Long Perhaps Poems
Long Perhaps Poems. Below are the most popular long Perhaps by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Perhaps poems by poem length and keyword.
waterfall from skies compete with my thoughts
must be doing something else,
yet here I am,
Here. I am.
Again.
Why do I keep coming back here?!?
A mental shake,
as I chastise myself
I shouldn't be here, don't belong here anymore.
Most likely, I never did, just pushed myself in this place.
But I feel like a homing pigeon,
where this is the only place I know
that I can be and not be.
Where I can hide and expose myself at the same time.
With repercussions? Maybe.
I sit in my own corner and immerse myself
in the chatter, the laughter, and other matters
Nobody really notices me,
but that's ok.
I'm getting used to it.
I guess I keep coming back here
for that sense of familiarity, of a somewhat home,
for the memories.
Of myself in happier times,
of a chapter in my life that I have written
yet somehow botched up. Badly, so badly
that the words are all swimming in their own tears
Oozing ink, drowning.
But it shouldn't surprise me anymore?
This is me?
Of course I will always somehow manage to mess things up.
Some ways more than the others,
'my-esque' askewness
For some, that chapter in my life
is of course negligible. An erasable footnote perhaps?
It hurts, but we all have our own worlds,
where you may not be as important to others
as you thought, as you wanted to be.
There I went, pushing myself again,
only to be pushed away with a
thousand mile barrier of silence.
All along, being dust in that corner.
I gulp a bucket of tears,
because I will not deny it--
how much it hurts. Still.
But like what I say,
have to get used to it.
My hands are cold,
and I wipe snot from my nose,
a dainty trickle of snot, but snot nonetheless,
have had my snot-in-sheets phase,
so this is progress, that trickle.
1234, my clock says,
12345678910, I count to myself
collecting, breathing slowly
needles in my feet and shivering
Gosh, can I get any more pathetic?!
Yes, I have and I bet I will still be so.
No, this is not a pity-me thing,
more like a slap-myself thing
So I can look back, read this
and say to myself:
Others have it harder than you,
yet they stand,
I'm here sitting,
yet others stand.
...
the sky is still drumming the earth with water
and my eyes are threatening to do a duet. Again.
I chide myself, Enough now.
For my bags under my eyes are already so smooth, too deep
Too weathered and soaked for a year.
----> 'slap-myself thing', remember??
Remember.
What is life without joy and happiness?
what is life without self honour and pride?
Upon this mountain hell i lay every day
Battered and frustrated
A man of sorrow, forsaken
My spirit groans for mercy which failed to come
All is taken away from me including the smallest pin
of what is life without a mother?
painted black and red
I mourn every seconds for that pretty damsel
swifter that the eagle, my heart pounded
Joy whispers sadness in my ears
and tears becomes my friend
In despair i feast and dance sorrowfully
they mock and throw me around like a forbidden coin
men are evil, my spirit moans
Raising my eyes to see my ears
i could tell of their wickedness
my goats, cows and jewelries gone
Hear me evil souls, the nature has its judgment
Once in life, it cometh and it hard to escape
It hard to escape the judgment
look at father native compound
it been taken away by strangers
those who once dance with us
In good fortune and share our breads and barns together
NOw, they are against us in fury
Dare point us in the face and laugh
Hear me old friends, nature has its judgment
The nature has its judgment, beware
In my old age. bitterly i weeps all day
in affliction and harsh labour
my foes had become my masters
the roads to my hut mourns
my compound groans and grieved
None to comfort me, all my friends had betrayed me
All the splendor has departed in the air
this is why i weep and,
my body shivers
My eyes overflow with water
All who pass my way clapped and laughed at me
Enemies open their mouth wide against me
my grieves are many and my heart fainted
i am in torment within, disturbed and distracted
I remembered my wandering and pains
In the dark forest alone
Covered my self with anger
perhaps my father had sinned
And i didn't know and,
we now bore the pains
Getting brad is at my life risk
Because of the sword beneath
look and see our disgrace
Those who pursue us are at our heels
my siblings scattered abroad sorrowfully
No one to caution us and drag us back
Till end i know the earth has it judgments
i shall sing beautifully with joy in other phase of life
when the gate shall open.
