Long Relates Poems
Long Relates Poems. Below are the most popular long Relates by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Relates poems by poem length and keyword.
As it mingles within and by virtue of substance
relates to the air by the depth of its dance;
the smoke is persuaded to somehow pursue
the course of the breezes developed by chance.
On a journey through space, up a thread-bare stare,
encountering nothing by way of resistance;
the smoke gently glides on its presupposed mission
with nothing to measure the time but the distance.
Continually merging itself to its doom
the smoke on its partner relies
and the air borne of power does slowly consume
til the last of the smoke calmly dies.
And as I relate to the passage of time
and the dreams that I sloppily wear;
I see in myself, and my journey with life,
less smoke with each year and more air.
Golden Locks
within the minute of retreat your back is tuned to your enemy's chorus
harmonic to your freedom, measured by compassion, anxiously seeking their humanity
thought ascending from stars see's an ounce of mercy surrounded in darkness
a defeated purpose which drove them to the heavens
those who have reserved hope find some place to accept the truth
a test of how far our courage outlast the chaos from all life's passed
mystery's enlightened path never reached the end of suffering
to the likeness of a fumbled method
we could now follow like the atoms of Eve
disconcerted absence to our eutrophic eyes
spreading legs like artificial soul
momentarily creators of their own excitement
movement supported by those who think your great
everybody who realizes the dream
shape your reflection and let the background find it's own feet
Apparent peace soon merged with equality
freedom's lark rests on the soles of a war monger's foot
peace showed up in a fresh pair of socks
the talking corps relates a message conspired by his earthy tones
sighting the great spoils and burnt offers of a desired sin
while designs of old are searched for something missing
past events re-invented an old tool of the government this ambiguous wireless chip
lets us say all of thing they can tax and the rest we make it our garden patch
My hobby is making Coffee-Table Photo Books.
I work on them until I am pleased with the way each one looks.
I make personalized calendars, a picture to each month I must choose.
Then off to the printers, there’s no time to lose.
Coffee table photo books are the most fun of all.
A book for Christmas, Summer, Spring, Winter, or Fall.
It can be a lifetime masterpiece, a hundred pages or more.
Or a book devoted to a holiday enjoyed at the seashore.
I did one for Granddaughter when living in Australia came to an end.
Her photo book had pictures of the good times in OZ with each friend.
One devoted to the Girl Band she was in touring the States.
The group was Fyne China and of great memories the book relates.
The one of Mum and Dad spanned from the time each was a kid.
Through their sixty-seven years of marriage and everything they did.
The one I did for my lovely Mum in Law had her beautiful wedding gown.
Spread across the cover from front to back and up and down.
A photo book of our house and how it grew, pictures when it was new.
To a massive five-bedroom two story, now it’s way too big for just we two.
I’ve made photos books for friends and all our pets take up one.
I love my hobby. The best part of all is seeing the finished book is so much fun.
Caught In A Sunstorm
(1)
Often on days when I am spent
And I am dry from a dyke burst
Of words
And the sun is hot in heaven
Wrapping me in sensuous warmth
There occurs the moment
Of that kind of woman.
For being sick to death
Of brand-name ethics, I rebel
And turn away to give play
To my mind
Where that kind of woman and I
Can romp unseen
By decaying eyes of half-humans
(2)
She will say
She knows nothing of Sartre
As she lies there naked
Like perfect work from Rodin’s hands.
He would approve, I say,
Because we are here together,
Now,
She tells me
She was with a circus once
As she demonstrates the split.
Good exercise and constant practice
Were her secrets to success.
I asked if she performed upon the high wire
And she relates tales of how
She would sit upon her partner’s shoulders
As they walked in space above a million eyes
But most of all she liked the trapeze,
Swinging by her knees
Upside down so all was blurry:
“It was good for the thighs,” she says
“See?”
A calliope plays at a distance
As hours pass; we never tire
For the mind has inexhaustible energy
We drink pink wine to make us laugh,
And she swings from her knees
Recalling the blur of love
(3)
As she slept, I took my leave
Because the sun was setting
And I felt its warning chill,
The movement of the planet
Controlled our time together,
And it was good
Knowing that a higher order prevailed
Upon the movement of our bodies,
The power of the mind,
The shifting of the planets
The moment of that kind of woman,
The equation of life and truth
That we eternal nomads seek.
