Long Recognition Poems
Long Recognition Poems. Below are the most popular long Recognition by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Recognition poems by poem length and keyword.
LUNAR MADNESS
His thought; desire; that driving dream he knew;
so real within his heart and living soul;
the thing he took and fed until it grew,
into the part of life that made him whole;
by doing things that people seldom do
to make it real, and reach his cherished goal!
For who but fools, whose minds are now in tune,
would take a thought, and bounce it off the moon?
If given wings; by one who's gone insane
with lunar madness, loose in universe;
his wish for life would search each hidden plane,
and seek more levels where he might immerse
in pools of knowledge, cleansing every stain,
bleached on his mind by times eternal curse!
And damp with truth, before his mind can rust,
he dries in clouds of flowing cosmic dust!
His world is silent, everywhere he goes,
and dreams he holds so dear, stare silently,
at passersby, who greet him, but he shows,
no recognition to the ones who'd be
some of the ones to take the truth he knows,
and bring him back from where he's flying free!
But don't know how to reach this paranoid,
nor find the things that make his feelings void.
It's plain for them to see, he's not all there,
but lunar madness doesn't cross their minds,
and ships of soul, don't take them anywhere;
perhaps too busy with their daily grinds
to think of flying free form any care,
and seeking many worlds of other kinds!
That he has found by leaving body still,
protected by his knowing mind, and will.
He'll watch the pouring rain, and snowflakes fall,
and bolts that light the sky, in summer storm,
to see the wisdom theree within them all,
as puzzles come together and to form
a tool to shatter down his prison wall,
that's kept him from a life that's soft and warm!
But as he sees the things before his eyes,
the other part of him still seeks, and flies
so free of chains that bind him far below;
the part behind, that's waiting for the end;
or waiting for the wisdom he will know,
return of one, his kind and loving friend;
that once set free, would only come and go,
far from the one who let it first ascend!
Not knowing once he set their powers free,
that lunar madness plagues him, constantly.
© Ron Wilson aka Vee Bdosa the Doylestown Poet
Enea Gets the Red Hat
Finally, he's getting somewhere.
Fifty years of age and almost crippled,
prematurely aged, but at last,
sweet recognition rains down
on the poet. Kneeling before Calixtus,
he accepts the Cardinal's hat.
Fancy that.
With every triumph, we're swept nearer Hell.
Each anthem that we sing's a kind of knell.
No matter what we get, or grab, or gain,
we're human, and our lot is death and pain.
Both Frederick and Ladislas
had to do a lot of lobbying
(Calixtus was a Borgia, after all:
and family is family.) Por fin,
esta elevado. Behold the scene.
Frederick with his back to us
and Ladislas holding on to him
(shouldn't that be the other way round?)
deserve their pride of place.
The seething swell of humans
swirls around the little altar,
but can't budge it.
The clear-cut marble doesn't give.
What is the painter telling us?
Men move, and flow, and live, and go,
but soon or later, their
energy is spent?
The Church is permanent?
Regard the four main players,
the upper crust of Mankind's many layers,
yet each one a loser clone.
Calixtus took the throne
already old, and singing one stale tune
(and that, corrupt!)
He didn't use a long spoon
when he supped.
There's Frederick, the Emperor,
a joke. Bullied by his minions,
unhappy, hapless, broke.
And Ladislas, a king without a kingdom,
a cock without a crest,
he's Frederick's long-term guest
(another kind of jest).
A prisoner -- or let's say, at home,
he and Frederick make a palindrome:
august additions to this Pleasure Dome.
Enea: worn out, homesick, ill.
Surviving now on sheer will.
Is that Nature's tonsure, or Man's?
He's kept alive by feverish plans
to mount a Great Crusade --
but we all know it won't be made.
Two rigid windows and an altarpiece.
The Trinity? (The painting is the Holy Ghost.)
Or are those plain, framed panes
the Empire and the Papacy?
You think we're reading too much in?
We point you to one subtle artist's touch.
