Long Resets Poems
Long Resets Poems. Below are the most popular long Resets by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Resets poems by poem length and keyword.
Forgiveness is a dilemma -
Offering goodness freely where none was given,
can suppress rightful anger, grief,
accountability, cause and guilt.
There are two sides to the rub for
getting mutual relief, and getting over the hurt caused.
It relievers the burden of resentment.
It regains the sense of control, with peace after turmoil.
It repairs trust and resets mutual understanding.
But, what forgiveness gives,
it can take away and be harmful as well.
It can suppress rightful anger and grief, you may need to feel.
It can be a form of denial, laughing it off, taking it on the chin.
It can open you up to repeats with no consequences.
Not forgiving, not forgetting,
can be a grim form of protection and learning,
building resilience, making you stronger
in the face of adversity.
Some wounds need justice, not silence and
acceptance disguised as graceful forgiveness.
What gives with forgiveness
is what it gives to the giver,
first and foremost, in the dilemma flip.
From some old country
This is the oddest card game
With rules to make your hair stand on end
No use trying to make sense of it
Just accept that it’s the way it is
Don’t bother asking too many questions
They call it Clabiash quite similar to Tarbish
It’s still a favorite of the Maritimes
Played back in the day
As far back as I remember
Come the weekend let guests arrive
Clear the table bring out the cards
A round of beers before we start
Bids to launch the rounds
Partners ruse and much excitement
Base count one sixty four
Trumped or sandbagging
Twenties bellies fifties
Count your points or else go bate
Absurd rules lead to hot tempers
Misplays turn to family feuds
Otherwise a lot of fun around the table
A beer or two resets the mood
Playing Clabiash all weekends through
Published in my 24-page photo/anthology ~RANDOM MUSINGS VOL.3~ 2020
AP: Honorable Mention 2021
I know!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
I have only just met you
But I am already having the best night of my life
Such tingles my cotton felled heart
And all we have done
Is communicate
Merely talk
And boy have I fallen
Wanted just to listened
To your every word
Because I am such taken in
You've not only got me
Hook, Line and Sinker
My thoughts are already
5 steps ahead
Where you are undressed on my bed
Fully clothed till your head
And as much as I now want you
It was not your silhouette
That enticed me in
But neither will I choose to lie
That cute was never a factor
I am not that good an actor
Because it is blatantly apparent
1 is strikingly beautiful as a girl
And seldom do these 2 particular disciplines
Manifest into 1 complete package
Without prior baggage
But when they do
Manage to combine these 2
No marvel nor neither star lit sky
In search of rockets and hidden pockets
Can resets all the default controls
Set to pierce the center of the sun
The blood and lapis daylight sets
in ether. How the mind resets
brutality of winter chill
with February's codicil;
what gossamer a dream begets.
I hear the crickets in the dark,
their clicking takes up where the lark
has been. The flagrant marigolds
have huddled into twilight's folds,
on sanguine nightfall to embark.
The eastern zephyrs fall and rise
with rapid movement of my eyes
and echo whispers midnight makes
of blood white trails on moonlit lakes.
In silhouette I recognize
a dogwood, though can only sense
its glowing coral consequence.
The blossoms tell me they comprise
sweet spawn of sun rays in disguise
and capture all my heartbeats hence.
Now honeysuckle is entwined
on crisscrossed pathways of my mind
with jasmine in a potpourri
to conjure shamrock reverie
that leaves the pewter scape behind.
Around the lambent dogwood tree
alone upon that verdant lea
buds can prosper, bees will hum.
As though seduced by opium
I greet a vista I can't see,
at least not quite. I know it's there
and feel the dogwood everywhere,
behind me, flanking left and right,
an omnipresence in the night,
like answers to unconscious prayer.
Now high upon a clovered scarp
the tree is standing clear and sharp.
In silence I see restless blooms
play music that my ear assumes
is chiming dulcet as a harp.
