Long Returning Poems
Long Returning Poems. Below are the most popular long Returning by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Returning poems by poem length and keyword.
Returning home, you walk inside,
Awaken the olfactory.
There, resting on the countertop
Are cookies baked for all to see.
Your mind leaps to the obvious:
The signs all tell a story clear.
No baker did assemble these;
‘Twas happenstance that put them here.
Although no other evidence
Is satisfying in the whole,
The flour spilled from the canister;
An earthquake dumped it in the bowl.
Although we were at first confused,
We understand the eggs as well:
They teleported from the fridge,
Just yolks and whites, without the shell.
The gravitation of the moon
Combined with a solar eclipse
May have opened up a bag,
Contributed the chocolate chips.
An aftershock of magnitude
Somewhere between a five and six
Quite possibly could agitate,
Produce a firm dough from the mix.
The fluctuations in the lines
Of magnetism from the poles
Could open up the oven doors
And set the proper heat controls.
Although this last may seem a stretch,
Our statistician ascertained
A bird could grab some dough like eggs,
Drop on the pans, and then again.
The only step that would be left:
A thunderstorm with static spark
To heat those cookies up just right,
Awaiting your return at dark.
I know the chance of this is small,
But we’ll not dwell, no, mum’s the word.
What other option is there now?
This talk of bakers is absurd…
Refuse death,
giving impulses to life...
cheer up the body
breathing and dreaming...
inflate new trials
giving it a start and direction
blow out the sails on this boat
giving you life new vision,
but establish a veto on it:
"Don't die without having lived"
change scenery and landscape
establish continuous motion
for a modern
evergreen, fairy
state of happiness...
try... it's possible! Refuse death,
giving impulses to life...
cheer up the body
breathing and dreaming...
inflate new trials
giving it a start and direction
blow out the sails on this boat
giving you life new vision,
but establish a veto on it:
"Don't die without having lived"
change scenery and landscape
establish continuous motion
for a modern
evergreen, fairy
state of happiness...
try... it's possible!
This evening, after faculty orientation, the president
of the university bumped into me on the way to his office.
He looked at me and smiled as he came closer.
“Just think, there was a time I didn't know you.”
I stood there…at a loss for words
What did he mean?
Was this cultural barrier going to make
This difficult for me to understand?
“Yes, there was a time I didn't know you either,
but I do now! I’m glad.”
He smiled….
A smile that said it all.
“Yes, think of life…Before you meet people, you don’t
know they exist, and then…you get to know them.”
I smiled, returning the warmth in his eyes.
“You have the heart of a poet. I understand you.
Glad to know you.”
I was left to wonder….at the real meaning of his words.
Have I made his life more pleasant...more beautiful?
Have I been a source of inspiration...of encouragement?
The time before I knew you…
Tell me, what was THAT like?
Eileen Manassian Ghali
In the garment factory
bloom the
delicate young women.
I live in a rented house.
When the bear-dance
comes to an end,
drawing
zeros
again and again,
I must return
from the school
of the bees.
Rivers
brush their teeth
with neem twigs
deep within
their waters,
there is
a secret
world:
horses and fireflies,
and a rain-wet
shiuli tree,
a vast
fragment
of stone,
all alone,
beneath
the vastness of space.
The jellyfish boats
are returning home.
Beyond the rooftop
of the three-storeyed house,
a pine tree
stands,
in its own mood,
the monsoon clouds.
Having dived
deep into
the depths
of my own being,
near the burnt-out
stub of a cigarette,
I find myself
wondering:
Should I
write anew
Goanna and Twilight?
By Phan Tan Hai
I learned to write poetry from the days of youth,
within the musical forms you brought into the world;
in radiant autumn afternoons,
in sky-frames fragrant with memories,
in late-night seasons of pale moonlight,
in the rainstorms of music you poured over my childhood.
You appeared like the sun,
bringing showers of joyful music to this world;
because this realm is the First Noble Truth, you wrote music to bring peace;
because this realm is impermanent, you wrote music to point toward the deathless;
because this realm is full of violence, you wrote music to quiet the human heart;
because this realm is swollen with pride, you wrote music to offer humility and loving-kindness;
because this realm is stained with impurity, you wrote music to make spring eternally beautiful.
I learned from your music to write my own lines of poetry—
asking whether this word brings peace, helping people leave the realm of suffering;
whether this word points to the deathless, helping people flow with impermanence;
whether this word stills the heart, helping people leave the world’s harshness;
whether this word carries humility and compassion, helping people see no-self and abandon pride;
whether this word makes spring eternally beautiful, an offering to countless Buddha-lands.
You lived a quiet life while your music was sung across the sky;
you hid yourself in the most silent places while your music became the world’s breath;
you lived as if from nowhere, and lived as if returning nowhere;
you lived seeing no boundary between self and others;
you lived like a drifting cloud, leaving no trace in this world.
And then your music became the gentle rain and favorable wind,
extinguishing the fires that besiege the three realms,
making forests and mountains greener,
offering boundless joy to humankind,
teaching people to listen to the far shore—
teaching them to listen to the far shore,
teaching them to listen
beyond the sound of music,
when you released your hands from the instrument,
smiled, lay down, and rested in peace.
— To offer condolences to Cung Nhat Thanh and family. June 2022.
Blood mountains divided, staring back quartz veins.
Decending and rising, as footings lay claims.
Hopping and leaping through scents of black earth.
Surrounded by moss and love what it's worth.
Climbing the hill will pull at your muscles.
while healing your heart; tomorrow come tussles.
Seeing's forever and waiting not still.
Love of destruction; you rise till you feel.
Sniffing the wind that smells of the trees
while Winding you up on two buckled knees.
Then resting your fluids on top of your tongue,
Sees love far from home or a rule of thumb.
