Long Remotest Poems
Long Remotest Poems. Below are the most popular long Remotest by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Remotest poems by poem length and keyword.
Chanting vibes in Bangla, I sing
Bengali, words confluence in lyrical verse
O glory be! I envision thee in inner me
I caress thee in remotest pristine Bangla waterfalls.
Chanting vibes in Bangla, I sing
Bengali, words confluence in lyrical verse
O glory be! I envision thee in inner me
I caress thee in remotest pristine Bangla waterfalls.
Chanting vibes in Bangla, I sing
Bangla, words confluence in lyrical verse
I vision in Bengali, as my melody flows in her
Affection cradles me, while roaming this far.
Bengali speaks in Subtle poems, Jibanananda resonates in soul within
My yearning is quenched in thirst, as your face solace reason.
I ponder once in her tranquil face
I ponder there for incessant times.
I speak in my Bangla,
I speak for my Bangla
Submerged in Bangla,
I smile. Weave in verse,
and verse reflects in sense.
I speak in my Bangla,
I speak for my Bangla
Submerged in Bangla,
I smile. Weave in verse,
and verse reflects in sense.
I rejoice in Bengali. With all my exclamations
I mourn for the fallen, along the way, forgotten.
I cringe in silent cry, mourn as Bangla surges
Intellect fosters, too much helpless a situation.
I ponder once in her tranquil face
I ponder there for incessant times
Bangla is my resilient oath,
The sharpest aim in arrows in flights.
I ponder once in her tranquil face
I ponder there for incessant times
Bangla is my resilient oath,
The sharpest aim in arrows in flights.
I ponder once in her tranquil face
I ponder there for incessant times.
I love thee. My verses, Bangla, an eloquent evocation
I love along my Bangla , one silent simpering resonance
Bangla. O my utterance in my truest may!
I hold thy grace, with my earnest hands,
and boldly tell the world, say!
I love thee. My verses, Bangla, eloquent evocation
I love along my Bangla , one silent simpering resonance
Bangla. O my utterance in my truest may!
I hold thy grace, with my earnest hands,
and boldly tell the world, say!
I greeted her, on a generous moment
with grace and courage. Humility.
Where the Seven Oceans and merging rivers
churns in the ballads of the Ganges and the ever-enchanting Padma.
Bangla quenches my inner thirst
The boldest droplet that lasts for long,
I ponder once in her tranquil face
I ponder there for incessant times
And cherish for my evergreen murmurs of a Bangla song.
A
question
that
never
slumbers
to the end
of hour,
is love exchanging views with
that of why. For both are
never ending, and never
ending are the pupils standing
seamlessly upon an exampled
tulip celebrated and cherished
known to man as female. A
female of whom among us
constitutes as God’s monumental
gift. Oh how thy sleep soundly
in the midst of her pedestals,
breathing in oxygen as
dehydration metamorphose
to liquid tears and unrehearsed
palpitation waltzes about thy
heart. Not even in the remotest
degree that today is of yesterday.
For whom to have known that two
visitors would
long to be
lovers of
love to
the extent
now
being
in
love.
Pace INK-U-SCRIPT
03-06-2013
A night of deep and dreaming sleep on a warm and firm mattress with appropriate coverings was not necessarily an item on our wish list, because we drew accustomed to the more simpler forms of mattresses that were not firm but filled with cotton, and sleep was obtained without regards to levels of comfort.
These cotton filled softies were not designed for sitting, nor for afternoon naps, and God forbid that kids should ever consider jumping on them.
These home made sleeping beauties did not sit on top of high tech and well developed inner springs designed to support the big cushions of cotton filled cloth, but rather were placed right on to flat springs of iron fitted into the bed frames made of wood and also iron.
If there was anything missing from these beds and mattresses, I suspect it would have been a sign board that read, “For Sleepers Only”. In some cases when that did not suffice, perhaps one would have continued to read the fine print, “All others, please do not sit, touch, or stare for long”.
Indeed, true sleep really happened; And O no, I never heard any complaints of back aches derived from mattresses filled with cotton. On each night that a sleeper arrived, these designer recliners were prepared to receive all comers, providing sweet sleeps.
When the morning arrived and sleepers arose from their sunken comfort zones, whether immediately or later after breakfast, someone’s chore was to “make the bed”. Today, if ever the expression “make the bed” occurred, it would be clear to mean that we straighten the pillows, spread and tuck the sheets, and top it off with coverings of blankets or quilts.
