Long Polish Poems
Long Polish Poems. Below are the most popular long Polish by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Polish poems by poem length and keyword.
I sat inside your office at the age of forty-five,
A farmer's desperation just to keep the dream alive.
Just hoping you would look at me and take a chance to see,
The farmer's steady promise that was still inside of me.
I'll admit I'm far from perfect, and I surely wasn't then,
But I learned mechanic's lessons in the rust beside the men.
That my true value isn't found in polish or in gold,
But in the perseverance when the nights were growing cold.
The months went by, the days grew long, until the layoffs hit,
And when the storm came crashing down, my time was sadly clipped.
I still remember clearly the words you said that day,
"I hope our paths will cross again somewhere along the way."
I spent eight years in other jobs, the foundry called me back,
And finally put my purpose and my spirit back on track.
I know it was my second chance, a light that has been lit,
And I'm glad to have been taught by you the truth in all the grit.
What do you think of
when you hear that phrase
"A Soul is Divine"...
For me, it sparked word association
with the pre-WWII Polish Diary called
Divine Mercy in my Soul by Sr. Faustina
Poems start it and intersperse it...
baring her soul, Light/ and darkness
:) consolation/ and :( desolation
Revealing what is Divine
Mercy, Wisdom, Guidance
All that is good is of God
God, Who is rich in Mercy
loving our souls into being
loving each one, personally
Giving us another chance
letting us get to know Him
till we can say with conviction
A soul -- my soul-- is divine
because God loves me! :-D
```````````````````````````
"A Soul is Divine" Poetry contest
Sponsored by: Mohan Chutani
deadline: 7/24/2023
Hold guns like bibles in both hands
Aim them in the air in any direction
For fun at parties invite them along
Polish off a bottle of whiskey first
Keep ammo in mayonnaise jars
For freshness cradle them like babies
If you must take guns to bed with you
Never feed them bullets after dark
Make sure they are warm and comfy
And bring their own blankets and pillows
To cover loud noises
To avoid indigestion
Remember guns kill
Keep them away from pickles in the fridge
And from children for their own protection
Read the directions on the box
Throw the manual in the fire place
Not the gun because that is dangerous
Gun control is like mind control
You must first have one to use it
Both come with sensitive triggers
With no warranties or returns to life
No money back guarantees
The stock of the rifle is hand-selected walnut.
I polish it with a soft cloth and occasionally
use linseed oil.
I dust a porcelain lady
twice a week. She does not need my attention,
but I give it.
My Nikon needs to be taken out of its case,
otherwise it may turn into a
a blank memory.
At least once a fortnight.
I pick up a quartz crystal and sigh;
the sigh does not mean anything
unless you think ‘sighs’ mean anything.
When the black dog returns,
I drive out at night
with no aim or destination.
The 'dog'
(my camouflaged depression),
must be driven somewhere,
and left on the side of a highway.
These things I do are tramlines,
a navigability that gets me back
to a place where I can write
with no bull attached -
no one likes a fake sun.
These inconsequential acts
are rituals, observances that maintain
the safe-side of my mind
while words eat words
in the dark.
Three months into courting the woman
who's now my enchanting wife
She posed the question: where do you thin we're headed
I knew from the moment on the night we first met
and my heart had skipped a beat or two
But still I stuttered and I stammered as I gave her my reply
I would like to be together for the rest of my long life
Three foolscap of notes
were then thrust into my hand
Defining all the qualities
she desired within a man
Holy smoke!! I'll have to take these pages home
and polish up my game
But those pages were snatched back
never seen again
The next words that were spoken, I was notified
I don't do any length of beard
Holy smoke again!!! Thirty years had elapsed since I'd been clean shaven
Wondered 'bout this hairy face
what was it that she feared
So home I went, took a hasty reflex action
the whiskers off they came
Now not at all enamoured with the image
reflecting back from the mirror frame
Three days later I came back
to her homely little space
Not one comment, not even noticed
my newly acquired clean, neatly shaven bare face
There were many many days
when I regretfully shaved
regrowth of a beard is what I often yearned
The years have slowly passed and the beard
it has long since been returned
I cannot recall any details on the foolscap pages
from fifteen years ago
But please take note :
I must have filled the qualities she required
we're still lovingly together
For me that's eternal
Forever and forever she will be desired
"I don't see myself..." he began.
That's quite OK.
You can feeeel yourself.
We can see you.
We do see you.
(and we are trying to feel you.)
Let us in?
"...making it through the next few days..."
he continued.
That's quite OK.
There is nothing to make it through.
Time doesn't have a vessel,
you aren't a vessel
hurtling along, bumpily
racing along, perhaps lost:
pinballing are caroming along,
ploughing, skiing, skittering,
piloting, surfing, mucking,
hopping, dithering, meandering.
No!
Time washes over the ever-present
present.
A tide, or swath of sun
rolling over the shaded meadow.
Time comes to the immovable,
the unchanging. To know this,
locate your heart. Your Spirit.
To do this, seek another, serve another,
open, offer, extend, comprehend.
Touch, Listen, Grieve Unalone.
Smile.
"...without inflicting grievous bodily harm on someone,
much less the next four years." he ended.
That's quite OK.
You're quite OK.
Today, though
you're losing sight of
how you deeply are
and you are...
quite OK.
Turn, perhaps instead
to Beauty.
Seek Awe.
Revel in some Ridiculous.
