Long Revisited Poems
Long Revisited Poems. Below are the most popular long Revisited by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Revisited poems by poem length and keyword.
[Away In A Manger - revisited]
Where Dave is the ranger
And Tom is the mayor
The saloon is open
And Milt gambles there
On high in the night sky
A star ’bove the church
The beacon of Soup Creek
To aid in the search
An old passing stranger
Had let it be heard
That a babe would be found
And his name was the word
Now, Mark was the sheriff
He closed the saloon
And Jenna, quite frankly
Wasn’t over the moon
She said find that baby
And find it real soon
My bar can’t be closed
While this night has a moon
In the church they found him
And o what a fright
That poor baby’s young face
Was smeared with Marmite
But Tom said Stand clear men
That God-awful pong
We thought was yeast extract…
It seems we were wrong
Why do mechanics need manuals when they’ve fixed it before?
Answer my question or I’ll walk out the door!
Didn’t they attend trade schools or get OJT?
Why need repair manuals? That what gets me.
I just want a mechanic who won’t refer to a book.
Just fix my car already, don’t give it a second look!
Why do pilots run checklists and reference their charts?
Just push the dang button and hope the plane starts!
Didn’t they go to flight school and pass all the tests?
Pilots fly most days, so who needs all the mess?
I want a pilot who knows without referencing a chart.
Just get on with the flying and prove that you’re smart!
What about the doctors who are practicing still?
Why can’t they get it right? And that includes the bill!
They’re always researching new studies in journals
When time’s better spent attending patients’ internals.
I just want a Marcus Welby, Ben Casey or Kildare
Instead of keeping up to date, I just want them to care.
Why do lawyers review case studies and legal decisions?
Such antics in my book leave them open to derision.
All that studying in law school should have been more than enough.
After passing the bar they should already know their stuff.
I just want an attorney who’s a know-it-all ace,
Not a book worm mouthpiece to plead my case.
Finally, the poets, being wordsmiths their art
You won’t see them referencing a checklist or chart
But look, in their hands, just what can that be?
A dictionary? Thesaurus? Are those what I see?
A real poet never needs help reading Shakespeare or Keats
Using Webster and Roget would make all of us cheats!
If a poet is real, the words should just flow
I think that all poets should automatically know
The right words to use, and literary crutches forgo
How dare they try better vocabulary to hone
They should come up with good things to say on their own.
I’m looking for poets who’ll just know what to say
Like Lewis Carroll’s poems in his heyday:
“Twas brillig, and the slithy toves, Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:
All mimsy were the borogroves, And the mome raths outgrabe.”
Don’t bother looking up his words, for that would be a dumb thing.
Using a dictionary or thesaurus, you might actually learn something!
A touchy subject to say the least
Have certain thoughts of my own
Still no matter what anyone thinks
How's about we leave reincarnation alone
Once is enough for this old guy
A real touchy subject for sure
Retracing my crazy teenage years
Wouldn't want again to again endure
What about my very first job interview
Sweating to beat the band
First, middle, and even my last name
Scribbled on the back of my hand
No thanks, once is definitely enough
But if I could just change a couple of things
Marry a sweet young Hollywood starlet
And be able to act and sing
Okay, maybe I'll change my mind
I'm now all for reincarnation
If I had the chance to choose who I am
Love to be a great singing sensation
A touchy subject to say the least
Have certain thoughts of my own
Still no matter what anyone thinks
How's about we leave this subject alone
© Jack Ellison 2014
She loved our First Nation Cafe
from the primal blessed moment
just before she first could not yet think
of this cooperatively-owned communal place.
As other than some sacred space
She has liturgically revisited
and faithfully communed each starlight night
within secular developing
Right hand prominent wombs.
It felt right and left good
that everyone she saw blending local grown organic juices
fueled by fresh air-turbine bikes
pedaled by consumers
drinking juice from outside
community cooperative garden beds
fertile through compost from FairShare coffee grounds
brewed right there
All cooperatively honeyed
pollinated
owned and self-managed
by those who blend nurturing waters
fueling healthy blood
heart and mind and embodied
by those who heart pump the bikes
and therapeutically mind step the hydro-milling anthemed steppers
and build green capturing solar panels outside
and sing
and dance
and improvise farming and gardening and incubation networks
tell bold new creation love stories
share organically resilient skill sets
cook and preserve local nutrition harvests
design and play WinWin on-line and off-line
deep learning green-STEM Games.
This First Nation Cafe re-creation place
feels like cooperative organic network space
for liberally loving ecoconsumers
and ego-conserving health producers
to ecoschool
and ecovillage
eco/theo-logical after school
and on through each vespered late night regeneration
candle lit inside
star lit campfire outside
nights of lovely ultra-violent FullMoon
through NewMoon full-shadowed integrity
of water-bears
and their synergetic spear-carriers.
He lived this First Nation Cafe
from primal blessed first cooperative moment
just before she first could not yet charge intuition
for this cooperatively-owned communal place
of mutual Wonder.
An expedition back into the dark jungle,
a rain forest shrouded in the haze of history,
brought about by hidden enterprises.
Lost and Found
Mandy
Battle weary am I, war warn.
To shreds has my heart been, torn.
From my middle Daughter, only scorn.
Mouthing hateful words, my soul doth morn.
My heart laden heavy by the icy coldness
from adolescent, peer mimicry, its boldness.
Living with fear of love lost, of lost intimacy.
