Long Place Poems
Long Place Poems. Below are the most popular long Place by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Place poems by poem length and keyword.
" Those who serve arrogance as their main course
will eat humble pie for dessert. " ~~~
Frank. K. Sonnenberg.
Humble Pie can be sweet
Or it can be tart.
It's down to our attitude when we eat
And take the lessons to heart.
Either way, it's good for us!
It keeps us in our place.
A bit like meds, unpleasant at first,
But a change is seen in our face.
A better side of our self shines out
And it makes others smile.
For the good of our personality
We must eat of it once in a while.
Written 11th January 2022
For the BUZZWORDS contest
Sponsor: Kim Rodrigues
Going to get a “haircut” today
Actually getting all of them cut
Cutting just one would hardly be noticed
Now I'm being quite a silly nut
There's many other sayings similar to this
English is overloaded I find
Wanna hear others that I've discovered
Well stay tuned it'll “blow your mind”
“Keep your nose to the grindstone”
Now THAT'S gotta smart I'd say
See what I mean, don't follow this advice
You'll feel pain from here to Sunday
How about this one, “eye candy”
It certainly has me bamboozled
“Less is more” is another that's confusing
Looking for others for your perusal
Here's another, “left in the lurch”
Pretty sure they meant left in the “church”
“Dead as a doornail” as dead as you can be
Gonna do a little more research
To “peter out” means to dwindle away
Has a certain sexual connotation
Put it back in, it's a public place
You'll be arrested for excessive potation
“I rest my case”, now here's another one
Wasn't even carrying a case
Okay gonna “put this thing to bed”
Yikes! Can't wipe this grin from my face!
POTATION
• the action of drinking something
esp. Alcohol: I intend to abstain from potation.
• (often potations) a drinking bout:
the dreadful potations of his youth
Everyone should have a secret place
where everything is so beautiful, you just belong
as peaceful as a day is long, an out of your usual pace,
sounds of nature all about, where birds sing there song,
Meditation replaces frustration, along your happy trail
moving about streams, pine trees as tall as a waterfall
where pine cones grace a foliage landscape so surreal,
woes are meaningless about green grass, lollypop bushes
A cool spring where skinny dipping hasn’t a sign to obey
trails going every which way, too choose, you can’t lose…
your way, this sunny day, misty spray, a couple out to play,
no weight to bare, deadlines to meet, nor fail too win
time only absent from laughter heard as children frolic there...
in a caressing manner, with her long hair draped about your face,
sounds echo off boulders where water flows by gallons everywhere
yes - your secret place, where good time memories are your true nature
Grow love this year
Without sorrow or fear
Grow hope and grace
Discover wonder in this place
Grow wisdom and love
Flowing down from above
Light the world with your soul
Encourage others, just console
Light the mind with compassion
Inspire joy which will impassion
Light the moments with insight
Warm musings to amaze and excite
Share your vision, your imagination
Color the earth in your heart’s elation
Share your magic, your fascination
Erase all worry with your gentle sensation
Share your music, the melody of expectation
Remind the heavens of your salvation
Grow love this year
Without sorrow or fear
Light the world with your soul
Encourage others, just console
Share your vision, your imagination
Color the earth in your heart’s elation
Ink of life cannot bleed for eternity,
so I place dried petals in between,
crucial chapters of my memoirs.
When we stop breathing poetry,
our crestfallen pen, left in silence -
where do we poets go?
Is there a special place,
where the ink flows forever,
like waterfalls of mercy -
where thirst quenches
through poetic potions.
Releasing unspoken words -
can you hear the messages?
Floating in the tepid breeze,
brushing against your face,
forming goose pimples.
When our spirits make love to poetry,
we radiate like rays of sunshine
warming the world.
We do not speak poetry,
it whispers to us,
like spotlights in the sky,
soothing scars upon the moon.
When we cry poetic tears,
we pour like raindrops,
refreshing seasonal blossoms.
Our muse battles storms,
like lilac lilies in the snow.
We illuminate like a timeless rainbow,
absorbing all spectrum of vibrancy.
Glistening after clouds clear,
from red to yellow to green.
We the word collectors,
soul connectors,
forever weaving like
spiders spinning cobwebs.
What becomes of us
when our pen's shadow
no longer appears.
We may never write the perfect poem,
but poetry reminds us we are alive -
as our words become immortal.
Simple Musing
Silent One
25 November 2020
I lured a fragile daisy into my palm.
She thought it was safe, a place of calm.
Slowly I squeezed until it bled,
until there was nothing left
but the stain of Karmic dread.
