Long Returns Poems
Long Returns Poems. Below are the most popular long Returns by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Returns poems by poem length and keyword.
A seamless sphere of perfect shape
no outlines of troubled nations
no borders confining an outbreak
it peers not into the future but in
every turn with every angle it
shows the present A perfect
momentary capture of anything
that falls into its orbit not trapped
really but held somehow until
the moment is broken when the
captive steps or flies away
and once again the globe returns to
its passive state this globe of no
remorse this globe of no anger
or death offers not itself as any
instrument of fate but in one
glance on its surface a human
can see right into the reflected
eyes distorted and all
Hello, staring at the letter, I adore, from a friend
Deeply submerged, in a silent lake of thought.
With gladden eyes, that move each line into mind
Painting images now, and a future portrait of Art.
My heart aces, in pauses for you, whiles reading
Your letter, in a lake glazed mirror, it tries to decipher
the feelings of wonder, seeing your face staring at me.
Telepathy is new here, but the message becomes clearer.
Who are you Dear, still here, with your nun chant pose?
You seem more like a dream, and me, like a friend.
wearing old fashion clothes, I can relate to your repose.
the debate of making senses to live and be content.
You have never been here before to explore this love
Now, I see you better. You can, even, utter my name.
with a silent flutter, you already knew how to give
my wishes and dreams the spark to ignite a flame.
You think I am a saint? I am not, irony makes me smile
I will stay here looking into the lake and see your face,
staring back at me, harmony, pointing a way for a while
empathy now, must be some mistake, dwell in a trance.
But your eyes tells a different story, one of hope and glory
When, at first glance, you dove the spear into my heart,
your life came into mine, no longer a stranger, but joy
returns daily, to view images in the deep lake of thought.
A QUATERNION
When the buds are tender green
And the fig leaves begin to sprout
None will mistake the end time scene,
The earth itself will shout.
Upon a horse,faithful and true,
He returns on a cloud,
As, in the air He comes into view
Every knee is bowed.
The book of life is opened,last
Sin meets it's heart's desire;
The deceiver and the deceived,cast
Into the lake of fire.
Water ,clear as crystal now,flows
Reviving,the once dead;
Those faithful,who Jesus knows,have
His name on their forehead.
A new earth,no more fire,sunlight or sea,
But living water that heals,thee and me.
Note:(ichthys), or XIesoûs Khristós, Theoû Huiós, Sot?r;translates into English as 'Jesus Christ, Son of God, Savior'
as she battles to pick up pennies
dollars fly past like angered hornets
with glass walls that are penetrated by many
her world could launch a thousand sonnets
to find traces of joy in this life
one must squint for the light is so dim
sometimes in this darkness she wields a knife
words that cut psyche as well as skin
this malaise came about slowly
there are no prescriptions for what ails
a book inscribed with the word holy
rests on her nightstand to no avail
the sun may set in the East
before vivacity returns to her home
ask why, but she will not speak
of this plight as being her own
Alone in a strange place,
sitting at an old dining room table,
in a cool room with little light,
I organize new thoughts and write.
It’s not that I have much to say,
today, more than any other,
but ideas like magma push through
my crust of consciousness exploding
onto the page as words and phrases.
The quiet room, an elixir, motivator and guide,
allows freedom of expression
and contact with deep places
I reach only when dreaming.
Strong ideas and uncontrollable inspiration
builds with every word,
until the climax forces a halt to newness,
giving transcription time to keep pace.
When family returns and silence is put away,
the notebook is closed, and I take my place
joining the conversation, as if nothing happened.
There are so many exquisite, consecrated words
Floating all around, filling creation’s air.
That if we but took the time to taste this refreshing fragrant spring
Would it not change the anxious heart
Bringing abundant peace to the satiate all care?
One momentary pause to stop and drink from the winded atmosphere
Overflowing with wisdom and rest to share.
Our minds and hearts would stop and bind with God’s Holy promised care.
Refreshing cooling affirming breath, abundant everywhere.
The gracious gift for all to taste and rest a while there.
But this is only half the gift to change thoughts of despair.
The wisdom gained from the quiet breath
would release back into this river of thoughts
New words and thoughts to share.
Each breath returns more enlightened words
As this bounty of peace grows.
New words of sanctified Holiness
Would diminish this chaotic polluted air
Healing words increase.
What a simple way to heal the world as everyone must breathe.
With every step, slowly take in the breath
And breathe new thoughts to share.
Before you know it, the rain will be all words of love
And a simple walk will fill broken hearts as
The River of kindness surrounds us and
Encouragement is always cheered.
What rainbow would then appear?