Now View the horizon on top of the mountain
Where words are in silence and chest like a fountain.
Relax and start humming and start your way down.
Returning you home and turn in your crown.
Hush, listen can you hear it?
the sound of buds breaking free
sight of seeds pushing through earth
life returning, the hum grows ever louder.
The pace is starting to increase
more and more the signs are clear
Spring awakens sending winter away
no more do bitterly harsh winds blow.
The flowers of spring high light
the meadows. casting scent
and colouring the borders
hush stop and listen to spring.
Birds flitter busily collecting
their beaks stuffed full of all sorts
lambs bleat to all who will listen
as they frolic back and forth.
Ah the joys of spring gladden
the very souls of all who listen
sun beams shine warming each living
creature both two, four and many legged
Now the waiting is done
once more rebirth occurs
what a wonderful world
we are blessed with
Yes, I stumble whenever I see the hospital looming.
Yes, I collapse whenever I hear the monitors screaming.
Yes, I shatter whenever I think of the bleeding spreading.
Yes, I stagger whenever I feel the ambulance waiting.
Yes, I crumble whenever I face the doctor's confession.
But not today.
Today I will wear my determined prayers like armour
and sprint through the corridors where the specialists gather,
charging into the emergency where the surgeons are rushing.
Hospital, witness me.
Monitors, recognize me.
Bleeding and doctors, hear me.
Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes.
Yes, I reel whenever I see the grandchild crying desperately.
Yes, I splinter whenever I hear the time ticking relentlessly.
Yes, I unravel whenever I think of the thread fraying continuously.
Yes, I retreat whenever I watch the blood flowing ceaselessly.
Yes, I falter whenever I sense the machines alarming urgently.
But not today.
Today I will wear my family's strength like mountains
and stand within the darkness where the prayers are ascending,
surging toward the procedure where the embolization begins.
Grandchild, inspire me.
Time is slow for me.
Blood and machines, yield to me.
Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes.
Yes, I once feared whenever I faced life hanging precariously.
Yes, I now dance whenever I see the colour returning gradually.
Yes, I soar whenever I hear a steady heartbeat pulsing strongly.
Yes, I bloom whenever I celebrate the victory gained completely.
Yes, I transform whenever I embrace this miracle unfolding tenderly.
And especially today.
Today I will wear my grateful tears like jewels
and twirl through the recovery where the miracles multiply,
ascending from darkness into light where hope reigns eternal.
Colour, flush with me.
Heartbeat, drum with me.
Life and victory, crescendo through me.
Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes.
I give all
To one who owns all:
My Joy and
Hope, Strife and pain,
all do i
loan to him to
bear them on his wing,
Soaring through
the claws of the cloud,
Barging through,
Hailing the wind by
her name: que
que, que que
que que que
He says, magneting
to himself
the voice of
the wailing cloud,
Making it
Ooze sweat as
If scolded by the sun.
Measuring
the path of
the firmament.
Treading the
path of the dark
Vague maiden sitting
Opposite the vast
Universe.
On his way,
He meets the persian
Prince whom at
His word flee
like a bewitched
leopard. Nothing
stays him for
his word rinse the
dirt staining the
mood of the orb.
Bearing farther,
He met himself
laying my complaint
before himself.
Then a package
given in return,
Packaging
Confining
Adjusting
Replac ing,
Removing
Adding on
Bringing it
Closer and closer,
To sooth my
matter, heal my wound,
Bless my heart,
Cream my skin,
Take my case,
Make me praise,
Mending my sole,
Prune my grapes,
Feed my eyes,
Bless my life
Returning is he,
Nothing to hold
him Back. The
Oppositions
are now in
Dispositions.
The atmosphere
blows strange, all
air dressed range.
Success Shuddering
Towards my path.
Joy returning with
the climate:
The couple flowing,
Glowing, taking
with themselves
all that can serve
me right. The
Joy hastening
towards me,
waves around her,
weighing her out
of Balance.
Almost to the margin,
To set her feet
she staggers,
Almost to fall,
I: Mouth agape.
Will my Joy be stayed? :
Hatred behind her,
Striving to have
her pulled down,
Like a weak wall.
Almost falling
Is he, crawling now.
Hatred: almost catched
up. But woah!
A greater wave,
Stubborn than the
former, crippled the
former, had her
own a wheel chair.
And now whuuuh!
Crossed the margin,
Yea my Joy,
Bore by my king.
Welcomed home.
18: 01: 15: 14: 56
It is not a complicated story.
It is not a secret story.
It is just a long story about love and duty,
pain and suffering,
Resentment and unforgivenesss.
It is a story about abuse and commitment.
And this one does not end happy.
It ends in sadness.
There are pockets of happiness.
Fleeting moments of hope.
There is the promise of freedom
And many missed opportunities.
Years of self preservation in hope of returning to a promised land,
Where an unrealised life of simple perfection awaits.
There is mercy in its ending.
A sick twist of kindness as death brings release.
A hint of finished work; an end to a Godly sacrifice no longer required or mercy after paid dues. Silence and mystery rob its readers’ of clarity.
Its truth resembles cloud,
dissipating and untouchable by mankind.
There is evil at work.
A disrupted balance where good never sees a scene.
There are demons at play.
A disrupted balance where angels never feature in an Act.
Captors are worshipped and victims are judged and unforgiven.
The sin of pride and self-righteousness prevails, as history goes on to repeat itself.
The story teaches that distance does not mend broken hearts.
Pleading does not encourage understanding.
Hope without action is futile.
Sorries are currency, and its users are miserly.
Sorry is never spent.
Sorry was never earned.
Sorry should never have a price.
So, Sorry remained unpaid. Sorry was bargained for, no deal was ever made.