O how wonderful is the mind endowed with the power to recall the most distant memory! Sometimes the downloads of the remotest things come to the surface which were not so trivia in prior years. In those seemingly ancient times, “Make the bed” had at least one more chore no longer relevant in our homes today.
It simply meant that we open the cotton holders known as “bed-ticks”, and stir up the cotton inside, making the mattress smooth and attractive once again. Then, and only then, was it ready for sleepers the next night.
Sleep well my friend.
cj04132015
Yesterday evening the shivering and drenched birds
were unkindly tossed to shore,like a wrecked ship,
by violent,unexpected storms;
finally calmness is felt,at noon, over the inlet...
as soft and overlapping waves
roll through blazing reflections!
While another sunset is so anxious to go,
some lamp-post is triggered by an insolent shadow;
earlier the huddled pelicans sought safety
under the wide cherry trees on that hill...
to audibly utter certain sounds of compliancy:
will they be induced by a deep sleep, while
quietly awaiting darkness to subside
on the deserted and arid beach?
The silent birds are extremely weary
from their long,adventurous travels,
and nothing is more urgent than to doze
in the remotest place they chose;
and who wouldn't enjoy those lovely moments
of perfect and salubrious tranquillity...
by not being taken over by indulgence or necessity?
And who couldn't be gladier than the unrestarined retriever
sniffing the wet sand and digging deeper...
to stalk,with sharp claws,the scurring worms?
Across the broad channel so lively and colorful,
the speeding motor-boats are more resilient
to challenge the gentle waves of a calm ocean;
miles away,westward,the breathless sky-crapers
don't feign their beauty and supremacy
by looking less stylish or stupendous!
The stenchy and miserable homeless man
has already confined himself to a predictable fate,
but who can revel in someone's misery,
and not being the least shameful?
Finally the gullible wind is shifted to the east
by flinging clouds, somewhat too rapid to follow;
a police helicopter soars over the obscure bay
trying to reach its destination timely...
soon to disappear in the vast,twinkling sky...
already succumbing to thick shadows advancing so fast,
but the fearless lovers lay on soft blankets...
to indulge in their night passions shamelessly!
Journey' End
Seeing Franklin in the Music City I realised it is my journey's end
If the goddess of wealth would rain money and generosities
I would live in Franklin with my three daughter's families
One is already living there, moving in with two more would be easier
A place has value only because of people residing there
I would buy my own cottage with a flowery arbour
With three other cottages around for our utopia
Near Jackson Lake with ducks gliding for my grandchildren to enjoy
A country that gives way to an ambulance and won't let you die
Even in the remotest place is a country that cares for your life
The roads are broad and smooth where your bones don't rattle with bumps
Windows are without wire meshes and nature is crystal clear
Can see the beauty with the naked eye without obstruction
Clean grocery from round the globe sans cheating
Friendly faces eager to help, soothing to the heart and eye
Walking down the arcades a wave, a greeting and a smile
Being moneyed I would charter an inflow of loved ones to my utopia
The mesmerising autumn colours made me want life to just stop
The freshness in the air is all so energetic and rejuvenating
The week end trekking trails, yachting and exploring
New experiences experimenting to enliven life in all its spheres
All these add-ons make life worth living, more value
In my next life I wish to be born here with happiness abounding
I'm sure god listens to the hearts ticking away their time!
SECOND
Balveen Cheema
October 27, 2015
Contest: If You Had The Money Where Would You Like To Live And Why?
Sponsor: Mystic Rose
* This poem is specially written for my daughter who lives there as an expression of my love to be with her always.
Life has an unseen, funny side...
more thrilling than a pony's ride;
am I so discouraged and doubtful without a realistic insight,
to give upon my half-won battles,
and the people who seem uncaring?
But does it mean that no flame is burning,
and the hands on the clock have stopped moving;
how long have you known me and didn't see my woes?
O friends, I don't mask myself under disguise,
and I don't hide beyond the false smiles to genuinly express myself;
anything I say or do is a pure delight and surprise!
Externally I may seem friendly and affectionate,
but internally I churn the bitter reality of my plight:
a lonely seeking the unlonely on the edge of a cliff,
where his voice is stronger than the hot wind;
a fearless voice echoing amid the massive and rugged canyons of the desert!
Come rain, and soothe my thirst with your raindrops, wash my hands and feet
that need to rest after the longest and remotest jeourney;
in a dark cave, I will find refuge and by the crackling fire I'll sleep!
And peeking through the shadows, I'll see many stars twinkling to keep me company;
and what else, beside this guitar can cheer up a lonely seeking the unlonely?