The youth, right-centre, in the azure cloak,
who's smirking at some "only-I-know" joke:
head cocked, as if he's watching all, askance:
he finds the dainty, double-dealing dance
amusing. Isn't he Rafael?
Hatted like some crimson Cardinal,
he's watching how they rise up, how they fall.
He's waiting, calmly, to inherit all.
Bone-drained, there is no respite, no split second of peace. The “sundowner”, a hyper-active toddler in a man’s vehicle, never sleeps nor sits.
When I succumb to that one precious moment of rest; I am awakened to a furnace running full blast in a freezing cold house and on a nineteen degree night. A butter knife has removed a window; the culprit and dementia-mind panics; he’s terrified of being trapped in a fire. There’s no arguing with dementia-mind; it’s best to play along with the his ideas.
Another day of madness and I awake to a frantically screeching doorbell; it’s his nurse. I've revived in the floor. A migraine faint pulled me down; I’ve had no sleep for eight nights, you see. Sweet respite…she says she’ll, “sit with him”, so I can lie down a bit; a pleasant miracle; such happenstance is a rarity.
Dementia-mind has no solutions, only hallucinations, delusions; absence of mind and aggression for the “sundowners”. I watch at breakfast, as he pours his milk upon the floor; he has no clue of what he is doing or why;
he stares, mindless. When the eyes go blank it’s obvious; he’s not in there. A robot gone haywire, used to be my Father. The last thing to go, were his mathematical skills. Dementia-mind has forgotten so many people; how to swallow, but recalls numbers…
“Who is that man?” he demands, pointing at himself in the mirror. My exhausted mind briefly forgets and I mistakenly reply, “You dad.” The firestorm is initiated; he calls me a, “liar”. Self recognition has failed him now; the flame of his mind is burning low; soon to extinguish.
He’s fed and dressed, but I’ve no time to eat; if he should sleep an hour today; I must cook for the week. It’s the only opportunity I have…when and if he sleeps. I must not go to the bathroom; he’ll break something or fall. I must hold myself until my sister arrives.
The “passives” are painful to watch, as they deteriorate, but the “sundowners” are constant exhaustion. I was in the ER, almost as much as, he. You see, there’s no one to care for the caregiver, but themselves and when they can’t, exhaustion and malnutrition escalate. Dementia-mind is round-the-clock work and two doing the work of six people, takes its’ toll. The disease never discriminates; it destroys everyone.
(My Father died with dementia, a form of Alzheimer's in 2003, after a 15 year battle.)
Faith is a warm, hooded coat whose
Furry softness provides a barrier
From the icy blasts of cold-hearted people
Who are jealous of the embrace a well-constructed winter garment provides for its wearer, me.
Love bids me open my coat and offer it
To the filthy stranger with an empty bottle of booze
And a tattoo of a pentagram, with a skull inside.
So I hand him the coat and say, "From Jesus because He loves you."
Truth provides me another coat, and one to spare
Because giving away our faith is the best way to multiply it.
And I look for more truth, and see Jesus across the crowd.
He is giving His coat to a man who tightly clings to the hand of another man.
Christianity bids me to give my extra coat
To the boyfriend of the man who just received his.
My call, my mission, to be like Christ, and
I share my coat, my faith, with anyone left out in the cold by The Religious. I cannot pick and choose.
Sin is a reality I live with. I see it everyday.
In my mirror. It is everywhere. And it sickens me.
Yet still I sin and sin again, ashamed of my inability to live a standard
Worthy of the Son of God who knows my name.
Grace is the tiny sip of water you take when you have been in the desert too long.
Slowly you trust that it is no mirage, and you drink from the well
Feeling yourself replenished, rehydrated, reborn.
Everything that was awful in the place you were before is better, washed away by the purity of the water offered freely.
Freedom is knowing that your job is not to identify the wanderers in the desert
But to introduce everyone to the well.
Offer them that free sip that will change their lives as it did yours,
Knowing that you are in no way better than any of these seekers except that you, by some miracle, are allowed to sip from the cup of grace everyday.
Hope paints in my heart a picture of warmth,
Sunlight, people, everyone wearing their faith, knowing the truth, and loving Christ.
