Long Raised(a) Poems
Long Raised(a) Poems. Below are the most popular long Raised(a) by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Raised(a) poems by poem length and keyword.
A small man with strong muscles stands on top of a training mound. He was raised a farmer's son and toiled most days from sun up to sun down in the fields of Azeroth. He was called upon to bring glory back to the land by defending the weak and saving the righteous. His family was slaughtered in the battle for West Fall and he was left for dead. His will to survive and his will to up hold honor and defend the helpless has brought him here to learn. This young man will have many perils and risk life everyday to defend his people. This is the story of the young paladin named Pid and his adventures in the land of Eastern Kingdoms and beyond.....
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We raised three daughters.
Doing our best to let them know that we adored them.
What they did after we released them into the world was up to them.
Most of their choices were good.
Some not so great, but we still let them know that we loved them.
And even if we were being babies, throwing root beer on each other and such,
They knew that we loved each other and them too – vastly important for children.
Our children have been seated at a smorgasbord of choices and opportunities.
We gave them free reign in a lot of instances,
marveling at how they ran with it,
or ignored our ideas completely, managing to glean better ones on their own.
They were not inducted or strong-armed into any particular value system
except the value of human’s feelings, and of animals’ worth.
We both agreed on that, and the fact that no religion is the only religion.
My husband and I are spiritualists,
believing in the one-ness and goodness of all.
Non-believers of absolutism, or only-way-type stuff, we did not encourage them to adopt
any particular religion or politics. We felt this would help them better see the light in others.
My husband and I have raised a Republican, a Democrat and an Independent.
Three unique clear-of-mind, clear-of-self daughters,
each with diverse ideas of doing things.
We released them into the wild of society to find their own ways, and learn to believe in themselves.
As a result, they have their own traditions, their own ideals,
and their own ideas.
Raising three independent, assertive, strong American
women makes us feel proud, and successful.
They are flexible, open-minded, and best of all,
value both humans and animals.
The most imperative thing we taught them
was the importance of love. They live that.
We knew this would serve them well when we released them into the wild.
They each identify with a different religion; none of them ours.
We are insanely proud!
...The brazenness stunned them quiet,
so I bulled forth, continued on:
“You raised a thief, who played with guns,
and you’re surprised that it went wrong?
“Did you never explain to him
that living life by violence
would visit it back upon him
by unintimidated men?
“Did you never make it clear that
crime invites retaliation?
That jails are full of countless souls
who once preyed upon this nation?
“Did you never make him that
you take your own life in your hands
every time you point a weapon
in the direction of a man?
“Did not his father take the time
to explain the hard truths of life?
Or, perhaps, it’s like I suspect,
there was no farther…am I right?
“You all shout at me ‘Murderer!’
In truth I acted morally,
every man must be a killer
when evil threatens their safety.”
For a moment they still were stunned,
then they raised up an awful din,
I flipped them off, walked to my door,
and disappeared safely within.
The media ranted and raved,
how I was ‘privileged,’ ‘full of hate.’
But my words did soon go viral,
online folks had another take.
They saw my words as refreshing,
a break from the old party line,
commentators interviewed me,
some even paid me for my time.
It gave me quite a fine idea,
so I set up my own podcast,
explaining the ‘unwritten rules’
to boys before they went off-track.
The press, they really hated this,
called me ‘fascist’ and ‘obscene.’
But I get e-mails every day
from lost, young men, thanking me.
A Star Shines in Alba’s Sky
Star shines above a frosty mountain where sheep in summer grazed,
Bright shining ones gathered in vast numbers to praise,
Snow fell to cover the granite rock and where heroes lay in the ground.
Murdered by those they gave a place round the fire hearth,
Raised a glass in toast to their health warming hearts and stomachs both,
In the dark of night up they arose creeping to lift their muskets long,
Ready tae betray hospitality freely given an murder those innocent souls.
In daurk winter nicht fled tae the hills towards the shepherd o the glen,
Rifles spat fire like lightning flash in a storm,
Swords flashed briefly under moonlichts bricht gaze.
