Long Precincts Poems
Long Precincts Poems. Below are the most popular long Precincts by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Precincts poems by poem length and keyword.
There is a sadness at the sight
of this wreck of a boat,
beached on a brick pad,
paralyzed and deprived
of riding the tides or being swung
on a mooring line by waves
and wind. It sits as a curiosity
to attract a passing eye,
a ruptured monument to the precincts
maritime history. With a gaping
hole and peeling paint
it is a mere caricature
stripped of dignity.
On walks I often pass it or sit
nearby as if in silent vigil
or just to keep it company
for a while. I would like
to see it given a fate
more fitting than being an exhibit
of progressive decay.
Silly of me perhaps to endow it
with worth and be moved
to write these words and do honor
to the hands that made it,
feel a sense of sorrow
as a weathered soul
is sometimes inclined to do
when confronted by such a sight.
The New Griots—Pouring Down Raining Words
From the wombs
of our pregnant minds
may our charged words
drop like God’s tears
reaching the depths
of the precincts
of your souls
seeping like His raindrops
to swollen roots
anchoring life anew
birthing thunderstorms
of revelations
missed in oral tradition—now
staining sheets of thin pulp
with silent echoes—silent echoes
once etched in dry sand—time
unsheathing truth’s truth—unlocking
opening doors and windows
into new souls—new souls
seeking those creative leaps of mind
of the new Griots—rain dancers
inking rhythmic words
flowing like a speaking river
meandering
trials
tribulations
traditions
peace
love
meandering Minerv-like
between double clef river banks:
Come walk in the mist
of our rain—pitter pattering words
singing salient songs of life
showering selves in truth and glory.
S-tars whirling through midnight black skies, whitely,
U-rged on by the Milky Way, twinkling quite brightly.
M-adcap moon in a romance dance over sapphire earth,
M-eaningful though mild, in the precincts of her birth!
E-arly morning lemon clouds sweep by tall mountaintops,
R-acing the redbirds, as emerald toads do froggy hops.
D-aily masquerade ball of a red sun's splash and dash,
A-nd the mysterious wind, giving vivid blooms whiplash!
N-ebulous green waves, undulate seductively into foam,
C-ameo appearances of butterflies, in acutely green homes.
E-ach noon intensely golden, each tango new, though olden!
As my unrestrained life in the turbulent times
crumbles in the crushing clutch of stifling suffering,
my heart bleeds in inflicted pangs of vulnerability,
the arms of hope remains remote for me to cling.
My boat wrecks in the high seas in the storm of agony,
I strive to swim to the elusive shore of revival receding.
The inner voice vainly conveys optimistic I should be,
distracted hope reminds me every cloud has silver lining.
As the sane senses fade at sunset, dismal night falls,
I know the sun must sink to rise again with hope,
and inspire the Phoenix in me to arise from distress dust.
I wait for the calming dawn of faith to erase my affliction.
In the cracked cinnamon ground parched to the core,
my desert of desolation pervades, sneaking in the sly
within the faded sanguine veins of the fragile leaves,
echoing the evergreen hymn of hope in their rustle.
Traversing the dark corridor of self-defeat I travel within,
discover the divine light in the precincts of the soul.
I surrender totally to His radiant omnipresence,
and remain subservient to His benevolence for help.
I get the inner strength to hold up the falling sky,
that keeps me going out of the struggling times.
As the heavenly touch pulls me through the suffering,
I get the gift of sedate hope for the blessed life’s recovery.
I miss your beauty and splendor:
The sun that pierces through your greenest trees,
Dreams that were born within your premises;
The great books I devoured within your precincts.
Shall I ever set my foot their again?
If so, shall I find the same books I loved?
Will the friends I made within my short stay
Forever impact upon my life the same sweet way?
I miss you Moi University my alma mater,
Moi University, the place I gathered vast knowledge,
The place I discovered the meaning of great learning.
There, a piece of my soul dwells.
