Long Pure and simple Poems
Long Pure and simple Poems. Below are the most popular long Pure and simple by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Pure and simple poems by poem length and keyword.
'Twas two old men from Greece, is said;
Who sold two bottles of potion.
One was logic, pure and simple-
The other was pure emotion.
What bitter rivals they were
Both persuasive in their way,
Each believed his potion best-
The battle would often sway:
"Mine is more refined,
And truth the only good;
While mine can be explained,
Emotion never could."
To which the other replied:
"Not everyone's a scholar,
Not everyone is golden.
When men do not understand,
They simply do not listen."
"Truth is not the only good,
And be my end as just-
To arouse and quell emotion,
Is an effective leader's must."
To which the other replied:
"But what of the damage done
By the hands of one unjust?
Manipulating men like beasts,
And trained by you, I trust?"
"Men must learn to reason;
To know the truth of things,
To think only rationally,
To envision the good it brings."
To which the other replied:
"Life without emotion
Is a sorry end, indeed!
A tasteless life of logic
Would surely end our breed."
"Emotion may not rule you,
If logic be your boast.
Yet, to taste the taste of life-
Emotion is your host."
The two old men from Greece, is said;
Had soonafter passed away.
Neither had conquered the other-
Both potions were here to stay.
'Twas a second generation pupil,
Of the logician I might note;
Drew swallows from both potions,
And this is what he wrote;
"Logic pure and simple
Is good for you, 'tis true.
Yet, this one has no taste;
'Tis hard to swallow, too."
"The other, pure emotion,
Is pleasing to the taste;
And I cannot explain why-
I downed it in such haste."
The pupil then concluded,
"Neither one should stand alone."
He proceeded with a mixture
Of thoughts he wanted shown.
"Three parts of the logic,
To one of emotion.
For logic is the greater good-
Emotion is the motion."
He tasted from his potion,
A taste both common and good.
As emotion related to reason,
The logic was understood.
His potion stands the test of time,
Only fools put down his bottle,
Thoughts are better balanced-
When you drink from Aristotle.
I turn my back
feign indifference
and you make that sound ... that warm sound
that says, with a lilt FAR more convincing than words
"I love you ... I've missed you so"
it's been years, and I've wondered a thousand times
does she miss me, too?
do I dance in the depth of her dreams
or visit her momentary thoughts
in the quiet corners of the day?
does she search other sparkling eyes
for the soul-shimmer of mine?
now ... you're here, beside me and real as rain
and all melts away ...
years, walls, language, and our separate sojourns
half a world distant
as with all the parcels of truth
love is transcendent ... empyrean
laid bare and beyond difference
as visceral as the genes that separate us
and I think of how extraordinary and precious, our bond
how pure and simple and intricate, this feeling
how surely affection breaches the distance ... in a bound
human ...
and gorilla.
* For Dian Fossey, may she rest in peace *
Today is the day of a big fall festival, about twenty miles from here. I have been juried in, and have purchased all the equipment, set up a white tent, and put out my paintings, a few hours ahead, and stayed around for days of waiting. It took a lot of energy, and time, and I did not enjoy it, which is why I only did it twice. Two different shows, both the same year, about four years ago. I sold about eighty-five paintings, and they did not come anywhere near covering the cost of the tent, display pieces, and they did not give me back one ounce of time that I lost. I considered almost every second of tent time “lost time”, unless someone loved my work, which happened only three times in five days of waiting.
This art gig is therapy for me, pure and simple. The best part is, that it keeps me out of stores, buying new stuff – a bunch of junk I get tired of in two or three days, shiny things that will be dumped into a bonfire when I do not use them any longer. I lie. The best part of painting is the pleasure that it gives me. It is the most relaxing hobby I have ever gifted myself. I have mediated, and painting is like that only better, because I get to add color and glitter, and I love seeing my creativity unfold in surprising ways. Since I already own a couple of hundred canvases and the paints, and I just ordered a hundred and fifty new brushes, I might as well do this cheap hobby that I love, right?
I am not tempted to go to the fall festival. I feel the vendor’s pain, but I always try to buy something from each one, so I will not hurt their feelings, and if I keep it up, I will be working until I am ninety.
We are but fleeting shadows
On the impersonal sea of time
Footprints washed away in its sands
Such traces that we do leave
Are found in fading memories
And crumbling artefacts.
There are those who aspire
To be written into the pages of history
For cultural immortality
Yet we are no more than specks of dust
In a swirling boundless universe
Minuscule megalomaniacs
With a magnificent obsession
Clinging to a belief in life without end
To give meaning to our existence
That final sleep,portrayed as our dream world,
is oblivion, pure and simple
The ultimate annihilation
Remember man that thou art dust
And into dust thou shalt return.
In the heart of poetry, where words dance,
There are no shadows of sadness, nor rays of hope.
It rises, transcendent, over seas and mountains,
In a world where dualities fade into confusion.
There is neither light nor darkness in this realm,
Only the pure essence of feeling, without labels.
