Long Reappearing Poems
Long Reappearing Poems. Below are the most popular long Reappearing by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Reappearing poems by poem length and keyword.
They’re tiny spells
Little glittering magic pills
A hidden superpower to chill
Press play and let the world uncoil
Slow motion thoughts melting
Like butter on warm steel
I reach into the pouch
Expecting the glow
The soft promise of everything’s fine
But my fingers scrape emptiness
Cold
Hollow
Exposed
Breathe slow…
A rollercoaster drops through my chest
Psychological gymnastics
Brain yelling, “No way that was the last one!”
Checking again, again, again…
As if a hidden gem might respawn like a bonus life
But the package stays hollow
No power pellets left
Just me
Raw mode
Remembering how to chill
Without the magic
Buddha is deeply listening
My esteemed teacher
kindly reminds me,
"To see the master
not as a [merely natural] human being,
but as the Buddha himself,
is the source [and resource]
of highest blessing."
But,
not necessarily the deepest blessing
for all EarthBodies
seeking spiritual multicultures
of regeneration.
For ecofeminists,
reincarnations of The Buddha,
win/win green
yet still appearing
and reappearing Male,
Remains win/lose disappointingly dissonant
with Padmasambhava's Promise,
"Complete devotion
brings complete blessing;
absence of doubts
[especially about issues of health and environmental safety]
brings complete blessing;
absence of doubts
brings complete [win/win] success."
It concerns me,
this universally intended
therapeutic resolution
for optimizing spiritual enlightenment
for all internal multicultural valuers
Still,
in the town where you live,
in the heart you won't give,
fails to recognize
a healthy green new deal
ecofeminist
may find it easier
if Master
were maybe more Matriarchal,
If male characteristics of The Patriarchal Buddha
could give more multiculturing room
to daughters and sons
and all trans-sensory in-between buddhas
and Positive Deviant Messianic EcoDesigners
and Feminist Carpenters
and Restorative Green Justice ReCyclers
and Climate Health Activists
Matriarchal Teachers
primally schooled by MotherEarth,
Goddess Gaia
Green NonPartisan CoPassionate Communicators
CoOperators
Win/Win Ego/EcoSystemic L/R dipolar gamers,
PolyPhonically conscious
of PolyPathic amusing thought experiments
spiritual
and sensual
and sensory
As Buddha,
deeply ecofeminist
and widely multicultural, listens.
When I appear there Nature seems to
Dance and dance and dance,
When I disappear she is prone to
Weep and weep and weep.
Withdraws all clouds from sky to set a
Splendid scenery,
So that me rising from the river
Afresh may there espy.
Whether it sun or shower or snow or
Storm, when I arise
To set my arms, the setting Sun
Certainly will be there.
Women who go to the river for bathing
Choose my choicy time,
So that there they may bathe in warm and
Yellow sunshine time.
Now here a plant blossoms and blooms and
Soon another there,
Here Spring is reappearing, with her
Bring all beauties back.
Nature is dancing with her rhythmic
Steps and divine smile,
Why can't I row a boat here swaying
To and fro on waves?
The valleys wear their flowery carpets,
And the mountains are
Once again clad in colours, such this
Sylvan scene is set.
White cranes are there always on serene
Haunted islets sit,
Or stand by whiter cows there grazing
O'er the lushy green.
Suppose some Beauty glance and dance in
This wild atmosphere,
Then surely that's a dance to see, when
Mother Nature dance.
So Nature takes the pen out of my
Hands and writes for me,
May that there me, the clouds and cranes and
Cows and waves witness.
On cloudy days, practically there will be no sun to see. But it was my insistence that when I rise up after bathing in the river and look up to the sky, the sun should be there in the western horizon for me to worship. If it is a heavy raining day, I will select the time to go to the river according to when the rain will have a possibility of abating. Even on the heaviest raining days in the east, nature is benevolent enough to uncover sun at least for a few seconds. I will select this time to rise up from the river with my eyes closed and fervently wishing for father sun to be there when I open my eyes. With closed eyes when we look westward, standing river fresh, I don't know what makes it happen but the sun will always be there though sometimes be for only a few seconds. It is like this life-giver listens to fervent wishes of his off-springs and grants them.
A Poem By P.S.Remesh Chandran. Editor, Sahyadri Books & Bloom Books. Trivandrum.
Read more about our views on poetry and about our various poetry editorial services, kindly visit http://poetryeditservice.blogspot.in/
Who's getting lonely being forsaken,
less loved by someone who has
failed to show tenderness?
