of luck but the magpie that he had ignored came on time to rescue him from the dusty shore. It flew on a nearby tree and in the midths of the thick dust it guides the rider away from the dust and alas the horse and the rider ended up in a mud hut. They send the rest of the time there until the terrible wind had blown away. And so the Magpie won the crown with a song and a frown leaving the rider and the horse covered in dust and lying flat on the ground.
....in retrospect
There were mirrors there
Behind it, where all the Jews would hide
How can someone blame the black despair?
All You were, was a mirror over there
Flooding naked imagery
Flowing naked mercury
Proof there were no fa-ked lies
Unless words were pressed against the frame
Somehow you couldnt recognise...
your name...
Half blinded..
Besides, you would deny it anyway
One day while searching for those wandering Jews
Purple flowers in my garden winked at me
" we are they, if so you choose"
The mirror held was upside down
(It never mattered anyway)
So I kept on walking on and on
Until this very day
Ive heard it said just the other day
They used it to flash the sun
Hoping it would shine away
As some were hiding in its shade
A million miles away
Behind that fragile pane of glass
The looking glass kept looking past
And keeps looking for today
Looking at the torn disguise
And the lying enemy eyes
Though their lips were moist with movement
As yet the sound remained unheard
The spoken word was truth
One day it all may come to you
Whispered by a little bird
Ive held so high your high regard
And so your high esteem
Your badge of broken Jew
And friends by lives devided seen
I tried imagining I was you
Walking, standing in your wretched shoes
To us were done similar things
They also covered up the truth
In fact its happening here and now
How much cover do they need?
In honour tried to imitate , sometimes even emulate
Your cheeky contraband
Conducting your own orchestra
While playing your own band
This mirror holding up I see
If I was ever to wear those clothes
Emblazoned by a David star
Embattled with a Jewish scar
I wish to have your nose
The link between us circumcised
A covenant yet not broken
A people not yet broken by the blues
My love was found
Intact profound
In around
the nation of the Jew
upon seeing the potted flowers in the store
so beautiful, so seemingly original in all their
majestic aura, flirting with all the senses,
taken in by the smell & aroused by the touch of the
petals,
the onlooker wants nothing more than to take the
flowers home & make them their own,
so that they can place them on the windowsill
in order to catch the rays of light &
stir up the apartment, if possible,
with a new way of looking at the world---
in the same way we see beauty in other attractive human beings &
we want to smell, taste, touch them & then, unfortunately,
the need to possess them infects so many,
where taking them home &
placing them on the shelf so that no one else can get a good look at them
except through a thick pane of glass
still seems to be proper etiquette in the
21st century---
this invades what might of once been something of a pure
motive---
when already the ball has begun rolling,
the person stashed on the sill
finds themselves wondering what exactly is going to become of this
new relationship,
as the newness starts to wither
much like the flower on the sill whose watering gets neglected
as the days pass,
the new flower has made plans to leave
the next time it gets a chance &
that lone stroller who initially found such beauty
will never get to delve deeper into the complexities
which come with fostering discovery
instead of placing on the shelf someone
whose aesthetic beauty only captivated the onlooker for just so long &
when they are gone,
the lone stroller finds themselves knocking up side their own head
because the discoveries that could have been had,
the overwhelming interesting things that comprised the flower so quickly shelved,
now can never be known.
(Spoken)
I was shopping for a new gun just the other day
When, out of the blue it hit me what was right there on display
For under a pane of glass, there were hundreds of broken dreams
And that's made me think:
What's the story..... of a pawn shop ring
Music intro...
Half off hopes
Discounted dreams
Is what, the sign should read
But instead, it said half off
All our rings
Underneath a pane of glass
Broken love for trade with cash
And that's the story of a pawn shop ring
They're selling carats for pennies
On the dollar
If you see one you like
Feel free to make an offer
Each one's been certified
By a love turned cold as ice
And that's the story of a pawn shop ring
I'm guessing they've all been washed....
In teardrops
And a few were even given...
A fling
We're not here to discuss
If they're bad luck
Yeah that's the story of a pawn shop ring
I'm guessing more than most...
Hold unmade memories
And a few, never even, saw the day
A month and a halfs wage
For each dream there on display
And that's the story, of a pawn shop ring
(Spoken)
You know I left there that day feeling a little down
With no gun in my hand, I lifted my head feeling real proud
Just realizing that my woman still cares for me
Through all he hell I've put her through
Knowing we still have many dreams to come our way
But I still wondered
How many tried to propose
To only hear the word no
That's the story of a pawn shop ring
For in a glass case
Sits loves final resting place
And that's the story of a pawn shop ring
Open my soul to the world, and let a million butterflys pass me by
falling back on a sense of belonging ill see the way it should be
thought of things shared with none
fears and sorrow shatter dreams
all of these are peacefull things
when my mind is altering the way i see a mistery
shadows pass an eerie pane of glass
shattered on concrete as i sing a song of endless grace
places to speak my mind when no one else will
things to prove what i really mean
not telling lies to get me by, but telling truths to show...
