Long Relatable Poems
Long Relatable Poems. Below are the most popular long Relatable by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Relatable poems by poem length and keyword.
Art of Maria Prymachenko was heralded by Picasso.
The colorful and bizarre world of life, gone insane.
Her fantastic beasts encapsulate the suffering
of the past and future Ukraine. Starvation prevails.
Horrors depicted from a harmless peasant. God
gifted her with brushes, paints, a surreal imagination
to depict the horrors of deprivation and cannibalism.
A colorful bird with her young in her mouth, appears
to be nurturing, but when the history of the Ukraine
is known, under Stalin’s reign, it is altogether
a macabre depiction of hunger in its morbid form.
Primal myths painted amidst blue-yellow sunflowers.
Maria’s experience as a young peasant girl in her twenties.
God took her away last century. Her paintings in Kyiv
are in jeopardy. She would be appalled at this latest
upheaval of the land she knew. Monsters once more!
Upheaval of breath, to starve, to lose your freedom…
but for fate, we’d be likewise reduced to our base selves.
Would we just lie down and sleep with a quaking belly
or tear flesh from the bones of the dead to quash our hunger.
Poets remain vigilant with imagery as artists stir paint.
Emotions in yellow and blue, hopefully not in red and white
too. We must cherish, be careful, be cognizant and wise,
lest we lick the boots of dictators that slither from the rocks.
O Lord quicken your compassionate heart and warm breath.
Let the nations pray for places on the map, relatable and
otherwise. All creeds and colors give peace, food, intact
family. Let the demons flee to their abysmal home in hell.
3/24/2022
https://www.theguardian.com/artanddesign/2022/mar/18/ukraine-best-loved-artist-peasant-maria-prymachenko-terrifying-fooled-stalin-dictator?fbclid=IwAR15mTkFFcXesz5n1yxaPLyKoXFR773Tvf6EMdzi7NXdaFpp6XeGuaICYPc
From my experience anyway
the face of a clock is generally
the face or faces of loved ones
hands~ our contribution of little
extremities that grow, fingers into grips,
arms into outside reaches not limited
to 12 -- like Christ~ the 13th
hearts, from single dwellings,
into villages, worlds and universes
from knowing self and significant
others, into intimate knowledge of
living Catechism...a personal, relatable
Thesaurus of God….
Let the pendulum swing
the gears turn
the crystal vibrate its warmth
the heart pulse from instinctive
memory toward the greater science of
eternal spirit
one is the journey to many
and all
the limitless truth of
Our Being One….
Step one
Smile like stitches not for joy
Just tight enough to hold you in
The kind of smile that never aches
But keeps your mouth from spilling
Step two
Speak after everyone has left
Let words fall where no one looks
Your voice belongs to empty rooms
Where no one asks or stays too long
Step three
Move quiet through morning fog
Become the blur behind the glass
The kind of shape no one recalls
But swears they almost noticed
Step four
Fold your hopes into small things
Crumple them like worn receipts
Hide them inside library books
Where no one cares to turn the page
Step five
When no one says your name aloud
Don’t correct or say it again
Let silence swallow the letters
Like they were never yours
Step six
Forget the weight of your footsteps
The way your shadow used to fall
Not vanished, just uncarried
Like dust that left the frame
Step seven
Smile until your jaw remembers
Not joy, just something practiced
It’s not about being okay
Only about being seen
Step eight
Start leaving before you’re missed
Let time erase you in pieces
Not vanished, just rewritten
Like a sentence no one finished
Step nine
Forget the sound of your voice
Let it blur behind the glass
Not erased but left behind
Like fog that doesn’t return
Step ten
Smile again,
Not because you’re okay
But because the mask
Fits better than your face.
What a fella what a lovely fella happened their way
What a generous fella to kindly offer all these gifts and his services for free
He was of the mind to give them some of his grub
But he waited until it got rank and mouldy first
He then offered them a sip of his tea
But thought it best to spit in it first
He was generous with his backhanded compliments
never missed a beat in his dance of deceit
his two faced stance well maintained to entice the flies to his web
Bothered to put on a show to appear likeable and relatable too, what a gent
As he knit picked at their lives and put a spin on every word they uttered
he meant to gently pump them up for intel for reasons known only to himself
A mission that sadly bounced hard and flopped
For that last bit I blame who ever created the character of James Bond
Has the likes of him curtain twitching and meddling for dear life
Convinced every foreign woman wants to get their mits on them, I mean resounding yuck please!
His exotic fare he elaborately served on a bed of fake pleasantly, seasoned with a dash of bogus laughter
He seemed appalled that they could be handed a chance at anything at all
before he got to take at least ten more chances that he doesn't even need
God forbid anyone else aside from him gets any upliftment
Joy should start and end only with him and his kin
and compassion should only ever be pointed his way
He enjoys his loot only when others stay beneath him, and thrives when disparity amounts
There is a hole where this man's soul ought to be
And that's if it was ever there in the first place
Maybe all he ever had is this humongous gaping emptiness
that he has to fill at all odds because its eating him alive
It seems it can only ever be filled by him generously spreading misery and contempt
He tries to fill it with greed and a haughty demeanour
Little does he know it will never suffice
Somethings no amount of wealth can ever buy
Maybe he never got enough hugs as a child
I mean one might be born into abject poverty
but it never stops their parents from raising loving compassionate children, one hug at a time
Sometimes that's all a soul needs to thrive
What a fella, poor fella with a stone for a heart
and pockets weighed down by gold
Form:
I was watching my childhood
When I saw them playing
On a ground of new-felt joy
No restrictions and they were enjoying
Saw what I was a vollyball
Used as a basket one
They were enjoying the moment
And that was enough fun
I saw a group playing volley
They didn't know the rules
Neither they had the skills for it
And they didn't care less
Another group played, on the same ground
It was a handball, used differently
It was a game of catch
And they were so happy
One ball came to me
It missed my face though
Thought I could return it
Then remembered the past of mine
I ain't good at the sport myself
But surely more capable then them
Thought I could teach them some
Then remembered, my own childhood
I was like them, they're better though
Didn't know how to play, but wanted to
Didn't had the stamina, yet enjoyed the game
Didn't had any restrictions, never wanted one as well
Never wanted one to interfere
In the game I played with my friends
Never wanted one to lecture
In the game where fun never ends
I know they'll learn soon enough
And will cherish the memories as I do
Should I teach them today the game
And they'll never have the mistakes to do
Won't they enjoy the stupid actions
Never will experience those self made rules
They'll lose their childhood freedom
Which was beyond, those formal rules
Let them enjoy the way they do
I had my childhood, so they do
Let them create some memories too
Which they'll cherish, by seeing what I saw through
Just a simple, earthy poet.