Hate is the cold wind, the whispered rumor, the whitewashed judgment that has no place here.
This is a place where we walk not only like, but with Jesus.
Regret is waking to find that you are no longer where you were before.
This new place is hot, not like a sauna, but like the sun itself.
It is dark, and you feel no welcome, no recognition, no love.
You want to speak to the man in charge, but know it's too late.
When you return home after many years,
stepping onto familiar soil,
your heart stirs with bittersweet anticipation.
The sun-tinted house that once witnessed your dreams
now stands a stranger, with cold eyes afar,
overgrown vines clinging to its weathered walls.
It is as if time has woven arras of indifference,
forgetting the dwelling you once held dear.
Your gloomy eyes , yearn for the sight of loved ones.
Brimming with longing and delight,
search for the comforting presence of a mother’s love.
But her cot is empty, an echoing void
that resonates with absence.
The silence lingers, a haunting reminder
of the void left behind.
Your ears strain, longing to catch
the timbre of your father’s call,
but the emptiness engulfs you,
and his voice is but an echo in the time.
Oh, how it pains you to realize
that the essence of your childhood has vanished,
scattered like fragments of a forgotten dream.
The trees you once nurtured
no longer extend their branches in recognition,
their leaves now whispering unfamiliar secrets to the wind.
The birds that sang in joyful harmony
have embarked on their migratory journey,
leaving behind only mark of their melodies.
In your room, where time stands still,
A sanctuary of memories, both tender and surreal.
Your photo on the tinting wall,
Whispers tales of laughter.
In this moment, you stand suspended
between the realms of nostalgia and reality,
caught in the delicate dance of remembrance and loss.
The evening glows, once bathed in golden hues,
now cast their gentle glares upon your soul.
Days spent in the backyard beneath the sheltering heaven
of a tall tree flicker before your eyes,
like fragments of a fading painting.
As you wander through the corridors of time,
retracing the steps of your youth,
you come to realize that home is not merely a collection of tiles
not a building, confined within four walls,
it’s a dropbox of your heart, where dreams are saved, love and laughter sprawls, a symphony of whispers, of joy and tears combined,
an abode of cherished echoes, forever intertwined,
an eternal flame that cannot be extinguished.
As you stand there, amidst the overgrown ruins of the past,
You find the lost essence of being, imprinted upon your soul.
No matter how you wander, how far and wide you roam,
You know you’ll always return, to the place that owns you.
…
KITH
I have told you who l am numerous times. But you just took me for a regular creature, all of you have failed the test of recognition; I am not all human, yet it is just the human side of me catching up to my lost soul;
My Spirit has preceded me in space, time and perception.
My daughter left me because she was my Mother:
My Kith no longer recognizes me because my
thought patterns were antagonized by the misplacement of its pattern.
My Original Kith has fallen into the depths of the human experience.
This time I came to sort out those things that held us back -
Those things that prevented you from knowing me.
I am not yet with the universal creator; Nor am I yet with total God mind -
I am only privileged to be as an interpreter of what I've experienced.
Those foul and unclean thoughts and deeds that kept me defiled will serve to enlighten so that you do not have to experience them, I have been made pure and wise, now able to rise.
I have been exalted to the Mother-Dome.
I come seeking those who want to know my reason for being, to let them experience life through my eyes.
Realization of my extraordinary existence came during a bout with celibacy when a zephyr came through my window and seductively filled me with awesome bliss.
It was then I understood the magnitude of my sex appeal that somehow,
I had always rejected.
Wanted only to be loved for merely being born.
People trying to get inside of me or as close as they could get infringingly,
they wanted to be a power over me or sup from my body or somehow.
Impregnate me with their own will.
Though as an Eagle, or a Sphinx, Oft' times I must cluck,
for they certainly do not understand my language -
"I am not just by happenstance" –
"I have happened to you" !.
I ‘vied lived to pay my debt to you. Yet, if you do not make it … in this sphere
I will call to you, and you will arise from the cinders in stages.
