Long Poetry society Poems
Long Poetry society Poems. Below are the most popular long Poetry society by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Poetry society poems by poem length and keyword.
I expected more
Tolerance
Understanding
Support
I expected more
Yes, I’m an idealist
I have a better name….
A fool
A child
Thinking that trust still means something
That people won’t turn into cannibals
Eating each other whole
Biting away pieces of reputation
With our razor sharp teeth of
Innuendos
Slander
Gossip
G O S S I P
Without finding out the truth
Hurling words that stab and tear
Flaying souls bare
How do you dare???
How do you dare!!!
I expected more
From you
From him
From her
From them
From us
Cannibalism…what a shame!
Who would engage in that???
And yet
Here we sit at the feast
We sit with blood running down our mouths
Hunched over the carcass of someone’s
Murdered honor
Devouring
Thanking the powers that be…
“Thank God isn't me!”
Gossip = “Social Cannibalism”
Sanctuary not found
“I demand sanctuary!”
I expected more
"Great Expectations"
Dashed to the floor
A fool
A child
“Little one,
“Expect nothing
And you will never get disappointed.”
Eileen Manassian Ghali
PS...this place needs to be a safe place, a haven....a sanctuary for people who share the same love to FINALLY be appreciated for their work and their dreams...goals and aspirations. WE ALL need to think before we "speak" about others and surmise
this or that. We are just going to lose more people from this place if something isn't done about that o'l grapevine... :(
“Wherever two or three are gathered”…or so the verse goes…Here seems to be my take of late...
“Wherever two or three are gathered
Most surely NOT in HIS name
Gossip is the order of day
The hottest PS Game!”
A game in which there are NO winners...only Losers. Think about it...Please...
Also..please...NO COMMENTS on the inspiration behind this...Just some food for thought..for ALL of us.
I burned a book today.
The author will remain unknown
his words unread,
yellow pages untarnished
by the grit of hungers need
his ideas set free upon the wind
disembodied ghosts
hoping for redemption
I passed a library today.
its shelves stripped
of error’s errors
dark corridors
leading to locked rooms
suffocating the voice
of freedom.
I wrote a poem today
etched my heart
upon the paper
baptized it with my tears
nurtured each word
melded them into a union
of mindful contemplation
I passed a mob today
chanting incoherently
carrying contradictory signs
demanding unity,
equality and justice.
after the riot and looting
I went home and
I burned a book today.
John G. Lawless
3/21/2021
There was a time, before Hollywood
fully embraced commercialism – then love
was yet a part of Paramount; before ratings took complete
charge of the Industry's heart – changing sincerity and dearness
to rank commodity – a time when writer's wrote what
one's heart fondly projected...before editors assumed
the roll of Gods: preferring the flashy art
of covers over interior substance –
A time when a poet sang what his
heart instinctively felt and embraced,
unstained by articles of form and alliteration:
A time when God and His Heaven dwelt
among men – He and His angels interacting freely
and openly with creation, daily breathing
new Light and joy into earth's blossoming
spirit. A time before Satan's Editors seized
the throne of man's heart – fouling
his skies and waters
with Heretical Council.
The land, where gods once trod
Has kindness withered, lost to rot?
Naivety is not kindness
Trusting is not blindness
Adoption is not a taboo
It is not a crime to have a tattoo.
They crash big trees with veins withered bare,
And all we do is see their dead remains in despair.
They whisper on women, they murmur on the state,
They chatter on the rich, they grumble on the poor’s fate.
They buzz with gossip, they clink their glasses,
Yet fail to see the love that passes.
Their hearts thump with envy, cold and stark,
Yet miss the warmth that lights the dark.
Our income’s judged, our errors scorned,
Yet mirrors crack, their faults ignored.
How dark their hearts, a devil’s delight,
Their words hiss darkness, quench his night.
Kindness is not hard to spread,
A little understanding won’t steal our bread.
They sit upon their thrones, our feline friends-
aloof at times; to interact depends
on how they feel and what excites their mood
to offer mews- or simply stare and brood.
They are so regal with demanding ways-
yet come to rule our hearts with their displays.
And once we have their trust, expect a change;
no better loving pet can we arrange.
More full meows- more twirls around our feet-
jumping on laps with purrs, so soft and sweet.
