Long Points Poems
Long Points Poems. Below are the most popular long Points by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Points poems by poem length and keyword.
I would call upon the name of the Lord,
To thank Him for His doings; magical!
For His mercy endureth forever...
Not until I can't hide my tears in shame.
That hope be restored...
Not just Biblical,
Nor been so clever
But what grace proclaim.
I would enter His gate with more praises,
To sing Him of His wonderful wonders.
Often, His raw kindness shower blessings...
Not until I can't find help in Egypt.
His mien amazes...
My smart moves' blunders
With cloudy bearings-
Thomas' minds corrupt.
I will watch to testify His tactics;
The style no one dare study to win Him,
When it comes to life's unrealistic game
Not until extra time towards lost hope.
Experience predicts,
Which light can be dim
At ease without blame,
But end strives to cope.
I will give Him key to my open heart,
Close the door of emergency exit
To be in line without weird distraction,
Not until I can't adjust cum struggle.
Been two minds apart
Barely makes faith fit-
Answers attraction,
Points; prayers snuggle.
I will pay homage to His faith-like-pills,
That holds healthy bills being more or less free...
Unlike sickness gives prescription to drugs
Not until I can't afford enough dues.
He pays all my bills
To lengthy degree,
Even when life hugs
Drugs cum its abuse.
"The Wormwood Portfolio"
Reams of stories
riddled with worms
wood for burning
all the children
cover their eyes
tears smoked
into the lungs
gender fluid
propheticising
bitter water
electric brains
chipped like
fine-boned China
downloading
overloads
dumps are
damp
the fuse
sizzles and
stops
green as absinthe
gauche ghosts
gone all grey skinned
scales of merit
charred unweighted
vacant and vacating
like dandelions
scattering over
the barren wombs
of the childless landscape
dreaming of biblical babies
suckling the wanton breasts
of Desdemona’s structural points,
a sharp essay, feeding insouciance
mistaken identities and confusion
side-blinded by the light
of the tempestuous kill shot
burnt and scarred
beeseeching open handed
faces turning like time dials
towards two suns
gold gone all black holed
dead verdant plants
hot feet blistering
make no more demands
skipping, games of patter-cake
powdered ochre yellow
here's the church and here's the steeple
open your hands where are the people
like viruses, germinating
no more prayers to enchant
daughters of eve
sons of man
when the Word finally speaks
there is hearing damage
Reams of stories
riddled with worms
wood for burning
all the children
cover their eyes
;
the ides of march
recant.
(LadyLabyrinth / 2021)
"A tear in the brain
allows the voices in
they wanna push you off the path
with their low-frequency wires..."
recant. v.
Wormwood.
Ides of March.
. *ANDREA D.*
. Happy Birthday
. 9/5/??
To the most wonderful poet on poetry soup
Enjoying everyone, no matter their age group
I bring to you September 5th Birthday scoop
Andrea D, you're classic like Miss Betty Boop
Unstoppable poetry hula hoop
I desire to take this time to dish out a cute birthday rhyme
Relax, enjoy the glitter & streamers - as if sipping fine wine
All candles points to you, like Uncle Sam
Don't mind me expressing myself like Sam I am!
Would you!" Could you!" Have yourself a Birth Day Jam!
This is the part where my mini spam-in gets cute
I wish you the best birthday sending you a salute
Birthday cake made made out of forbidden fruit
Straw-burst candy and smiles for everyone
Celebrate the day you were born wearing your birthday suit
Enjoy your day, as if you won a shopping spree
Enjoy your day, full of birthday potpourri
Enjoy your day, with your friends and family
Enjoy your day, with sweetness like honey from a bee
Better yet Andrea D
HAPPY! Happy Birth Day To You, ANDREA D!
Wishing you the best, a birthday can bring
Rising to the birthday song, our beautiful Birthday Queen
HAPPY BIRTHDAY ANDREA, FROM ALL of us HERE at THE SOUP!
By: P.D.
I am a little star that cannot brighten this black paradise.
A land so rich with the flesh and bones of my parents and ancestors.
A kingdom of the black wolves, cleared by the white alphas.
In this land of peace, where every dream follows screams, history rewrites.
The silence of spears, knives, and others is replaced by the whisk of bullets that run from door to door.
Schools still give out permanent holidays after graduating immature warriors.
Offices continue to have empty top tables, with many wardrobes under them keeping bones for every dog that barks.
Dung on the streets points at us whenever our eyes meet, while the wind piles rubbish at our doorsteps.
The white eagle flies to and fro, grabbing anything in sight—from our relatives’ bones to stones and everything.
Education is now key, but the key holder has become the clink and rasp of money.
The hospital is stained with blood and filled with flies that help the doctors with the rotten smell, yet each time banks release papers.
All churches and mosques preach, but it is the pews and floors that hear the puff of riches, not the ears that hear the preaching, while loud sounds tell us how the devil is black and the angels are white.
I have seen global equality, where white dresses are used for celebrations while black is used for burials—equality where all blacks bleach themselves to become white.
I am a star from a little culture once raised, now fading back to what our ancestors once warned.
Quietly he goes about assessing situations,
Searching for the weakest link,
The source of consternation;
Seeking out the places where you need to make improvement.
He'll be your guide, a rudder,
The source of your inducement.
Evaluating habits, of each one he takes note,
Caring not how you must feel,
Or of the ire evoked.
