Long Preferring Poems
Long Preferring Poems. Below are the most popular long Preferring by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Preferring poems by poem length and keyword.
I am unassuming, and uneventful
I am the one who laughs the loudest
but inside, as to not out myself
I am the one some can generalize about
None of them being a teensy bit correct
Children say to me “Let’s go get a grownup”
Not realizing I am one, which delights me.
Old people do not understand
I feel I am not one of them in any way.
I am the one who despises cooking and cleaning.
I am the one who spends her day cartooning and painting.
I am a player, preferring my own friendship to almost
everyone else’s, because my personalities like to do the same things
and we all despise being on other people’s schedules.
Eleven years ago, it was a glimmering, gleaming, spanking new house
And we were so pleased, as we had designed it, our way, for us.
We immediately eliminated a dining room, preferring to eat in the
Livingroom on the multitude of couches, or recliners, reposing as we eat.
I have noticed so many things about it lately that are
Not spanking new, glimmering or gleaming, but I do not care one whit.
I have outgrown the need to spend hours and hours
Doing something I despise doing – namely housework, vacuuming
And other crazy stuff that is a waste of time as it perpetually needs
Re-doing.
I believe in living every minute of the rest of the time you have
Left doing stuff that is worthwhile, and fun, which explains my art
Studio full of paints, and brushes, and glitter, and canvases always
Sitting, waiting, with big white smiley faces on big white smiley backgrounds.
And my computers, one in my back office, and one in my garage office,
And four bathrooms, for two people. I wish I was kidding, but I am not.
No, it is no longer a glimmering, gleaming spanking house, but we love it.
It lives in the woods, with woodland creatures, and it has flowers galore,
It is a haven to bees, and wasps, and spiders, and snakes, and a boxed turtle too.
It is the only place I ever want to be, it is heaven on earth to us,
Our perpetual go-to-spot and best of all? It is home! My stay-cation palace
In the woods. I cannot imagine heaven being any more suited to my needs.
Best of all? It replenishes me nightly, helping me to eliminate the gloom
Of a sad day, or the memory of a lost child, who does not dare dream or hope anymore.
God the Father sent His Son, through whom we are forgiven.
Yet man, preferring darkness chose
To shun the light and from His glory driven.
Oh the crimson price from Him that flowed
To purchase man’s redemption and be risen
That we with Him, victorious arose.
The life of Christ is vain, had He not arose.
The Father’s chief ambition: that we be forgiven!
The glory of the Cross is: He has risen!
Sin’s penalty is broken when men chose
To come and in repentance kneel where mercy flowed.
His invitation ever hails where nails were driven.
Oh His love for sinners; those for whom He’s driven.
Christ, the Lamb of God who from His throne arose
To come and to redeem us, what grace from heaven flowed.
Jesus is the “gift” for the forgiven.
Our faith is predicated on the life He chose:
To reject Him, one is lost; to receive Him, one has risen.
It is at the Cross, where new life has risen.
Condemnation, guilt and strife away are driven.
If in defiance, one rejected Him and chose
To turn and walk from Jesus who arose,
Then there is not a way to be forgiven.
The well of living water’s where all pardon flowed.
The glory of the Cross; where mercy flowed!
The story never wanes on heavens risen.
These understand the gift of the forgiven.
For love of Him, to his feet they’re driven.
These rose anew because this One arose.
It is all through faith in Christ, that saints had chose.
Call upon the Lord, you will see that when you chose
To ask Him for forgiveness, sin’s hold away had flowed.
Easter’s glory is not death; it is when the Son arose.
It’s in salvation, new creations, destined to be risen!
While we battle with our sin, Christians all the more are driven
To magnify our Lord, and to relish in “forgiven.”
Rejoice all you who chose the One who’s risen.
Where in flowed the life and out death’s driven.
The Son arose, that you may be forgiven.
vivacious roses pose
in air
oxygen free from the stem
arising like balloons
resurrection of rosies
blushing brides at peak
before their spoiling
before their mistreat
their passionate gowns sweet
wormy stems
await greening apples
Eden’s eschew
the ladies wave bye-bye
preferring the troposphere
fear of flying
ain’t there
angels, palms up,
invite their climb
up golden stairs
heaven is a lighthouse
waves crash on dry and crusty land
petals fall like rain
dowry to the grooms
wives look nothing like the brides
kites tied to home soil
desperate for heaven
a few grooms
smooth
the bed
water the roots
the rose thrives
2/24/2021
*Salvidor Dali’s Bleeding Roses
Toward Material Trappings
Gold and silver upholds
true value capitalist money tree
Thrown down upon gaunt
lit alter of Midas,
treasured as current sea
Countless denominations
cashiered legal tender to grant
Rich Midas, who straddles
diamond compound,
billed as sacred Kant
Tickles with dollar signs
motley foolish crue scrambling
towards drawbridge gate
Pedestrians malingering
hungry thirst
for wealth of nations to satiate
Inexorable appetite
for wanton money to amass
Fuels reverence
all that glitters even brass
Whence madding crowd
behaviour cruel and crass
Deplorable if perceived
from one-way looking glass
Fool hardiness to revere
what beast called money,
lucre, and green back
Can buy - sweeping across
World Wide Web
scarring globe on fast track
Toward accumulating
high excess lavish life harried style
parade with pomp
and swiftly tailored circumstances while
Ninety nine percent
of less wealthy live hand to mouth
Envying those billeted
behind sealed mansions
east, west, north and south
Except this dollar less chap,
who could not give a rat’s tush
For ka-ching melodic sound
twenty four seven that does swoosh
In burlap sack clothes
and bank accounts preferring
to slog and push
Along boulevard of broken dreams
that resembles nothing but mush
Yet preference prevails
foregoing attachment
to government sanctioned loot
Freeing mind and body trying
to cherish voluntary simplicity,
which does suit
This quest for knowledge seeking writer,
who disparages
tooting his own horn
Nor imposing personal philosophy
that gives reason exuberantly to exhale
Versus vacuity and purposelessness
sans, blind faith toward Holy Grail
Goading most people to persevere
for millions of bucks over hill and dale
Despite owning next to nothing,
yet detaching psychological
bond that doth choke
Ability to experience unfettered psyche
likened to oxen iron bound yoke!
