Long Ques Poems
Long Ques Poems. Below are the most popular long Ques by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Ques poems by poem length and keyword.
Standing one in Liberty City
They do not entertainment at the local bondage
Structured homes ques blue and purple lilies
Trees encapsulated in polluted environmental caskets
~
Solar brights lit lights quantum heaven bliss
Days lights envisions captures darkness path
Pin light grasping beams rays sunbathing
Exactly exposure midnight grips light not
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For neighborhood district light cast darkness back
Sun rays sunbathing warmth beams of sunshine
Lost yet knowing where I am at
They do not entertainment at the local 5 and dime
~
Structured homes ques blue and purple lilies
It's hard to surface up living in the ghetto Liberty City
2/28/24
Written words by James Edward Lee Sr. ©2024
Dawn flings new light
As eyes sense sight
The urge of morn
Sings to the dawn
Light brings new sense
To time and tense
Live well this day
With fun and play
Start with good cheer
See faith purge fear
End with clear poise
That knows sure voice
Let tale now speak
To paint fond tweaks
In just a smile
Grand thoughts can style
Look within now
To know endow
Look deeper here
To live good cheer
Look and you'll see
Truth and beauty
Know this for sure
Joy makes you pure
Know who you are
A brilliant star
Nothing can mar
True love lives far
Dare brave your fate
As cheer fills plate
Dare be just you
As finesse ques
Dare live with zest
In journey quest
When the end comes
Love floods the sum
Leon Enriquez
17 November 2014
Singapore
Is it truth, is it fruit, unspoiled?
Filtered news under play kitchen hard boil?
Unproofed, (by the look of empty pews);
But filled with spoofs of slogan-bringers
and their faxual cheques and unbalanced ques.
Tic Tac tow line item wiki tiki savy? Views,
for the mass of slaughtered Ewes at the pulpit of
Mediacracy Stooged Grammys.
Is it coordinated, perpetrated, instigated
by a disaster an example of to make?
Seized upon like DeathEaters, coffin display cased, Golden Corall Death-Match buffet of Elites vs Human Race.
With News worthy Typeface Headliner, AP API,
folder and *IA attache case.
MSNns.attached.
Letters to the Editards.
Typesetters, Jetsetters, Letterheads, say "Obey"!
Official Mandates, of The Green Religion.
scapegoatery, and vision of the "Ascended Masters"
masked itinerary. Although our binary Twin is causing
it from Space.
Christian hating, "peace loving, Cartels of "walking.
according to lusts"?
WhOracles Selling hallucinogenic traffic, as trending.
justice online in the name of us in fishnets and busty.
nuts.
In spirit of the counter culture of cancel culture of.
Lucis Trust.
Fallen Angels Dusting for keylogging fingerprints,
recognition facing us, off against us.
in what I believe
in the poetry I conceive
of life
of love
an mother earth
of marriage
my wife
a rebirth
soul mates
a roll in the sheets
European outings
our little trips
of friends
family
good wine
sunny days bar b ques
rainbows
summer showers
sleeping in late
with my soul mate
note’s with kisses on it
long conversations in bed
the wind on a cold winter day
morning coffee
the smell of your perfume
after you leave
and this is what I believe
Farewell old pard, I write this letter to you. Well, I guess I’ll saddle up and ride out with my new pard, he’s only a colt at three.
He’s a real beauty, a real eye pleaser and sure of foot with a cutting pedigree.
I’ll go on out to the rough country where the sky is blue, relive the
old times and try to work the rope a bit, so I won’t be thinking of you.
We were pards for many a year and we both tote the scars to show
and that cold back you had fairly tossed me hard every morning before you’d make up your mind to go.
But we never shared a cross word that ever meant much among friends,
Though, you did take a few hard comments when you got ornery now and then.
We purt- near worked in all kinds of weather, rain, snow and even a blizzard or two.
We shared our misery out on the plains when the cold winds off the mountain blew.
We’ve covered a lot of country, any closer, I don’t guess any pards could be
and though you weren’t much to look at, it never meant much to me.
You loved your job and worked it well with light rains and leg ques.
And there were times when you led the way, and I took my ques from you.
You were not a natural cutter, but you weren’t scared of bulls, cows or steer
and you worked the tight spots eagerly, never showing the jitters of fear.
We were pards, alright, never just a way to get the job done nor pleasure for me,
You loved it too, riding the open range with only the basics that kept us wild and free.
Why did you go and leave me, you just laid down in your stall and I was left alone.
I tell my stories and old pard, I tell yours too, since you’ve checked out and gone.
I look back through the years as I sit here looking over the grass growing high on the range.
How love for a horse can feel so right is hard for this cowboy to explain.
I can’t help but riminess’ and wonder, were there times you just didn’t feel quite well?
You always took to the saddle and in my selfish way, I never cared to ask, and you didn’t tell
We’d ride out and pretty- soon, you seemed glad you came along and there were
times we trailed in late, long after the sun had gone.
But now I look back on the past and sentimental thoughts tears my eyes and burden me.
Good-by old pard from your old friend, you were the best any pard could be.
Big trucks rolling down the street
With a message that is very deep
Big trucks rolling down the street
Filled with mixed concrete
Big trucks rolling down the street
carrying tons of steels
Stone truck, cement truck, steel truck
And truck whose body can hardly match the street
Rumbling through the protest town with a terrible sound
Big trucks rambelling through the street
Stirring up the people's heart beat
Bread truck, peanut truck, chocolate truck
Biscuit truck, chicken truck, police truck
Waste management truck, whoes stench
Circulate the air with a smell that cause
The people to fear.
