Long Right handed Poems
Long Right handed Poems. Below are the most popular long Right handed by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Right handed poems by poem length and keyword.
I am the axiomatic master of my fate; the King of Maxim state.
I sit on a throne of axions, maintaining discrete time symmetry to keep my line in place.
With ordained and sovereign rule, I rise to the dominion of my life’s decisions; even when they do not translate to my intentions.
Blazon insignias are inscribed by my position.
Posed by social status and affluence, alongside it a physical constitution.
Each of us having idiosyncrasies by means of paradox.
As if to say I'm right handed and made of left handed particles, with momentum opposite to intrinsic spin.
By what parity could this arise?
Alas a vast enigma, derived by the perceptions of body soul and mind.
At ease and at odds to forego and prevail.
In concert of my peers, I will unsheathe the Magnus Opus and uncover the vale.
The ignorance of our own empowerment that I overtly forswear, and so goes on the allegorical tale.
It’s given narrative defeated, torn to tatters by The Sword of Gale.
Some time had passed since I traveled this street
And arrived at the house that had been so sweet
Where children had danced and roses had grown
And my family and I had made it our home.
But I found the house was falling apart.
The roses were dead, the windows were dark.
The front yard was filled with strangling weeds,
Overgrown bushes and almost dead trees.
The last family there had a dear child die,
And so to the house bid a hasty goodbye.
I looked at the ruined home I adored
And resolved to have its life restored.
The front door was locked, but I knew an old trick,
The back door would open with a right-handed flick.
I quietly pushed it ajar just a crack,
Then slowly pressed it all the way back.
I entered the house, stepping with care,
But needn't have feared for no one was there.
The rooms were all empty, no possessions were seen,
Yet everywhere was white, and everything was clean,
The ceilings, the walls, cabinets and floors,
Carpets, sheer curtains, woodwork and doors.
I roamed through the rooms inspecting the site,
And found all the house as blindingly bright.
The room I had used was the one entered last
Anticipating finding memories of the past.
Hastily flinging the door open wide,
I froze on the spot seeing what was inside.
A young girl sat perched on the long window seat
Gazing outside at the faraway street.
Dressed in a white gown, like the sheer curtains blowing,
She turned slowly toward me, her long brown hair flowing.
On seeing her face, I started to reel,
My legs became weak, I started to keel.
I still couldn't move, though I wanted to flee,
For staring ahead, I was looking at me.
The apparition glided through the white, white room,
Enfolded me in her arms and said, "Welcome home."
Contest: The Haunted House
Sponsor: Dear Heart
8/28/18
I’m a southpaw,
one of those left-handed,
upside down,
have to curl my arm to write,
backwards individuals,
liv’in-the-left-life
in a right-handed world.
Think It’s easy, e.g.,
being a leftie?
Think again...
we’re out of place at dinners,
have to master backwards scissors,
built specifically for righties and
we are forced to learn everything, in reverse.
We wear permanent spiral wire imprints
on our left arm from trying to pen
our feelings into a right-handed
spiral-bound notebook.
One day, I decided to break the rules
and now all of my journals are written
back-to-front, blowing busybody minds.
Forget writing calligraphy,
a left-handed, oblique set of pen nibs
costs twice what the right-handed ones do
and they are about as elusive as garden gnomes;
what, you don’t believe me?
Try to find a set, I dare ya!
I’ll bet there’s not a store in your town
that stocks them, even though lefties
exist in huge numbers.
I spent 20 years trying to do calligraphy
with a right-handed, oblique pen;
(thank God for the web or
I’d never have found a set.)
In parochial school,
the nuns forced me to
turn my paper to the right;
now I am a half ambidextrous leftie.
This did not set well with my Mother
who wanted me to be the individual that I
was born to be...a leftie.
So, I turn my paper to the right, alright,
curl my arm into a question mark and
write upside down.
but , I play a right-handed guitar.
I'm noticing
you're not noticing
I'm starting to look for
what you've already heard
with anticipation
overpowering my internal anxious voice
with calm
and kind compassion
When Other disharmonious human voices
speak of win/win choices
Or sing
a right-handed dance
within my balanced EarthTribal range
of listening
for sacred silent choice.
I become
my still-maturing surprise,
replacing my "Other" anxiety,
awkwardness
disappointment
About unfocused AnthroVoice insecurities
in suffering Other's compassion,
insufferable curiosity,
predative empathic touching,
yet igniting mellow multicultural waves
of resonant pastel sound,
resilient brilliant sight
And these in-between times
silent solitude sacred rests
between transparent syncopations
of impatient human sounds,
inhumane frowns
Not interacting with same room
or screen-time voices,
thoughts
verb-tainted feelings,
These soulful un-nouned bests
have, until recently,
invited anxious boredom,
apathy,
depression,
aching loneliness,
emotional apartheid,
While now
in this human sound silence
of co-redemption
I absently reach out
for deeply exploring
sounds of Simon's silence.
Negative and positive felt voices
provoking newly found choices
liberty of equanimity,
good humored curiosity about anxiety
stress
trauma triggers
Cooperatively reaching
for anticipating
future eco/ego therapy
indigenous healing
wisdom securing
conserving liberating
internal/external co-passions,
Smiles
and frowns,
ups
and downs,'
transcendent lights
and immanent powers,
remembered lives
projected loves
for capitalized risks
minimized by win/win nutritional opportunities
for nurturing silent
calm and kind
time outside/inside co-invested bliss.
If I ever meet depression in the physical form
I will inflict more damage than a biblical storm.
