Long Realistically Poems
Long Realistically Poems. Below are the most popular long Realistically by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Realistically poems by poem length and keyword.
Thoughts On Infinity
Infinity comprises that endless empyrean reach of a
True continuous nature far beyond mankind’s ability
To truly comprehend and appreciate the sheer magic
Of the true enchantment and beauty of Almighty God’s
Kingdom of everlasting peace, love, and devotion.
Infinity is beyond all time, space, matter, and destination.
It is bounded by a mystical aura of a true divine cosmic
Perfection created by the heavenly design and intention
Of God Himself as He has made His revelatory overtures
To each of us for our eventual spiritual transformation.
Infinity oft bespeaks stark images of an endless cosmic vortex,
Punctuated by planets, stars, black holes, comets, and star dust;
When it realistically may be more of a perfected state of a true
Self-awareness and an accentuated level of consciousness that
Transcends mankind’s finite level of reality and understanding.
One day when each of us reach the end of our mortal coil on
This Earth, we shall, in turn, make that final storied leap to the
Heavens as our souls begin their cosmic ascension to God’s
Kingdom, and shall arrive at their ultimate state holy bliss into
The embrace and eternal love of Almighty God Himself.
Gary Bateman, Copyright © All Rights Reserved
August 29, 2018 (Quintain)
*This is NOT meant to be morbid, alarming or negative. Most people who have seen my poems, know that I am positive often. It is realistic. I am a factual person, so it is based on facts, not panic. It is regards to the Coronavirus (Covid-19)
Over the years, I have had Cancer, Lyme disease, Head traumas and I have a heart issue.
Realistically, I know that if I get this, it is nearly or will be a death sentence for me
I have had many near death experiences in my life and I am fortunate to survive, I am a fighter!
I am also a survivor who prepares with action for any crisis and with faith gained strength to do so
So, I have been watching the Covid-19 virus evolve and spread around the world quickly
It is the most contagious illness that I have ever witnessed and it seems to be uncontainable
I also know what our hospitals are like where I live, which has often been very poor treatment
So, I am facing truth to what may or may not happen, as I prepare as best as I can
I also know what it is like to lose someone suddenly to death without a chance to say goodbye
This leads me to speak out today to everyone here and thank you all for your kind support
This does not mean I think I’m leaving for certain and if I escape this, I will certainly celebrate!
I hold onto gratitude closely in my life and I’m grateful for every bit of support I receive here
Thank you for reading my poems, becoming my friend, taking the time to leave nice comments
Some may ask why not wait to see if I am diagnosed with this first? Why rush to say this?
Because, I know by then, I may not be able to write this and I would never want it to be too late
I love this site. It has helped me through many things and taught me a lot too. It has become a part of my life since I found it.
So, thank you again with love for now and prayers to everyone here and I will keep writing!
Heidi Sands (*I am not leaving. I am just saying what I feel and will continue here, as usual)
3/1/20
He watched his kite,her, snap
her tail rises
in the sky
in the deep blue sky
i keep imagining of her
my eyes don't rest and lie,
my mind's eye,
of her with a bird in hand,
the one she waved off …
that i dont imagine
i keep watching her tail
so majestic
and buoyant
... as if she were dancing,
dancing
with herself,
in the deep blue sky,
her carriage
model perfect
of blemishes
with the sun shining
off her inner beauty,
she would flutter
... flutter
to the right and left,
bounce, bounce
up and down
as i continue watching,
watching ...heartbroken
for the last time,
Of life passing by,
Her,
my eyes moisten
as she distances herself
away from me
the burdens of my life
Heartaches, heartaches that
always kept suppressed in me
i say, i wish i could have stopped her flight
and see her come alive
with me,
... me with
one fleeting chance
a chance
of a snowball of goodness for once
but hoping realistically
for just that one snowflake of a chance
one little snowflake that never dropped
... i keep watching
the once beautiful kite
so lifelike, vibrant
especially her tail and direction
up in the blue sky,
a small dot now
... sucking the air out of me
as it became smaller
• i reminiscence
of the past of how our love nosedived
into an avalanche
before it started
... nosediving into sorrow and regrets
the residual of a piece of string not tying
not tying a loop...
i keep looking up into the sky
my mind oscillating, correlating
i see, clearly
her inner beauty capturing me
even from a distance
and now how ... i'm resigned to watching
so sadden
life unravel,
how can this be
or is that the line ... unraveling
again, how can this be
... the kite kept
distancing itself
fluttering itself ...