Such Efflorescent star bursts splay
like windmills on a gusty day
that in ebullience do portend
a vibrance that will never end
and all my reticence allay.
In waking to a winter storm
that's February's gelid norm
I long still for my fulgid tree,
resplendence that surrounded me,
but only meet a turbid swarm.
I rise and pull back hermit drapes
to see the torrid flurries traipse,
yet through the chaos can discern
the leafless frame for which I yearn
beyond the window storming scrapes.
The dogwood stands just as before
unclad upon the icy moor
with nascent berries undeterred
as though through humble verse and word
like daylight through an unclosed door.
2/23/18
Strength Thru Adversity
Gregory R. Barden
My hand splits the deck, divides the weight
of galaxies and shadows, halves of fate.
At a drive-in, the Cutlass grows hot; glass bursts
like safety-grade stars scattered between laps,
a witch pulling shards from her hair—
blood owed but not her own.
Starlings improvise in mirrors of sky and tongues,
their wings unfolding like cards. At Ormand Beach,
the angel sifts sand, her rusted carabiner a halo
fastened to a spike driven into heaven’s pulsing
hand. The angel speaks of keys and interpretation,
her voice no more than the sloshing loamy waves,
as we commit to the bit of unraveling.
Each shuffle, a cosmos of meticulous yarn, spun
chaos rewound to its place in the deck.
The witch remembers glass breaks
in every direction; a drive-in date is a ritual,
golden nachos bubbling under heat lamps,
stop, stop the incantation for shattered things.
At the beach, Screaming Jesus in plastic cups
warms the bones of trial separations.
The angel smiles, her graygolden aura
a muted answer for desolate humans:
What will you do with what’s left?
Your skins, your sands, your shards?
Eight shuffles, and the deck re-aligns.
The witch laughs, remembering that omens
are just glass catching the right light,
diamonds glinting in the beams
of a flickering drive-in screen.
The angel says, You knew it would come to this,
her words a spell woven into the tide.
The keys to the kingdom shuffle endlessly—
meaning manufactured in downtime,
layered like skin shed under a Florida sunlight,
like blood that refuses to spill on command.
So shuffle the stars, the moon, the sun,
deal a new hand, bend chaos for fun.
And call it fate when the cycle resets,
each card in its place, each story a new bet.
Every November, Harlem hums
coquito chilling, collards cooking,
a holiday approaching
that never sat right with me.
Before the parades, the plates,
my mind slips past the pretty lies
we paint over pain
and calls it “Thanksgiving.”
I think about Columbus
the way they crown him a hero
when really
he sparked the unraveling
of my whole bloodline.
Taino shores stained red.
Africans dragged into ships.
A continent bent under the weight of his footsteps.
And every year,
I whisper the same wish:
“If only I could turn back time…”
That’s when the sand rises
lifting out the sidewalk cracks,
spinning into an hourglass storm.
Suddenly I’m in 1492,
staring at the moment
everything went left.
Columbus stands on his deck,
smug, boots tapping out the rhythm
of centuries of sorrow.
And my whole soul wants to stop him
one push,
one word,
one shift in the timeline.
But the sand flickers
and replaces him with worse.
A conqueror history hid
because his cruelty
couldn’t fit on clean white pages.
He doesn’t want gold.
He wants erasure.
The sand darkens.
Across the ocean, Africans fade
not freed,
just gone,
executed on their own soil
before they could ever become ancestors.
The Caribbean I know
Bomba drums,
Taino caves,
abuela’s laughter in Loíza
collapses into dust
so fast I begin fading with it.
I reach for Harlem
its stoops,
its music,
its cultures braided like my own DNA
but my hand slips through the city
as if I’m a ghost
in a world that never had a reason
to make me.
If I change the past,
I erase myself.
I erase my people.
The sand spins like it’s teaching me
with every grain.
Then suddenly
a softer shimmer.
The scene resets.
Columbus steps off the boat humble,
listening.
The Taino greet him without fear,
teaching him how to walk the land
without breaking it.