Invading my mind like satanic parasites,
feasting on my happiness bite after bite.
I'm hating myself for the person I've become,
I'm helpless to it, pathetic weak and dumb.
Thwarted and fallen, appallingly unproductive.
The torment insurgence transforms me destructive.
I'm useless and failing, increasingly alien,
these aint excuses, it's depression I'm wailing.
I'm left handed, right handed, ADHD,
depression, self loathing and anxiety.
My ambition went missing with drive and dreams,
my confidence in submission to doubt that gleams,
these parasites co-ordinate as an efficient team.
My one weapon is hope, and hope is supreme.
7/6/2019
Why is my body lop-sided?
Notice when I put on my socks
Never a problem with my left foot
With my right foot my muscles lock
Why are some right handed
While others more adept with their left?
Ever try writing left handed
A scrawl barely readable at best
Why does the hair on a female's face
Take so much longer to grow?
Imagine if the exact opposite were true
Not very appealing I know
Why do men stand up to pee
While ladies sit happily on the throne?
Wouldn't work the other way round
A mess we couldn't condone
Why do we always put on our pants
With the same leg first every time?
You'd think there'd be a sensible reason
Right now not one comes to mind
Why do we tilt our head the same way
Every time we kiss our lover
Coz if we varied the side each time
Noses would get squished you'd discover
If only we knew all the answers
There'd be no more struggling through life
We'd all be up there floating on cloud nine
Living happily without strife
Doctors used to talk of me
when I was in the room
Speaking of psychology
and all the things we do
Explained complex minds and acts done
as my parents gave their view
As I gained for this talk attraction
attentive levels grew
Psychology, sport my only focus
Sport came natural, fit the bill
academically short generally hopeless
concentration not my skill
But it was out on the field
success and progress noticed
classroom would see it yield
without anchor I floated
Many subjects taught in school
Cause my concentration cease
When eyes wandered up the walls
then daydreams were released
examined me for many years
when I was just a child
explore my mind for what appears
intent on adjusting style
Acknowledging a certain difference
left handed in a right handed species
And as it set in through experience
understanding man as Lego pieces
People combine and bonds lock in
the structure which supports mankind
and I’m the odd brick damaged broken
the structure ignores and leaves behind
But I am still a living creature
outcast far from desire
looking at a filled in picture
from my place out in the wild
I was the alterna-kid
the loosely broken Lego brick
the one stood up when all else sit
My hopeless life set me a drift
I was forced to wear a limiting mitten on my left hand
for a year when I was six, so I would be forced to be right handed.
So I knew at that age that something was wrong with me.
I was the least favorite child in my home, which validated this thought.
I cheered for the Indians, not the cowboys. My parents said things like
“Where did we go wrong?” and “What is wrong with that kid?”
I drew cartoons all the time, and got into trouble in every single class.
I did not want to have anything to do with math, so refused to learn it.
My conferences were not the best. I had a bad attitude.
Weird since I was never disrespectful.
I did smirk at the teachers when I caught them at a mistake.
Did not correct them, just smirked. It drove them crazy.
I did not learn that I was okay until I became a mother and did not
whip my children into submission. I did not call them names.
I did not hit them at all. I realized then I was okay.
Little ones calling me Mommy increased my confidence.
I began dressing, living and doing what I wanted to do.
Not pleasing anyone in my family of origin.
And I did not issue any apologies.
I began to write, paint, and cartoon.
I finally figured out the only opinion that mattered about me was mine.
You're writing on pieces of paper
Your left arm, not your right
You were right-handed
But sadly, not tonight
Your hair shivers and itches
Every moment you breathe
You shake and you wrangle
Trying hard to see.
But your bubbling vision fades
With great pain, and haste
Slowly they tumble out
Free from your wake
But you push them aside
And they fall just like pleasure
The game isn’t fun
And you have to take measures
Then there’s itching,
Again,
You grimace painfully
Your hollow skull is now itching manically
But your hand can’t stop writing
The last thing that you lost
You’ve seen a slice of heaven
Now witnessing its cost
Trembling pain rips through your body
It heats,
and you shake enough,
to leave scratches on your page
But you have to continue,
Cold bone slices through gummy meat
Every crevice from brain to soul
Is warming up, and growing teeth
Molars, wisdom, sharp and dull
Are ripping teething as they grow
And pain is taking root and hold
Words escape your hollow mouth
Your skull, its jaws are hollow, shut
And your right hand
Makes a ripping sound
And blood pours on your neck
As it raises,
Your toothy smile looks at you
With humming eyes
That clatter with pain
And you can’t open your eyes in fright
For your last thought is fear
Fear you didn’t write enough
Fear what's left is teeth and blood
Not paper,
Or pen,
Or a name,
Or memory,
Of what was written.
But a broken pile of teeth and mud
Watched by eyes from heaven above
Laying on the floor,
Rotting like pleasure.
Upon meeting that special person
There's no doubt in your searching mind
You can sense it, this is surely the one
It's a feeling like no other kind
Suddenly you stutter and stammer
Your face turns a crimson red
Wonder if you remembered deodorant
Or put on two pairs of Jockeys instead
You hope and pray she doesn't notice
The fumbling, the nervous twitch
You try and try to act cool and together
Not sure which hand is which
Right handed, but maybe left
Your brain is in absolute befuddlement
You wish her a very good day then wham
You walk straight into an ill placed hydrant
You are not alone, it happens every day
It's definitely a worldwide affliction
If, as you think, she is the one
You, my dear friend, are smitten
© Jack Ellison 2013