Long Receptacle Poems
Long Receptacle Poems. Below are the most popular long Receptacle by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Receptacle poems by poem length and keyword.
It was never my intent to collect the creepy crawlers
but I couldn't make myself swat them with a broom.
I thought they might be useful one day, on brawlers
who make trouble, like aphids on roses in bloom.
So, the meshed bag became the receptacle I used
to keep them alive. One by one, I joined them together
but fed them daily. Of spider abuse I'd not be accused!
I watched them interact in the prison tied with a tether.
There was no fighting among them when there were three
Respectfully, they kept their distance in separate corners
even when I threw in a fly, a moth and a tiny dead flea.
I wondered if they died, would there have been mourners?
It seems arachnids could teach humans a lesson in humanity
When my bag began to move on its own, I knew it was time
to set them free. You may question my sanity and the inanity
of releasing the creatures but keeping them would be a crime.
Where would they best be turned loose in one fell swoop?
The rose garden! Infested with pests on which they'd feast!
I opened the bag carefully and they marched as a troop,
conquering heroes of the Rose War, each bug eyed beast!
Keats’ Nightingale
The romantic poets were too early to postulate total atheism,
And so freshened up the church by aligning god with nature,
And I believe they had a preference for nature over god or theism,
Because they never posit him as social with high, tall stature.
Keats says that the nightingale exemplifies nature as active,
As bestowing upon all human beings meaning, sense and worth,
Since the bird’s song objectifies how nature truly is effective,
Fulfilled by happiness, and aimed at contentment and rebirth.
Nature triggers in us thoughts and words to settle and allure,
Offers us our language to dispel pain and find the cure,
And Keats contends that poetry, the credibility of its form,
Epitomises what nature proffers, a receptacle rather warm.
When you feel awkwardly suicidal with nowhere else to turn,
Nature lullabies you into your own sense, one you can rip and burn;
No controlled access freeways, no road signs for your safety,
Only soft, quiet communication that's never guilty of brevity.
Just as nature is beautiful, so Keats claims people as beautiful too,
As he uses the word beauty right in the middle of his nature exposé;
He referred to flora, the moon, the stars, the forest and what seems true,
Tnat song of the nightingale that's for anyone, as this bird is not choosey.
He suggests that light or positivity in nature means movement,
That the soft breeze dispels the gloom and mossy pavement;
Quantum physics does reduce matter back down to interactive particles,
In which kinetic energy can be mistaken for minuscule, motionless articles.
His mentor is the nightingale as part of nature’s whole,
No minister or clergyman to advise him on his soul,
Stillness and bird song scent his poisoned air surrounding,
And it is all but for the silence of that beauteous music, astounding.
Nature does not irritate him when he surmises and introspects,
But upholds itself in majestic grandeur with unquestionable prospects;
It speaks about life, your life, your daily happenings and exotic dreams,
And forever exists for us when sense is just not within our means.
Bessie Trissell
1891-1914
Alas my friends,
I finally know the truth now,
So here it is, straight out,
The real truth, which resides in a world,
Brimming with insidious lies.
My dear friends, come,
Come to this aged receptacle of the truly alive.
Shh! Sit still, here in the leafy shadows,
And just ponder for a spell,
Disquiet yourselves,
Meditate calmly and know this-
Know that this restful peaceful oasis,
Is the great equalizer indeed,
The great and forbidding bed of death,
Where all sleep in the twilight of time,
Where all must finally come to find eternal rest.
Know too, that here, sleeping motionless,
Under this unsounded sod,
Are the proud and the meek,
The white of face and the black too,
All free now in their moist chilly tombs.
Here too are the rich and the poor alike!
Where I am, your money and gold are worthless,
Worthless as the dirt here,
And your possessions, once owned by you,
Now belong to someone else, who
One day indeed, will be here too,
The once happy and the sad,
Believers in God, and the foolish alike,
The young and the old, the
Powerful and downtrodden,
The brave and the afraid indeed!
All are here now, resting, resting, sleeping.
Stop breathing yourselves now, and sit still.
