Long Rare Poems
Long Rare Poems. Below are the most popular long Rare by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Rare poems by poem length and keyword.
You, guiding light of my nights filled with silent and unclear thoughts,
How can I lay on paper your living essence that ignites my heart and mind?
When did you become the muse of my dreams from the shadow of slowly passing time?
I am awestruck by this light that grows within me like a profound revelation.
You were always there, beside me on the quiet path of past days,
How could I have walked by without clearly seeing the truth shining in you?
I used to look at you, but now you shine differently, like a star that changes the night sky,
Like a mirage unfolding in my eyes full of wonder and desire.
You are perfect in every small detail that composes you with such delicacy,
Your mind dances among dreamlike ideas like a wind caressing the high sky,
The most amazing spectacle under the starry sky, mysterious and enchanted mystery,
A story told in whispers of stars singing serenades to me at night.
I see you focused, in love with your creation that pulses with life and longing,
How do you weave magic with the reality of the world so naturally and enchantingly?
I wish to discover your deep mystery that gives you wings to soar high,
To also feel that force that animates you and fills my heart with light.
You walk confidently defying the storms of life that strike with fury and doubt,
Anchored in strong beliefs like a mountain that knows no weakness,
How do you remain unwavering when the world demands more than you can give?
You are a strong tree in the wind's embrace, but with deep roots.
I wish to delve into your constant heart that remains calm and sincere always,
But for now, I stand in silent awe, trying to catch up with your steps,
Traveling toward your essence with love and admiration, a journey of the open heart,
Wondering how rare you are in this vast world full of enigmas.
You are more than art, you are the pure reason art finds its calling,
I, the lucky traveler, gaze fascinated at the masterpiece unfolding before me,
Caught in your spell, a silent witness to your universe pulsing with life and magic,
And in your luminous silence, my love finds its true meaning and purpose.
If Christmas is truly meant as to be a
celebration of love
Showering and appreciating what
other's mean unto only thee
Rather than for simply giving and
receiving gift's
Then why not truly revel in it's true meaning
And let the people who mean everything
and most in this here world unto thee
Know without a hint or shadow of a doubt
That when it comes to love
Love is what you mean unto only them
And there is no single starting place
inside your heart you can hide this
fundamental truth
As there would be absolutely no point in
lying about something so important as
matter's of one's heart
Because as and when it comes to the
giving of gifts go
The heart over rules the head not some
of the time but every single time
And if you so wish to choose to believe
that
The only person in reality you are trying
to fool
Is no other than you yourself
And the long term damage cost and toll
it renders upon your soul
And also the fact this particular gift can
no more be regifted as it may be returned
As it is not worthy of a note of credit
Unlike love which on the other hand is
priceless due to it being both precious
and rare and in limited supply
The likes of which people are willing
to put their heart's on the line for and
die in order to protect
So why this Christmas give someone
this and that just me saying
The very best gift above everything and all
But after all it is your call and solely up to you
It may cost very little but I promise you
what you get back in return is absolutely
Priceless as all you need is Love
Duane Bryers drew up the Hilda cartoons in the fifties
This is one, and she is truly one of the nifties.
You can tell she is a full size woman, comfortable in her skin.
She is an assertive gal in each cartoon she is in.
I have seen so many, and they are each rather fine.
Hilda is something, and she has a notorious mind.
She is happy to be full size, which is rare after Twiggy.
She is self-assured in each photo, not a big wiggy.
I really appreciate the pen of Duane Bryers now.
For Hilda is something; a big gal’s current “wow!”
I have looked up his work and I love it more every day.
Each one of his cartoons is a study in play.
start
The morning sun hidden behind dark clouds
Everything below covered like a shroud
The air is humid, strong winds blowing from the west
These ominous signs put everyone’s nerves to test.
Streaks of lightening flashed across the sky
Sounds of thunder made the children cry
The little ones clung to their mothers with fear
For them, poor souls, there was nothing to cheer.