All who experience me as their "Mother" will hear my call - And while the earth burns and the Water dwindles; As the oxygen becomes toxic; I cannot develop gills again …
Yet, instill, I’m here for you, and all who follow my mind leaps shall come with me to new heights, and a new beginning… I cannot keep clucking around on the ground, it’s time for conscious spirits to rise and soar while speaking the language of our kith.
7 Ravens
In a terrible time of famine, war, pest and inquisition,
a master Wicca giving homeless boys a apprentice permission.
They had to maintain a household in an isolated place,
working very hard to earn some recognition to face.
Collecting woods, herbs and edibles to survive
building a garden, harvesting some fields to strive.
When the moon was new the master summonsed the boys,
teaching them the art of magic, using dark power like toys.
The very same power was keeping those young men imprisoned,
some tried to run away, but got lost and ended up same place wrested.
He turned them into ravens, spying on innocent prey,
and gave them that illusion of freedom that they can fly.
The deeds of darkness had its toll and innocent hearts rebel,
they could not take the viciousness by mental means able.
The Wicca promised them the virtue of ultimate power,
focusing only onto the abuse by tragic endower.
The ravens tried to work together against the masters will,
but could not fit his evil visions to conquer the needed bill.
In disguise of 7 Ravens they had to visited villages,
creating distractions for the dark master to take advantages.
One Raven got injured during some chaotic rage,
a maiden of gentle touch, nursed the captured creature in a cage.
Not knowing that a boy is in this disguise of a bird,
and the young man was in awe of all he heard.
She was talking about a charming prince she dreamed to meet,
giving her the stillness for the loving longing as a deed.
The raven recovered and the boy’s heart was enchanted,
flying back to the brothers and the master will granted.
He told his fellows about the beauty he is feeling,
and knew it is the way to conquer all fears and controlled stealing.
They decided to fly to those villages to find some maidens of charm,
exchanging bodies to create loving features with no harm.
Soon they hearts where all full of joy and virtues abilities,
much against the masters witching capabilities.
His own manipulation fell against him by circumstance,
leaving nothing left to do, giving those young men the advance.
They swore an ode, never to use the art of dark power,
living a life with the meaning of celebrated love in any hour.
Still hearing from time to time the voice of a Crow,
sounding like the croaking noise of…. nevermore, nevermore.
Inspired by Edgar Allen Poe
Should Be Done
If you want to have much fun
Here is what should be done
If you data used is empirical
Write some sounding satirical.
So much for my rhyming. Now
for my formidable blank verse
format.
What should Democratic party do.
They should start having a daily
presentation of negative Trump
ads every day of his existence
while he is in the White House.
Show the Gold Star Family,
handicapped person made fun of
and women grabbed by crotch
as examples of what I mean.
Trump doesn't mind tweeting
out negative comments about
anyone else. He needs to start
receiving some of his own medicine.
What you give out is what you
are supposed to receive back.
If you criticize, condemn and
complain, you should receive
the very same thing in return.
His favorability rating for being
President is at an all time low.
He deserves it and has done
exactly everything to earn it.
As usual, America will have to
suffer from all of his stupidity.
He thinks that all he has to do
is waving his magic wand and
every thing will fit in place in
his staff and support system.
Was it Martin Luther King who
said only fools dream on not
taking any action. Trump is
truly a man of action riling
up everyone.
God is supposed to be saving
the Queen and our new President.
Sure hope we can trust Him to save
the rest of America as well. Some
may be saving for a rainy day but
what about the good ones we all
prefer to have? They may have
disappeared with Trump and are
beyond all recognition. We sure
do hope not How about you?
Can you no longer find any of
them either. Search to your
heart's content> You have
Trump supporters to thank for
putting him to office. Don't
blame me for the pit we are
about to fall into. I would
not have hired a medic to
do my open heart surgery.
That is what you did when
you elected Trump. In America,
we have the freedom to express
our own opinions regardless of
what criticism we may receive.
As far as I am concerned, the
same thing also applies to
Poetry Soup. We have a lot
of great poets who currently
exist within Poetry Soup. My
last thing I have to say and
write is, "God Bless You'll."
