Long Questioner Poems
Long Questioner Poems. Below are the most popular long Questioner by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Questioner poems by poem length and keyword.
A streak of moonlight cuddled by the chair placed in the balcony, outside
The ricocheting time and I, and the solar moonlight, a moonlit foamy, a subtle tide
My daughter beside me, and a diamond stud, her nose knows her black heads, in a way, fortitude
A face and a lit, a solar and a misfit
a questioner, closest, midfielder, lifelong
my quenching oasis, amidst my torn life, vagabond
I saw my brazen Fenugreek, my curry, my grave failure, a Maugham outspoken in mom
My dish said a delicacy long ago, with your perfect soft, melted ambiance
my soul, my Mosul,my Samara , my mina and my minaret
They kept your calendar tales and fruit punch , they never quite gripped
The midnight hymn and the enclosing, merging with the foamy sea, rhythm
I saw a morn, a corn, of the needle in a haystack, where even the arch angel ask.
My daughter, sleeping beside me, my soul within, in the depth of the moonlight!
Someone said, “Now you’ve turned forty-,
What have you learned?
Your experience must be varied,
Your fingers quite burned.
You must’ve gone through troubled times,
Of disappointments you’d’ve quite a share;
But how does life’s learning
For your future prepare?”
I looked at my questioner
With a baleful and gloomy stare,
Not with anger or reproach;
There was no fire in my glare.
“Life, son,” I told him,
“Is what is learnt alone,
All advice from others
Is crumbs to a beggar thrown.
It’s what one takes out of life
That matters much more.
One’s own experience is what counts,
Go, knock on it’s stubborn door!
I’ve been sitting where you sit,
Asked the same riddle as you do;
But was pointed out a direction
And left to steer a course that’s true.
The helmsman determines the course,
The rudder needs control;
It’s how you determine your goal
And steer from the treacherous shoal.
So don’t ask of experience,
Test the waters on your own;
Find a guiding star to steer by
Don’t wait for it to be shown.
And when you, too, turn forty-
Think back and count your deeds –
The path you’ve trod is well behind,
Look ahead, move on, you’ll know where your future leads!
Form:
It was one of the red-eye flights I got,
Everything went dark as we started to depart.
He seemed pleasant in his appearance,
I exhibited my great scholarly brilliance.
In matters of poetry, science, finance…
I found him maintaining innocent silence.
I switched on my subject to travel by flight,
Ticket prices, I said, are touching the height.
I swore at the system and the owners,
That often they behaved as though loaners.
The comforts they give is sheer meager,
And in mere business they are eager.
Take any owner, I said, for instance,
Rich, richer and richest is their existence…
The business they perform just one percent,
The profit they earn as though cent percent.
Well, the system has fully gone to dogs,
Will it possible for dogs to become gods?
Thus I poured out my entire grievance,
As though with him I had great vengeance…
He seemed not to criticize my comment,
Nor did he ever my statements amend.
As the trip was almost coming to an end
And the crew started the announcement
I introduced myself very elaborately
And seemed response from him generously…
I saw him taking a card from his pocket
That resembled an artistic locket
I read the details and fell silent
As though all my vanities came to an end…
Alas! He’s the proprietor of many a such flight
Which I was criticizing with all my might…
I woke up ashamed, shocked from my deep sleep,
To find none nearby but the lights loudly beep…
My neighbor on the flight was my red-eye dream,
The Questioner and the question were me, the same.
19 June 2021
Surprise Me Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: charles messina
The 50’s people are in a diorama
behind a Perspex window,
for the most part they are cheerful,
they cut grass with push mowers,
swim in circles in above ground pools;
by and large they are not serial killers.
The museum is new, colorful and shiny.
The 50’s people wave mechanically
at all on-lookers.
A young questioner asks
why the 50’s people are not all dead?
A reasonable question
which the handler deflects
with a long tale about purple dinosaurs.
The kids are getting bored,
handlers usher them into a cafeteria,
where two 40’s people linger over
a tasteless, sanitized meal.
Youths rib poke each other and sneer.
The two 40’s people have no diorama
they have forgotten how to make one,
worst still, their handler died
the same year Barney went extinct.
the screen of awareness is still
we are that watching ego here
reflex instincts mind calls free will
striving daily shrouded in fear
it does not suffice that we know
watching ebb and flow of life’s tides
in this lucid dream we just flow
where outcomes God alone decides
observed thus ego becomes shy
so chooses to align with source
not a drifting cloud, it’s the sky
the bubble bursts sans use of force
we live this truth by day and night
from cravings of ego unchained
with grace deepening our insight
wisdom in us slowly ingrained
we know not why we don a form
the questioner does not exist
awash in currents cool and warm
there is no one here to resist
soul wants to play in dreams awhile
in mood and mode embrace-release
love the touch never out of style
elixir that makes hearts unfreeze
outside space-time we are complete
just as we are here now on earth
living the truth as God’s heartbeat
exuding joy bubbling with mirth
knowing we’re the eye of the eye
pulse prior to by which we see
the yearning that makes our heart sigh
presence is content to just be
Panic mongers, hate mongers,
traffickers in groupthink.
The key to the universe,
you must never let facts interfere
with all your
obsessive incessant fables.