Then it came with a bang, the deluge
Forcing everyone out to take refuge
Under a tree, inside a shop or any shelter
Forgetting everything and running helter-skelter.
Rain fell in sheets lashing the window pane
Water gushed down the roof-tops into the drain
Poodles of water collected everywhere
Children splashed around, such opportunities are rare.
The countryside looked like a cluster of fens
A bedraggled cockerel marshaled his hens
“Scratch for worms, you lazy bones,
Before the water evaporates leaving only stones”.
A bullfrog croaked from the muddy pool
Followed the orchestra from his music school
In the distance a peacock decided it’s time to dance
And impress the peahen with his romantic stance.
A roadside vendor sold cups of hot tea
People flocked to his stall to share it for a fee
They were caught unawares in the incessant rain
Their unsavory plight was the tea vendor’s gain.
The rain stopped and watery sunlight peeped again
Children rushed out, parents’ restraining effort in vain
They splashed in the muddy water getting wet
To them, catching cold was not at all a threat.
end
The art of being happy is a dance between light and shadow,
With every hope comes an obstacle like a cloud on a clear sky,
And with every obstacle, we rise and settle like stones in a river,
Not everything must be perfect now, but beautiful in our minds like a dream.
It's an art to fill the void of the soul with echoes of forgiveness,
A painting of liberation from the chains of unmet expectations,
Instead of getting lost in the world of illusory and fragile completeness,
Believing that all that is incomplete is of a mad and pure beauty.
Every face is a mask, but the heart hides millions of stories,
Being content with less doesn't mean life will remain unchanged,
It's an art to enjoy the crescent moon, to see fullness in imperfections,
Hoping that one day the moon will be full, but living the joy of life's gift.
In our search for wholeness, we learn to love the shades,
To enjoy imperfections like rare and mysterious paintings,
For the art of happiness is to find beauty in life's fragments,
To dance with shadows and embrace the light on the path of destiny.
I met you about a year ago, back when you were paired with a different sister. Even after I left the RDS, you remained in contact with me. I remember sending you a friend request again after blocking you — not out of rejection, but out of fear. I was afraid you wouldn’t understand why I had to step away.
When I drifted, it was not in the way I expected. My dream told me to keep going, to keep learning, not to settle into dogma too quickly. Even now, I feel that same message: learn more, grow more, but stay close to the people who help me — people like you.
What first drew me into the organization was the friendliness and kindness shown by everyone. But what kept me studying… was your red hair. Red hair has always caught my eye, but with you, it made me want to see the person behind it — the spirit, the sincerity, the strength.
During the difficult times I faced this past year, including my injury, you supported me in a way that reached deeper than simple friendship. You were one of the few who held me up spiritually, just like two of my closest friends. One of them I see as an older sister, and I’ve acknowledged her as such. The other is something more — a connection so strong that only God knows where it may lead. God may guide that bond forward, or He may guide me somewhere entirely different. Only He determines the course.
Still, meeting you and the other sisters was a powerful experience. Out of all the sisters and Vishnu I’ve spoken to, you are the one I never wanted to disappoint. You are the one I always wanted to talk to more. You carry a charisma that is rare — the kind men should look for in a woman.
I don’t want this to sound like a flirtation. I want to speak my true intentions. Only God can guide our hearts until intention becomes truth and devotion. If God leads me down a different path — not toward the person I’m closely aligned with from another country — and instead guides me toward you, then that would be a blessing in its own right.
A woman with strong religious faith and values is exactly what I seek. Only a few have awakened that part of me — the part that feels safe enough to tell everything, to rest my head on a shoulder, to cry if needed, knowing I would be held with understanding and compassion.
You helped bring me back to center. You helped bring me back to God.
* There is one person I would bring back in a heartbeat, and that's my favorite human being of all-time, Walt Whitman - he literally changed my life with his poetry, and brought true beauty and joy to my life. Never underestimate the power of words. *
__________________________________________________
Oh, My Dear Walter, how your words have slayed,
Humbled me, broken me, molded and remade.