Afore hiding behind passing clouds misty haze.
Oot oan the hills shivering in nichts cauld,
Dying amongst heathers embrace under a moons gaze,
Forgotten they lie brave warriors true an bold.
Stars shine down in a highland glen,
Oan Albas finest forsaken people all for a pittance,
What a price tae pay for being a little late.
Andrew McIntyre..28/12/2020.
Toilets are uniquely designed for one purpose only,
And as we know them, they are dispellers of waste.
Our human waste is a byproduct of consumed food.
The body extracts useful nutrients and expels the rest.
We excrete the waste into toilets that deliver to sewages.
Such tools as toilets would have no useful function in heaven.
God never intended for us to be informed about every heavenly matter.
So far, I have not read any scholarly dissertation about heaven's waste.
Of course, my reading has its limitations, but basically, by God's own choice,
heaven houses things celestial, and earth is equipped for things terrestrial.
I cannot imagine toilets nor waste products in the present nor new heaven .
There will be a new heaven and a new earth-emphasis on the word 'new'.
For one, we will have, not mortal, but immortal bodies in heaven. Some
might infer that our bodies will be like Jesus' resurrected body, but we must
keep in mind that although it was raised a different body, he still was able
to consume earthly food at breakfast with his disciples. Therefore, still
an earthbound human, Jesus had components required for earthly existence,
even if for only 40 days.
I suspect, and I can easily imagine, that the foods we consume in heaven
will be foods having all nutrients, fully consumed and processed, with no waste products. In other words, whatever our immortal bodies require from the heavenly foods, energy for example, our bodies will fully absorb, leaving nothing wasted. By the way, I find the entire question very interesting and fascinating. I commend the contest sponsor.
100621PSCtest, The Throne In Heaven, Jack Webster
Susan and I met in the fall of ’67,
two girls in English class
who recognized each other
before we even spoke~
the way some people do
when they share a tilt toward
uniqueness,
toward books that smell like rain,
toward movies that linger,
toward clothes that felt like
small rebellions.
Friendship was instant,
effortless,
as though we had been
walking toward each other
for years.
Then life,
with its wide and wandering hands,
pulled us apart.
Graduation scattered us
into different futures~
hers across an ocean,
mine across a state.
She raised a family in Germany;
I raised stories in Texas.
Decades passed
without our names touching.
But fate~
or whatever quiet force
keeps track of lost connections~
found us again
through the strange glow
of Facebook.
A click,
a message,
a memory rekindled,
and suddenly the years
were not a wall
but a bridge.
Now we write the old-fashioned way,
ink on paper,
postmarks traveling
from Germany to Texas
like small migrating birds.
Her handwriting arrives
with its familiar tilt,
and I feel sixteen again~
the girl in English class
who knew instantly
that Susan was someone
near and dear,
someone who would matter
even if time tried
to convince us otherwise.
Distance is only geography.
Friendship, once found,
remains luminous~
a long arc of time
that bends us gently
back to each other.
Patriotic Americans are disgusted with Trump news every morn,
all shaking their heads in disbelief at the prick who is a thorn.
With such an arrogant mien, his character is one of a pooh bah.
Always thinking he's above the law, as if he's king or maharaja.
Ridiculous is the new mantra that might be his campaign slogan.
It's just asinine and imbecilic. That's the opinion of Jenna Logan.
It sounds just like baby gibberish when he cries out, "MAGAGA!"
With Putin and Kim Jong Un as friends, who's next, the Hezbollah?
Melania read her script then returned to the annals of obscurity,
saying her hubby will lead America "by love, peace and security."
Lying words, she was commanded to read raised a few eyebrows.
I wonder what price she'd pay if to his agenda she'd not espouse.
It was reported that she swore and cursed using the "F" word
when asked about Christmas decorations, and was overheard
saying she didn't care at all about Christmas, and she was tired
of having to do things in the White House that were required.
One reporter said Trump's MAGAGA sounds like baby babble.
It'll become the new battle cry of his crowd, the motley rabble.
Their banner should be emblazoned with a snotty nosed child
throwing a tantrum, out of control and his anger running wild.