ALL RIGHT RESERVED (C) JOHN CHIZOBA VINCENT 2013
Your words, which seem to be my words,
are but footprints on the fen floor of
the white page, echoes of wand'ring lyric loping.
And if, perhaps, the P's that B have blessed,
they click, they crunch, they sweetly rot underlip.
Tearing words from mind, squeezing through that jealous heartspace.
Tearing follows, wetting page after page, piling into a formless stream.
They clatter upon the mocking whiteness, an array in disarray.
A shattered and graphic mythography, mud clots on tile
after a hike. Why do not my hot words summon Leidenfrost?
I love words, no...I love meaning.
I love meaning, I don't love
the promise of words' bringing of
meaning.
It is National Poetry Month and Shakespeare.
died today.* The first time he died today was
four hundred years ago. I am set to write and read
'publicly' (which spellcheck insists and my heart
does not insist is better writ as 'public ally') some
'poetry' while dancers carve the air, in response to,
in love with, in relation to, hand/heart drawn trees
which have drawn, well-
wishers to wine 'n cheese' 'n chit 'n chat
an opening. A gallery.
But Prince died last night.
The artist formerly known as Prince Rogers Nelson,
and formerly known as a symbol,
and now formerly known as Prince. He died.
The symbol has gone and I don't know what it means.
The words are here behind my teeth, within my fingertips,
astride my heart, tickling that lump in my throat.
It is Earth Day, too. I'm supposed to say some words and make
them meaningful. And make them sing. And ring in the hearts as though
my ditherings are one tine of a tuning fork and the other is the spirits
of those dearly beloved, gathered here. Our coils unshuffled, for in our
sleep of life what dreams may come. But we stand upon, today, both
the funeral's grounds and the corpse to be. The Earth. We are meant
to celebrate her life as she withers. Strangled, starved, and trampled. And I?
I can't.
I just...
cant.
-ShhDragon
*He died today but every day we don't give birth to him with our tongue, on the stages of our heart, he remains a fetid, rotting, beautiful corpse. ’Lo four hundred years ago he died, but every day he isn't summoned, isn't animated, he remains dead. The fact of anniversary is our failing, our repeated failings, to bring forth what might be dead.
With looks of celestial damsel
On mission of mystery unravel
A fairy flies from foreign land
Fabulously to discover dreamland
With colourful feathers silky
Plumage so soft as cream milky
With a huge brain and physique
Seemingly bereft of travel unique
Marches with her wings vibrant
Only to devote herself on front 1
Space being her intriguing place
With supersonic speed that’s ace
Surmounting all hurdles many
The angel gathers speed gluttony
Hovering over planetoids tiny
Cosmic powers she has bonny
Revolving around many orbits
Surpassing all heavenly bits
Eventually lands on planet afar
Near the superb system of star 2
The landing leaves no stone unturned
For she knows her vision churned
Deep insight and attitude awesome
Make her an alien winsome
Tidy looks and trendy gait
Extremely stunning to catch and get
Her device offers a beverage strange
That has unique aura and rage
Pinkish perfect pure porridge
The cosmic food it seems from fridge 3
Tailor-made for her specific physique
Is the space suit with electro-magnetic
Induction full speed and winsome
Mere touch causes sparkle wowsome
A protective shield made of an alloy
Thus making her a space decoy
Satellites she whirls like a key chain
Space capsules she twirls on her mane
An enormous angel from an alien abode
Now at my solar system crossroad 4
What could be her mission possible!
