Long Perimeters Poems
Long Perimeters Poems. Below are the most popular long Perimeters by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Perimeters poems by poem length and keyword.
as thoughts and ideas
MELDED
and experiences
define the perimeters
so my expectations
took form
to shape my decisions
GLISTENING
like oil on water –
a kaleidoscope
of possibilities …
when memories
S W I R L
finding a new truth –
my epiphany
flowing over
river s.t.o.n.e.s
worn smooth
by norms
yet
glistening with f l u I d d a w n s …
GATHERING
the past
in a m…i…s…t…y shawl
it comforts the future –
PROPITIATING
twilight sprites
discarding a false dusk …
guided by the light of iNyanga*
we define ourselves
amongst the many dawns
we shape
revealing truth…
A comment such as "He looked right through me" portrays a person who's not in a positive light relative to the veiwer. It's indicative of a reality that does not bode well for the person being observed because such a statement portrays a lack of respect. Every person needs to be respected, and eye contact is a great start toward achieving such an objective.
If tunnel vision is a lesser to be desired point of veiw, then certainly eagle vision is to be the most coveted of all, in as much as an eagle can spot a mouse two miles away. Why, if I had the eyes of an eagle, I would be able to see an ant from five stories high.*
Within certain perimeters, we have the ability both to see things we are not looking at and to target that which we desire. Sometimes it is difficult to see the trees because of the forest. However, if we really desire to see the tree, we must pause, slow down, or even stop for a close-up and targeted veiw of the tree.
It's been said that the devil is in the details, but remember also that the details might also reveal angels unawares or in disquise. So let's beware, bewise, and utilize both our tunnel and peripheral vision lest we deprive ourselves of something to be desired.
In our cyber spaced world of social media, we may have lots of 'likes' and 'followers', but do they have tunnel visions of you? Are they looking straight through you? Are they looking in your direction but does not really see you? Realistically, do they really have any idea of who you are? Anyway, I am all mused out in this dim-lighted tunnel which I must now exit and pause, because both my eyes and brain need a break.
04272018PS *Wikipedia
Cozy comfort he finds residing in his narrow world
Never veering from neighborhood he well knows,
Keeping to his familiar corners of adamant beliefs
Roaming within limits of truth he chooses to see.
His paths have been paved for his own two feet,
Restless he feels when strangers trespass his street
For long ago he decided who fits his myopic sight
Guarded by perimeters of his sacred boundaries.
He won't attempt to understand differing insights,
Never having been part of a scholarly discussion;
For he can't comprehend things new and unknown,
Afraid that new knowledge may pollute his mind.
When a tourist pays a beggar on a main city-street
He rushes to take a picture of beggar's empty mug,
Directing him to smile broadly on hungry stomach
So he can exhibit to his world, proof of lazy people.
Saddened he feels seeing a child cling to mother’s gut
As she lays dead amid ruins of a hapless war-zone.
He looks away mourning, seeing such dreadful scenes
But that would be the extent of his generous streak.
March 11, 2018
Placed first in contest 540 by Brian Strand
Sometimes the
lines between
happiness and sorrow
love and hate
are thin (barely visible
to the naked heart) –
(a healthy heart
needing more than
a steady-beat
to be truly healthy) –
hearts not created
merely for pumping;
nor for expressing
exclusively within
the Body-visceral
while excluding
the vaster realm
of metaphysical being
(confined within a cage of bone)
(drowning in its own
oxygen rich fluids)
No, the heart truly
reaches out -- beyond
muscular attributes:
exceeds surface
perimeters of flesh
and blood –
transcending
the core-less Atheist
concept, absent a
spirit and soul
for greater inspiration…
refutes the materialist,
who sees only
superficial reality,
excluding the essence
of divine interaction
and miraculous manifestation –
The heart I speak
stretches the rulers
of medical Measures –
remains an enigma to science,
and by contrast -- the light
apposing dark-sided men
who reject Christian-unity daily
as did those prosecutors
of The Son of Man
who rejected Christ love
and His revelation
of Divine Source
and Holy Trinity….
Two old men. That’s all; not much to look at.
Their frail, broken shadows shrunk against the sunny morning
Brightness slowly searching its way through gnarled branches
Overhead, and crisscrossing the red and black pieces
Upon their welcoming checkerboard.