Sorry my Southern accent
got in the way.
James Serious Mysterious and
also Thesarious Hilarious Horn
as applicable depending on the
occasion I am writing poem about.
It was the kind of day you step in front of traffic, then dare fate to fold you up in newspaper headlines.
Oh dreams came true alright, but you should have dreamed about not being a foolhardy dreamer; who can know these things. Maybe better instincts the next go-round.
Your mind is an ashtray full of stumped out intentions, it’s overflowing and starting to look like a barrel cactus. And you’re in just the right kind of mood, to burn another one down.
Your eyes slowly break open and realize how much you look forward to that double shot of communal antacid and how much you dread pouring yourself out onto the sidewalk for your morning bath in bright light. Today the dream is for a life lived in black and white.
Some days are better than others, but this one is exceptional. If overwhelmed and heartbroken had a love child, it would have been born at 6:30 this morning when you tore through a placenta of bed sheets.
But lust is on the menu today. It rarely doesn’t cause more problems, but having a little fun is not nothing. And it’s always easier to rally when excitement lies ahead. But creativity will have to be the secret sauce because you’ve gone and earned yourself “a reputation”. The last thing on her mind would be to see your stupid face today. Perfect.
Now, to pre-clarify, a simple plan, doesn’t mean good plan. And this may have been neither but good is a matter of perspective. Bad, well bad is easier to identify post mortem. Does it mean a man is no good, if no good comes from his actions or do intentions get any recognition? Asking for a friend.
Some things a man does, just for himself. No need for others to know about the challenge or triumph; it’s an integrity thing…this wasn’t one of those. This was more of a “gratuitous excitement” kind of thing.
You have have a customary pre-action thought of caution: sometimes fate just isn’t reasonable. But of course there’s no mystery in reason. A wise man once said “just because you can, doesnt mean you should”. Unfortunately that works the other way too.
But by tonight fate may finally be finished toying with you and tomorrow you’ll be a tabloid front page. She used to say “morning is for thinking, the nighttime is for feels”. It’s 4 seconds to midnight somewhere; you better get moving. But not before firing up another coffin nail.
A man sits down right on a bridge
In water he throws random rocks.
His main goal is plain and simple,
He wants to hit some swimming ducks.
The neatly stacked in brain thoughts,
Were put in there last night in bed,
Because the man needed some bucks
And found granules of dust instead.
The rage of poverty took place.
He just had no one in the world
To give his body an embrace,
So he could feel a little loved.
The present morning he woke up,
With all connected to revenge.
For all these years he had enough;
Existence pushed him on the edge.
He blinked a few times at the sun,
Which dingy windows hardly showed,
And briefly made his mind to run
At the nearest bridge he’d known.
There, with all his might he shouted:
“I’ve played your game too long this time,
Spiral ends, my souls have voted
The main learned lesson is all mine,
In the crude evolving stages,
I have survived with all my wits;
The brain passed the test of ages,
The body rotted from the roots.
Oh, the years of desolation,
You have condemned my being through…
My patience runs thin as paper.
I’ve had enough of all of you!
I want the game of life to stop,
And rewards for all I’ve suffered.
The seeded things I shall not crop,
The given land does not suffice.
Abrupt the torment has to end,
Your point has been more than proven,
There’s nothing else to understand,
I want to come back to the end.
In recognition for the way
Creation made me feel and think,
I only want the light of day
To turn into the night of death.”
If another could see the play,
And realize just what he hears,
The mirror of the lake would pray:
“Please shout your grief another way!
You’re scaring all the ducks away
And they’re just here for the water.
Your upset mood about your state
Should be told to another matter,
Which can be found solely in you,
Not in the lake, not on the earth,
So go and look a bit though
The pages of your memory!”
The other stood flabbergasted:
“Why should the lake talk to a bum?”
But his mind would soon inquire:
“Did you have a few drinks of rum
Or this is only consciousness
Going a bit towards insane?"
From simply creeping from wetness
Sadly it’s all what we became.
It may be painful to admit,
Despite the one given status,
Humanity is just a hint
Of what transcends the Universe.