Long Purist Poems
Long Purist Poems. Below are the most popular long Purist by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Purist poems by poem length and keyword.
As i viewed her there
Exiting the shower
The gleam of her skin
I long to devour
To be that towel
In wrap around
My arms to declare
In her surround
She turns to me
As her wet hair drapes
Our eyes meet
As in me shapes
We walk towards
Each others lure
For in a matter of moments
Our loving is pure
On the cold tile floor
In a shiver of moan
Our language unites
A wanting groan
Absorbed and endorsed
In bodily commit
The purist of pure
To each other submits
As we enter the shower
Still kissing, sharing
Man and woman
In pleasurable caring
http://www.thehighlanderspoems.com/love-6.php
There is no longer any sign of hope,
The truth of reality are to much to bare,
My mangled mind can no longer cope,
As i am filled with nothing but despair.
I long for the fortune of a normal life,
To bare a babe surely a women’s right,
So long my womb craves to hold a life,
To broken to hold the purist of light.
The loneliness of a solo fight,
My life alone no love from my child,
A life to be filled with only pain in sight,
I often wonder how my child would smile,
I question myself why bother to carry on,
The only bind my word keeps me here i say,
All of us lie maybe i could be sly a lie just one,
But my soul would be the one to pay so they say,
Could or would the one end my constant anguish,
But he’s wrath would mark me eternally condemned,
I could fight again but will my hope be vanquished,
Regardless of it all i am certain i will reach a bitter end.
One True Love
Tis beauties nectar tasting quite divine
true essence of thy purist heart bestowed
enraptured by your sweetest loves design
thus hearts entwined whilst burning passion flowed.
Thy beauty dost compare to perfect DAY
when I look at thee with my loving eyes,
thy knows my heart still longs for thee to say,
thy loving words once hidden in disguise.
Tis torture when denied forbidden kiss;
like pouring rain hast doused my beating heart;
A shattered memory I want dismissed;
so our pure love has found a brand new start.
Our loving hearts becoming joined above
in all the Heavens' only one true love.
James F. Cunningham © 01/26/2016
Often, I enter a contest
I enter the ones I like best
But one sponsor said
Write stood on your head
I moved on to check out the rest
Another said stand in a bucket
Write Latin, or I’m gonna chuck it
Eight lines by the way
Or get an NA
I thought about that and said f… ..
[They say stick to your chosen form
You should never break with the norm
In two stanza’s time
I’m switching to rhyme
The purist would kick up a storm]
But what really scrambles my brain
Is what comes up time and again
It’s apps for surmounting
The problem of counting
And one’s a particular pain….
*
‘How many syllables’, that’s what gets me
The logic it uses ain’t easy to see
Take for example the simple word ‘Wouldn’t’
They say it’s one syllable…
See it?..
I couldn’t
It misreads quotation marks, single or double
A single’s a syllable….. doubles?…. no trouble
It claims that the open quote counts as a syllable
Yet the ensuing quote counts not at all
Now I’m not unique so I run with the crowd
And I’m sure that no-one reads quote marks aloud
With ‘How Many Syllables’, if demand lingers
I simply ignore it and count on my fingers
But Soup has a resource called ‘Syllable Counter’
Which disregards quote marks that it may encounter.
In ‘shouldn’t’ and ‘wouldn’t’ and ‘mustn’t’ and ‘couldn’t’
The syllables all number two
And all of that makes pretty good sense to me…
So does it make good sense to you?
*
I love writing poetry, dearly
And often I get it right… nearly
So please do feel free
To set rules for me
But ‘How Many Syllables’?…. Really?
For my purpose in life had I always been searching
Ever since I grew up and became conscious
That humans live only to die;
That they are mere dust particles spread over
An uncertain surface
A surface controlled by an entity they perceive not
An entity powerful enough as to shake that surface
As easily as humans themselves would shake rug mats
To clean them!
Of my purpose in life had I been made aware of
One day, when the skies shook and rattled
When I got thrown into moving sands
And had no other option than to give up!
Yes, the mysticism that surrounds life and
The uncertain surface that makes it up
Whispered to me, through waves which reached
My soul
That my purpose in life
Is to meet with my beloved
A beloved with whom I've shared ties for many previous lives
A beloved who accepted to fall unto this uncertain surface
For my sake, knowing that I acted out my fall
Simply because I had not been able to bear with the pains of love!
Pray, the mysticism of life has again whispered to me
My beloved has been revealed to me
For him, I shall cast away my ego, my pride
My identity, my fame, my success
For him, I shall be a purist;
One willing to enjoy the sweet aches of love,
As if I were a knave deprived of emancipated rights!
For him, I shall be a puppet
Acting out as he wills me to!
And, if ever the powers of Maya's illusion get stronger than me
So stronger that the beloved's awakening to his purpose
Moves him not,
So much that he tends not towards me,
Then, my sole and dutiful purpose
Would be to seek the state of Inexistence
Whereby neither the joy of love nor its pain
Would matter!
4th June 2018
When things are turning dark,
try pivoting toward the light.
Nothing grandiose-no great secrets revealed.