Here to learn and to share.
To impress you, never?
Hardly, the best poetess bear!
Just pens things simply relatable.
Though some~may consider me
mentally unstable?
That's so understandable!
In a world, that has lost in grip on
reality's handle.
In fear some live of diseases, past and
present.
While cancer, heart attacks, strokes
are far more prevalent.
But for now, to you, they are irrelevant?
No Kudos to the media and their death count
charts daily.
Your contribution to planetary fear, have
us waiting for death and making us live
insanely.
Your narratives are never true.
So many are surviving, but you pass over that
and tell death lies to bring up your revenue?
~~SHAME ON YOU. DEALERS IN DEATH~~
1-10-2021
5am PST
Your most recent interest in observational truth in laptop monitor
Gave you an ultimatum today.
He , as she, in he, as she again, grabbed you in all kinds of tree ,
remnant there before serenity
What is poetry, in the end?
Thinkable pedagogy, is , for the most bizarre reason, telling you
That this is comparable prepositions, with positionality
And the fruit of loom, or something relatable, there.
I felt a bang , and got a downsizing pounding sound,
Between, Jerusalem, Nazareth and prepaid Jesus to pay
More and more for a daycare say.
For a sip from the cup of the finest exported loose leaf tea
Are you a mere sip there, or you started to travel there, onsite
Creating all kinds of copyright issues, as the illegibility
Never declared you anywhere, in norms, in mother’s winter coat
Exactly how much was fatherly charm there, and how much there was a mere setting warmth
As people learn to happen in alibi as there is no straightforward way to find a definition or vision
Your cat was unthinkably your budget failure key, as they mew and sigh
But they were there, truly, with your most delicate caring try.
I think it is a joking endowment
As it will be a mere lump some .
Your rides and ride share with the knight rider storyteller
Only comparable to Little Red Riding hood
Changing the destined persona too, irreversible and altogether
I do not blame , judge , or juxtapose, there, I never pity too
But Bangla, and exactly 21 years long stay on this territory, with often heavy Bangla
I think I dreamt you last night, where you , as a soul and Clover, in a body
Did happen as the most charismatic duo! With a Zulkarnine monitor truth in!
Licking on the other side for hours and hours in longer duration
Will lead nowhere , exactly nowhere , other than, this, mortal life
Is a conscious choice between claim, proclaim and proclamation
I am a reluctant reader there, trying to look through, even beyond allegory and alighieri
You do not hold them accountable for your compositional hype for a dirge
That does not act linearly with your issue room, tissue room, and culture vulture too!
All you can say should stay there, for ever.
Do not send help reaching out there, never there
Simply a one liner truth for falling short from a papyrus poem, anyway
As this must be helping to internalize, more than anything than that.
A haunting piece whose power lies in how it encapsulates the inner voice of doubt, that many experience, but rarely articulate.
Does it feel personal and universally relatable, a fragile cry that lingers in the silence after the final question?
The Monologue of Self Doubt
(A lone voice whispers)
There's a secret place I sometimes go
Where the birds don't play
For all hopes of love and happiness have flown away
A sacred place where the skies are dull and grey all day
Sailing by lonely, with nothing to say
As I pray to a strange God and whisper
Why did you make me this way?
(C)
Copyright John Duffy
The success of a family
Is not based on talent
But by virtue and passion
Love is the nucleus that mend
All the relationship that binds
Every member to keep in touch
And contribute the welfare of everyone
Commitment is the first advantage
To make the ties strong
Loyalty is the energy that goes
Everyone's affection keep burning
Cooperation is the connector
That makes every member jive unity
In making things end meet
The success and failure of the family
Depend upon the leader that is working
Planning, initiating, and executing fairness
Intelligent, divisive and good governance
In making life, business and relationship
Alive, attainable, sustainable, dependable
Harmonious, relatable and fruitful life.
I’d be mad at the world
If you suddenly decided to write your story with a rope
Tied to a ceiling
Or a razor
Glided against your pulse
No one goes out without a story
And your story wasn't perfect
No one's is
But you couldn't write some things in your story
And in your story someone else altered it
To hurt you
So
Some pages are torn and wrinkled
I don't think you can mend all the pages
You can't fully straighten a crumpled paper ball
But you can smooth it out
And try as best as you can to fix it
There will always be scars
Trust me
But scars are healed wounds
And you can alter the future of your story
Always
And scars can fade over time
Or till they leave a tiny mark
Therefore
If your story got too long
And too dark
I wouldn't remember how you went out
Because I'd be too angry at the world
But I'd remember your mark.
-D.B