Long Rarer Poems
Long Rarer Poems. Below are the most popular long Rarer by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Rarer poems by poem length and keyword.
Oh countless oaths are given to true love
Still few can so survive life's passing tests
And rarer yet are souls bound from above
The fires of heaven lasting in their breasts
A blessing to have witnessed such a bond
The loving ones who gave to me my breath
None others have I known that are as fond
Of honoring commitment through to death
In seven decades now they have embraced
Each other midst a weaving of their dreams
United thru the bad and good they've faced
Each challenge as the truest of such teams
Of all life's blessings I have known and had
None other e'er will equal ... Mom and Dad.
Those sweaty and uncomfotable days
seem to have lost their intensity,
and glancing far into infinity
can be done with more clarity;
storms are much rarer to stike
and fling their lightinings
to warn us or cause some fright,
when we wish to see a rainbow so bright....
Summer is ending quickly,
but the slowly-moving sail-boats
aren't anchored in the quite harbor:
they're sailing safely
on calm waters,where no ship
is ever brought down!
I'm reluctant to leave so suddenly,
and not contemplate the sea-bed
as flourescent as light,
when I passionately write
another poignant poem
which won't be lost to oblivion...
Some of us seek only leisure,
I seek a relation with creation...
not doubting who made it
and if controversy intervenes,
I look deeper into persuasion:
there'll be no thought left
unobscured or unexpressed before intuition;
and you should be amazingly glad to hear...
uttered words that are not silenzed like secrets,
if attribution is not there!
Summer is ending quickly through dismay...
as blazing days discern their shortness,
but the dazzled and flamboyant swams stare
and tranquilly float soutth-wards of the solemn bay;
what I enjoy now,can be retold or relived
through the poems of other poets,
mine are still waiting to be discovered...
to be claimed without much fanfare!
There's a stash of swag and bling in Lady Liberty's lamp.
If you look closely enough, her tablet says:
"To succeed, you can grind along or just be a tramp.
You could spin cycle the system -be another government lamb.
Pick your @ss up and become your own woman or man."
There are the privileged, but they're rarer than one might think.
It's not a good fit for 300 million blue-collar workers you see on the street.
Hate is thriving in the darkest and brightest corners of society.
But in no way is it just a triple K or white supremacy thing.
It's crept into black and brown hearts and is gathering steam.
The media makes a lot of green from spinning on our misery.
Crime-gangs and poverty run ablaze in every big city,
Addiction painted on every pillar of low and high society.
Laws are lax, and punishments are getting a little too breezy.
Taxes go to the ogres who get perfume dabbed on the wrist.
Three squares- free medical, recreation, education, meditation.
Access to the internet to torment their victims again and again.
Freedom is never for free, but pursuit of happiness just may be.
Darkness wants to bend the barrel of the Second Amendment.
Chainsaw liberty-pull the tongue from the mouth of free speech.
Tear down every nativity scene while buffing up the pentagram.
Treating the black book and starry flag like back-alley snot rags.
Without doubt, a second civil war is stirring in the soil.
The blood is filling the pot and coming to a rolling boil
The desperately wise are hoarding caliber-scripture and bread.
Painting a winking bull's-eye on the soon-to-be dead...
Where in the he!! is our wayward God in all this mess?
Seeking and saving the lost have been parts of your story.
Passion, death, and resurrection must pave paths for glory.
How could you be rarer than all if you don't die and rise?
For the crimes of the souls of the world, you must pay the price.
Did your disciples want this? They wished you to be the king.
You knew, yet, blood should overflow from you like a wellspring.
Your ways were unique in the world. They could not understand.
Your mocking at and flogging at could they ever withstand?
The grain that springs, grows, and bears fruits stays within the earth's womb.
The one who saves all should sleep within the womb of the tomb.
Fulfilling the laws and the prophets should be done by death.
By dying on the cross for all, you should spread your life's breath.
The gift and the giver—you're the lamb who took sins away.
Kingdoms and kingships of this world could not stand on your way.
THE GATHERING OF THE GLOW WORMS . . .
All the glow worms have gathered in a circle in the darkness of the night
Looking every bit like an angel’s halo - what a spectacular heavenly sight
While gracefully swaying and singing to that amazing song of “Hallelujah”
All heads held high as though as to direct to their lord with their epistula
No such a rarer sight could one ever hope to see and their melody befall
As the glow worms embraced and rejoiced together in their heavenly call
“Hallelujah - Hallelujah - Hallelujah” . . .
Indiana Shaw . . . : )
"Epistula" - Latin for - Missive - Message - Letter . . .
My product's diurnal, nocturnal,
Forever and aye, Eternal.
Rarer than a diamond coin,
Yet impossible to purloin.
Bendable, but won't break,
Though stretched till it ache.
Beloved of gods, high and mighty:
By the Lord of Hosts; and by Aphrodite.
Possessed by so very, very few;
Per Shakespeare--only by King Lear's Fool.
Priceless is its valuation,
Utterly immune to deflation.
**********
You know, I'd sell the world the TRUTH;
Yet were I to claim there's a buyer,
I'd be a true liar.