To taste of your world, see above or below it,
Wit of a wordsmith, wry pith of a poet ...
To so construe love without using the phrase,
Scrawl the sinew of war, yet delight in the days.
To yawp of the grass - journeywork of the stars,
Help revivify a nation, attend to its scars.
Find grace among horrors, sift beauty from death,
The soul-pull of tides - briny buss of their breath.
To habit us all ... to the dazzle of light,
Celebrate ourselves, bequeath us the night.
Ask recurring questions of romance and life,
Of presidents, bootsoles, and a moldering strife.
Demons and mockingbirds, Paumanok's dunes ...
The pale, horrid witness of unstinted moons.
'Twas sad-blown, a bugle, convulsed, was a drum,
Yet exquisite, the dirge for a soldier and son.
The sorrow of clouds in a ravening sky,
The weep of a child should the Pleiades die.
Knit airy-fresh words, with uncommon phrases,
Draw Apollo and Neptune in all of their phases.
Be there adoration as hapless as mine?
Yet no soul more ardently leveled, supine ...
No writer has reached deeper into my heart,
Idioms and phrases ... such allurement, impart.
Ah, yes, what I'd give to have just one chat,
With the rare human being who afforded all that.
And maybe I'm biased, if perhaps to a fault,
But the name of MY Captain, O Captain ...
Is WALT.
With a shade of colourless eyes
Have I looked upon a world of discrimination
My nature is a rare form of uniqueness
And I defile every race by description
Golden hair on pale silver skin
An African white woman of Timbuktu kin
I have danced to the tune of my mockery
With teary eyes have I smiled at victory
Sharp edged stares may pierce me daily
Yet I walk head high and step most steady
Though the sun remains a foe that tortures
Still I conquer it with protective amours
I scowled at the honey tongues of lying lovers
Professing love only to taste my rare fairness
I read through their lines but read in between better
For this fragile,ignorant creature was fully harnessed
I have been belittled, scoffed and shaken
And redefined by several ethnic culture
I have been judged,ignored and broken
I have been worshipped,feared and obscured
But I created the burning hero in Me
And won my inner battle the greatest battle to be
For i embraced my deepest weakness
And savoured every drop of success
I am that nature's mysterious creation
A shortsighted being with farther vision
I betrayed my timidity and trampled its shell
I am a story and this story I tell
By: Adams O Elizabeth
Lizdiamond World Of Poetry
In the depths of my soul lies an untold story,
Like a river flowing silently, hidden and hoary,
A tale of love, loss, and unspoken desires,
A journey of the heart, fueled by fires.
It’s a story of hope, mixed with despair,
Of moments that left a mark, painful and rare,
It's a chapter that I’ve kept locked away,
But its essence still lingers, like a memory to stay.
There are words unsaid, and feelings unexpressed,
A landscape untouched, an untrodden quest,
It's a story of life, with all its twists and turns,
Moments that we cherish, and lessons we learn.
It's a tale of courage, of battling storms,
Of braving the odds, and weathering the norms,
It's a chapter of my life, that I’ve kept to myself,
A story untold, with nobody to share or delve.
Maybe someday, I’ll find the courage to speak,
And unlock the secrets that I’ve kept so meek,
Until then, let it be a mystery, shrouded in glory,
For that’s the beauty of my untold story.
Christmas brings lights that lighten every alley.
Christmas fills the void of each heart's saddened valley.
Christmas brings Santa with surprising gifts of toys.
Christmas brings laughter to mainly girls and boys.
Christmas brings carols sung by mellifluous voices.
Christmas brings fantasies that suit many choices.
Christmas adds glamour to the choicest street's splendour.
Christmas emits fun with its rare yuletide colour.
Christmas makes sad faces to beam with unfeigned smiles.
Christmas brings seasonal joy travelling several miles.
Christmas brings hope to the annually despondent.
Christmas brings Christ, ever in our hearts resident.