Has been my subject of marvel
Is it to bring apocalypse fatal
Or just to revamp my earth petal
Before her I am like a neo natal
What to do to know her mettle
Time passes and she starts
To peruse my earth full of arts
Wonders at the seas and bays
Astonishes at mountains and rays 5
I am now beside myself
As she drills the earth deep herself
Oh soon there comes an mystery man
With torso made of crystal brand
The drilling continues till the dusk
There is a mist and her voice husk
I know it’s their language mutual
Based on the heavenly acts factual
Perhaps the mission is to find gems
In the earth stomach that overwhelms 6
Thus I’m sure she is down for mining
And exploiting the earth for farming
The drill lasts for hours twenty
Finally come out jewels aplenty
Like that of ocean-churn by Gods
Here going on planet-pumping by rods
The purpose is to adjust the axle
Though imaginary-full of miracle
Eventually gathered all gems
Putting axle in firm place 7
Glass shattered Saturday afternoon tea for S I L E N C E
holding steady raven momentum for its own r i p p i n g
fire from heartbeat slashes its void to tumble wounds of
wisdom weeping slow dirty tears of biting burns inserting
into wordless flesh of waiting before window panes were
smashed with stone docile ornaments, rampant afternoon
unvoiced holding a blank white canvas for dripping
bookshelves tumbled, poems torn to sheds, laundry strewn
with glass splinters as lead, aphonics slithering into dried out
stewpot waiting for maniacal tsunami to cremate emotions
tweezer them from dna soiled in possessive prisons ridiculed
Divinity spoke in all pervasive silence on testing timeline taut
holding breath to His nostrils imbibing a billion frequencies
I chose to brave open His serene lips for unutterable L O V E
lashes He crafted brushed breathy implicits with assent
for missions of courage traversed embracing solitude
observed in stillness whilst across eerie forest moss
carpets I deciphered “They Don’t Care about Us”
hush self wears a daisy cloak from heavenly dew fields
luminosity unzips not as lies hop chaotic across
spiderwebs it can chameleon transmute into gentle
streams to soothe that which hides for right timing
~ first bud of white rose birthing delicacy or benign
waters over pebble backdrop quietude
biscuit baker feeds jealousy, deceit, shame, guilt, indecision
escapism ~ swampy keys of stagnant quagmires will too utter
her heart’s eclipsed light breaking egoic invisibility as
softly I breathe her shadowed taciturn s t e a l t h
quiet petaling garment breaks open blackout mission
regurgitating quantum memories incubated in beckoning cell
fertility for decades perhaps centuries, marching crusades of
soul conquering ancient lands, majestic mountains, raucous
seas, ports, yellow spices, when women with babes gagged
anguished longing for men to taste their honey in serenity
hot crusted bread speaking truths of labouring backs bent
cows chewing cherrywood cuds ~ what could be a more
knowing t r a n q u i l i t y ?
now wafered soundlessness is lamb yet diamond piercing
raw, a lark offers sotto tones as harmony cupped in two
musing wings to ascend where it can quintessentially
quiver, hover in expectant repose for another silent mission
IRONY
My joy that I wasn't born a Nigerian
Is that my parents are Yorubas
I would have been limited to Naira
Mo dúpé pé mo lókó nílé (All thanks, I have a hoe)
Mo láyò pé omo alápatà sá lèmi(I rejoice, I am the butcher's offspring)
Nigerians should say alhamduliLhai
That our legislators are not as corrupt as our president
The country would have met with a great recession
E wá womo alápatà bó ti n jàsán (behold, a butcher's meal begging for a piece of meat)
Eni tó lókó nílé tó tún fowó ó kómí kiri(and a shovel merchant handpicking wastes)
Nigeria is blessed
With green pastures
And various rich liquids
Láyé Olúgbón, mo dá borùn méje(in the reign of Olugbon I owned seven different brocades)
Láyé Arèsà, mo dá borùn méfà (in the reign of Areas I owned six different brocades)
Nigerians are blessed
With great leaders
And various 'politricks'
Láyé Olósèlú mo ra àrán, mo ra sányán baba aso( in the reign of politicians, I owned linen and silk)
Ení pé ilè yìí o dùn ení kó wá bòmíràn lo(who dare thus pasture is not green should please make an exit)
The rich no longer cry
They are the beneficiaries
Of the poorman's labour
Sisésisé wà lóòrùn tó n làágùn (the labourer are dripping with sweat)
Jeséjesé wà làbétè tó n jè 'gbádùn(the beneficiaries enjoy the clubs)
Oh God of creation
Guide our leaders right
Perhaps, to spend our labour well
Bámúbámú mo yo x2(My hunger is satisfied to the fullest)
Èmi ò mò pébi n pomo enì kankan(I doubt if there is any languishing in hunger)
...
Whenever I see a Nigerian
I see along the irony of a country
Where hunger is an offspring of plenty
Nìnú òpò ará ìlú n jòwón(despite the riches, inflation is at its peak)
Nínú oyé, èése táráyé tún n sunkún oru?( and though its winter, the masses sweat is still profuse)
I hope to change the condition
I wish I could turn this irony around
And make a great change of situations
Sùgbón níbo laó ti bèèrè?(But where hence do we start?)