further away ...
just like myself
... the wind howling
its sharp teeth of injustice, life
grabbing me
i guess
i guess i was bad, unworthy
For her
for i hear ...
voices in my head
the once little birds in her hand crying,
crying
for not finding warmth
i hear a snap
is that for real?
i look,
in the deep blue sky
turning over, turning shades of red
she's gone
and the voice of cruelty just laughing
just laughing at me
for there is an absence, now
of that little tail fluttering
with goodness,
with unattainable borders
that i missed and missed
connie pachecho
3/3/17
Realistically, I should just photocopy last years resolutions-
exhausting is the list of things written in my eloquent handwriting, but
secret is my list- I cannot reveal a thing
obsessive- I am following each written requirement
labyrinth seems to be my path . . . and
unforeseen the detours I encounter-
Taoism helps (I think)
idyllic and blissful will be this journey, I will be
opening new doors to enlightenment and closing others
nature walks so important for my tranquility, or I am
seeking my zen . . .
___________________________
January 18, 2020
Poetry/Acrostic/Secret Resolutions
Copyright Protected, ID 20-1217-642-03
All Rights Reserved, 2020, Constance La France
I slid the slider to my art studio with cautious optimism,
Hoping to find my brushes and glitter and paint and glue
Somewhere close to where I had left them last night.
The bright pink paint I had specifically placed front and center was missing.
Let us not jump to conclusions, my socialized mind said. Maybe it was not last night.
Maybe you put it there the night before last night.
We were not out here the night before, my dendrites argued after they had connected last night’s thinking.
My paint water was in its usual place. My brushes were where I had left them.
I usually use thirty to forty brushes a day, so there is no way to tell if they had been moved or were missing.
Everything else appeared to be exactly as it was yesterday.
I immediately began convincing myself that I must have moved that neon leather paint at the last second before turning and shutting the slider.
Faeries and elves do not paint in here I argued.
That is absurd and realistically unsound. Right?
But what if they do move the paint, dancing and twirling through it? Creating new magic with their little ballerina shoes?
What if they come in here and slide across the canvases, dropping glitter and enhancing my stuff?
What if they are like the shoemaker elves, fixing my mistakes in the middle of the night?
Thinking I had heard a tiny little patter of a faerie foot, I turned and looked at my art table.
Whereby sat the hot pink neon paint that was not there a moment before.
What if?
Written 10-3-2018 Poetry Contest: The Paint Movers
Sponsor: Anthony Slausen
With pen in hand I sat, clearly I could visualize
the graphic scene I intended my readers to see.
Each detail was so vivid when I closed my eyes;
a child, happily singing beneath a dogwood tree.
Trying to write the words, my breath was shallow.
How could I describe the curled edges of a leaf.
or the color of soil in the field beyond, left fallow?
How was I to aptly convey Spring in poetic motif?
My pulse quickened as I filled my pen with ink
Images were copied from my mind to stationery.
Gray skies came alive; leaves were fringed in pink
Verses flowed freely; I dared not dawdle or tarry.
There was nothing ambiguous in what I had penned
Expressed realistically, the child's voice could be heard.
Through imagery, a poet has the ability to transcend
readers into each verse when the imagination is spurred.
Rise Above It
Her brother, my father, had passed away several months prior.
Though more restrained and kinder, she was strong like my father.
I did not realize a day would come that she’d teach me a life lesson.
Our cow broke loose and ran onto the lawn of a very hateful man.
He spoke bitter words and expressed such vicious emotions.
If my aunt had not appeared, I would have been crushed.
I could not understand the man's energized anger about the actions of the cow. My aunt explained the essence of some people in terms never to be forgotten. Her Christ like response to his rage enabled me to understand the actions of, what seemed to me, a mad man. Realistically, his rage was not about the cow, but about certain people he hated. Her words are not remembered, but my brain recorded an eternal lesson of life.
My brain recorded the following:
1. You cannot control the actions, the anger, and the hatred of people.
2. You must not allow yourself to accuse yourself of being at fault.
3. It does not mean that you are to think that you are better than they.
4. You must not respond or react in kind, or stoop to their level.
5. But because of who you know yourself to be; and because you
have been taught a better way, you can indeed rise above them.