I placed a solitary peanut into the waiting hands of a small, grey squirrel.
Withdrawing my offer of other gifts, I moved away,
Drawing closer to hear their wrinkled voices still
Clamoring over the last move of their deadly waiting game;
Spattering salty remarks with knowing chuckles of old combatants
Echoing former rattlings of their rusty swords.
Beneath their stubby beards sat the once strong,
Straight line of a stubborn jaw, thrust at life;
Hot for the chase that breached the perimeters of grand arenas
As Time swept aside the long-suffering hours
And slowly chiseled away massive, symmetrical bone.
They had been young, sensuous men with lapping fire at their cores,
Melting away the wet walls of passion and the searing, sticky
Sting of a promising, promiscuous tongue.
Yes, their passion was still lingering there,
Below the masks of debilitating age and cracking bone.
Their passion for life and pleasure still written across their
Wrinkled, wincing brows, clearly there for anyone to read.
I wondered how many summers those faded eyes had squinted
Against a broiling sky and felt the power of that which they are---
Two old gods, sitting in the ruins of their shadowy kingdom passed,
Oblivious to the ticking of unearthly clocks.
Two faded, gnarled and twisted husks sat in peaceful friendship
Beneath the cool and darkening, park lined sky.
Below the surface of their shabby shrouds, pinpoints of eternal, celestial light
Sought the vaporous freedom of untethered ether.
Beneath the surface, the gods still flexed their mighty,
Quiescent muscles, forever young: aged mantles flung
Against Time’s eroding shores and fog misted dangerous rocks.
"The forest is a sanctuary where you can grow to be you," ... by the Poet.
The passing of a torch, when Spring was announced,
was noted in the melting quarter of winter memories, as a sun climbs in
its forgiving rays; hoping its extent will favor the many listless foliage
that shy away the hours and that will soon purify vividly.
A forest is a sanctuary of admirable heights,
indelible spreads in the reach of golden beams.
The nurturing glow is a blessed welcoming, as glimmerings of first light,
and in its duration;
at the lower regions,
are duly usual reliance on root's deep hold of the earth
will stabilize their stature.
The lesser herbage of lowly pinnacles beneath shades of tree boughs
whereby the sun's light skips and winks a trace of them, is nevertheless
enriched with nutrients that will foster its growth.
These passionate plantings in harsh spotty sites amid forested trees are all
functions of the grand scheme of nature at its finest. Two, of the three
sanctuaries, the Flora, is known as the greater of the living greeneries.
The Funga is the lesser of the verdancy of the woods' life.
Then there are the incidentals of nature, and their animated interactions known as the third sanctuary; the Fauna. They soar, stride, slide, and swim.
Most move free of incidents, and others, not quite so. It's the
beast of the jungle that rules. They set them, and when broken,
there will be consequences. It is the pattern set by nature for the cycle of life.
One life dies as a gift for another to live. These are the rigid realities of the
woodlands, though not limited here,
but relevant beyond this sanctuary's realm.
The entrance of Spring seasons well the vibrancy of greens evolving greener.
Anticipative varieties of colorful flowers can survive the thick overhangs
of a forest.
Fauna, or animal life forms, infest these regions generously.
Spring here in the forested jungles is no different from the expressed lands
beyond its perimeters.
The Wicket of Spring has opened its forest sanctuary.
We all have a human responsibility and a duty to perform and execute.
I am convinced that our Maker has assigned to each of us a purpose.
The subject matter of purpose is very interesting with broad perimeters,
but it becomes more intriguing and far more challenging if one should
undertake the inviting task of revealing what lies within those boundaries.
Would it be fare to salty or fresh waters if I withheld the inhabitants of the
fish? The earth is beautiful all by itself, but far less without the presence of its mortals. The open sky would be a big blob of space were there no glaring
lights of the nights. It is the duty of Poets to define, describe, and display, not merely to report what they see.
The True Poet may or may not be a prophet, but for certain, a coward, a puppet, and reporter he is not. He sees the water, but also steam, ice, snow, and glaciers as large as states 'most stunning'. He sees the earth of breathtaking and awesome beauty, but he weeps over the decay of mortals. He sees vast skies of mostly blue and white clouds of calm.