The prickly-sharps you feel now,
are real, are true.
but feel, you're you.
Not them.
Let's them, too
be washed off,
be abraded,
let the Tides of Time
wash clean the
needly pokey stuff
let the Tides of Time
polish the youYou.
Let us help, too.
you ARE felt.
you ARE seen.
you are not OK.
You are OK.
-ShhDragon
(for Joe Turecek.)
Written: March 29, 2025, for contest, Sponsored by Brian Strand
*************
she's a dazzling beauty mark,
upon my love line
thoughts that cascade
like vibrant waves on a dreamy river
my quirky paper clip connection—
a mirror reflecting my lunar madness
the sparkle of a diamond
I skillfully polish
my steadfast comforter
from day to night
where delight mingles with
sappy tears, speaking of longing
leaving me wordless and breathless
the susurration of the sea
carries away my pain
an eremitic journey unfolds
whispers woven on a gossamer breeze
I cannot cry out
even as the sun bathes the world in light
haunted by lurking shadows
I strive to untangle
the weight of my ancestry
yet within me, silent screams stir
visions of escape dance on the horizon
yearning for liberation from this burden
hand-woven gossamer dreams—
and you
a veil of verses, coy words—
and you
a lace of tunes, quivering lips—
and you
an amethyst voice, love’s melody—
and you!
that’s who I am in the mirror of love—
you!
stolen blossoms linger
on each breath,
sighing promises
with every kiss—
a yearning void
aching to be filled,
touch-written love,
shrouded in mist
each page adorned
with velvet kisses
to believe is to surrender
a silent farewell as
the final tabs close
a soft kiss leaves
a lingering ghost upon your skin
You need a smart phone to get your number.
Take a picture of the square with the code,
answer the text message, “yes I am here”.
My number D106, better take a seat.
The interracial gay couple next to me, are awfully
grabby for 8:45 am, just mind your own business.
But, why doesn’t the white guy have any shoes on,
and why just socks, that when purchased were probably white.
Now serving D100
The rather large lady to my left requires two seats.
Whats the deal with women and tights and what’s is
the largest size available, in purple?
Her perfume choice, ode to yesterday’s cigarettes.
Now serving D101
Mr, I work for the highway department, walks buy and takes a seat.
Neon yellow shirt and jeans say, we were washed four or
five days ago and worn everyday since.
Presumably his wife, who doesn’t do laundry often, sits beside him.
Now serving D102
Two Asian men enter followed by a teenager, maybe a son.
He reads the billboard and explains the process.
Both men remove their phones and follow his instructions.
Three seat together is going to be hard to find.
Now serving D103
Across the way, a family of four, teenage daughter wearing pjs.
A Halloween motif with Michael Myer’s masked face.
Since it’s only mid September, aren’t we rushing the season a bit?
Then again, given the black lipstick and nail polish, maybe not.
Now seeing D104
Now, the shoeless gay guy gets up and jumps at the ceiling.
He’s trying to remove the cobweb hanging in front of the monitor.
Nice try, but at maybe 5’5”, LeBron James he is not.
His partner urges him to return to his seat.
Now serving D105
You know they sent you a notice: Renew by mail.
It even allowed you to do it on line, save a stamp.
But no, the picture was out of date, nearly eight years ago.
So here your sarcastic ass sits.
Now serving D106 “Thank the Lord!”
She’s behind the glass, the remnants of Covid.
Her lips are moving, but no sound is coming through.
I point to my ears and shrug. She increases her volume.
Yes, wish to renew my drivers license.
Sign the application where highlighted and $24.
Wow, 4 bucks cheaper in person, what a deal.
Picture taken, temporary printed, permanent in 30 days.
Outside finally and look down, what a horrible picture.
the window was broken as the smell
of stinking raw fish heads fresh bread
and that mangy old dog barking
always seemed to awaken me I dashed
quickly for the back door to sneak down
into the basement where coal was burning
heating thee entire Irish stoned building
smoke filled the chimney while up the street
a Polish polka song being played in the middle
of the day folk dancers lined the curb as sidewalk
street sweepers interrupted the final song
laughter and hymns opened my mind to Auschwitz
beckoning old memories that settled within
musik boxes old clocks and violins somehow
behind katy gates i'd wondered how old Mr. Olgavich
managed to dance to a simple tune called Americanist
In this republic of ledgers and silence,
Nigeria breeds a curious alliance;
bank and state,
two wrestlers in one ring,
tag-teaming the trembling customer.
Here, money travels a punished road.
It pays to arrive,
it pays to depart,
it even pays rent
for merely breathing in the vault.
An account;
not a shelter,
but a toll gate
where every passing kobo
must bow.
Yesterday a friend spoke:
three hundred dollars a quiet seed
planted in a domiciliary field.
Years ripened.
He returned with the calm of ownership.
But the bank replied with a bureaucratic smile:
“Your money has been
faithfully used for maintenance.”
Maintenance?
Tell me;
did they polish the silence
around the digits?
Did they dust the air
that guarded the balance?
Did they feed the ghosts
that watch over accounts at night?
Had a stranger done this
we would sharpen the word theft.
Sirens of outrage
would rise like storm birds.
But when the bank performs
this arithmetic magic,
we rename the wound
banking and clap politely
when profit climbs
into billions.
The saddest Mathematics remains:
a nation so accustomed
to daylight pickpockets in suits
that even the robbed
nod in agreement,
and call it normal.