In the chamber of silence where souls converge,
Masks lie in wait, the nocturnal guardians of our being.
Adorned with grimaces and velvet smiles,
They are armors against the unknown arrows of the estranged world.
Oh, how they descend like curtains over our fragility,
Sitting so carefully upon the shoulders of pleasure, the cloth of outward beauty.
We learn to parade with them, in a masquerade where every step is watched,
Where each breath, heavier than the last, is veiled by studied nonchalance.
Few are those who dare shine without the borrowed mask,
To stand bare, in the harsh light of day, unafraid of the whirl of rejection.
Even rarer is the creature that, in the human garden, stands unwavering in its truth,
Unfettered by earthly fears of 'seeming' and 'not being enough'.
The mask, once a shelter, becomes the dungeon of the spirit, still in the shadow.
A surrogate of identity, which over time melts into the skin of existence,
Making it hard to discern where the persona ends and the self begins.
You see it, hanging there, lightly, on the hook prepared by the world,
A means by which anonymity weaves its web around our essence.
It is a game of appearances, where we are all unknown thespians on a vast stage.
To traverse beyond the false face and to see the raw core of your proclaimed existence,
Is the art that binds us, without unraveling the ties that keep that sliver of secret,
A silent call to acknowledge the soul, even beneath the daily makeup.
It is not just denial, but the desire to feel understood, even behind the shadows.
Power, the world says, lies in hardening the heart, but how deceitful is this thought!
For true stature arises from embracing vulnerability, a force that lifts us from the ashes of prejudice.
You, be that gentle murmur of your truth in every counterfeit day,
Be that fragment of sync with oneself, amidst a choir of disparate voices.
Do not fear to dance, even when the dance embraces the void, authentic and raw.
In the world of men, to be seen as you are is a gift you offer,
A brave smile in the face of a world that demands you to be unyielding, impenetrable.
Love and be loved, as once said by a sage long asleep,
For in this recognition lies a whole universe of love, before it even begins to be infinite.
Today's not one of my better days
Even I have 'em every so often
Believe me mine are rarer than most
Will be chuckling even in my coffin
Sure hope it doesn't freak someone out
And another kicks the bucket as well
A couple of funerals for the price of one
Coffin would be cramped as hell
Don't mind sharing but just imagine
If this dude was from the opposite sex
Some hanky panky would likely ensue
Some real rockin' 'n rollin' by heck
Mourners would scatter pretty damn quick
As they try their damnedest to get out
Nobody's staying for the final word
Lowering us, they'd play “Twist And Shout!”
What silly nonsense, can you imagine
That this could actually take place
Certainly they'd give us a box of our own
Or at least not put us face to face!
© Jack Ellison 2013
Like Silent Laughter
David J Walker
I can still feel the cold water
Cool my tanned skin usually drenched
in the sweat of a hoe handle and the
hot summer sun
The above ground steel tank filled from
The creaking efforts of a windmill meant to
Quench the thirst of thirsty cattle
The salt lick that became our diving board
A rare moment of splashing laughter
Rarer than rare the occasion of young cousins
allowed to play for an afternoon
as other children play in city park pools
Very aware that
We were the farm kids
And would curse in bilingual blurbs the
Profane adjectives accenting hard work
I don’t remember who was
winding and aiming
The 8mm movie camera
Capturing the moment through a lens
that would
Otherwise have been lost forever
Documenting the silent laughter of
Farm kids having fun the hard way
In the New Mexico Summer sun
* This poem almost cost a college student his enrollment, as he plagiarized it for his final exam, (the highest form of flattery they say) … I begged them not to expel him, though they made him call me and gave him community service. I was rather flattered by the whole thing, as I’d only been writing a couple of months. *
~
I be a common salty once
no captain's bars, did bear
yet blessed was I to venture
where few a skipper dared
from crow's nest high aloft, I saw
those bright coast beacons wink
thru biting spray's December gale
what shoals and reefs would sink
for countless days I rocked atop
that oaken spar’s good length
as wake and skies conveyed my eyes
Lord Neptune's sullen strength
aye, busy dogs, the mates and jacks
bent hard while tasked below …
as toward the sky, a glass to eye
my post waved to-and-fro
first was I to e'er spot land
my voice, the first to yell -
first to sight a skull and bones
loud-clanged that warning bell
"thar she blows!" was oft' my cry
if spied foamed breach, had I
and "friend or foe?!?" the query barked
when strange sails cleaved the sky
but moments to becalm my soul
as swells tick-tocked the time
were star-filled nights, a bullion moon
and the phosphorescent brine
the darkest times were battlements
when the ship groaned with its might
but never dark, those eventides -
sea and vault - awash with light!
quite rare it was to find this tar
midst the deck or down below
and rarer still would I abdicate
my realm there, high the crow …
well, I'm adrift on shore now
with ol’ brittle bones and gray
yet in this lubber's mind I’ll still
climb masts to watch … and sway
I bounce wee kin on knobby knees
and spin them my swabbie tales -
St Elmo's Fire and scorching skies
fierce battles, storms, and whales
and when sweet angels task me
to that dark and heav'nly crow …
I'll bend gaze to my looking glass
and give a hearty … "tally-ho!"