Staring with eyes that somehow seem to know-
are we okay? Do signs of sadness show?
So cozy at our feet, at night in bed,
curled like a ball or stretched from tail to head.
A friend for life- this love goes far beyond;
our gentle cats create a lasting bond.
And yet, their royalty remains intact;
when more than one, there is a feline pact.
A hierarchy's formed by one that rules-
instilled from jungle days survival tools-
evolved into a huge variety-
famed as "Sacred Meow Society".
ALPHA BETA
As I understand it
Back in the distant past
Communication was at first, verbal
Distinct, if limited
Every tribe began with its own
Finding it a challenge across boundaries
Getting an understanding, the first step
However difficult it may have been
In delving deep into facial expressions
Just as tribes began to share stories
Kinsfolk with greater vision
Laid down a simple written code
More in glyphs than modern letters
Now established across most of the world
Of course, there are still subtle differences
Perhaps enough to make it interesting
Questioning whether a common principle applied
Revealing a basic alphabet at its core
Some solid basis to record words in writing
Twenty six or so the most popular
Understanding was now assumed
Vested in those who learned to read
Whatever their motivation
X-ray vision was not required
Youth instructed by their elders
Zest for poetry soon followed
Many people like poems written with ordinary words.
Some that jestfully tell about life in ordinary ways,
even though life is far from ordinary,
They want poems that lighten their days.
Enough with the highfalutin language, they say.
Start writing words common folks understand.
Bring back the use of everyday words.
Oh, you want idioms (words that are canned).
I love the feel of the silken poetic words,
that tickle the ears and whisper to the soul.
they wrap your thoughts in gossamer silk,
both pleasant and bitter their goal.
Writing poetry is a road strewn with boulders.
Life wrings itself out upon our pages.
Where there's beauty, we're often drawn to the dark
found hiding behind it on various stages.
We find ourselves writing about love that threatens,
or long ago left, storming out the door, kicking aside
hope like pebbles. Or, crawling out with a whimper and
a fearful glance, then running: words we cannot hide...
ordinary words.
He is living on the breadline, He is cold and hungry with no support line. Money comes in and slips through his hands a capital version of hourglass sands. The hunger used to drive him but now he is weak. The cold has seeped through to his bones, we wonders and drifts looking for somewhere to call home.
Once he was a soldier he stood proud and tall and no body told him that pride comes before a fall. He fell and he fell too many miles to count. he injured his leg and the army kicked him out.
The breadline stands between him and his life the life that was lost because he cant pay his way out. The stress ate him up in its endless starvation along with the rest of the breadline nation.
In the small town up the road from the farm where I grew up,
the library was in the town hall,
which was also the fire station,
which was also the jail house,
and later the Plumber’s place.
It was a friendly place.
The Boy Scouts met there.
They had all the Hardy Boys books.
And a hardy lot of boys, but no nooks.
Just one room with a table in the middle.
One year the oldest bible school class
convened there when the church was full.
Wyatt Earp, son of the Preacher, and a direct descendant,
contracted Rocky Mountain Spotted Fever at scout camp.
I met him there.
There was a cupola which held the fire siren,
which was also the noon whistle in town.
Old Bill Westphal lived in the basement jail cell.
We saw him through the casement window, while at the scout meeting,
doing things that violated the scout oath.
But his scouting days had long since passed.
In the summer, while I’m at the big church,
where my sons go to scouts…
many miles and years from there,
I think of it.
And just tonight, while I’m at the poetry session
with my daughters at the big city library…
it comes back to me.
I’d like to go back to it.
I’d take my family.
That’d be a Father’s Day!
When time just collapses and stands still,
Reality shadows all laughter with haunted chill
I just feel that I should walk and walk …
Till the mosque awaits, not a further talk.
You keep on talking about writing on the wall
I see a clumsy nagging dirty pain, standing rigid and tall
Pure scripture keeps shining still, the innermost surreal call
Why bother to alter the calligraphy? Invalid try after all.
Softer tones utter each word in a pure divine way
All that was confusing gradually get vanished away
Look there! Out there on the far-reaching greenery ….
Little souls are building heaven with crafted archery.
(A gifted poem to Austin Poetry Society)