You must never doubt the veracity of
of the latest tale of terror.
A secret Satanic elite of cannibalistic pedophiles,
All the liberals are in on it, don’t you know?
Soros and Gates in collusion.
Evangelical contagion,
the deep state under every bed,
the boogeyman behind it all.
Any questioner is complicit.
Any true believer will be saved.
Apophenia intoxication,
Donald Trump is your savior.
Your mind is malleable to malignancy,
It metastasizes in your trance.
The putrid contamination percolates
everywhere in deafening silence.
Each taste of QAnon venom,
Each flavor of terror,
seizes and imprisons the masses of minds
And if you listen, you will hear
the percussive funeral dirge
for the death of the civilized world.
Are we feeble form or are we fickle mind
or perhaps neither since both are doomed to die?
To discern the truth, we left concepts behind
and chose to plunge in the void and wingless fly.
In time, our soul’s eternal light we did find,
recognising life’s a dream and death a lie.
Thus when asked, what happens if we don’t exist,
we ask the questioner, what in dreams they missed.
We are pure consciousness, we are living light,
although for the moment, we are caged in form
but having seen the truth by spherical sight,
in the core of our soul, betwixt bliss beats warm,
knowing the truth, why would we now crouch in fright,
when all we need to do, is simply conform,
to whispers of love as impulsed by our heart,
as presence feels therein bliss ignition start?
One with God, inseparable from the whole,
the question then is, of wave versus ocean,
meaning that as we go about our life role,
mistaken we’re form, creating commotion,
which feature of the ocean does heart extol,
when it is the collective whole in motion?
There is in truth no one here, save an ego,
a bubble of illusion, we must forgo.
The lion has roared
But has anyone heard?
The jungle wilds have listened
All have scattered and hidden
Each time a sparrow falls
Our Heavenly Father sees all
And hastens to the birdy's fall
The Divine questioner has spoken
But the human hearer has not heard
Our busied hearts have yet to be stirred
Too many think repentance is too absurd
We dismiss God, refusing to be disturbed
The trumpet is sounding loud and clear, Far and near, but where is the fear?
Nine questions of obvious "No" answers*
Obvious answers but total blindness
Divine secrets have been revealed,
Released to restore and to heal,
In order to avoid the bitter pill
Lord, turn your face our way still
Lord, may your judgment be rescinded
May your magnanimous mercies be extended
We are easily frighten by pandemics and stall
May we not fail to hear and heed the clarion call
071820PSCtest, Strand Completely New(13), Brian Strand *Inspired by Amos 3. 1P
Alas ample alliteration available?!
True (terrific) title: Trump's truckling tutored troopers...;
wily word wizard worried,
where world wide web wickedly wends.
Triumphantly tenaciously (try to) trample treacly
traffickers target timid testifiers traducing,
their traitorous tractable toxic troglodyte:
today transition toward
totalitarianism tidily trends.
Quasimoto (querulously) queries, quivers, quakes:
queasiness quotient quarantine quelled qualm;
qua quacking quaffing quota quips:
quicksand quits quagmire quashing:
quintessential quarrelsome;
quintillionth queued questioner.
Numbskull noodles notorious nonsense:
nincompoop netizen nimbly navigates;
nowadays nauseating news necessitates
nameless nervous negativistic nattering nabob;
Nome nomad nudges, numerates,
nurtures... narcolepsy.
Knowledgeable knave; kindhearted
keen, kooky kvetching king kibitzer;
kindles kickass kinskip (kaffeeklatsch);
kneading Keats kinfolk karma.
His highness, herewith hooligan;
helpmate hermit hamstrung Harmit Harms;
humiliating, harried, ho hum humorous hokum;
habitual half hearted hookers happily hollow;
hallelujah!
Exceptional exertion earnest endeavor exercising
especial expending energy excluding essential/
exact entities even everyday eminent eccentric
experienced exhaustion - epilogue.
The museum is full of gangs,
child gangs that roam sneering at the 70’s people.
The 70’s people live now in a diorama.
For the most part they are cheerful,
they cut grass with push mowers,
swim in above ground pools.
By and large they don’t kill each other
or pillage the Malls.
Some are vets with grey ponytails -
they ride to forget.
The 70’s people that lived in New York
pretend not to have been there back then
and take long meditative soaks in crude
high rise jacuzzies.
Behind the glass
the 70’s people mechanically wave
at the hordes of sneering children.
A young questioner asks his handler
why the 70’s people are not all dead?
A reasonable question
which the handler deflects
with a long tale about dinosaurs.
Meanwhile the 70’s people
peer out of their mid-century homes
and watch the foot traffic
as if it were an older black and white TV.
The young are getting bored with the 70’ people.
they move on to stare incredulously at a representation
of humankind back in the 60’s.
The handlers also cannot quite believe their eyes,
they explain that though there are many artifacts
of that previous civilization
experts disagree as to origins
and the strangeness of their bygone lifestyle.
Salem Alabama and Woodstock
are small print on a sign no one reads.
The kids are hungry and whine loudly,
the school-outing is a bust so far.
Harassed handlers usher them into a cafeteria
where they slaughter the air
with a wolfish glee.
A few Jeer at an 80’s person
who has wandered into the wrong room.