(4)
Why must this moment lie obscure,
Hidden in rejection
Until there must be love?
Can a burning star contain the warmth of love?
For love is painful when it burns
Leaving ugly scars.
Yet she came with the sun
Leaving only comfortable fatigue
Whose sunlike burn remains,
A gentle tan:
The imprint of her body and her soul.
She will come tomorrow — if I choose,
And the next day and the next
Until I tire
Of that kind of woman
Whose perfection and endlessness
Are guaranteed by the sun
That lights my internal world.
WHAT SHALL I DO?
My sleepy, drowsy mind finds
A blurry hindrance now incline;
No flickering flow to define
A fragment that reveals in kind.
I stare with fuzzy feelings blind
Not knowing what words flood or ooze;
A writer's block in spite of booze
Can write no wrong in cryptic signs.
No signal in the least can hint
The odd thinking that screams aghast;
No pleasure of the remote past
Can move the groove of a clear tint.
Here I sit in idle wait to write
A vivid verse where stanzas glee;
Wait at the gate where soul flings free
The splurge of feelings where words cite.
"What shall I do?" my wait relates
To certain trust to faith most clear;
Focus quite still that prompting dear
That fashions poetry that's not late.
No need to blame my fate for this
Journey journal of lovely writes;
For in the cause of seeking cite
My stumble on such subtle bliss.
That inspirational mood comes
As if the soul must reveal thought;
Watch words confront feelings to slot
A jazzy wave beyond mere sums.
Thus the moments verge on the brink
As if some inner light knows best;
Swift and crisp writes flood fond inquest
In a sense beyond sense I think.
Leon Enriquez
26 October 2017
Singapore
It was the time when art was king,
Of artists whose praises we all sing.
Great minds there were in the Renaissance,
Through eons , unsurpassed, with little advance.
Greatness was embodied in the works of art,
In Lorenzo's gardens did Michelangelo start.
But great there was one of Mona Lisa fame,
Master painter, inventor - Leonardo his name.
Contemporaries for sure, one really wonders
Of the two, whose work steals the thunders.
David, the Pieta, Sistine Chapel, and more
Everlasting they are through ages sure.
But then there's the Lisa, Last Supper, inventions galore.
On their ingenuity and genius, the world lays great store.
Can genius be bestowed in multiple men?
Can peace and tranquility be shared even then?
Can two kings sit and reign on one throne?
Or squabble and fight like two dogs with one bone?
And so, these men of unparallel fame
Were set by chance a mischievous game.
Asked they were to adorn the Council Hall
With paintings to settle rankings once and for all.
With gusto did the two set about
A Battle each to prove their clout.
Leonardo chose the battle of Anghiari;
Battle of Cascina was Michelangelo's quarry.
Great was the strife between the two,
Each strove hard for the other to outdo.
Of the rivalry ,I heard, - the worst of all,
Art was the victim - and the two took a fall.
Relates the great chronicler Vasari,Giorgio,
That the nadir of art was seen in the Palazzo Vecchio
As each of the greats thought little of their craft
But dallied and diddled, till the populace all laughed.
The Cascina on naked bathing soldiers was based
On the banks of the Arno it was placed.
But the scene that was rendered was so ludicrous
That his work, sadly, bordered on the ridiculous.
Leonardo's Anghiari was a shade grim
But his chances to greatness was very slim.
He used oils from Pliny the Elder's recipe
But soon these flaked , were smudgy, and drippy.
Be that as it may
To Art's great dismay
What should have been great works
Were diminished by Rivalry's quirks.
Vasari painted over these objets de art
And replaced these with his own from the start.
Now conservators do scan, to see if they can,
Which of the two, Leonardo or Michelangelo, was
The painter of the elusive Magnum Opus.
~18 Jun 2016~
Children are free,
No real responsibilities.
Whispering about one another..
Look at them,
Looking at me.
Let us go spend some money,
Hehehe!
Being young,
Playing video games until the sun comes up;
Until the sun goes down.
Cartoons-cartoons-cartoons..
