Long Retrospect Poems
Long Retrospect Poems. Below are the most popular long Retrospect by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Retrospect poems by poem length and keyword.
Big complex words often disguise
how good design begins at the nitty-gritty,
with clarity, accuracy, and precision,
pointing straight at the essential core idea.
It is not endless conceptualizing,
brainstorming, strategizing, or theorizing,
stacking abstractions upon frameworks
until the original purpose dissolves.
Strangely, the path toward simplicity
often means wandering through complexity first,
through failed attempts, diversions, and revisions
slowly stripping the unnecessary away.
Every trial removes another layer,
clearing noise from the heart of the problem,
until only the kernel remains—
often requiring the courage to start anew.
In the end, simplicity is not pure genius.
But a disciplined understanding made explicit;
nothing left to add, nothing left to remove—
Simplicity is elegance in design in retrospect.
In This Brief Moment In Time
Intriguing thoughts race within my hurried mind
A moment of retrospect, perhaps lost in a memory
Grappling with many strange emotions of all kinds
These memoirs I hold dear, echoes of my own story
In this brief moment in time
Light of day beams into my sleepy closed eyes
In the realm between reality or lost in a dreamscape
Body quivers from the cold, dreaming slowly dies
Awareness slowly creeps into my mind as I awake
In this brief moment in time
Memories of past events forever lost in time
As I struggle with the voices within my mind
As If the shadows of my soul would define
The answers to such queries I should find
In this brief moment in time
The deafening quiet that envelops this room and my soul
Effigies of who I have become, in this universal womb
Of all of life’s lessons that may have taken their toll
Encased in all thoughts in my subconscious entombed
In this brief moment in time
Sitting alone with my thoughts, no aspersions to be cast
Confidence eludes me, too many questions that I ask
My mind races with the worrying mistakes of the past
To carry this burden I do is such a worrisome task
In this brief moment in time
In retrospect
I often whisper
To words cast upon a sea
Of turgid thought
Struggling within
The borderless confines
…Of poetry
I let them out to play each day
Knowing some will drift away
Others wait in silent queque
Unsure of what to say, or do
Some mock the Rugby scrums
Snarling mice in search of crumbs
Oh, those words I can’t recall
That stood their ground
Just wouldn’t fall
Now come back to haunt my dreams
New brushes can’t undo old scenes
For words are but a scribbler’s tools
Etching thoughts of wisdom’s fools
Upon the hearts of passing pawns
Encased in a mist of breaking dawns
John G. Lawless
©11/20/2025
Tall Her Eminence stood, calling my name,
My first-grade teacher of notable fame,
Who had taught most all my kin years before,
Now she was summoning me to her court.
She was judge and jury, penalized fast,
Any wrongdoing or mischief in her class,
No one could counsel me in my disgrace,
She was the defense too, for goodness sake.
I had committed a horrendous crime,
Someone’s stomach had felt my fist big time,
Now this tiny hoodlum was called to pay,
For what he had done at recess that day.
As I slowly approached, a friend of mine
Whispered, “say you’re sorrow, might work this time,”
As I stood before the bench for judgement,
I said those words, vowing I would repent.
Reprimanded, I quickly retreated,
Glad my life had be spared and not deleted,
Learned great lesson about grace extended,
On which I routinely contemplated.
Strange how such events look in retrospect,
People like her, I will never forget,
Those who taught me to behave as I ought,
As that first-grade teacher of mine, Miss Mott.
Inspired by the epic and beautiful movie, "Legends of the Fall". Excellent story; and brilliant performances and cinematography.
Fullness of heart
By Michelle Morris
02/01/2023
You said you'd wait forever
But forever was too long
You married someone else
And left me all alone
I can respect this
I wasn't the easiest guy
Too busy chasing
Adventures on the horizon
Somehow things worked out
In the destined manner
It wasn't always pretty
It wasn't always planned
So many loves and losses
We all suffered along the way
But ultimately we were free
Creating family history come what may
You struggled with your decisions
You couldn't take the pain
Not having children
Left an abyss filled with hurt and rage
You took your own life
And my wife died in vain
Too many tragedies
For our family name
I lived a full life
It was wild and it was free
My death was a good one
My ancestor's helped me see
Now I'm in Heaven
With all those I loved so well
You drift in a different circle
But I know you're doing swell
I look back on this life
And I do have my regrets
But sometimes I wonder how
Things could've worked out in retrospect
God and His angels
They speak to us about our choices
If we go back to another life
We need to hear their voices
But, as we know so well
When our souls come back down here
We forget all our knowledge
And start from scratch and tears
Maybe we'll meet again
In a different place in time
Maybe our souls will remember
Everything good that rhymed
Hopefully, each one of us
Will make better decisions on our path
And we will live a little better
With love and fullness of heart
© Michelle Morris, 2023
Retrospective Inclinations
Inclinations toward the philosophical nature of mankind
Imitations of awe and wonder and the subtly refined
Insinuations of an action that is considered ill-defined
Illuminations of the atmosphere that circulates in her mind
Catastrophic consequences for those who refuse to consider cost
Misanthropic measures as they contemplate what they have lost
Philharmonic overtures that adorn the cultured and the loft
Telescopic telomeres that combine technology as she seems soft
Incorporations of conversations that imply a sense of dread
Consolidations of invitations that leave the bride unwed
Palpitations of consecrations that conjure inside her head
Affirmations of visitations that come and go from her bed
Luminous possibility among the distorted convolution
Furious credibility that promotes a transfigured delusion
Spurious eligibility as she writhed about in confusion