He too has great respect for some dark clouds and flooding rains, but
his hope is solid and overshadowed by the security blanket of The Cross.
Perhaps he is a combination realist and optimist, but a pessimist he is not, and yes, he has fears and doubts like the rest of us, but you will never see or hear him shouting, "The sky is falling!"
100620PSCtest, A Poet's Duty, Beth Evans. 4P
No romance today.
The cemetery was deserted,
at the far edge of the tiny village,
shrouded in a fine sultry fog.
Large black trees threw darkened shadows
over the deserted gruesome sepulchers.
Few cared to visit, few cared to tend the tombs.
A large hawthorn hedge, irregularly grown,
surrounded its oblique perimeters.
Cursed, the villagers said
for it never flowered red blooms
during any time of the year.
An old hunchback lived there,
he lived all alone, with no one to care
No one fed him, no one was his friend.
No one knew where he came from,
no one knew his name,
but he loved the lonely forsaken place:
he weeded out the desultory paths,
and cleaned the old dreary tombs,
he planted evergreens and white flowers,
to welcome the damned and the doomed.
Only one woman came to visit,
constantly, rain or shine, every blessed day.
The hunchback would give her a white flower.
And she returned the gesture with a dime.
No word was spoken, nor looks exchanged.
She’d go to a small tomb, presided by a tearful angel.
The grave was covered with a cold white marble slab.
There she’d leave the white flower,
stand for a while in silence till she left,
No tears fell down her wrinkled old face.
The cemetery prevailed in gloom.
I shine my light upon the green earth
Reaching down from heaven’s domain
To show the world that their fantasies
Are the way that I illuminate the night
I touch the stars with my soft perimeters
Radiate love through clouds and storms
Mystify the writers and poets of nature
Send a shadow of insight across the seas
I melt with a heart of hope bound by faith
Sliding through the core of dancing spirits
Dwelling quietly along the mountain ridges
My destiny suspended within sweet dreams
I rest my graceful beauty against the eyes
Who take time to notice how I’ve survived
Decades of mystical wishes and embraces
From melancholy souls who treasure praises
I am the color of glittering stars that are afire
Imagining inspirations that color me with yearnings
For reaching across the sorrows and anxieties
With comforting joy and assured confidence
I accept the romantic affections that create peace
And welcome the dazzling enlightenment they bring
With their sense of promise and optimistic ways
Filling up the world with creative intimacy and wisdom
I give away the buoyant caress that others so crave
Risking everything to bring the dance of serenity
With echoes of sensitivity I sing a sweet song
Erasing all fear with my gentle and wise experience
I thrill the onlooker who hopes to find a cure for pain
Moving beyond their limited view toward potency
Feelings filled with brilliant reasons for knowing healing
That comes from perceiving the compassion I express
With me, the haunting moon, there is bold acceptance!
STRAND completely new (3) any theme any form Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Brian Strand
June 30, 2020
The house is boiled cabbage
goose fat, gizzard stew, and beets.
Windows steam and simmer,
you can write your name on the glass
winter or summer.
If you can live among rutabaga
or borscht; if pickled eggs haunt your palate
then this house becomes air in your lungs.
The landlady was Polish or Russian;
she spoke with a burly churlish tongue,
she moved like a Turk, her walking cane
was a scimitar. She supped a tarry tea
from a Serbian samovar.
We shared a toilet with a slim man
who was slinky and still in the closet,
he would saucily wink over strong drink.
His lips were rosy not pink. He washed
argyle socks in the kitchen sink.
There were others, they left early
riding pushbikes into the grey streets.
The lady groused, patrolled perimeters,
barged prying hands into private matters.
Hairclips and rubber bands fell from her curlers
as forewarnings and threats.
The Bulgarian or Croatian crone
had broad bad hips and liked me not
for back then
I used a substance to ease my mind.
I would smoke in the shared toilet
leaning my thin mouth through
a small slanty window,
she absolutely knew, and threw
passing daggers
with tightly curled Estonian lips.
We stayed like that for months
until the city regurgitated our lives
once more.
Once more seeking low rent rooms,
from those cosmopolitan guardians
of small city spaces.