*I entered this Poem in ~Constance~A Rambling Poet's Contest "Among The Dead"
I write from this place of nowhere
This darkened haunt of deep despair
Even a Raven's darkened shade is brighter
Than the mood that has set upon this lair...
There are no words to cheer me.
I look to find a glimmer...
An enlightened shadow of what once was me
But alas that ghost eludes and finds me not
Preferring a labyrinth of happiness, its maze
To the life's webs that now encase me.
I cannot scale these vertical walls
This darkened fortress that surrounds me
And so I dive to ever deeper depths
In this ocean of sadness that seeks to drown me.
No tears can fall from drought-filled eyes
Desert rain has not come bidden
Blood cannot spill from pain-filled thoughts
No apparent wounds to need not be hidden.
A creek of fear and anguish
Feeds into my river of lonely despair
These tides serve to further drown me
In heavier waters with no apparent air.
These words are all I have left within me
To feed what's left of this withered shell
I have been exiled to this lonely oasis
My last hope for water in this, my empty well.
(January 23, 2011 Wausau, Wisconsin)
(c) Copyright 2011 by Christine A Kysely, All Rights Reserved
I could but I can't so I won't
Don't ask me for you would be embarrassing both of us
Laughing now
Not remembering the last time anyone tried to embarrass me
Not sure it can be done any more
Thank you for the honour, but you are
looking in the wrong direction
I am all about retaining my selfishness,
preferring to stay in bed and be depressed or insanely happy
Depending on my eager mood of the moment.
Listen up. One more time, with gusto....
I could but I can't so I won't.
Please ask again and again if you have a wish
for frustration and finally unkindness.
Otherwise, you need to peddle your ideals
and your ideas elsewhere.
I am not willing
The answer is no.
When I was a girl, I watched the 1982 movie "The Last Unicorn" with my sister in the early 2000s. My sister and I sat on the beige living room carpet. Growing up, beige carpets and white walls were expected in apartments. On the TV, soft rock flows beneath the animated picture. An ethereal unicorn stood poised before the blue sky and hills. The fairy tale painted the white and beige real world. I loved that movie despite preferring pegasuses over unicorns, and wished to craft my own fairy tales. Fairy tales where the beautiful heroine possesses brown skin, brown eyes, and coiled ebony hair. A childish wish, a thoughtful adult could make true. As an adult, I've thought fairy tales through, and it's not just enough for the beautiful heroine to inspire brown and black girls like I was. I've read The Last Unicorn novel a decade past adolescence. The film is a dream swaying to soft rock on the black sea of memory. The Last Unicorn was aware of its fairy tale nature, like an adult reopening the fairy tale book with a cracked spine. Familiar but new to wiser eyes. The unicorn leads the way for me to write a fairy tale not for the girl I was, but for the woman I've become.
It was just before sunrise in the eastern sky, just a few minutes before seven this morning, There was a most glorious and eyeopening picture. One could clearly see what appeared to be a heavenly collabaration between the clouds, the earth, God, and the sun.
Were I a member of that divinely distinguished group, I would have voted for things to remain just the way I saw them this morning. The sunlight was lingering as if it could not wait to burst through the horizon; and the clouds were scattered, preferring not to depart. But God was painting an elaborate portrait in His vast domain; and when finished, He demanded leave of the hesitant clouds, because it was time for the rising sun.
09122017 PS
My words are mirrors of a soul seeking its path among the stars,
if I let them fly, they would tell of time slipping away like sand,
of horrors and martyrdom that sculpted shadows on the walls of my heart,
preferring to be pierced by the pen's sharpness than to lie in oblivion,
not vessels of devotion, but merely echoes of eternal silence,
they are arrogant, like the wind whispering secrets asked by no one,
waiting to receive without uttering words, only understanding glances,
they observe mistakes and dress them in immortality, harsh critics of my life,
they are proud nations, refusing to bow to the beggary of recognition,
preferring to be transmitted through thoughts rather than beg for existence,
I see them as a crowd rising from ashes when their dignity is challenged,
people, they are, not just mere letters and verses stitched on a garment,
people with royal blood, flowing through their veins of ink and dream,
choosing to announce death sooner than be guided by my hands,
“Devotion,” they say with disdain, “Loyalty,” they laugh with a bitter echo,
“Go and dance your dreams,” they provoke me, knowing my steps are heavy,
offering themselves as images to be drawn, saying it’s the most generous gift,
aware I know the canvas only through words, not through the brush's touch,
they know I write and deny me their soul unless I grant them the freedom,
to exist in the forms they choose, reflections of my being,
arrogant and proud, with the same stardust substance coursing through my essence.