Sit easy and listen, here
In the wind-disturbed silence,
Of densely dark Mt. Olive Cemetery.
Shh! They are lurking as coy ghosts now,
They sigh in sweet whispers.
They know the truth indeed!
My friends, come join us now,
Come and we will tell thee!
For we are all free now,
Resting, Resting, sleeping
In our moist chilly tombs.
A Dreamers Dream
Yesterday – a force that sends fragmented pieces of dreams
into the waking, fragile, waiting arms of today.
Today – a receptacle that coalesces these flakes of reverie
into images that reach out to solidify one’s future.
A Dreamers Dream.
What are dreams anyway ?
They are but fractured reflections,
pieces of one’s daily / nightly journey
throughout one’s adventures upon this plane.
Except, of course, those few derived from a psychic nature.
Dreams tell a story of history.
Dreams speak to us of our hidden emotions.
Dreams show us the true nature of our desires.
Dreams will carry us through the tumultuous times.
Dreams will become the comforter, masquerading in riddles
B. J. “A ” 2
October 28th 2013
"I'm a vessel
I'm a temple
of the Holy Spirit
I'm a vessel
taping me feel me I'm a container
a receptacle
suppository a drum
have not any disintegrating bones and dust I am not call a urn
me with sign hand mold me shaping me
until I an imaged All Father grieving me to me
until design plans tell me about plans
give me receive I be for your purpose qualifying
quality used me for thy Divine Purpose
Kneed me mold me shape me
need not leave me 5 a.m. solidify me
My flawed forgotten or broken reshaped me
Mold me He chose me He's spoken wholeness and peace
Sweet release amend bend me mold Me Hold squeeze me never leave me in
Mme concessions hold me whisper to my ears I am a blessing
Dress Your Vessel God mode me Temple of the Holy Spirit
I am a vessel sleeping me fill me your container I am the drum
You're calling me I am insured I am endowed with just a drop of your power
For the Masters use
Use me for the Masters use mode me for the Masters use
and shaped me remake me absolute Oh! Lord
I Am Your Vessel
thoughtful inciting security exposed to the Father
you and words and works
I am a vessel
I am shaping I am filled I am contained with his ever-present
I am love I am just calling I am called on to me to be God's vessel
Into thine image All Father speak up into me
you mean much to me received me
I be will purposed I qualify with quality used me for thine Divine Purpose
may not leave me Father feeling flawed forgotten or broken
You spoken to speak wholeness in my life
and peace sweet release in my life
you molded me get a hold of me
if you squeeze me never leaves me but. Still, since of your calling,
you made me your son and daughter.
I Am Your Vessel! "
6/10/22
Written by James Edward Lee Sr.2022©
Mr Bell, it’s Julie from the council, you appear to be inundating our help desk with phone calls, are you alright?
No, Julie, I am not alright. I have seven bins in my garden, and for some reason, you’ve delivered another three, what’s going on?
Can you describe the bins that have been delivered?
One is luminous and at night time, it lights up the whole street.
Right, that bin is your new Nuclear fallout receptacle.
Okay, Julie, I think you’ve delivered that to the wrong address, the power plant is five miles up the road, but I’m sure even they don’t use plastic bins.
No, this is your bin. Now I don’t want to alarm you, but when it gets emptied, the men will be wearing like silver spacesuits, so don’t get alarmed when they come into your garden.
This might sound like a silly question, Julie, but where do I get this fallout stuff to put in the bin?
Oh, I see what you mean. Let me explain. This is actually a smart bin which collects particles through the air, you don’t touch it. What other bin do you have?
I’ve also been given a bright pink bin.
Ok, now this bin is for the LGBTQ community.
Fantastic, one I don’t need.
Oh, we don’t discriminate, Mr Bell, everyone gets one.
Right, Julie, what goes in it?
I would have thought that was obvious.
Well, Julie, if it's that obvious, enlighten me.
Could you not ask one of your Gay neighbours?
As far I know, I don’t have any gay neighbours, though in saying that, we do have mad Madge, who runs about naked at weird times of the night.
What’s the other bin you have.
This is a weird one, Julie, it’s black with four brass handles on it.
