Long Reconciling Poems
Long Reconciling Poems. Below are the most popular long Reconciling by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Reconciling poems by poem length and keyword.
Independent Thinking
_______________________
a jingle janglein my pocket one day i did hear
not much too do a thing with
left me in my ponder about this problem i did wonder
Upon my life i have thought
not much more than i could think
but reconciling life in my deepest thought
i could not find me
im not so old i know too much
and not so young i know not such
but im here right now and wonder upon life
and how or what feels right
influences come from so many ways
so many ways across my days
i followed rightly
i followed wrongly
but followed me so very rarely
Rarely have i have given champion to myself
so very rarely have i believed in me
but as this gentle breeze blows across my brow
do i now want to be
For all my errors i love them so
and todays the day i let them go
Let them build the man i see the man i crave to be
Me
My strength i pull from what has made me weak
and against those weakness i shall find my peak
No judge can be more cruel than i
and in my actions my life will thrieve
I am here because of me
and its me who i want to be
stronger in myself, stonger in my strength
i rebuild my essence
I am no longer frieghtened of me
and find pride in my strength
for its something ive always had
but left behind for something else
My days now help me grow, it lets me be
i can hear the music, that i have been deafened to
my reflection lets me see and determines i will be
so many small things now mean so much more
one day at a time i am now a believer in me
each moment i grab, grabs each moment i need
and i need like all people i need
and like all people i will be
my sleep is now content with each day i wake
and with each day i wake so too my love for me
i will be the best me for me
and with me, so shall the lives i touch be
nothing or no one can be me as much as i will be
i am now my own man
original and strong
my essence is free
Baloo Murri
Tangled in confusion, a nomadic disenchantment,
Comraderie, we thought it was, is apethic callous,
Yet still exists a languid hope for remants of a promise,
That one day amoretto though absturce and in concealment,
Will find itself exposed to the vainglory of revealment,
Then Philanderous fancy shall alter to enamor,
And our creases of affection will sonor into furrow,
Reconciling want to be's in sorrow of tomorrow,
But once the dream is dared upon will fancy turn to nightmare?
The vicious trend could end of wanting in our recollection,
If nostalgia felt for false could cause feigned memory to be?
What is and what shall never be.
You cannot tell someone how to be poetic.
One of the beauty's of God's creation is variety.
Everyone has a different way to view the world. So expression is personal and how they do it,
is how they do it.
You can dislike the well and the pump,
the water may be bitter, but poetry is a pipe.
A pipe is a pipe. (I suppose you can hit
someone in the head with a pipe,
O but this one likes it?!)
Contrite=Clean pipe=poetic hydration= delicious
A garden, apologetics' pardoned.
So many topics of value to water and brighten
in synthesis
Most relatable in at least one way,
some maybe a vantage point yet to be reached.
Poems written, certainly make sense to the Poet,
intent for them
timing of delivery.
The poem vehicle is guiltless and clean.
All non maliced expression is beautiful.
Beauty is there to be seen.
Reaching others is beautiful,
poets know what I mean.
Indeed, a contrite heart's expression cannot be
told how to beat, rhythm or song.
Channel the mind's lifeblood to transfuse
in drops of iv connection.
It is a personal inner working, each
with personality,, a variety, multiplicity, complexity, ingenuity with it's multitude throng of shadows long. ing, to show a cog run
spilling for a dawn ing, kaleiding
with its own gratuity,
with other spring unleashings, seasonings
scent of sprigs sprung reconciling-filing,
suns setting down,
pages aglow with flavors abound for of sight,
sense, touch of taste- of the profound.(a bit much?
No)
A psalm, a palm, a plum, a tongue
(testing, tasting litmus for the truth)
Expression is our spirit animal's instinct.
How can instinct of feeling, "intuition" be wrong?
You may be wrong, but your feelings are always true.
They are a telling of the truth as you know it.
So transpose your interpreter,
3D ink your printer, lube for that ultrasound hum,
seeing reaction, scan for it
and hope for more, so that we can see what
was in you all along.
Then throw up in the bottomless pit,
because you are impregnated with it.
It is squishy, you can feel it in the pit,
under your feat.
ETCHED IN STONE
The marks are recently made, I’m sure
And appear like letters etched in stone
There’s a message here for me to find
I can just make out what’s been carved
With a line through it, as if it is halved
Perhaps someone’s changed their mind
Their expectations of love, now blown
But such is the way it goes with amour
Maybe rediscovered in years to come
Two names, one heart, just says it all
If unrequited love had caused the line
But to carve it in stone is a lot of fuss
It is perhaps, a message for each of us
That it takes a long time just to resign
And to accept that taste of bitter gall
Resolved, with more depths to plumb
But these are no more than scratches
A knife gets blunt quickly, doing that
Hard granite, after all’s said and done
It may be why the line cuts the heart
Possible love at first sight, at the start
And rejection soon after it was begun
But underneath it an etched reply sat
A reconciling message and it matches
Belated condolences extolling fateful tragedy...
befalling beloved Khurana's
https://www.nbcphiladelphia.com/news/local/
Montgomery-County-Small-Plane-Crash-527480941.html
Published Aug 8, 2019 at 7:03 AM |
Updated at 1:14 AM EDT on Aug 9, 2019
The missus shrieked
with horror watching
and hearing in
disbelief and shock
catastrophe costing
three precious lives,
Macbook Pro laptop
wallpaper agonizing reminder
(though poem previously written
subsequently mailed to
immediate family relations),
I still feel numb
(albeit NOT comfortably)
reconciling inexplicable reality
with recollection to distill
their true value
when yours truly and kin
(sleeping spouse plus,
our two grown daughters)
lived on Greentree Lane
about three doors up
quite some years ago,
yet their untimely deaths
affect me weeks later
thus poetic memoriam
culled out and begged
express impossible mission
attempting to comprehend
profound loss community
of medical professionals
still must experience
stunned with grief
already latter half month
of August 2019 elapsed.
