Long Permeate Poems
Long Permeate Poems. Below are the most popular long Permeate by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Permeate poems by poem length and keyword.
A world tormented by impending doom,
Where children rally in huddled throngs,
Their lives polluted from the womb,
How now to right their parent’s wrong.
Corals fast bleaching,
Forests torn down,
Activists preaching,
While pastures turn brown.
Sea levels fast rising,
Yet drought now abounds,
Politicians all shouting,
Their inaction astounds.
Confusion is reigning,
Answers too few,
Arguments draining,
Solutions past due.
Time for our youngsters
To take up the fight,
Like heavenly clusters
They permeate light.
Nature deserves it
She begs for relief,
The fuse fully lit
She cowers in grief.
Here in my heart I play my part twentyfour hours a day.
Life's doorbell rings and my soul sings to go outside and play.
Where I can look up to the sky and see all of God's sweet birds fly.
But I've learned I must be careful that I don't get kissed in the eye.
After I've smelled the roses that permeate the air.
I realize these are the ways that God shows that he cares.
With lungs full of what's from above, I'm feeling very grateful.
At times like these it's a disease for mankind to be hateful.
The essence of his presense is always there to feel.
Just when you think it's all for naught, he shows you that it's real.
Some call it faith, some don't believe that there's a God above.
But I just look around outside and I can see his love.
By robert johnson
Jurassic Prayer
By Mark D. Stucky
We asked our preschooler to pray,
and with dinner plates before us
and our hands folded,
he paused in silence
and then roared in imitation
of a wounded, angry dinosaur.
We all laughed at the incongruous “prayer”
from the tiny portrayal of a monstrous T-Rex,
but was the inadvertent theology
as inappropriate as first thought?
Religious roars of pain and anger
permeate the book of Job,
the story of an exemplary man
wounded by undeserved catastrophes.
In anger, Job roared at judgmental comforters.
In anguish, he roared at the world and at God.
And God roared back from a whirlwind
and later restored Job’s many blessings.
When wounded by anguish or anger
and longing for or fearing death,
good therapy is roaring at God
and baring one’s soul’s darkest depths,
for God, through crucifixion, felt our pain
and God, through resurrection, roared good news
that monstrous Death dies defeated.
And God will wipe away our tears
at the final end of earthly evil’s roaring
and the new beginning of celestial singing.
(First published in Agape Review, 11 July 2022. See also my poem "Bringing Heaven to Earth" and my visual poem “Haiga for the Heavenbound.”)
(Image by user1457424776 on Pixabay.com.)
I scrub and scrub,
trying to erase stains gravelled upon my face.
Age has defined its mark,
solidified a presence in folds and furrows
raked over a once-smooth fabric now heralding me as old.
These seams line my skin,
years claimed my youth
from time I hadn't known had passed
and disappeared too fast
like thieves in the night
creeping without warning.
I smell that newness born with babes,
Oh, how it escapes me,
leaving soiled flesh in its wake.
I'm alive,
still breathing,
but it's sighs of old.
Vibrancy and youth permeate my spirit
until the mirror silently highlights worn flesh,
illuminating my face and
haunting me like a ghost
forever lurking around me.
When I peer closer I see more yet less of me,
fragments of remaining years shadow daylight gone,
like dirt disappearing from a child's face in the rain,
innocence turned to the sky,
tongue gathering pearls.
Age is dark. Quiet. Unobtrusive. Unwelcoming.
These common threads live to capture us all.
—An Astronomy of What Love Leaves Behind—
There are nights when heaven dons
its argent hush, and all the stars seem less
to glitter than to keep their elder watch
over the fathomless remainder of the world.
A train goes through the fields. One window
briefly ensnares a face—then yields it back
to night.
Yet nothing yields back what it has touched.
A word may enter blood.
A kindness, long after its utterance,
may burgeon in another's darkest hour.
A father's voice, long since surrendered
to silence, may haunt the cadence
of a daughter's speech.
Thus absence is no vacancy.
It is continuance
wearing the vesture of loss.
The dead do not ascend.
They permeate.
They pass beneath the common skin of things
like telluric fire beneath a winter field,
altering what they nevermore can touch.
What love once enters, time cannot expel;
It makes the soul the place where causes dwell.
And far above, the stars—
those sepulchral reliquaries of flame—
still pour their antique splendour down
long after their furnaces are ash.
What strange celestial jurisprudence:
that light should outlive its begetter,
that tenderness should outlive the hand,
that one mortal life should leave its impress
upon a life it shall never behold?
