Long Primarily Poems
Long Primarily Poems. Below are the most popular long Primarily by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Primarily poems by poem length and keyword.
I was born too late ... not far too late, but about seventeen years ...
Or so, for I have always been too old-fashioned, (In a romantic, true love
Sense), for the time period and era I grew up in. I knew this without question
At an early age ... books were some of my best friends, always, and I first
Read my favorite novel before my tenth birthday ... it was on the shelves
Of my dad's den, and the bright colors of the binding had always pulled at
Me ... so, one summer eve, I took it to the porch swing by the lake, and
Started. Oh, how it opened up a whole new world to me! An entrancing
World of exotic places and people and struggles! The settings and
Characters and relationships were so unlike my own, and unlike anything
I knew of ... it wove a hunger into my heart! A yearning to live in a bigger
World and experience its wonders ... it placed a seed of romance and
Charm and excitement, deep into my being, and more importantly,
Taught me the absurd inequalities of racism, at a time when my world
Was primarily one color. To this day it is my dream to make that
Wondrous place my home, and one day soon I intend to, (for real) ...
Transforming those lessons and dreams into a reality. Bless you and
Thank you, James A. Michener, for placing into my forever-romantic
And old-fashioned child's heart, those "Tales of the South Pacific" ...
I am forever grateful ... and ever changed.
~ 1st Place ~ in the "Life Lesson From A Favorite Novel" Poetry Contest, Line Gauthier, Judge & Sponsor.
Bleak existence portrayed,
nonetheless this (baby
boomer) hybrid dreamer
oft times evocative
edenic reveries bekiss
mine psyche with pastoral trappings
evoking utopian bliss
on par with drawing
winning lottery ticket,
which fantasy I quickly dismiss,
where dolorous voices within me hiss
mocking pipe dream compensating
for unlived life hide miss
whiling away hours
of young adulthood...
this threescore aged man did blithely piss
away enraptured with Swiss
Family Robinson fantasy,
gladly exchanging tsoris
entailing breathtaking adventure
versus sequestered bookishness burr
rowed nose engrossed
with page turner capture
ring imagination of this erstwhile drifter
addressing, fixating, and keeping coiffure
as disheveled appearance, where daily
father and mother showed me the door
particularly on account, cuz for one more
nanosecond, they could not endure
this healthy sole son vaping expenditure
as both parents toiled away,
they tired trying to swallow failure
while primarily main feature
of this poem lackadaisically
exhausted as an Evansburg Park fixture
(calling squirrels on first name basis),
no sooner this bookworm gave vague gesture
after setting foot inside abode - 'pon dusk
asper whereabouts, off
into bedroom I did immure
and disappear into story
maybe one about main
character pledging indenture
role as heavy footsteps shook
324 Level Road domicile infrastructure
awaiting the wrath
of Khan spouting ultimatums
our father/son rapport long did inure
a "NON FAKE" wall not immune
to malicious, noxious, vicious... lecture
to offspring who long outwore his
Harris Tweed Scottish welcome mat,
yet... feared testing nonsecure
mooring which familiarity bred contempt!
Back, back to the joyful wood
where once you played at Robin Hood.
One-time playground, a beauty spot,
is now an Asda parking lot.
Back, back to the school bike shed
behind which you kissed or smoked instead.
You could buy a pack for half a crown.
The school's not there; the shed burned down.
Back, back to your very first catch,
together you were the perfect match.
Wonderful days and nights that were hot.
Now they are married, with children-a lot!
Back back to the car you first drove
that set you free to roam and rove.
Lovely then, but now you're aware
it guzzles gas, pollutes the air.
Back, back to the friends you once had.
They were young, weird, kooky, and mad;
what a gang, you were all wild and crazy.
Now we are all old, fat, and lazy.
Back, back to the old hairstyle,
it was a glorious purple pile.
Your mother and father were both appalled.
Unfortunately, now, you're primarily bald.
Back, back to relive your past,
those times you were having a blast.
Life was fun; it was all about play.
Why did it stop? Can no one say?
Sentimentality Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Julia Ward
Date wrote: 31st May 2022
Written: May 25, 2026, for a contest sponsored by Silent One
2nd place contest winner
*************************
Quote: "Don’t grieve. Anything you lose comes round in another form.” — By Rumi ( With my honest wishes of a long and healthy life— Very Happy Birthday.
The moon still glows—an alabaster flame,
memory’s mirror, never the same.
Spume drifts, shimmering and bright,
not shadowy, but limpid light.
You watch sunsets and softly muse—
Do you fade, or do you fuse?