Next came a wild rose, attracted by my dying scent.
The more I squeezed (it), the more I bled.
I shook my hand, but it stubbornly stayed.
Laughing as I twirled, bleeding down the drain.
Then came a blizzard of brambles.
Careening down from black moon mountain.
Pocking every cell of silver sanity.
Until my wings no longer breathed.
So today I waltz alone, approaching the end.
A fifty-six-leaf clover of hard-earned regrets.
Then entered this mighty viper.
Casually kissing a string of karmic rubies
around this selfish iron neck.
My third wife is angry now, she knows that I cheated.
But I like life on the edge, so I told her to pack up and beat it.
Then I walked in Santa Monica, a man was lying in the path
He was in obvious pain, but I gave a nasty laugh
I passed a new store with an astrology sign.
On impulse I went in, and I waited in line.
I recognized partiers from my script writing days
Those parties got me addicted, when crack was the craze.
An assistant asked us permission to swab our cheeks
I started wondering, was this place for freaks?
Then a gypsy lady came out, beckoned me to a booth
She said “we’re high tech now; genes tell the truth."
“Your Dopamine receptors are all out of whack
Your D3 is high, I guess you take crack
Your D2 is low, are you an impulsive guy?
I said "so far you're on target my genes did not lie."
She said, "low vasopressin, do you cheat on your wife?"
I said, “I’m floored, it’s the story of my life!"
She said "I see your amygdala must be small:
"I would guess you don’t care about people at all.”
“On the good side, D1 is high, you're a creative type"
I said, “I write edgy scripts, and I’m great at hype!”
She held her nose, said "your profile gives me a fright.
"Forget the fee, there's the exit, get out of my sight!"
So I left the gypsy lady, walked out into the sun
Then a still small voice spoke, said "your story isn't done:
Why not change, rebel against those genes, leave the crypt?
Take charge of the plot and change the script!"
I looked around, couldn't see where the voice came from:
I shrugged it off, then I began to run.
I thought I'm no hypocrite, I know myself; I don't care
It's the others, the do-gooders, who do most harm out there.
I wondered if anyone knows themselves for real
Are values everlasting, or are values what we feel?
I didn't want to break the mold, I wanted to be me
But that nagging voice echoed - which direction makes you free?
Autumn leaves fall down,
Ready, expected, aware:
You would never question the event,
Or climb a tree to pull one off,
And then place it on the ground.
So why question suffering?
A universality so common and random,
Just to be received and convincing.
Nature is natural,
Both greenery and living organisms,
So why pull them out of the world,
Away from their context - both good and bad,
To make them the the ones to blame?
Not communally, but individually,
Unknown to their surroundings inexplicably.
Evolution sets us up by time,
With nature as itself,
Not determined or bold or pointing,
But just perfect:
Interacting and relational,
Becoming better and better every day:
Stronger, more intelligent and more moral.
John Keats’ Nightingale represents nature,
Because it gives voice to that beauty and majesty,
In song, so expressive and unaffected and free,
Encouraging us to think rationally about suffering:
The bird’s music is so fair and equalising -
For anyone, open to all in its accessibility,
Allowing us to feel and think through poetry.
Ambiguous
Ambiguity sets in the confused child's mind
Trying to weigh the dichotomy of right and wrong.
The disparity between the two is not as far as it seems
Looking for symmetrical lines between good and evil.
Is one capable of mutability between the two fates
This child so capricious in deciding not to wait.
Her ambivalence radiates across her pretty face
In the act of apostasy from her family, friends, and place.
bmdavey@
03/18/16
"In my Father's house are many mansions:
if it were not so, I would have told you.
I go to prepare a place for you."
____________________________
I find great comfort in my faith so even in times of terrible tragedy it is
my safe harbor, my refuge. I am never alone if I have the Lord and Jesus.
I believe there is a Heaven after this life. To think otherwise is devastating to
imagine. I picture my loved ones above greeting me at that golden gate.
When I am broken the Lord carries me, when afraid he holds my hand.
Often when I am weeping he strokes my hair. The Lord cannot change what
mankind has set into motion but I am sure that he weeps with us and is
there if you call his name in prayer. I will not try to push my faith on others,
that is their journey to find. We are each on a journey, each on a path,
and each must decide what path to follow . . .
birds chirp songs from trees
new life blooms each day on earth-
a moment of time
___________________________
July 7, 2020
Poetry/Haibun/My Journey
Copyright Protected, ID 20-1266-603-03
All Rights Reserved, 2020, Constance La France
Written for the PREMIER contest, My Faith
sponsor, Regina Riddle
Second Place