06082016 PS Contest, Rise Above It, by Becca Teagan
It's gone. All gone...Probably forever
It didn't melt like an iceberg
It still exists in name but only in name
Technically, it's still viable
but realistically it's not the same
Gone are many that once kindly ladled
bowls of words that were delicious
replaced by 'things' that have no heart
By 'those' who don't appreciate the art
of holding their own pen in hand to write
By 'some' who think we've a blind eye
to their sudden scholarly wisdom
Nothing is the same and who is to blame
On most days I take a pass on visiting
the place where once I found pleasure
My measuring cup is empty and there are few
neighbors whose doors I would approach
I've no desire to 'borrow' their poems
only sorrow for what used to be
and is no more
Bored by changes and the rearranged pots
and pans. Everything has been shuffled
except the muffled cries of days gone by
The new knives have dull blades
and everywhere I look is a new escapade
where even the cooktop is turned off
Scoff at the recipes where something's missing
It's the lack of flavor that I once savored
It used to be tasty but I'm weary
of cookbook titles that sound so dreary
What a waste of pure vanilla when a fella
or a dame pours it in beef stew
That cannot be misconstrued for poetry
Or when Ms. sous chef displays her version
of soup de jour, but burns it with the same
bitter taste day after day
Tables have been moved around in what was once
a restaurant on hallowed ground
The new menu is frightful...
the old one was delightful
It's gone and I don't hold hope of a resurrection
I'd call pest control to eradicate the premises
if I felt the place could be saved
but it feels as if it's dug its own grave
The lilting music is gone, too
No longer does it play sweet melodies
that make my feet want to dance
Keyboard keys don't rattle beneath my fingers
to open the door and enter
It's become humdrum, a chore to find
a valid reason to visit more often
It's gone and there's no joy to be found
in the ploy of the hoi polloi
Nothing is the same and who is to blame
A comment such as "He looked right through me" portrays a person who's not in a positive light relative to the veiwer. It's indicative of a reality that does not bode well for the person being observed because such a statement portrays a lack of respect. Every person needs to be respected, and eye contact is a great start toward achieving such an objective.
If tunnel vision is a lesser to be desired point of veiw, then certainly eagle vision is to be the most coveted of all, in as much as an eagle can spot a mouse two miles away. Why, if I had the eyes of an eagle, I would be able to see an ant from five stories high.*
Within certain perimeters, we have the ability both to see things we are not looking at and to target that which we desire. Sometimes it is difficult to see the trees because of the forest. However, if we really desire to see the tree, we must pause, slow down, or even stop for a close-up and targeted veiw of the tree.
It's been said that the devil is in the details, but remember also that the details might also reveal angels unawares or in disquise. So let's beware, bewise, and utilize both our tunnel and peripheral vision lest we deprive ourselves of something to be desired.
In our cyber spaced world of social media, we may have lots of 'likes' and 'followers', but do they have tunnel visions of you? Are they looking straight through you? Are they looking in your direction but does not really see you? Realistically, do they really have any idea of who you are? Anyway, I am all mused out in this dim-lighted tunnel which I must now exit and pause, because both my eyes and brain need a break.
04272018PS *Wikipedia
It is 9:17am on Wednesday, October 14, 2020.
As I was leaving Folsom after an early morning doctor's appointment,
I crossed a very familiar intersection that I have traversed many times
before. But this time was different, and I could say it was different for
"whatever reasons", but realistically that would not be completely true.
What is clear to me is that there are issues that go unresolved or matters
unsettled and unsatisfied inside of us that surface occasionally uninvited by us.
Anyway, as I was about to say, tears began to form as a memory invaded my
mind that took me back more than 20 years ago to Folsom State Prison. It was there that my daughter's husband and father of our first grandchild was incarcerated. I reflected on the many times that I had taken my daughter and their son to visit him.
The tears were not so much about them as it was about a complaint I had with the Lord, and about which He was very familiar. It was not the first time that thoughts of this nature surfaced, but this time was very emotional as I reiterated to The Lord that I could not understand why all our three children went astray and have been reaping the consequences of their choices.
Why wasn't our daughter and older son more discriminating in their choices of a husband and wife? Why did our youngest son choose to go down the dark allies of alcohol abuse? Why? Why? Why? We did our best to rear them in the ways of God, and I honestly felt that we were being short-changed. Although I really understood such happenings of life, this expression was about an
emotion that needed to be expressed. I wasn't looking for an answer; just an ear.
These are the 46 words, accompanied with tears, that I uttered to The Lord as I drove through Folsom today: "Why, Lord? We did all that we thought proper and right. Lord, after all these years, I still do not understand, and I am not certain that I ever will. Perhaps eternity will be more revealing, but I'm not certain that it will even matter then."
101420cjPMFBPS