Improving others character is his goal in life,
Teaching and chastising,
His family, friiends and wife.
Of singular importance, his opinion of the world.
It does no good to disagree,
Or dodge invectives hurled,
At all who wish to argue point, dispute he will not suffer,
From any who would self-appoint,
Themselves to be a buffer,
Twixt a man who wishes naught but good upon the world;
To bestow upon us all,
His precious wisdom's pearls.
He points out how it should be and what you're doing wrong,
Elaborating on each fault,
It's like a kind of song.
He'll sing it to the very end, though end I've never heard.
When you explode and tell him off,
He thinks you quite absurd.
It's hard to be above it all, you feel so all alone.
They say good looks are but skin deep,
But Dumb Goes To The Bone.
Judy Ball
Thinking it's up to you to point out everyone's faults or what's wrong with the world today is going to drive people in the other direction when they see you coming.
As of late,
I have developed a new best friend
It’s my younger self coming
to visit my end
I look in his face,
and I see a new truth
I look in his face,
and I see more than youth
Now more like my father,
I more like his son
The beginning he carries,
from whose ending I run
He tells me he’s followed,
but I never looked back
Always looking beyond,
what my fear could attack
He approaches me close,
but we’re never to touch
The distance between us,
life’s meaning as such
For most of my days
I planned dying alone
But now in his presence,
every memory reshown
He points to my heart,
as his eyes fly within
His vision, my vision
—eternity’s twin
(Villanova Pennsylvania: May, 2019)
A quiet spot in the house,
not frequented by visitors,
set aside, distant, aloof
solitary refuge, retreat,
escape, safe haven, sanctuary
from life trials and tribulations;
points of memory, subtle laughter,
remembered heartache and tears,
in picture frames, photographs, and reading books,
old school technology with paper, ink, and pen
scratchings of time and place,
etchings recovered and erased;
windows clean and wide,
open view portrait, vignette, a snapshot
to the world outside
visionary images of changes of the seasons
spring buds, blossoms and blooms
summer gardens exuberant with living visions
autumn color cavalcades
glistening thru the shade
warm sun lilting in reflective passage,
aging armchair warrior greeting time as it passes
clinging to the memories revived
within my sitting room.
Disco Music
Strobe light looks like moon-sun.
Halo lights of red, blue, yellow, green.
He wears classic Saturday Night Fever white.
She has a white flower in her hair,
head and hips swivel;
one-strapped red dress.
He points with hands over head.
Ballroom floor bittersweet-blue.
Celebration of disco music.
I was dressed in strapless purple.
Burned my bra.
This stamp doesn’t nearly catch
the falderal - not the nasal and falsetto
of the Bee Gees, nor the confident swagger
of Tony Manero. I will survive, my motto.
The couple on this stamp look too happy,
too peppy, maybe preppy, almost ‘50’s.
I remember the crowds, the loudness,
the vulnerability, the period; that Mom
had me ask Dad for money to go.
They let me. Strobe light shadows
of chiaroscuro amidst flashy night.
The stamp is too clean cut.
Along the upper estuary,
boats laid beached on mud
like whales you see
on news clips stranded
helpless in the drained shallows
of a low tide. These boats
too were out of their natural world
of water and easy float,
their freedom was the distance
swung on the arc of a rope.
We would clamber up their listing
hulls and into the ribbed
bellies of the bigger boats,
huddle in the dank,
fish foul air of cabins
and turn wheels hard to port.
They were the holds loaded
with the cargoes of our childhood.
Later, there was a sad absence
occupying the helm, neglect
peeling the paint and seeding
rot into weathered timber.
They stunk of decay.
Most boats were abandoned,
fastened for years
to the monotony of tides,
sentenced for life
to lift and fall on the same spot
or sink and be broken up.
And yet they remain anchor points
to what is real, positioned
as it were in a world where things
can be felt, have substance
and assume a shape
mirrored in your mind.
They float secure
on a sea of nothingness whose
sterile depths beckon and beguile
and would claim poetry
to feed the ethereal swans
of Stephane Mallarme.
Here is where a poem
has a smell as well
as make you feel and think
without recourse to meaning,
becoming mere magic.
I've said, "Leave me alone" when I didn't mean it.
Yes, I've said "Yes" when I wanted to say "No".
I consented to go, when I did not want to go.
I kept walking when I really wanted to run.
ET could not stay; so, he asked Elliott to come.
Elliot could not go; so, he asked ET to stay.
They desired deeply to be with each other,
But they could not give up the only world they knew.
"Come", said ET. "Stay", said Elliot. Thus is a portrait
of the inner conflict of two diverse species. Conflicts
involving people or persons of varying persuasions
are placed in a category known as 'Conflict Resolution'.
Inner conflicts suggest that I am alone with at least two
points of contention inside of me. It suggests that I have
a problem that I, not 'they', must fix. It's a civil war. Life
makes its demands, and by conflict, we survive, thrive, or die.
By inner conflict we learn to utilize whatever is served
at our table, as well as whatever cards we are dealt.
As humans, we have not been dealt the luxury of instinct
as our compass of choice. We are creatures of uniqueness.
We are distinguished and endowed by our creator with the demands
of choice. Quite often, the multiple choices within us conflict, and
we must resolve to halt the war and solve the unsolvable. A question
arises: Is there both a positive and negative charge inside of us?
081622PSCtest, Inner Conflict, Unseeking Seeker