Long Push up Poems
Long Push up Poems. Below are the most popular long Push up by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Push up poems by poem length and keyword.
I push the gate- each year elate,
ending my wait to replay fate.
My roots await to drink, hydrate
and fully sate for full growth rate.
Stems push up straight to levitate
buds that dilate as leaves abate
and calibrate- blossoms create
to activate each full-bloomed trait.
I am your Spring- your loved upswing!
Each tree, a king as branches string
to a wellspring of verdant bling.
I share with zing, my season's fling.
Aft Winter's sting- while lovebirds wing,
our couples cling- soon worshipping
as church bells ring, good wishes sing.
All this I bring- my name is Spring.
February 22, 2023
Contest: In Bloom Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Joseph May
Form Requested: Personification
(Internal Rhyme and Monorhyme added)
Winter Bows to Spring
In the midst of sullen cold
pink cherry blossoms burst open as winter bows to spring ~
yellow daffodils spring up from frozen icicles ~
white snowdrops vault through soils of howling storms ~
gold jasmina scampers up fences between winter's wildness ~
purple crocus stand tall midst blazing blizzards ~
rosy tulips push up past untamed storms ~
lavender glory-of-the-snows awakens in shivering snow ~
purple daphne spreads perfume to hoary frost ~
Heralds and harbingers of spring in the midst of winter
3-11-22
Contest: I Imagism
Sponsor: Constance La France
every baby born naked
the great was born naked
the president was once a baby
the preacher man was born naked
even the prophets were once a
baby
the rich was born naked
even the politicians were once
a baby
the doctor was born naked
even the nurses was once a baby
the teacher was born naked
even the professor was once a baby
the poor was born naked
even the celebrities were once a baby
if we all were born naked
and if everyone were once
a baby
so were cometh this knowledge
of division in devaluation
the division of humans
by race by countries
by development
by ideology
by education
by civilisation
if everyone was born naked
then no one is a landlord
no one is greater or better
we only can transform
as we grow by time
so in all dignity of life
we are a reflection to
each other
we can only learn
the to push up humanity
with the varieties of creativity
or
die in isolation for nothing
and be go naked like
every baby born naked
Heavy so heavy not able to breath
Gasp a gasp for air come little
Weak in a stray onward downward
Collapsing in beneath the wave
Swallowed up by immense pressure
Pounding hearing muttering sound
Looking upward arms waving
Flailing through the liquid solid
Frantic with beating heating of the heart
Pressure pressure that aches about
Knots that are knots to heavy to untie
Finally reaching the bottom
Enough of it's all in the mind
Thrashing thoughts that blind
Push up be relieved
With honors that has means
Down you see is all the same
The grown is solid with solitude
Breath well cause no need for attitude
Accept this anchor for gratitude
Wake up and start it over again
The scratching I can do with my pen.
The task always seems to be undone.
There remain so many miles to run.
I have the stone to push up the hill
I have lands that wait for the till.
Every day tasks start over again
When we wake up and then
We see where we are
And we try to go far.
But it’s back at the bottom of the mountain
It’s back to searching for a fountain.
With waters we can’t know, that taste of highest gold.
Waters that burn golden yellow, waters that are always cold.
Fill up your cup, have a drink with me.
The waters are no longer stopped up. Even if I might Sisyphus be.
It’s my stone and it’s easy for me to push.
Once you’re used to it, the job seems cush.
It starts over again when I wake up with my pen.
My hand was empty when I fell asleep, so what’s this then?
As soon as the cold bold lights start streaming in
Waking me up, making my morning begin.
I find that I couldn’t stop my mind
Even sleeping there are things to unbind.
And that’s why I write as I write
From morning til noon, til deep in the night.
I wake up and it starts over again.
I need to hear the scratching of my pen.
Have you heard about the latest ploy?
To deploy soy,
Into everything I enjoy,
My tastebuds to destroy.
Never mind that an allergy to soy,
Could affect your boy,
Or that flour in anything you buy has been bulked up with Soy,
Or that there is no room in the product for what used to meet your joy.
I almost forgot to mention that freedom to choose anything but Soy,
May soon be something else you may no longer enjoy,
As corn fields take a hit as they are replaced by soy
As planting of Soy is now common on American soil and jobs too will
be based on Soy.
With a free glass of soy milk during your break from planting soy.
Once your taste buds are destroyed by soy,
How will we tell if our hamburger is the real McCoy?
And that is not the only ploy,
You will see them deploy,
As mountains of salted caramel go into what does not contain soy.