Just a simple pivot of the wayward mind.
Until the shine comes back into view.
Like the bow of an oft-battered rose.
Weaving its way through icy storms...
Try to follow the sextant of the soul.
Darkness is necessary to expose the blight.
But darkness is also toxic to the virgin light.
Pivot away from this molten blackness.
Pivot sharply -gently praying for direction.
This light will never slither away.
Only devils procure that illusion.
This purist light is an uncharted island.
Anchored to the strength of your faith.
I pray to someday make landfall on the cay of light.
An island that the wizened call...heaven.
AMENDING COMMENDING, DESCENDING FOR ASCENDING
NAKED OF ALL NAKED, GREATNESS PLEASE TAKE IT
GAME SAYS SUBTRACT TO TAKE IT, LOVE SAYS GIVE CREATE BLISS
HOW MANY CAN KEEP THIS, HOW MANY FALL FREQUENT
LOST TO MY PRESENCE, AND ESSENCE HOW I SPEAK IT
SO MANY PLAY VICTIM FORSAKEN, WHILE HEAVEN ON EARTH AWAITS THEM
CONFUSED MIND PATTERNS RAPE MEN, WHO PROJECT AND RAPE WOMEN
WOMEN SWIMMIN IN MY ADDICTION, CATCH A QUICKNESS OFF FRESH BIT VICTIMS
COURSE I BACK TRACK, STILL A SOUL I CARRY MOVIN SINGIN
BLESS THE HATERS CRINGIN, UNTIL THEY BANDWAGON THE ONLY MISSION
NOTHING IS WRONG, ACCEPT OUR REFUSAL TO SEE WHATS RIGHT
DAY IS SAME AS NIGHT, SEEN THROUGH DIFFERNT EYES
ALL IS ONE BUT YOU SEPERATE, DUE TO CHILDREN WHO HYNOTYZED
I'M WISE BEYOND MY OWN, LEAVE MY REFLECTION SPEAKIN HOMES
GROWN WITHIN THE POEMS, LEFT ALONE FOR CRAZY ROAMS
LIKE SUPPORTING ALL THAT IS, FOR WITHIN EACH TRUTH HOLDS
SO I SALVAGE ALL THE GOLD, MOLD THROUGH UNTIL THE WORLD'S A DIAMOND
SHAPED AS A HEART, AND YOU BREAK THE MOLD OF CLONE
I'VE BURNED MYSELF ON PURPOSE, TO FIND MYSELF AND LEAVE THE SKIRMISH
CALL ME DAVID BLAINES LOST RELATIVE, THANKIN WHODINI A MAGIC PURIST?
EVIL IS TAKING ADVANTAGE, DARKNESS IS JUST A BEAUTY
THAT CONTRASTS TO ENHANCE CANVASES, I LAND WITH THIS
SO MANY CRAMMED POSTS, WITH MORE DEPTH THAN ATLANTIS DID
With the fourth of July on a Wednesday,
Seems like everyone's slightly confused;
Though for children and fireworks makers,
They're sure to be extra-enthused.
For those on vacation, you've got a whole week
With the Fourth falling smack in the middle;
But if just a long weekend is all you can take,
Then your choice is as tough as a riddle.
Do you pack up and leave on the Friday before
And drive home as the fireworks burst?
Or do you start your weekend in holiday mode
As excitement gets slowly reversed?
This dilemma extends to each township as well -
When to sponsor your bang-up display?
On the Fourth when some people will not be around
Or on pre or post-Fourth Saturday?
To the purist, the answer is clear as can be
For the Fourth of July is unique;
So let's celebrate Wednesday, although I am sure
We'll hear cherry bombs all through the week!
An unsavory man from Montreal
squatted in dim lit cafes
writing of the pain of love
a charlatan
he was the darker lovely dove
he inhaled the smoke of Satan
he sang to the devils army
purist of evil
his grave a urinal
to be used, over and over
his words knelt like prayers
and rose like knives.
Thinning morals
he possesses zero virtue
just a shadow
of the fires down below
he sings for the child killers
the thieves and robbers of the land
he chants of love, he means rape
for those not of his blend
his wishes burnt under
hidden flames of hostility
He may dress in rags
he may play the victim
in the end though
he will burn your flesh
a sacrifice
then he will call you his fool
he sang for genocide
not for the goyim half wit
Dead, he is dead
angels he will never see
Inception
A near accident almost run over by a train
old heart, she collapsed in my arms
wrapped her in a blanket, looked asleep
we drove thro' the long night headlights
made a temporary tunnel
If I turn the light off, we will disappear
I looked in the rear mirror, saw her smile
at the petrol station, the young attendant
seeing death up close paled
this was reality, not play station 2c
I found a cave that had straw on the ground
a lit candle on a niche, it was here Jesus lay
when the women came and cleaned his wounds
while his followers in the olive groove
his face bore the agony suffered by the righteous
I laid her beside him, she looked so brittle
they had both achieved eternal life
She had no foreknowledge of impending demise
she had the purist of hearts
Jesus became a myth in our collective myth
The Messiah
Zen
first light
brings clarity
and forgiving