Injurious sensibilities that draw unnecessary conclusions
Awakening contemplations that preside in elevated thought
Mistaking conversations for something that can be bought
Berating intonations for a concept that needs to be fought
Negating imitations of a notion that is over wrought
Visionary eloquence forming from the twighlight sky
I am weary of the inference as the tears well in my eyes
Timothy Leary fades into irrelevance as the earth begins to die
Commissary for the petulance I feel from the nature of mankind
Radiance and insight fight for grace and kindness to emerge undefeated
The gradients of light that fractal outwards when repeated
Innocence and delight combine to have the malevolent deleted
Convalesce inside the retrospective thought that you have completed
The End Copyright Elizabeth Moroz 2025
‘Sankofa’ In 'Safranbolu'
This bird from Ghana’s legends flies forward looking backward
In the Twi language twinned with indigenous souls and wisdom
the feathered friend suggests to go back and get it and I suppose
some fly backwards while looking ahead but then life is not only
Chronos but 'Kairos' with the meter entwined and composed
At this precise moment not alone in this moving instant it waves
and oscillates conjoining what was and will be when the present
is the past in a flash and one cannot step into the same river again
yet the future is shaped by the past the here and now a 'Kairometer'
transcending artefacts and boundaries into ‘truths’ and reality
The bird flies and time flows back and beyond near and far
further on wings and pinions with roots at heart
In ‘Safranbolu’ the ancient Ottoman town on the Black Sea Coast
and thus close to Ghana in real time place and connection
the old man had been tending the clock in the tower both man and
the turret free standing and wise still present and one
‘Seventy years’ as he explained pendulum hands and the wheels
What memories pride mechanics precision preserved aspiration and
dignity flying into the face of the clock and the distortions of time
Mustafa had climbed those steps so often had rung the bell
oiled the time keeper had not forgotten a day of his duties
had become one with the time piece and stood still many times
in awe of monument and pacing the sleepy old town yet
he flew forward so peacefully looking back in retrospect and respect
He has watched birds history duration impermanence imprinting the
meaning of a life worthy of living in honour of what is the present
20th November in all past and future revisited
Sizing me up
Full of hope, a pair of brown eyes
Expectations
That I do not know I can realize
An idealist, is what you are
The ‘me’ at the end of your sight
Far off, who I am is too far
Off the ideal you see in daylight
The weight of a better man
How do I look at you?
And not do all that I can
To make your view be true
Do you get now why I look away?
When you look my way?
Underneath it, full of hope, caring gaze
Hides the promise of change
But I am used to me and I am my ways
Commitment to else seems strange
In your eyes I see you see the best in me
But in retrospect
Even a better me I never said I would be
So don’t expect
Do you get now why I am not ready?
When you say you love me?
But I’m selfish, what a selfish being
Thinking that you should leave
And finding my words not agreeing
Wearing my heart up my sleeve
Heavy, the pressure is too heavy to hold
Push and pull, I do both never just one
Bipolar love and the pattern’s getting old
But I can never let bygones be by gone
Do you get now why I chase after you?
When you say you're through?
Cut the air tension
The weight of the faith in me you have
Wasn’t my intention
Being involved with the judge of myself
Is it good, is it bad?
Conflicting emotions
Since the day we met
Hazy, lost in notions
You, my desperation and confusion
Reflection, a mirror that shows who I’m not
You, my hope and salvation
The one that believes in the potential I got
Do you get now why I say ‘bittersweet’?
When our lips meet?
Do you get now, do you get now
Why though ‘us’ I believe is hard to allow
I find accepting my feelings easy somehow
This is the riddle of 'us', do you get now?
When I was younger, I have often wondered
Why is the eighth month not called October?
Was geometry wrong
When it named the octagon,
Or was this a mistake wrought by the calendar?
'Augustus' seemed such an ugly name too
It sounded like someone who has the flu
Plus, I've always had this pet
From a childish pang of regret
That my birthstone's colour wasn't blue
Oh, would it be that I was born a month late
To be a ‘child of autumn’ seemed so great
Instead, it's been quite a bummer
To have birthdays in hot summer
Though I suppose Mom and Dad just couldn't wait!
But, in recent years, I've changed my tune
About being born on the eighth moon
For there is so much fame
Behind this august name
My date of birth is now to me a welcome boon
For while the man whose name this month honours
Might not possess July's fame and splendour
He satisfied the Romans' wish
To implement an age of peace
And so the legacy of his reign is forever revered
The strength he lacked he made up in understanding:
Roman men saw repugnant the title of "king"
So he knew to bide his time
And rose the ranks in slow inclines
To not repeat his predecessor's death by stabbing!
He knew too well that he could not climb alone
Delegation was key for his path towards the throne
Dealing right to win the race
A mastermind masked with modest grace
Always walking with one foot set upon the gravestone
I do not believe that stars dictate our destiny
But there is much to learn from their history
By giving August a retrospect
I have grown profound respect
For this bleak yet beautiful, immutable part of me
At dawn beyond my restless sleep,
With mental arms in memory,
I strain to pick them, sort them, rearrange
Replace the few, that turned to weeds
Rewind, review, and make them new
Old promises and rendezvous I keep
~
While dew drops formed too many years
Have stained and dried away
The floral past is but a dream
Of how I cling to yesterday
~
Only to wake, I will face the day
With the same dried pattern
The same old way
In retrospect, I do reflect
But with a fresh bouquet
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
"Reinvent, Reimagine, Revamp! " Contest
Sponsored by: Just That Archaic Poet
Inspired by the poem......."Sequence of Events"