Young,
Can I go outside?
Please please please?!
Can I have some candy?
Can I?
Can I?
I promise I will be good..
Showing off the biggest smile.
Children can not seem to wait;
Are we there yet?
Jumping up and down-
How about now?!
Be young,
Being young.
Time seem to pass-
One blink,
It is gone too fast.
Being young will be a memory of your past.
To my beloved sister- Troy,
Lived a life feeling young as she could.
She never wanted to grow,
Being young.
Now as she relates to her favorite fairy-tale story;
Sleeping Beauty-
As we miss you in every way,
We all smile knowing you are off to play.
Be young,
Have fun,
Let your life be a game,
Let us play!
God moves on, and works even
with those who left Him,
like Moses with his fancy
Egyptian ways--God reels him in,
knowing deep down that Moses
is a holy man--then sends the
plagues and parts the sea to
make the ones He chose free.
Ah, and to repay the favor,
while Moses climbs up and up
(and God now shows only as
a burning bush, face hidden!),
the people party, party hard!
They melt their rings, earrings,
all the gold they got to make
what? An idol, a stupid golden
calf that didn't do a damn thing
to get their butts outta Egypt!
Sure, God must have been pissed
(and maybe brokenhearted again)
but Moses was livid! Smashed those
tablets God Himself wrote on, and
probably felt like smashing more
than a few dumb-heads as well!
So God goes away,or so it seems--
no longer making personal appearances,
instead seeing how humans get along
on their own... not well it seems:
wars, oppression, poverty, despair
(any of this sound familiar?)
until one day He sends His own son,
the apple of His eye, His beloved
sweet-tempered child, AND He sends
him to save the world, yet
NOT ALL AT ONCE-- (something both
believers and deniers may forget)
but one person, one soul at a time
for that is how God relates--
He may hide His face, but not His voice.
The singer looks at the now empty stage
His voice guarded deep in his warm throat
Shielded by a high neck shirt he wore
Singing with passion from down within
Rehearsing day and night until it’s right
Blended rhythms and notes run the scales
Clinging in smoky night clubs like a shadow
Getting your pay with crumbled dollar bills
Go from gig to gig if it makes you whole
Your songs will make them dance and spin
Like a magic spell being cast far and wide
Allow your words to heal wounds and scars
And when you have earned your keep
Collect the spoils from your conquest sweet
Gobbled champagne and fancy caviars
And your heart beats crashed musical chart
Find the singer who was once loved
The brilliant heart that once lived in joy
Consider yourself a singer without a heart
Who has traded his soul from the start
As it ends the conquest will lose its spark
Come to your senses and stop this slide
You may be witted and sharp as a tack
Don’t get eluded and slip—stay on track
Comments: This is a narrative dialogue poem. It sets the stage one may
probably find in a conflicting situation. It develops into a complication, reaches a
crisis then falls into a resolution. It displays connections, alienation,
disconnections, and a turning point where a change takes place between a
protagonist and antagonist. The ending brings about a resolution after a
dramatic point has been reached. Give it a try one day, and I will give it a review
for you. It must be very interesting and relates to real life.
We tramp along the fire-trail to see a water view;
The sand is damp from morning rain, and imprints of our shoes
Are stamping in beside the chequered tracks of cycle tyres
As Brett relates the names of trees and flowers we admire.
Ahead of all the others, Catherine strides for fitness’ sake,
Behind her we are chatting as we walk a slower pace,
The little child among us plays with his MacDonald’s toy;
We bring the city with us like a trundling horse of Troy.
Repeated fluted notes of hidden butcher-birds in song
Are drawing us to scan the treetop places they belong,
And there a pair of wanderers, two orange butterflies,
Are touching wing to wingtip as they bumble through the skies.
Horizons panoramic – hill to hill of living green,
And valleys dipped in liquid blue, are all that can be seen,
Except a mini-motor-boat that writes in straight white bands,
Except a distant model train that's smaller than my hands.
And then a misting rain begins to smudge the lines with grey,
And boats and trains and roads and homes in fog are blurred away.
We walk again between the trees; their leaves, our skins are pearled:
The gentle dew of innocence falls softly on the world.