This rainy morning you gave me a feel of your flower
Thank you I want to give you a poem in return
Soaked in pleasant smell of the showers
I like your eyes going through these words from green fern
Thank you I want to give you a poem in return
As you sing in the fifth avenue pavement
I like your eyes going through these words from green fern
As the passer-by drops a dollar swayed by the moment
As you sing in the fifth avenue pavement
Raindrops dripping from your soft brown hair
As the passer-by drops a dollar swayed by the moment
You smile and feel you can now pay for the Medicare
Raindrops dripping from your soft brown hair
Your old mom is in her sickbed at your home
You smile and feel you can now pay for the Medicare
I have mentioned her in a stanza of my poem
Your old mom is in her sickbed at your home
Look the sky is clearing up and the blue returns
I have mentioned her in a stanza of my poem
Let us pray she gets well and you are in my arms
Look the sky is clearing up and the blue returns
Soaked in pleasant smell of the showers
Let us pray she gets well and you are in my arms
This rainy morning you gave me a feel of your flower
______________________________________________________
25/07/2017
—Lingers in Nerves—
Thou say’st that less is more; I bow thereto—
yet silence, once begotten, will not cease;
for what thy lips deny returns anew,
and what was once a hush devours my peace;
till what was but the little hush of breath
outgrows the tongue, and speaks beyond all death.
My cedar-born quill, once quick with vernal flame,
could summon dawn from darkness at my hand;
now grey comes creeping where the colours came,
and leaves no kingdom bright enough to stand;
yet, bleeding inwardly, it makes no plea—
but spends my briny blue obediently.
The page once opened like a sovereign gate,
and every letter entered it like song;
now whiteness guards an inviolate state
where even light seems trespass all day long;
and every stroke that falters on its skin
seems less a word than silence entering in.
Still do I write—for love, when answer’s fled,
becomes the hand that writes against the void;
one syllable survives where ten lie dead,
and one more follows, though the first’s destroyed;
for what returns is neither thine nor mine,
but silence wearing language as a sign.
Thou hast but said be still—and stillness grew
until it filled the empire of my speech;
it drank the names by which I summoned you,
and drew their buried meanings out of reach;
till less, which seemed so little when begun,
hath so consumed the word that none is one.
Now watch the cedar yield—not unto age,
nor grief, nor any wound the years can heal,
but to the dark beyond the final page
where nothing waits that it is sworn to feel;
the last stroke stills the worlds it might have sung—
and unborn songs die wordless on the tongue.
We came from dust
as small as a grain of sand
we were created by Gods' almighty hand
on the journey of life earthly things
will rot rust decay and wither away
but Gods' Word will always stay
one day we will return to the ground
and our spirit will got o heaven to reside
with our Lord Jesus by our side
Gods' creation is beautiful made from dust
as small as a grain of sand
Gods' love is the greatest thing this I have found
we come from dust and one day we will return to the ground. Amen
ECC 12:7 and the dust returns to the ground it came from,
and the spirit returns to God who gave it.
By the sweat of your brow
you will eat your food
until you return to the ground,
since from it you were taken;
for dust you are
Psalm 103
13 As a father has compassion on his children,
so the Lord has compassion on those who fear him;
14 for he knows how we are formed,
he remembers that we are dust.
15 The life of mortals is like grass,
they flourish like a flower of the field;
16 the wind blows over it and it is gone,
and its place remembers it no more.
17 But from everlasting to everlasting
the Lord's love is with those who fear him,
and his righteousness with their children's children—
18 with those who keep his covenant
and remember to obey his precepts.
and to dust you will return.” Amen
In a quaint lovely little garden
Tended to by only a few keepers
Was a quiet cozy little corner
Perfect for nappy dreamy sleepers
There exists a fountain
That has long since stopped it’s flow
And now it is an accent piece
Of nature taking back with mossy overgrowth
On the top sits a boy, with his hat made of stone
And though he no longer has rivers, he is content observing his zone.
There is a bush that is adored
For its beauty and its scent, despite its many thorns.
And you would think that only ever sitting, he would find himself bored.
But never during summer! Only in winter he mourns.
This, his favorite plant, that he has watched since but a seed
Has been all the entertainment and joy that he could ever need.
Because he remembers when it was only a foot tall and it gave to him his first favorite flower.
Lovely and lively, shaded deep as when one in love falls, and he would gaze upon his favored hour after hour.
But seasons change and winds grow cold.
When it snows, not rains, delicate flowers fold.
Dressed in white, trading green for brown
He waits patiently for her to shed her frozen gown.
And when the birds begin their songs anew
He is filled with excitement as morning frost turns to dew.
Returned at last is his favorite memory,
A dream he had forgotten, his only great reverie.
Now that it’s been years, and the bush faithfully returns
A single budding flower? No, your patience has more earned.
Now his favorite plant yields to him a crown
And though he can never wear it, he is complete just to see it looking down.
He knows which bud was his, his first favorite flower.
He wouldn’t lose sight of it, not from his tower.
Though it seems lost when winter comes and the budding season closes
He can always pick out quickly his favorite, the fairest of his roses.