why i am diffrent
keeping my word, when my word is all i have
telling the world i am a lonely soul
fading in me is a dream of lust a dream of true passion
falling away from my faith bit by bit, something slips
and i find a faith renewed, nothing will take me from him
he is my guiding light my only unforgetable truth
for it is he who has saved me and all i believe in
but what if belief has been honored with gifts
a present from above as it were, bliss in a kiss, hope in a hug
freedom in a word, or maybe... a phrase... think to yourself
these things hold true, byond what we think about on a daily basis,
what things do you honor above the deceat of others?...,
do you deafy yourself the right or act of honor by decieving others?...
why now, why must i realize what i have longed to protect, no not protect
to dispise...
love is an illusion but atleast i can feel happy for a moment, but LOVE
is true compation for another living soul and should be held in highest regard
even if you can show none in return.
Let me be the first
to have the audacity to translate,
This piece of mystery molded
in a magical meadow of mistakes,
The reckless subject, there,
just standing still like a landscape of order,
Disfiguring a flow of ridged ribbons
in shapes of unheard names,
Carelessly manipulating my optical
constructors to articulate promises
from paper wings,
Bewitched by the light warm
slash of sun laid upon the raging tides
within trembling silence,
How far charms can go to seduce their
way into a destructive satisfaction,
Might it'd been too kind to dry brush
around the edges of your shadows,
When the basement of your
intentions homed disturbing dreams,
Hunting for the tremors from
freezing nightmares that pray to
bury my ocean and all it's devotion,
Where do the ones who
seek the sins of lost words hide?
While half of the living cling
onto the drifting light,
This shrewd figure that clasps on
the thousand synonyms of shallow tears,
Whisking a bath of blades for
my pane of glass that hold scads of scars,
The pace of time, travels differently
when I try to captivate you through my sketches,
I am told by the tones of my pencil,
that your armor shields a menacing maniac,
Too cowardly to battle for your own persistence,
So hold on to what's left of your timid thoughts,
Sadly strength has long evaded you.
I flipped the switch and it roared to life,
With gears spinning and blinking lights,
Dials with arrows swinging left and right,
And a GPS screen to track my flight.
Then I closely examined my historical map,
While holding the keyboard on my lap,
And paused to wonder, where in time to go,
But with so many choices, I just didn’t know.
Maybe to the Pyramids, to witness their building,
And to speak with the aliens about their helping,
Or to Dealey Plaza to see firsthand,
If Lee Harvey Oswald was really the man.
Or to the “56” World Series, which would be nice,
Where Don Larsen put ‘dem Bums’ on ice,
Or maybe I could warp to Normandy’s beaches,
To see what history cannot teach us.
Or possibly a journey to Independence Hall,
Where our Founding Fathers were starting it all,
And I’ve always wanted to see ancient Rome,
And the chariot races at the hippodrome.
Then it dawned on me where I should go in time,
To Jersey City - nineteen-forty-nine,
So, I typed in the coordinates and stepped inside,
And in a micro-second, I completed my ride.
And I found myself standing next to this guy,
Who had a big wide smile and a gleam in his eye,
As he gazed at a bundle all wrapped in blue,
Through a pane of glass that provided the view.
And when the spell was broken, I heard him say,
“That’s my son, right there, he was born today,”
And as we looked at each other, I’m sure he knew,
That I was that bundle wrapped in blue.
The frost bites sharply at my boots,
a quiet thief stealing warmth.
The world hums in silver tones,
its breath a shiver brushing my crimson cheeks.
Each step cracks the silence,
a fragile defiance in a realm
that stills itself before the year’s end.
Trees wear crystalline armour,
their branches mimicking brittle fingers,
whilst clutching at the pale, indifferent sky.
The earth beneath me trembles,
thin as a pane of glass,
each foot step a gamble,
each crack a chime of survival
in this frozen scene.
My breath unfurls,
ghostlike and restless,
carrying the weight of months undone -
Regrets that sting,
hopes like fragile snowflakes,
unique, imperfectly crafted,
melting too soon.
The air tastes sharp,
like memory laced with frost,
but I swallow it whole.
The world is a frostbitten canvas,
its hues drained by the cold’s steady hand,
edges blurred by winter’s sigh.
Yet within the ache,
there is a strange beauty:
The way the chill settles deep,
an unrelenting grasp
you learn to crave.
And so, I walk on,
my thoughts trailing behind
like naughty shadows.
Each step marking time
as the frost whispers its secrets.
This is the year’s final breath,
its splintered waltz,
dancing on the edge of stillness.
And I wear it like a crown -
each shard of ice a fragment of truth,
sharp and cold,
etched into me.