The good news is there is still time for a counter ploy,
If we home bake and push up again the demand for the real McCoy,
But remember time is running out for you to deploy,
Before your taste buds they destroy.
cover me as i go downtown
where we used to go and
play pinball
so many lifetimes have past
since those magical moments
of feeling older in my era of
childhood youth
if i was a painter with a rare
gift of magic, i would paint the
reason back into life and order
a sprite with a cherry in the
middle
as i think about all the heatwaves,
deluges, and snowstorms that have
come and gone, i think about a time
when 6am to 2pm on saturdays were
the golden time of day
as i close my eyes and get lost in the taste
of this push-up, i think back to a time when
certain cities were safe havens of serene
simplicity
i guess every birthday that passes makes me
miss it all even more....then again, as time makes
time forget time, it seems even more like that
particular time did not even exist....until those
retrospectives creep into my mind and bring back
time machine memories of benevolent bliss
i have prolonged making my wish enough
i guess i will go on and blow out the candles now
praise the Lord for the Gift of another year....
Don't ask why I change
Life is never be the same
I believe things evolve
This year I'm 55, 56 next year
This time I have many gray hairs
Not knowing next months all are white
I see my face has many wrinkles
Before only few of them I manage
I can push up 100 when I was 40
Now at 55, I barely made 50 push up
Before I always greet the morning free
Cause I wake up early and exercise
Now I mostly wake up late time
It's already hot and meals serve brunch time
Before I can jog a mile, now walk a mile
Love to comb my hair, now a hand brush is enough
Daily bath is routine, now interval of a day
No helmet drive motorcycle during youth days
Now, fear to drive instantly at busy highway
I have much foreboding in life when getting old
Life is never like before, sense of safety is a must
I have never such a impulsive feeling than being compulsive now
I have change a lot because of necessity of aging beforehand.
Springtime rain brings fresh array
of flowers east to west.
The Rockies’ red and purple tufts
of mountain pride are best.
And mats of foliage named moss pink face south to get the sun
while buttercups put forth large blooms
so not to be outdone.
Then comes the rain to bleak terrain
where gloriously unfolds
alongside barren roads - in patches -
desert marigolds.
Mojave yucca, blue lupines,
and sego lily whites
with Indian prairie fire flowers
paint the deserts bright.
And common flowers of the fields
in every place abound.
Sweet Joe-Pye weed; Black-eyed Susan
push up from the ground.
The California poppy makes
a patchwork orange and blue
while dandelions most unloved
will countless seedlings spew.
In southern marshes blossom too
the water hyacinths,
making of the waterways
pesky labyrinths.
In northern streams grow pussy willows
naked with no petals,
and somewhere on a touch-me-not
a bumblebee now settles.
Blossoming in woodlands now
are flowers in the shade,
but most prefer the sunlight of
an open forest glade.
The wild columbine dressed blue
and handsome in the breeze,
fragrant like the violet,
gives nectar to the bees
All across the country
there awaken everywhere,
each in their appointed region,
wild flowers fair.
Daisies, clover, daffodils
and lovely Queen Anne’s lace.
They briefly stay, but we can see
more fully nature’s grace!
(now for PD's Contest on Best Flower Poem)
For Constance La France's mini-contest: Wild Flowers
I linger, to pause for a while,
between the ladder rungs of what's been done below,
and what is yet to become above.
Below me stretches a dizzying array of tiers.
Each step is a relic of a decision,
I've made to take the next rung up or down—
Some firm, some sure, some splintered, and weathered.
Each step was risky, presuming the footing was safe
and there were no snakes.
How readily and willingly I gave my trust
to old wooden rungs—
eroded, grooved, and split by time.
How quickly I mistook,
their quiver and shake when stepped upon,
for the uncertain pulse of my own anticipation,
believing it was a promise of firmness yet to come.
Above, clouds veil the climb,
with no shape to follow, no handholds there are certain.
They're shrouded in the thick blur of not knowing.
The next rung may be the last,
and beyond it — where does the path lead?
Behind me, the descent rungs,
are slippery with snaky mist,
hard to make out, when suspended like this.
Still, my hand thrusts upwards through the mist,
fingers closing on whatever hides there—
a beam, a rope, a door, a ledge, a serpent,
or only empty air.
Will it bear me? How can I say?
I push up quivering on the rung beneath,
letting the weight of what has been,
thrust me up to what can become.
Ladders are great for self-reflection.