Big trucks criss crossing the town
Carrying goods that are scarce in town
Heavy duty trucks with drivers whose
Hearts are tough journey all night
Into broad daylight with their big
Tattoo arms grasping the steering wheel
with smile that is very mean
Big truck gathering on the bridges
Forming long ques on the free ways
moving slowly into the city oh what a pity
Their drivers knows the road and they
are used to carrying heavy load
They honk their horns and make
Fun of the women watering the lawn.
Big trucks honkering down in the town
watching the women changing their night gown
Bulldozar truck, wreckers truck and truck that can cause
A man made disaster, the street is messy and the
Gods are unhappy but the truckers are ready.
They are travelling from city to city and they are
taking over states and towns dropping
Off boxes of goods in rundown towns
Removal trucks, horse trucks, furniture trucks,
And trucks with bodies mounting up in the sky
They have to use a special road to get by
Buses and cars motor cycle and bicycle
All gather in the street to sound their heartbeat
They circle around the town making loud
and boisterous sounds chasing the visitors
Out of town.
Big trucks with double gear shouting
And pressing the gas that is filtering smoke in the air
Water truck are crawling by
Fire trucks, petrol trucks and dirt trucks are
all waiting in line to meet their deadline
Get ready to board the truck and hop
off that terrible bus , cross the ocean
and make landfall in the desert.
the vision of the heart that sees,
that connects and compliments its reality,
that takes within the heart of loves call,
positioned we stand through the birth of it all,
the season of choosing may look the same,
that grasps our interests and intentions in many ways,
but placed we are..in God's orderly fashion,
to bring us back to love...there is no comparison,
to the deepness of love within...his heart moves,
knowing where to place you and what to do,
in his hands, in the shadow of his wings,
answering loves unspoken requests through the heart of everything,
many answers...many ques...
that can move the heart to wholeness anew.
She reads seashells on seashores like tea leaves,
seeing faint signs the ebb tide truly believes.
Each shell has fallen to create a spelling bee
in the clues the sea has scattered in its debris.
She lifts conch shells, gently to her ear,
Some shells hum softly of mariners drawing near,
Some hiss their warnings, dark, stark and austere,
Some reek of the brine, lost sailors once held dear.
Some recall battles fought in wild raging seas,
All are messages, the sea shells from its pleas.
So shell the peas by the seashore
where the sea meets the sand, once more.
Read the script, trace the score.
Hear the sounds, deep within shell's core.
So let the seashore tell its tale,
in fragments the waves unveil.
The tide will wash away each scour and scar,
Then leave us seeing what we truly are.
The messages surge in the ebbs and flows,
echoing what the tide brings in and knows.
So read the shells like tea leaves.
Hear the secrets told by pirates and thieves.
Embrace the meanings not quite there,
like latte art cast on crema's foaming flair.
The sandy shore shifts with every tide.
No single story ever remains the same.
Each wave writes a new fresh line,
so every person sees their own name,
in the peas and ques, shelled in the rhyme.
So read the shells, seesaw your biases adrift.
Take what comes in, then release its grift.
For the sea speaks with a forked shifty tongue,
that we love and hate, yet let remain unsung.
So shell the peas by the seashore
where the sea meets the sand once more.
Read the script, trace the score.
Hear the sounds, deep in the shell's core.
Hers was a complete change of personality, moods, and friends
Her joyful happy self, turned rapidly sarcastic, mean, and secretive
Her eating habits changed; she did not need food any more.
Stopped eating with the family, painted her room black.
Threw her flute into the garbage. She had outgrown it.
Scoffed that she had ever been a cheerleader, calling them names.
Her friends stopped coming. She made new ones, they were in and out.
None stayed long. Just a few minutes.
Her family saw glimpses of her unhappiness as she ran in and out
Of her room, slamming doors, playing music, not doing her homework.
Her A’s and B’s nosedived into D’s and F’s, and she laughed about it.
Rapid distrust toward her siblings. Name-calling, which had never happened.
Stopped going to school until it was nigh onto impossible to keep up.
Sneaked out of the house at night; they never knew where she would be.
Left in cars with people she did not know. Parents blamed her friends.
It was their fault, not hers. She was their princess. She was perfect.
Secrecy became the norm. Her laughter became loud and ugly.
Her prettiness was gone; her hair was dingy. She stopped wearing deodorant.
Grandparents wondered where she was at Thanksgiving and Christmas.
They were given many lies from parents and her siblings. Everyone covering.
Not my child! They said when the possible truths were pointed out.
That does not happen in our neighborhood.
We are not that kind of parent.
Our child would never be an alcoholic or a drug addict.
The entire family circled the wagons,
refusing to join neighborhood barbeques.
The children were taught that the people at church
were do-gooders, and look-downers.
The children were taught that the neighbors
they once adored were now the enemy.
They were protecting the princess,
who seldom came home, sneaking in and out,
When they were asleep. Not in our family! They said. Not in our family!
The do-gooders and down-lookers were prominent at her funeral.
They had raised children also who had been lured into
the terrifying swallow-up world of drugs and alcohol.
They had so many stories; horrifying real life stories
they had never shared even though they had innumerable
opportunities at church functions and bar-b-ques.