Huddled under this warm blanket, I'm too confortable to go hunting, although I'm hungry;
beer and chili are enough to fill up my belly until light shimmers through the thick fog,
then would I feel like a lonely seeking the unlonely...if the pelting rain inspired a song?
Copyright 2009 by Andrew Crisci
We trudge through life for unworthy causes,
and quite often it's too much of a great risk
to outlive those hardships and come out victorious;
but it's in fighting that we regain our lost strenght...
We build treasures
and see in them glimpses of restlessness,
never dauntless courage:
only to realize our bitter disppointments;
and the smallest victory seems
only a delusive dream,
falsely envisioned and capable
of drawing us to its realm...
Why should we take
the taunted mystery out of divination?
To make us aware of our realities
so riddled with self-doubt,
which won't require explanations,
considering only the ones worth-keeping
by simply avoiding those less-promising!
Will we be guided by a sense of intuition?
Rise above your pretentious state,
spark and enhance your aspirations;
and take in consideration
the truthful words of a wise man,
"Life can be a nurturing mother from within...
always giving us dauntless courage!"
Achievements are the fruit of planted dreams,
where the relentless and unrivaled spirit expresses
its emotions through fairness and truth;
and whenever a misguided soul
wanders off into the remotest darkness:
it will die without having felt
or possessed any significant worth!
And being held captive and deprived
of the simplest joys that ignite tears,
it will have no other reason to avenge!
And,all in all,it had wished
to have sought dauntless courage...
“Life is too short to be serious all the time. So, if you can’t laugh at yourself, call me and I’ll laugh at you.” - Anonymous
Silliness is not a curse, it's a blessing if you care to know.
To be serious and smug is what all fake people like to show.
To be light-hearted and silly billy is not a sin, blunder.
Seriousness is malady best killed before life's asunder.
Silliness helps you break the ice and lightens life's many burdens
Prudish approach inevitably makes you miss all the guerdons
Life itself throws silliest of problems have you ever noticed.
In love matters, you've no idea even the remotest
And if you take silly matters seriously life becomes hell.
It's from certain foolish experiences I can simply tell.
When serious becomes silly, and silly becomes serious,
You're inviting troubles in your life and it becomes tedious.
Experience says silly behaviour can be rewarding too.
If it's not overdone, beyond measure, and you are truly you.
I've heard humour and silliness are natural, free, stress-busters.
Laconic, but timely silly jokes can be happy life's thrusters.
So, do not underestimate what appears a silly half-wit.
Despite appearance, he's the happiest soul you care to admit.
END OF HISTORY…..
The heavens haven’t changed for all history.
Bright Venus shimmering in the dark sky..
Does anyone on that shining planet know our problems?
Did even we know what they were? -
I can’t recall the strike date of COVID 19
Was it 2020? 2030? 2040?
I just recall the hopeless blackness
Of the world before the strike.
The endless lying from US and UK bankers,
Time-wasting on sanctions and petty war priorities.
Dull Earth shivering under feverish skies:
We never tackled planetary pollution or global warming.
And now we never will -
For the priorities didn’t change with the strike;
Health programs had been cut back;
A trillion dollars for arms instead of
Test kits and masks for faces.
Cafes we liked began closing:
No football matches, airlines, theatres.
No schools opening minds.
Then Chicago went silent.
Beijing stopped announcements.
The following month was the last
Radio broadcast from Punta Arenas.
Then silence……………
................................................................................................
15 March 2020
This is my poem entry for the Coronavirus. COVID-19 contest
Note - Punta Arenas is just about the remotest place in South America, far from viral contacts.
Where had I seen you? I know your cloudless face, bleary-eyed forehead.
Everything says what I imagined you in my remotest dream and desire. It takes a
long while to forget your intrepid looking body and soul, Did God fashion you in his
own hand and in his own image. Is God the creator of your soul? Where are you
hailing from? I asked you. You remained as if a stormy-petrel is whispering a soul
song in your ear.
But I got my heart at you when you abruptly melted into your own clouds. In tears
and jeers you cheered at your sovereignty. Your sovereignty spoke in many
languages. In many words, it became a tome of dignity. You are just an epitome of
rude fire and smoky fumes that never burn at the slightest provocation of love or
hate. At the end of the tunnel I got you not running behind the stray dogs.
What should I name you? Nymph of the valley? The jingle of your body language is
still deafening my silence. You are standing at the threshold of my conscience. You
are neither singing nor dancing. Your presence makes all the difference as if
someday you will kiss some somnambulist on his journey to oblivion. You are right
at the corner of my wakefulness when all the birds have left their nests to greet the
tomorrow to come.