Right, this is actually your end of life bin. Now, it’s imperative you give us fourteen days' notice before you use it.
Okay, Julie, let's have a think about this one. People who die don’t tend to go in fourteen days, they tend to just drop dead.
Will you be dropping dead anytime soon, Mr Bell?
If you keep sending me stupid bins, Julie, I’ll be joining mad Madge.
Talking about, Madge, Mr Bell. We sent a young lad with a letter of intent for her, he hasn’t returned, should we be worried.
Got a feeling, Julie, your first end of life bin will be imminent.
In your blazing blood-shot eyes I see
You smolder inside in engulfing anger
The twisted tongue spitting out words
Charged with toxin of the vitriolic mind.
The receptacle of sane sense turns into
Embers erupting out from the wild fire
Shrouded in the spreading smoke of spite
The rays of reason you don’t recognize.
I don’t run away from you to self-heal
Or seek shelter in the den of disregard
Nor do I ignite another flame within me
To face you to feel good in retaliation.
As a fire can’t ever extinguish or contain
Another fire for they burn the linked space
I confront you with composed confidence
The sanctum of my soul you can’t incinerate.
Flow of forgiveness emanates from within
As the embracing nectar of divine fountain
Empathy drenches you in the cool shower
With the touch of absolution dousing the fire.
In the core of the transformed essence
You feel benign breeze of calmness blow
From the settling ashes of repentance
You rise rejuvenated to become much wiser.
May 26, 2021
Contest : Forgiveness
Sponsor : Unseeking Seeker
My fondest memory was so surreal
It has changed my life downright
and I really feel beatific to reveal
the secret behind my delight
It happened on a bright sunny day
I saw a tiny yellow egg amidst
the leaves,which was its hideaway
It was so cute and I could not resist
I kept it inside the plastic container
The next day the small caterpillar
hatched and it was my entertainer
and it had become my tension killer
I raised it by feeding curry leaves,
drenching and cleansing the box
and many a time I used to give
hugs and I never wanted to unbox
Days went by and one day that miracle
happened, like a blessing in disguise
There was a butterfly inside the receptacle
and it was really a grand surprise
I shouted loud, jumped like a baby
I was at the height of bliss,when
it walked on my hand,I became crazy
when it kissed on my cheek and chin
I forgot the world and got transported
into a new place,when it landed on my hand
and the feelings & warmth will not be forgotten
and I would cherish the moment till my end
since then I started raising butterflies indoor
So far I have raised 75 butterflies and,more
. Dec-10-16
Your heart's a receptacle for your soul,
and separates the animals from Man.
It's that inner voice that says, "Yes, you can,"
vetoing instinct; free will takes control.
And you feel that you're a part of the whole,
trying to understand how life began.
Feelings tend to pool deep within your heart,
a reservoir of happiness and pain.
And though drained, over and over again,
it retains enough Hope, for a new start.
Under the threat of dreams falling apart,
trust forges the strongest link in love's chain.
The human heart is where emotions form
a conscience, and feelings define the norm.
In Bethlehem so long ago when our Savior was born,
I'd put myself into to that scene, as something used and worn.
Not an angel singing, or shepherd from the hill,
not a curious townsman, or Eastern Magi royal.
Not as any living creature, like sheep, camel, or ox.
No, I would more likely to be shaped like a box.
The first gift given at that time, not wrapped in ribbons red.
I'd prefer to be the receptacle, where He first laid His Head.
A worn and used manger would I be,
filled with the straw of simplicity.
There I could hold him for the night,
and perhaps feel the power of God's might.
To let Him rest in me would be my thought,
as Mary lay Him gently in my trough.
We sometimes forget the inanimate things of life no doubt,
Though they are always here about.
We use them without thought in our daily strife,
but I would be the one that first held His life.
I would be there to watch others come to see,
the Child born that night for you and me.
Yes, I would be the used and worn out manger,
that catered that night to that great stranger.
When He left I would return to being a tool,
Who knows, in heaven I might be His footstool.
Ah, but just that one night of His sweet caress,
would fill all the days of my loneliness.