I feel I have no more, as a father, legitimacy.
My heart, my soul tortured by all the pain.
Echoing off the barren, jagged walls, of my terrain.
Monsoons battering these walls, with heavy rain
saturating every synaptic cleft of my shattered brain
with the death of my tears, as they become lost
in the quagmire of life, what a disastrous cost.
Does it come from her head, I might have a chance.
From her heart, it will destroy this parent’s dance.
All this dread, drenches the trenches in my head.
Does all of this mean, to her, in her mind, I am dead.
It seems, as her parent, her father, I have lost any chance.
The price I have to pay for standing up, taking a stance.
All the lies culminate with the loss of belief.
Deceptions, con games, from them no relief.
Lost faith, loss of trust only offer one, grief.
Respite from all of this heart ache is so brief.
These hateful, mean spirited words resonate
disrespect, rebellion, verbal abuse that state,
this war I wage, with such rage, will go on and on
until a light comes on, on a new day it will dawn.
B. J. “A” 2
May 8th, 1998
Epilog
Twenty three years have slipped by.
The Daughter, once the apple of my eye,
I no longer hear from or get to see.
Phobias, anxieties, that is all she be.
Revisited, Revised
November 1st, 2021
Long ago I was born Catholic in a home smelling of Holy wax and Montreal
family life was a communal fractal of worship as I drew closer to Mary's call
Obedient to extreme I never questioned my Faith nor my doctrinal lineage
I heard voices only Mystics deciphered, in this inner sanctum a lived as a sage
Then at the age of twenty I left my hierarchical home to live abroad who knew,
that a new day was dawning, I soon flew by the power of my wings, on cue
one day I entered a Buddhist Temple for the first time confused and alone,
I revisited this place after a long journey, and spiritually re-found my home
I owed it to myself to find my own truth even if it meant shifting space
so onwards I went into Sacred Silence as a devotee of United Grace
*******
One lifetime I am on a Ferris Wheel laughing and eating cotton candy with my Father,
and the next I am on a Dharma Wheel moving my penumbra light like an obedient daughter.
Long ago I was a great Catholic girl in a home with family too loud and violent to feel safe,
today I don't tag myself in any Faith, leaning towards Sacred Light I am who I am, vouchsafe.
here is my soul speaking softly
you take it in, and resolution warms the union
we converse like a lazy sunday revisited
we take a trip by becoming invisible
the trip we take is underwater in thought and contentment
the concoction we make is soothing and rehabilitating
we converse lika a lazy sunday revisited
we take a trip by becoming invisible
here are your elements forming a bond that is truly cationic
i take it in, and the mass confusion permanently evaporates
we converse like a lazy sunday revisited
we take a trip by becoming invisible
the attractions we see are revolving but welcoming
the natural scenes experienced inspres and strengthens the root of our bond
we converse like a lazy sunday revisited
we take a trip by becoming invisible
As the pencil is being sharpened
And the ink is being refilled
The pieces are coming together
As the memories are being emphasized
And the truth is being revisited
The picture is showing itself
What a poem?,
It is man
Who had capabilities
A life full of possibilities
It is a father
Who had dreams
A life full of accomplishments
The seed,
As the writing becomes writable
And the writer acknowledges her writings
The pieces are showing an individual
As the recollection of events are coming under the surface
And the thoughts are being revisited
The picture is showing the owner
What a poem?
19.8
“There is no need to talk about
the three ends of life
To talk of yoga is purposeless
Even talking about Truth is irrelevant
I rest in Self alone”
Verse revisited on 14-July-2022
The concept of tantra trika or the trinity
A useful knowing but we feel not unity
In direct experience vibrating within
Of bliss bubbles burning our skin
Our mind, body and soul
Gunas three shaping life role
Father, son and Holy Spirit’s bliss
Subject and object linked by awareness
Motionless womb of space and linear time
Ego doership dissolving in love sublime
Sacred geometry in dynamic stillness
Opposites melding in That oneness
He who searches, an imaginary entity
Screen of awareness the only certainty
Animated attention poised in this instant
Bliss ineffable, throbbing magnetic current
Limited soul expands enveloping the universe
All being grace, there is no need to rehearse
Our feeble form is transmuted as living light
As bliss cascades within, by day and night
Fruit vendor John was polishing his pomegranates
The green piece of clean poplin was kissing warmly
He once rubbed the pinkish crust with the soft cloth
Would then look at it with a mild pomegranate-care
Is he looking himself into a mirror, I was wondering
Dissatisfied he would now collect a piece of muslin
That too as I saw got into a purple stimulant dance
Now pleased the vendor put it with its other siblings
He was treating every fruit almost in the same way
A floating bridge of friendship in the scented breeze
Above photo, I took yesterday early in the morning
At around five in the evening, I revisited his stall
Found him sitting with his chin held with his palms
Blank eyes face down focused at the flat pavement
What might have happened meanwhile, I wondered
Lips tight he moved his eyes to the empty grey kiosk
All the fruits have left me, Sir, leaving me all alone
No angel in the air, a hollow world in the bouquet
John lived just two houses away from my apartment
Around twelve in the night a sobbing sound alerted me
I stole a look through a window at the revolting scene
He was beating a pretty woman seemingly his wife
This morning I heard a mendicant passing by the road
Singing a folk song of Bengal current through ages
You have no idea my heart you have no knowledge
How many persons live inside you, you have no hunch
August 23, 2019
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