Is joy missed in the midst of loneliness,
are words completely frozen
and not being sincerely spoken?
Only a few faint dreams will last after sunrise,
and we chase after them with the saddest eyes;
they will be dreamt by others more deserving than us,
being careful not to shatter them with vengeful feelings.
Who's truthful enough to resist temptations again,
and stay safe in the arms of a faithful one?
Is betrayal a way to break a commitment
and replace it with a doubtful sentiment?
Only a few faint dreams will last after sunrise,
are you the lucky one not to see them fading
into the sunlight that blinds the unbeliever's eyes
not so certain that they will be reappearing?
Isn't sleeping alone and breathing alone
so awful and miss the warm heart of someone who was close?
Making vain wishes is losing that igniting spark,
shut your window and ignore the moonlight's glow...
your lover is lying in a stranger's arms not afraid of the dark;
are you that one seeking warmth to let desire grow?
By day, Turtle is ornamental
he sits outside of a Chinese restaurant
by the side of an ornamental pond
that has always been empty of fish.
The traffic creates a dusty coat on his
stone shell, yet his eyes are wide open,
they do not blur the world
as it cascades along in its rumbling boxes,
its leaking mechanical lungs.
He remembers the iron horse
how it ran in one line this way then back,
now all things go where they may
and they may go all ways,
even to this hustling forecourt
in front of the restaurant.
The still night, does not land here
in suburbia until three in the morning,
then Turtle disappears, changes form,
reappearing in an empty bar
further down the now deserted road;
there he takes an allotment
of whisky from the white traders,
a contraband libation
that fills him with future dreams.
This night, he spins ice in his glass
until time slips in-between the hours.
He sees the groundhog running fast,
his fat rolling hips comical as he runs;
Turtle does not smile.
He hears the yipping fox
as it tries to slip away from the coming storm;
a storm that came and went many years ago,
and now returns as a howl
in the dreams of fretful sleepers.
Critters and humans run in their sleep
from some nameless terror.
Once in the distant past, they exhumed
a monster of sorts – a nebulous thing,
its golden eyes do not shine,
but they do weep blood,
they do hunger for more, for that blood,
like gold, must always be renewed.
Turtle gulps his whisky down.
He blesses the bar,
he blesses the drunken slur
of the approaching dawn.
He returns to the ornamental pond,
sits upon the edge
of the fishless pond again;
tries to recall what will come next,
shudders before turning back to stone.
Turtle cannot hold back
the coming storm,
even the painted fish on the wall
of the Chinese restaurant can sense this.
Self belief, I have always had,
Even if it waxed and waned.
Not liking the cold,
It sometimes disappeared underground,
Only reappearing when the daffodils in full
Bloom announced spring was here.
Year by year as I grew older,
It grew bold and strong,
Taking the lead whenever doubt slowed me down.
While I have secretly welcomed the change in it's demeenor
Lately I have come to the scary realisation
That others have been watching it grow.
And now they have started to believe in me too.
It really has come as a bit of a shock,
To find myself in this unfamiliar place,
With what I say and do,
My good and my bad
Influencing others.
But it is too late to turn back now,
I have looked into the eyes of those who have hitched their star
To mine.
It is time to face this new fear,
So as not to let them down.
But now if you will excuse me I think I
Should go and build a glass house,
So I can have daffodils all year round.
All is still into the night
The sky is dark
No moon tonight
The stars so bright
When I noticed something glowing
In the skylight
I remember thinking that's not right
Just then it zipped out of sight
In some very unique flight
Reappearing so bright
Oh what is this light
That glows into the night
Whatever it's I can see it much clearer
As it appears to be coming near
Should I fear
This glowing atmosphere
I can feel my temperature rise
As the fear fills my eyes
I'm not sure what is floating in the sky
Nobody is going to believe
Who came to visit me from up so high
I just hope they pass me by
I know they are not of God
So I won't be asking why
Standing strong
Hoping they will just move along
I won’t let it bother me
So just let me be
Standing here free them observing thee
Looks like they are ready to flee
Then in a flash
It made a crazy dash
They do it with such a bright splash
How are they able to move
In such a powerful groove
When the glow disappeared
As quick as it had appeared
I will not fear
All their high tech gear
I can't help but fight these feelings
That is just not right
Who is in this glowing orb light
That shines so bright
On a no moon night
Glowing in the skylight
Oh what a fright
This ufo that came to me
In plain sight
Nobody is going to believe
What happened to me tonight
When I came face to face
With this ship from outer space
That left without a trace
Of ever coming to this place
Oh what a disgrace
How our government has lied
Right to our face
About an intelligent race
From outer space
Our trust misplaced
With so much distaste
They care not what they waste
In all of their greedy haste
It would appear
They would rather have us live in fear
Most of them making a career
As they slowly
Make all of the facts disappear
Into the indigo sky
the planes climb
at regular intervals,
like clean, slow-motion
signal flares
fired by a punctilious soldier
fighting a decorous war.