Their shades shroud loss and gain,
a peculiar parity of pleasure and pain.
Lessons grasped don’t be acrimonious,
regrets mollified primarily harmonious.
Time’s conundrum teaches clear—
Delicate days are a deep fear.
To your tender time, you’d tell and attire,
Beware quixotry, yet seize the desire.
Do not anathemize your fall—
Failure’s anodyne heals all.
Though tristful shadows at times prowl,
still you liaise with joy, still you howl.
Twilight or dawn, the soul’s refrain—
amaranthine light will remain.
The moon is full and white, and chill, this night,
it cascades past my open window sill,
and all the color fades to dark from light,
a monochrome of gray which can't be stilled.
The armoire's shadow strays across the floor.
I watch it from within my canopy bed.
as a nightmare gallops through my open door,
a Pooka* black as coal with eyes which bled.
Its jaw agape red gore froths from his maw,
and it slowly paws the cover from my bed,
a scream freezes in my throat to bird-like caw,
it dips for me to mount, as I am led.
Upon a demon spawn, I scour the moor
'til dawn descends to end this foul glamour.
6/7/13
*The pooka is a primarily a creature of Irish folklore. Considered to be both bringers of good and bad fortune. The creatures were said to be shape changers which could take the appearance of black horses.
Off and on life to face some turmoil .
You cannot predict, how long it will last.
being a simple problem or coiled !
You need a tipping balance to adjust.
Proceed with vigorous running dynamic ,
in static stagnant state not to remain
primarily stay enthusiastic ,
yet a tipping balance, you must maintain.
You must always focus on your action
Run or rush or if needed to gallop.
Put full dedication, no objection .
Be alert ! You know when or how to stop !
Promptness is good, but don’t be impulsive
Never cross limits on your performance
Think, analyse and then act decisive.
Work hard, obeying a tipping balance.
Occasionally you may walk tip toe,
sometimes you are compelled to make haste,
yet matters little whether be fast or slow.
Each step demands tipping balance at best.
BALING HAY
We three are farmer girls primarily.
named as Alice, Linda and Emily.
belonging to same peasant family
of almost same age holding simile.
All of us work hard in field merrily.
We hold skill to cut, chop and collect hay.
We are performing throughout the whole day.
Working under open sky and Sun rays.
Enjoying work staying cheerful and gay.
Panorama touching horizon gray.
Linda standing as her bundle is done.
Emily holds bunch on shoulder in fun.
Me Alice, baling to finish my turn.
Since childhood ' Baling hay', we are to learn.
Farmhouse close by: At eve, we rush, run.
We are close friends, being cousin sisters.
Not rock STAR but shine as Bailing Hay STAR.
Expert to bind bunch of hay in cluster.
We do job fast, yet try to do faster.
We enjoy festive days during Easter.
He caressed her cheek;
A warm breeze caressed her face;
A smooth soft wet gentle kiss;
Romantic
Caressing touching a shoulder,
Stroking her cheek;
Verbally telling her she’s sweet brushing;
Overhead often a loving touch;
What does caress mean to a girl?
What does it mean to caress someone?
Means to stroke it gently in a loving affectionate manner;
The caress can be either a verb or a noun,
Both of which us, refer primarily to the affectionate;
Engaging in petting or stroking of each other lovingly;
O’ so are we ever so affectionate!
1/10/24
Written words by James Edward Lee Sr. 2024©
Gratitude City
My car, shining beautifully in
the November sun.
Not brand new, but looks truly
like one.
The city, itself, primarily family.
With happy sounds of chilldren,
floating so melodiously.
The many churches this city holds.
Where this generation and the
next, learns His holy word.
A sane city, neither hounded by
fear nor violence.
A perfect place for both children
and hard working parents.
Flowers and trees grow here year
round.
It's November, and not a tree,
leave less, can be found.
Soon Santa, will come down our
streets,
Riding atop a fire engine, tossing
cheering children, Christmas treats.
What a blessing to be living here!
Where friendliness reigns each day
of each year!
November 24, 2019
It seems to me perhaps you're in desperate need of attention
But what you lack to see will be the dagger in your perception
The promised lies of men have been but a crutch in your development
Leaving a trail of dried-up husks of an ambitious self-experiment
Is it risk-versus-reward or a sense of self-empowerment
I implore you on the former as the latter yields discouragement
May i strongly recommend for you a dose of life experience
Listen closely then apply and your strength will know no hindereance
Many have littered aimlessly only to suffered to their hells
Primarily due to uncitely influence and a lack of any brain cells
Elders always know you see and can guide you on your path
How foolish to assume in youth, lest you cherish the ways of psychopaths