Tani ká kókó gbá lówó mún gan an?(who should be our first suspect?)
Sájépo lájà ni àbí eni tó báa gbà á sílè? (The looters or their abets?)
Where from should one start
Rewriting the story of this country?
Àbí e ò rórò bí? (Can you see?)
Òrò n bá rò ma ròfó, èfó n bá rò ma mún jèko (that this issue begets another)
Irony nlá leyii je, it is a big kàyééfì (this is a big kayeefi, irony nla leyii je)
The poem "VANTABLACK" exhibits a profound exploration of emotions and existential themes. As a poet, one would appreciate the nuanced use of language and the depth of introspection conveyed through the verses.
The title, "VANTABLACK," immediately draws attention to the darkest substance known, emphasizing a profound sense of darkness or void that permeates the poem. The tumultuous street and the notion in flight evoke a sense of chaos and uncertainty, setting the stage for the emotional journey that follows.
The poet skillfully employs imagery and metaphor to convey the complex emotions experienced. The notion that "hastens in haste" and then "averts its gaze" suggests a fleeting and elusive quality, mirroring the transient nature of emotions. The descent of the heart's echo into a "crimson abyss" hints at the depth of emotional turmoil, perhaps symbolizing pain or longing.
The lines "Your name, I called, yet emptiness replied" and "A bloom of yours, I drew, withering away" express a sense of loss and unfulfilled connection. The act of calling a name and drawing a bloom implies a desire for presence and beauty, but the responses are characterized by emptiness and withering, adding a layer of melancholy.
The exploration of choices in the lines "Life's lines extend before me, To choose, where your love resides" delves into the existential theme of navigating through life's possibilities and seeking love. The word "resides" suggests a search for a meaningful connection within the vastness of life.
The recurring ritual mentioned in "This ritual unfolds each day" implies a cyclical nature of introspection and perhaps a daily struggle with emotions. The poet peers within, describing it as a "melancholy abode," suggesting that the internal landscape is characterized by sadness.
The concluding lines, "Where my heart, a vantablack canvas, remains," encapsulate the essence of the poem. The heart being a "vantablack canvas" signifies an emotional void, absorbing and reflecting no light, emphasizing the depth of emotional darkness or emptiness.
As a poet, one might commend the poet for the rich tapestry of emotions woven through carefully chosen words and metaphors. The poem invites readers to contemplate the complexities of human emotions, the ephemeral nature of connections, and the existential quest for meaning in the face of emotional voids.
Imagine waiting for something or maybe it’s someone. Someone you look for in everyone you pass by but not someone that is easy to find. Everytime you pass by these people you look at their feet first, see what kind of shoes they have on. Destroyed black sneakers that are stained darker with red. Then you move up to their ankles, boney and sticking out like balls of compressed dirt, filled with worms and insects on the inside. Your gaze moves up to their knobby bruised knees that look like perhaps they’ve been painted on with watercolors. Next your eyes follow upwards to their thighs. You already know that they say it’s just their cat. Past their skirt you get up to their short-cut top, their ribs sticking out from their skin, looking like they’re trying to rip through to be free. You move your eyes up to their scarf wrapped around their neck hiding the bruises from their so-called lovers. Finally you reach up to their face. So sweet yet such a saddened look going across it. Pale white skin with tints of blue from the veins trying to shine through. Yellow and brown eyelids like dying sunflowers in a sad vase left behind and forgotten in a dark room with the blinds shut tight. Eyes that look like drops of golden honey or maybe even sap from a maple tree dripped into them, giving them the somewhat ‘life’ that they long to have. Their nose, glazed with hints of red around the openings from being wiped so many times to get away the excess ‘powders’ that make them feel again what they believe to be called joy and happiness. Lips redder than a blood moon that occurs only twice a year, peeling apart from the hours upon hours of picking and ripping apart with their teeth. Lastly your eyes wander up to their thinning hair which was once before very lucious and thick. Your eyes return to theirs as the passing is almost finished. You can see the worry in their eyes slowly go away a little bit as they find comfort in a stranger's eyes, yours. You smile and they return the expression back. You look back down at their mouth when they smile, their decaying teeth slightly showing right before their mouth goes right back shut to its distressed resting position. After you two pass all the way you start to wonder, do other people do the same? Do other people observe others as you do with everyone, looking for that person in someone else that you forever will long to be with?