From this distance,
the planes’ engines
are little pendant earrings,
swingless beneath
ridiculous cantilevered ears,
their screams muffled,
straining furiously
to hoist their ponderous freights
into sky and night,
locked in a slanted tug of war
with a force unseen
bent on reeling them back
like renegade kites.
For a few moments,
the outcomes of the duels
appear far from certain,
the planes slow and labored
on their ascent,
seemingly disheartened
by so much space.
But they keep climbing,
plowing dark furrows
in dark cloddish sky,
slipping gravity’s
last rapacious grasp.
They disappear behind
shadowy fleece,
edging them with
with red and green lights,
reappearing now and again
in jagged tears in the cloud-quilt,
sightings of
mythical birds
in surreptitious flight.
Rising,
rising,
their lights recede,
blink out,
and are gone.
The sight of these
night planes
always gives me
the feeling
I’m being left behind,
by them,
and by the spirit
of Saint-Exupéry,
that rider of ancient planes,
that cloud-hopping wanderer
entombed in a starry sky,
foe of inertia
who was privy
to the danger
of flying,
and the greater danger of
not going.
Colors of leaves in autumn weave a lovely quilt
covering the countryside, woods, and waters
falling like snowflakes from the tallest of trees
lighting the forest like a candelabra until the first snow.
She was there by the pond painting the weeping willows;
She never spoke a word, just watched the trees and their
swaying branches in the late afternoon breeze then
disappeared into the haze of a newborn twilight.
There was poetry as she floated silently above the grass
while wavelets ran up the beach chasing little shorebirds
and rhythms in ebbing waves upon rocks;
like the taste of a tear as it slowly finds its way to the lips.
Broken cobwebs capturing pieces of dead leaves
now turning pirouettes like a ballerina in the breeze
hanging there suspended between tall trees.
Hearing the tolling of the valley’s brass bell;
faithful in awe at a soft whispering magic of the moon.
Birds at the feeder bring a smile to one’s dull day
while tired of sitting in the sun praying for a halcyon rain.
Hearing sister crying brushing knots out of her long hair;
I wonder about the ghost girl painting the weeping willows
reappearing in a wispy smoke on the breeze;
an enchantment of infinity to those who believe.
This Or That, Vol 8 Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Edward Ibeh
11/17/2021
How crazy is it
that our moments are
only separated by seconds
The world is so vast
And us
Just tiny specs in it
That time deems as it's
Temporary possessions
What more can we expect
From this uncertain vitality
In any given present second
We're gifted
With full intent
Deemed good enough to receive
This life
This circulating breath
This life and all of its undeniable
Treasures that we get
That
Some invisible majestic being
Bestowed onto us
And yet
As full and loud as the universe gets
I still feel empty
Alone and immensely
Vulnerable like
My 11 year old kid did
When dad left
Lonely, and afraid
But now I can say
I am aware today
Nearly 35
Kinda angry, sometimes
A little pissed I'm alive
Older than my big sister is
Since she died
So many dealings
Of unhealed feelings
But the one that is constantly reappearing
Is the feeling
I don't deserve to live past the hours
That should have been hers
My time wasn't set up for her to die
And me to keep growing old
Without her by my side
35
I kinda hate that you are here
Just feels like you are rubbing it in my face
That I am now the oldest one from the brood
Living today
Don't tell me I should be grateful
I have breath and flesh to celebrate
another earthly year
It's crazy
How huge moments are separated
By only seconds
To think we are all just
Tiny dots in this universe
Then we just disappear
Here
Where hours turn to days
And days to years
I'll grow old
With just a million moments
of your memory here
That
You left in a moment
On a day
Of a year
One I can never delete or clear
7 days short of your 35th year
I didn't look forward to this day
When I knew it would be here
I actually remember thinking
Great, 35
That's going to be a tough year.