Then, between two stars, the darkness opens—
not as a wound,
but as an iris
for which creation has forgotten the colour.
For one breath, the void grows lucent.
I look away.
Some immensities become profaned
the moment language lays its hand upon them.
And I understand—though understanding fails me—
we are not preserved by remembrance.
We are preserved by alteration.
Whatever has entered another soul
has crossed beyond the sovereignty of return;
it cannot be restored to what it was
before the crossing.
I thought the stars preserved the dead in light;
They showed me how the living make them bright.
The stars may perish into their own abyss.
The dead may relinquish every name.
But what has once entered another life
becomes an irrevocable syllable
in the grammar of its becoming—
and what has altered the living
cannot be made unborn.
GOTTEN LIGHT---
I got a light, Jesus is the light;
And it’s bright, Jesus is the light;
Why do you run?
Open raise your arms;
Open your eyes wide;
Let the light of the Son;
Permeate your being;
Let it shine, shine, shine---
Allow Him to dwell within
The Son shines on in;
His Father spirit persuaded me;
To realize Light must shine
For just a speck of light permeates darkness;
Explodes
When the light comes, instead of you going;
Let the darkness run;
Open up your heart;
Allow the dark to leave;
Seek the light;
The sun comes, stand firm be still seek the light
For this is right a gotten light
Be that light
11/24/18
Written by James Edward Lee Sr. ©2018
We shall meet again, my friend
in Johannesburg, my friend
After the revolution
Ha! Ha! Ha!
We shall dine on gold plates
And wine on rich red blood
We shall roam the open veldt
from Pietersburg to Natal
Cape Town to Port Elizabeth
Our spears raised in triumph
Our poisoned arrows in their sheaths
Our teeth sharpened for the dinner party
Yes, we shall roam, my friend
From the Limpopo to the Drakensburg
We shall chant
We shall shout
We shall sing and jump and dance
After the revolution
Like the savannah in flames
Our laughter shall be heard
across the length and breadth
of this earth, my friend
Our darkness shall permeate
the golden castles and silver beaches
their presence has putrefied
They all shall be cleansed
Heja! my friend
Till we meet again
in Johannesburg
After the revolution
I have been technically dead
and technically alive.
Escape clause, minor glitch
in my truth-machine,
but a kind of life does occasionally permeate
my real life.
I like the click and clunk of a well-made
flint ignition petroleum lighter.
‘Zippo’ light warms hands in a cold woods.
Sometimes I am the flint
sometimes the light - we all are I guess.
Before I was dead or alive
I recall signing a contract,
a ‘life’s purpose’ document
which I instantly forgot.
I still search Mind for reasons
still don’t know squat…..
but wait, I got here,
(arms akimbo, wagging my chin),
soon I’ll be leaving on a ghost train
and I’m gonna be upset,
because my much used ‘Zippo’ collection
is probably worthless.
Living Near
In the meadow of tomorrow,
in the land of today,
I see the truth of all past...
We are as one,
balanced and unbalanced.
The tall grass is green,
and smells of flowers,
and weeds
they permeate the air.
The worms dig tunnels...
all amount them.
The gophers dance there,
at night,
and run wild,
in the darkness of day.
The bright sun shows her face,
and the birds fly to touch her image,
reflected upon the soft clouds between
heaven and the earth.
Bees hum...
and there is a lightness to everything,
real and uncertain.
The maiden remembers,
the young lad forgets,
but they are always one,
seen in their children's faces.
The circle of light...
complete.
A. Foster
Ann Foster God Bless your day!
If I where but a flower
I would completely overpower
Passion exploding upon slow motion
Burst forth gently, inducing satisfaction
Numbing pain, exuding pleasure, irresistible
Wafting flow, perfumed, appealing to desirability
Inexorable heavenly, stimulating senses, comforting
Hypnotic colours, psychedelic, evincing on persuasiveness
Lose yourself in me, find servility, you so want to be mastered
There is only one sweet moment, give in, indulge inequities
Explore taboo feelings, ride the storm, I’ll set you free
Allow my scent to saturate, permeate, predominate
Don’t try understand, succumb, let it happen
Relax unwind, in my redolent splendour
It cannot be sinful, for nobody cares
Nature does not judge, but gives
Never forget my essence
Have I not touched
Sheer fantasy
Pointedly
If I Were A Flower Poetry Contest
Sponsored by mystic Rose Rose
01/02/2021