Remember when that flash of insight
last self-ignited in your expectant thoughts
blasting away the fog of uncertainty, complexity and doubt.
A sudden aha Eureka answer, pure, simple, so succinct, beautiful.
To some this flash of aha is called duration, or a blink. insight, acumen, Eureka!
But, my friend, how, why, when, where, do these Aha moments arise?
Can we conger up more for ourselves, fill a treasure cheat with insights?
Or is this quest a waste of time, as no treasure map exits. But does it?
Can we ever know with what, and how, and when to cast the magic wand?
Does our search for meaning, inquiries lay the foundation?
Can we prepare the way ahead in some way or other?
Think back, my friend, did these gems
always spring up unexpectedly, and what occurred beforehand?
These aha Euekas cannot be scheduled or delayed,
cannot be snuck-up on, snared nor detected,
cannot be forced out nor guaranteed to appear.
Euekas are not rewards for hard work, perhaps the opposite is true.
How often does lazy and shallow wader get the creative rewards.
Chance is never fair in its rewards for hard work.
Often, an Aha taps us on the shoulder, we are least expecting it,
out of the blue, saying: "Look at Me. Look at Me".
When gobbled up with glee, it washes over and transforms us.
We are never be the same. It makes our day.
Does begging the question, ignoring the answers laid out
make it pop up from the soup into an inquiring mind?
Or does it appear when we raise questions to that have already been answered well?
Does it appear when we thin-slice the book to separate the leaves?
Often mistakes and errors have led to great breakthroughs
like penicillin, radioactivity, the color mauve and plastics.
What does this mean to you and your Aha Eureka pot of gold?
Should we be less careful, more observant for the unusual?
The Aha Eureka is a fleeting feeling, easily lost in the blink of an eye,
rampant, capricious, imperceptible, unbounded, elusive
like seeing something in the corner of the eye at dusk,
if you look straight at it, it's gone, look back again, it's there again.
For me it can be a matter of serendipity.
The more I see, the more I do, the more I explore, the more hits are triggered.
Many total restarts from scratch, often helps.
But, for me the one simple things
that works is lay me down to rest,
and to sleep on it!
Goodnight my dear boy and what's that you say?
You want me to chase the bad monsters away?
Well, I'll tell you a tale that may just be true
And if it's made up, it is done just for you...
I know you're afraid of the dark and the gloom
When you lie wide awake all alone in your room
'Scardy cats prowl and their tattle-tales pester
Goose bumps may prickle and worry-warts fester
Shadow-ghosts creep up and crawl to your cover
You roll on your side but then you discover
The thump in your pillowcase whispers too loud
So here's what I've done and I know you'll be proud...
I've met with the monster man under your bed
He thinks you will find he is not much to dread
He just needs a friend and to know that you care
So if you reach down he'll shake hands from his lair
I've found where that boogie man hides in the wall
He's cramped and alone and he waits for your call
He believes you're convinced he is ugly and mean
And hold him to blame when you have a bad dream
Your monster man's fierce and has razor-sharp teeth
But he understands things that may stir underneath
Your boogie man knows what you don't want to find
And what's around corners and hidden behind...
They'd like to come out and tell you a story
(Perhaps something scary but nothing too gory)
Sit up and talk with them late into night
Come morning they'll gladly slip back out of sight
But at night they'll grow strong to protect like they should
To face down your fear and show evil what's good
Stand watch while you sleep, they will stay by their mark
If you wake you might catch their eyes glow in the dark...
It's then as you grow you may find you walk bolder
With two fearsome friends striding close by your shoulders
They'll go anyplace as a general rule
(But maybe you'd better not bring them to school)
If witches and dragons can streak through the sky
Then monsters and boogie men surely must fly!
At the edge of your sleep (when you just start to doze)
Whisper the password and wiggle your toes...
And they'll sweep you away to soar like a dove
Over the rooftops to heavens above!
Up into orbit to your own private place
High on a mountaintop floating in space
Sit back and relax with a satisfied grin
Laughing and singing as you watch the earth spin
Hum along while your boogie man growls a brave tune
Count stars while your monster man howls at the moon