Poetry, in its fullness, knows no bounds,
It is like the wind, unaware of beginnings or ends.
In this world, where opposites dissolve into the air,
Poetry becomes a river, flowing without borders.
It does not judge, separate, or classify,
It simply exists, in mystical harmony.
Just as nature does not obey human laws,
Poetry rises above all, free and eternally young.
It is the soul's refuge, where everything becomes one,
A world where there is neither good nor bad, just the pure and simple sound of the beating heart.
In the breathing forest came memories of my youth,
Nothing more than happiness shadowed by the truth.
The rising sun pulchritudinous like the smile on her face,
Let me think of her once more of pure and simple grace.
In the center of the wood lived a solemn rose,
Surrounded by a cruel weed which prohibited it to grow.
The weed was not considerate only thinking of itself,
Hurt the little rose not caring of how it felt.
Now the rose has grown up and overtowers the weed,
Making it undernourished and causing it to bleed.
Through tolerance and patience the rose has been well fed,
And for the spiteful weed, he gained a brand new bed.
Glancing to the falling moon, I've realized what I've done,
I've killed my inner self by following the sun.
I only hope that things will change far before the end,
So that the enemy I have gained will turn to be my friend.
1989
Seventh Place
2022 Poetry Marathon Mile 15 Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Mark Toney
Third Place
YOUR PERSONAL FAVORITE, NO. 2
Sponsored by: L MILTON HANKINS
Today, in the mirror of the world, we lose our steps through ideologies,
For reality does not conform to any pre-established template.
Life, like a magical river, flows beyond boundaries,
A hidden mystery in shadows, an ever-unfathomable enigma.
People, tireless seekers of meanings,
Stir the heavens and the earth for concealed lights,
But truth reveals itself only when reason fades,
Life takes shape only when we see it as a spell.
Under the starry sky, smiles and tears are silver threads,
Weaving the fabric of unseen time, sincere diadems.
In the dance of deep desires, we lose ourselves in enigmatic contours,
And only by letting ourselves be carried by the wave, does life unveil its magic.
Without seeking clear answers, we venture through secret corners,
Where only the heart can see and the soul can grasp.
Only this way, in the waltz with the unknown, do we discover what it means to be,
To be one with the clouds, the wind, and the stars that shine eternally.
In the chains of ideologies, we lose our essence, becoming pale shadows,
But beyond them, life, pure and simple, awaits us with open arms.
Like a whispered song from the depths of the cosmos, a siren's trill,
Only when we fully open ourselves can we truly love.
Life, this mystery that requires no explanation, only deep living,
In its hidden stillness, we find the true light of the soul.
Through the eyes of love, without fear, without masks of ephemeral thoughts,
We discover that meaning is a wonder that passes through the canvas of stars.
Thus, we abandon the desperate search for a finite sense,
We embrace the mystery, and find ourselves in the waves of eternity.
For life does not reveal itself in thoughts, but in profound feelings,
And when we lose ourselves in the unknown, we find ourselves in the infinite.
You are afraid you are too sensitive? Let me laugh.
First you would have to have feelings, Mr. Always Me Path.
Next you would have to care about another human being.
You are all about yourself, which is what I am always seeing.
Too sensitive? Are you kidding? It's a gag. It's a joke.
I have never in my life met a more "me-and-more-me" bloke.
Too sensitive? Who told you that, your sainted mother?
I know it was not your sister or your intelligent brother.
Your family and I laugh at your pompousness behind your back.
The amount of confidence you have is so clearly out of whack.
Your arrogance proceeds you, your selfishness a bore.
You are a blowhard pure and simple. Do you want to hear more?
Beneath the August tempo a lovely summer day
and a tantalizing breeze of a million flower-sway
Green and verdant pastures pushing up so spry
touching lofty candors of heaven nigh and nigh ;
Its an eyelet pure and simple sending such a thrill
flowers potted in the soil, blooming fast at will
Beneath the August tempo a lovely summer day
and a trembling rose of valor chasing blues away
Skies with milky shades of white and crayon blue
drinking up the heat and pouring beauty'-spew
Mountains proud and tall echoed with enthrall
sending me a shiver while standing straight n' tall
Before the day is done I want to refuge by the forest
as the eagle flies the summit with a call of deep unrest
Pick a branch inhale the odor of an odorous lament
beneath the August tempo, I groove my carven tent .
August 15, 2018
She was out of patience.
He had taken all she had and spun it into a frenzy.
She was out of endurance.
He had shown her how easy it is to come to a breaking point.
She was out of ideas.
None of them had worked, even though she had many.
She was out of second, third, fourth, fifth, and sixth chances.
Feeling utterly disrespected does that to many women.
She had stopped being amused,
For she felt like a clown doll that had been dropped into a toilet, and left there.
If she told him this it would have not made a difference.
She was out of love for him. She did not like him either.
He was an addict, pure and simple. Hooked on a drug for one.
Since she had promised “Til death do you part,”
there was only one thing to do.
She took a bottle of sleeping pills and never woke up.