Though only casual acquaintance
husband/ wife doctors
Jasvir Khurana professor of pathology
and laboratory medicine
at Temple University
Lewis Katz School of Medicine
with a focus on bone pathology
and Divya Khurana (respectively)
a professor of pediatrics and neurology
at Drexel University
College of Medicine,
specializing in pediatrics,
sleep medicine and pediatric neurology
earned national recognition
as decades long leader in epilepsy
and mitochondrial disorder.
Nineteen year old daughter,
Kiran Khurana
youngest of two daughters
graduated Harriton High School
two thousand eighteen
in Bryn Mawr, Pennsylvania
sadly also perished
single-engine Beechcraft Bonanza
crashed behind homes
along Minnie Lane near
Morris Road in Upper Moreland.
Since time immemorial
happenstance bestowed *****sapiens
ability to become self aware
double edged figurative sword
allowing, enabling, providing...
forebears of yesteryear
to marvel at life, and
reckon with death,
which mixed blessing
confronts twenty first century
man/womankind with dilemma,
albeit reconciling mortality
linkedin with consciousness
heightened, tested, under_scored...
particularly at demise dearly departed
inadvertently affect
upon surviving family members
hijacking, offsetting, upending...
fracturing emotional composure
prompting immediate questions
regarding purposefulness living
nee, being born essentially to die
predestined to pass away
identical fate decreed upon
all animals and plants
bolstered by believing deity
foreordained every creature
past, present, and future,
yet most pronounceable afflicting
non denominational, non
religious, non sectarian
case in point Unitarian,
vis a vis visa versa secular humanists,
especially nonsensical poet wannabe
riddled with perplexity
about nature of being alive
wondering what explains
essence constituting individual fluke
finding meaning scuttling
across world wide web
hither and yon, to and fro
dumbfounded at futility
absolute zero adequate answers
(again, unless one subscribes
to codified doctrinal dogma
i.e. religion, faith, creed...)
I attest as garden variety primate
baffled, flummoxed, nonplussed...
why chance genetic dice throw
gifted me finite time
solely to contemplate
(more than just my navel)
meaningfulness analogous
to scrutinizing Möbius strip
unable to identify
inscrutable mystery
defining random existence
specifically essence
happenstance/circumstance begat me
Matthew Scott Harris.
Just like the prodigal son
Who found himself lost and alone
There comes a moment in time
When darkness leaves joy surrounded
By shadows and secrets, weakness
Just like the moment in life
When hope breathes wonder so alive
Through the spirit of those who remember
What it is to know despair, such fear
That nothing in nightmares can compare
Just like the memory reveals
Trembling whispers of inspirations so real
They bring the heart a feeling of light
Grace that appears to bring peace from the doubt
Promising comfort that stirs beneath each prayer
Just like the prodigal son realizes
The way toward home is much more appealing
When there is comprehension of this trouble
Abiding in the winds of seclusion, disillusionment
Burning through the elation, stalking anticipation
Just like the sunlight who rains
Second chances for the kindness of its rays
Reconciling the serenity pleading, praying
For the embrace of a love beyond description
Love like this is more than brilliant – it is exquisite
Love like this is His gift to those who believe Him!
Graciousness
Graciousness reaches out to smooth, to embrace, ruffled emotions
Looks beyond affronts – lifting mercy up on reconciling arms
True thoughtful courtesy caresses inflamed scars like a soothing lotion,
Graciousness reaches out to smooth, to embrace, ruffled emotions
Listens with a chivalrous heart – welcomes kindness compassion born
Sidesteps anger’s open pitfalls - sees past the commotion.
Graciousness reaches out to smooth, to embrace, ruffled emotions
Looks past affronts – lifting mercy up on reconciling arms.
11-11-20
Contest: Graciousness Triolet
Sponsor: Mohan Chutani
Only during mercurial twilight can one discover,
From tasting the rich and varied fruits of life,
From recollective journaling, record and recover.
From the many battle scars implanted in strife.
Journaling grants a private, swirling pen profiling.
It vents spontaneous moments of mindfulness.
Journaling opens windows to nightmare reconciling.
It instinctively resets resilient laughing playfulness.
The soul is an inner flame of karmic consciousness.
It seeks its purpose in every new reincarnation.
It must assert itself in each timidity and forthrightness.
It changes form and color with every transformation.
The cumulative journal entries embody a repository.
They bind together survival, identity, and self-worth.
They answer buried questions and address latent stories.
They calm the anxious brood, affirming each rebirth.
A diary is a constant companion, a faithful friend.
A diary speaks in forgotten tongues, in any dialect.
This scroll, this twilight dossier speaks without end.
This log records each and every strength and defect.
Only during mercurial twilight can one discover,
From tasting the rich and varied fruits of life,
From recollective journaling, record and recover.
From the many battle scars implanted in strife.
You were my river, my white water rapids rushing.
I recall your floating liquid eyes in my whispering vespers.
You were my noblest test, but then your loss came crushing.
My realization too late, I was left living among the lepers.
Still, I sip your supper on my florid palate of your beguiling.
I recall each day, my grieving litany of meager failures.
I keep your smiling pictures and I covet our reconciling.
For me, the reflection of our tender amatory still allures.
Taking you for granted, I met your power to annul.
I surely got my just dessert, this harsh desert in my chest.
But I am alive, recalling our fresh love on a separate channel.
In my delusion, we circle in dance, our bodies in sexual arrest.
Of course, I know my reenactments can never bring you home.
Instead, it is tenderness never lost that inspires this poem.