Years later, Africans arrive
not in chains,
but in hope.
By choice.
Bringing rhythm, language, strength,
building a true America
with the Taino
side by side.
The hourglass rights itself.
Harlem returns
alive, loud, imperfect,
but real.
And I breathe.
I can’t change the past.
But I’m the proof
that my ancestors made it through
anyway.
Love stories?
My girls, we're 20.
It’s time we grow up.
We’re not princesses dozing off to bedtime stories,
our mums reading us about knights in shining armour.
We know love’s been exploited, right?
It’s old-school now.
Sure—I’ve hung posters of an ideal man on my walls,
as if subconscious could manifest through desire.
I know they’re society-driven contradictions.
I chose them anyway.
I’ve run my mind thin over “elevate your standards”
and “if he wanted to, he would.”
But how do you help it?
Love cuts through reasoning.
It flips your world, resets your systems,
reduces everything to one person.
After years of maturing, growing,
of trying to erase these foolish feelings—
I still arrive at the same place
as the sixteen-year-old self.
I still call out to him.
Every second.
I still want him to come to me,
to bring peace so I don’t have to keep running
from the safety of his embrace.
But you, my girls—you get it.
You’re lovesick too.
So no, I’m not sorry.
I still love love stories.
Japanese Zen Garden
I created this garden for you.
With silent winds and a still heart.
Where radiance unfolds its fragrance,
filled with a sweet nosegay,
I offer you Egyoko-bowls of blessing,
Jewels of wisdom.
As we listen to the koto zither,
Plucks its strings, echoing through
through Bonsai trees,
We feel Fuubutsushi takes hold:
The atmosphere is filled with objects
For your delight while reading haiku.
This invitation is my request to you:
whisper of the lotus, a moonlit pagoda,
Bamboo shades beside flowering sakura.
Cherry blossoms echoing the Jade River
Of ancestral tradition.
While we sit in a kanen moment
under the glowing moon,
The light reflects off a mediating
Samurai statue.
Surrounded by karesansui, the day
landscape that prompts Shizuka,
A quiet calmness.
A still circle resets upon the pond,
And koto tones sing behind the
Wind chimes in the yoake no shijima-
The profound quiet of daybreak-
at the end of the unfolding night
In absolute stillness.
Here, in Kokoro no Niwa-
the garden of the heart, my soul
amongst the forgotten notes,
We share Haru no Neiro:
The melody of spring.
Year to year they come.
The seasons dictate the times.
The first comes with force.
Bitter is his wrath.
Beautiful, yet tough, is he.
Winter binds free men.
She's meek and mild.
Her arrival is welcome.
Spring sets free bound men.
Men stand to meet her.
Though kind, wicked can she be.
Summer frees and binds.
The last one appears.
He will be kind, then grow cold.
Fall resets the clock.
Every day we rise.
One year comes; another goes.
Seasons show the change.
binary stars falling falling
hauling crawling across cosmos
sprawling brawling
binary stars can make the day
HE-SHE surely knew all cues giving
His-Her dues subservient they knew
missions in sessions, blessings then
messing easing squeezing running
wheezing as above so below
all in know, macro is micro, ya know
examine the expressions
explanations rapping tapping
teaching bleaching binary bounded
rounded sounded, sirens at reset
met Great Reset, seems sweet but
lies so neat no cover up could be
for binaries exploding expressing
pulling hooking hooping swooping
oceans bitcoins cafes napping sweating
dripping examine twos in blues
seems fresh only a mess what’s above
drips below, binaries exploding reloading
artificial not authentic, runs blank screens
beaming masking demanding codependent
housing justice no longer hustling bustling
can the 144000 pull it off …..
eventide taking a ride to hide on side
possibilities become problematic probability
China to Taiwan, chips are bits as Saudi
now wants her share to dare, Elon in mix
no quick fix resets, all binaries to increase
pressure in great measure no easy feat
for starseeds replete exhaust in water
the quarter !
dice are thrown________11.11