Few such hospitable places a mortal rarely finds,
And its breeze elsewhere you never can chance;
The beautiful geishas that roam your streets,
The bearded scholars that walk your corridors,
The spectacular scenery, the gorgeous neighborhoods;
All these and more I shall forever miss!
sorrows
of the night
dew
falls
tenderly
upon hearts
of loneliness
breath
words
soft spoken
disperse
the light
into
purple
shadows
soft
as honey
in
precincts
of pleasantness
blissful
sweet
murmers
delicate
as nectar
bring
mist to the eyes
loves
elegance
a safe neighbour
fair
to look upon
paler
than summer
grass
sweet flowers
to
treasure
as
the golden
sun
tyranny&
tenderness
of love
manifest
in particles
limpid
living streams
gold
tinted lines
quivering
lustres
of splendour
charm&
cloud the eyes
delicious
laughter
sweet sounding
flare
afresh
from a sacred
grove
caresses
revery
&radiance
bloom
in a whirlwind
of
longing
return favour
to the eyes
embroider
and salute
worship
devoted
to
beauty
I thought and thought. In all the world
Three things touched me, my heart captured:
Sugarcane derivates,
What poet’s pen creates,
And lithe limbs of a lass
That stir, in breeze as grass.
________________________
Translation |24.10.2024| sweet, poems, lissom lass
Poet’s note: Sanskrit has thousands of verses of wisdom called Subhashhitam. The poet here says, ‘I thought and thought and three things touched inner precincts of my heart: sweets made from sugarcane, penmanship of poets, and a lissom lass’ lithe figure’. The transliteration of the Sanskrit verse follows:
Sanchintya sanchintya jagat samastam,
trayah padaarthaa hridayam pravishhtaah |
Ikshho vikaaraah kritayah kaveenaam,
mugdha-anganaayaa anga tarangitaani ||
Come down hard on repeat offenders
both in precincts and in communities
leave the tender buds to blossom
weed out the pretenders of peace.
but no matter the color or gender
some people will never blend
they're derelict and defective.
They need to be pruned
into an earthly rest
no more revolving doors
of rose colored
courts.
We need to skim the rot
from the pristine pond of our peace.
shock treatment...chlori-nation if you will
It'll irritate at first, but after a while
muddied waters will start to clear.
An open-ended amount of chances
for predators in communities and precincts
is a life sentence without the possibility of escape
for communities
THEN NOBODY BREATHES!
I miss your beauty and splendor:
The sun that pierces through your greenest trees,
Dreams that were born within your premises;
The great books I devoured within your precincts.
Shall I ever set my foot their again?
If so, shall I find the same books I loved?
Will the friends I made within my short stay
Forever impact upon my life the same sweet way?
I miss you Moi University my alma mater,
Moi University, the place I gathered vast knowledge,
The place I discovered the meaning of great learning.
There, a piece of my soul dwells.
Few such hospitable places a mortal rarely finds,
And its breeze elsewhere you never can chance;
The beautiful geishas that roam your streets,
The bearded scholars that walk your corridors,
The spectacular scenery, the gorgeous neighborhoods;
All these and more I shall forever miss!
If you follow my poem's flight,
Pray, hold it under no searchlight,
Worse, under prying microscope,
Give discreet ears and a long rope.
Let not your mind's nigh curious mouse
Set loose to probe unto its house,
Nor walk into its private rooms,
Dig out my hopes’ tenuous tombs,
Nor look for undue nuances
On meanings meant between two lines—
Poems mature long like good wines,
And good ones take some time to please.
And O look for no secret switch
To illumine its dark precincts,
If need be, curb all your instincts
To switch on the lights-- a false itch.
Take time, but dig not unto line,
Nor find fault with given design,
Dwell not on words. What's left unsaid
More crucial is than what gets said.
Nor, dear reader, try to hammer
Nor humiliate my humble piece—
A mother loves her child as is.
She’s privileged to nurture her,
Be mature nigh not to torture,
Nor analyze it part by part,
A piece is it of personal art,
Product of heart more than of head,
A bird free to sing her fond song--
A song deemed right, nor ever wrong,
Ergo, never give it a grade.
Be wary whenever you read,
It helps these dos and don'ts to heed,
When you choose my poem to read—
Breed of mine, to thee nigh like weed.
So, soften your critical dart,
Poems come with delicate heart.
_____________________________
Musings | 06.07.11 | poems
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