I know this post will not be met with agreement by some of you.
That's perfectly ok because you have the right to an opinion, too.
You can bash Joe Biden when on words and steps he may stumble
but as America's President, I fear Trump will once again fumble.
Can anyone be so blind not to see, by taking an honest reflection,
that he directed a mob to commit treason and an insurrection?
What hold does this immoral sleaze have over far too many?
With eyes open to reality, you'd see his dysfunctions are plenty.
I've never been a Democrat, nor a believer in the Republican ilk,
but I think Trump is a miscreant who'll keep taking all he can milk
from a country deserving to be held in high esteem and dignity.
But four more years of DJT will end in chaos from his malignity.
Chetley was a runt dragon, the kind some kingdoms drowned at The Horn.
He weighed a mere 160 pounds, when he was born.
His dad took a hatchet and held it above Chetley’s newborn head.
And his sainted mother begged for his life, and then fell dead.
His father always blamed him for his mother’s demise.
Chetley tried his best to please, but he could never suffice.
He was lucky to have a grandpa, slick and wise.
Who loved him with all of his lungs and his eyes.
Young Chetley grew up and fell Dragon-madly-in- love.
With the dragon of his dreams, who lived in the valley above.
They raised a fine family, and two turtle doves.
He never held a hatchet or hurt anyone he loved.
We walk divergent paths, you and I,
Two distinct journeys, like parallel lines in the sky,
Our minds, a dichotomy, a clash of thought and deed,
I navigate logic's realm, while you follow feelings' creed.
Our communication, a discordant symphony,
I'm measured, you're impulsive, a contrast in harmony,
My words, a calculated risk, yours, an emotional release,
We're worlds apart, in every conversation's peace.
Our goals, a tale of two desires, divergent and apart,
You chase the fleeting joy, while I pursue success's heart,
My vision, a horizon, stretching far and wide,
Yours, a narrow focus, on the present's tide.
You see the world through lenses, tinted with each passing day,
While I gaze into the future, with a roadmap to pave the way,
Your dreams, a vague notion, a whispered promise in the night,
Mine, a written manifesto, a beacon to guide my light.
You wear a mask of pretence, a facade to hide your pain,
While I stand bare, unapologetic, my truth, my refrain,
You chase the material throng, the external validation's sway,
While I seek the love that's true, the heart's authentic way.
Our backgrounds, a canvas, painted with different hues,
The way we were raised, a distinct narrative, in all we pursue,
Though birds of a feather may flock together, it's true,
We're different worlds apart, with little to break through.
Where understanding's needed, you fuel the conflict's fire,
And in the heat of discord, our differences conspire,
Our lives, a mismatch, like pieces that don't fit the frame,
I'm a serious soul, with purpose, while you seek a different claim.
I'm a warrior of prayer, with a heart that beats for more,
You don't believe in prayer, and that's where our paths diverge once more,
The differences between us, a chasm, wide and deep,
Two roads, diverging further, with each step we keep.
Yet, in this divergence, perhaps we'll find our own way,
To respect the differences, that shape our lives each day,
For in the end, it's not the sameness that makes us strong,
But the diversity of thought, that helps our spirits belong.
This soul has endured the wrath of time,
Offered prayers at resentment's shrine.
Lead by one's thoughts down the altar,
And witnessed its union with guilt without falter.
When the sun sat on the burning pyre of regrets,
The ashes of assumption blanketed the night's onset.
The faceless guests applauded at its suffering,
While this soul raised a toast, bleeding.
The first dance came to be on the trampled remains,
Of its younger selves bound by memories' chains.
The white of its gown glowed red,
With each passing thorn left unfelt.
But when the vows were exchanged in silence,
With all of the world's tenderness and patience,
This soul promised to look after every version of the self,
The good, the bad, the ugly, and even the one that stayed twelve.
It learned to love the world around it once more,
For it had let go of the hurt nestled in its core.
"The only way out of the labyrinth of suffering is to forgive",
Thus it began with oneself — breaking this cycle of grief.