Long Rights Poems
Long Rights Poems. Below are the most popular long Rights by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Rights poems by poem length and keyword.
Naturally Evil
I have given up on love, I’m done.
I have seen enough.
I watch people claiming to be in love,
Living ordinary lies.
I see people pass each other and genuinely fake a smile,
As they tear apart each other’s lives.
I’ve seen the mighty heart fall to the weak,
In the hands of the cruelest defeat.
The hand of the person they are holding hands with,
Is the hand that will strangle them with a kiss.
I’ve seen mountain’s moved as living proof.
I’ve seen the worthlessness of this cause.
I have been a man with truth absolute.
Love is a nice idea, for you and yours.
The reality is, it is yet to exist.
I have seen ‘true’ love disappear.
The oceans of tears that have been cried,
Couldn’t stop the break-up of the year.
I have sunken beneath the waves,
And seconds later been replaced.
A rendezvous was so easily arranged…
I saw it on your face.
Left hand waving goodbye, right hand dialing.
Left hand blowing a kiss, right hand lying.
Beckoning and greeting as you are leaving.
I have seen them come and go, believe me.
The buttons on the dress,
The fall of Adonis.
The Fairy Princess,
And now gone is,
All the pointless love!
Earthquakes roar, there is nothing more.
No rise, no fall, just dust.
(C)2019 Aa Harvey. All Rights Reserved.
I had a dream last night that I was in a northern train,
journeying through snowflakes falling;
and we seemed to be crawling.
I could see magical flakes fall onto the trees and ground,
everything was a blanket of white;
that sparkled so bright,
My dream train traveled on- curving into the wilderness,
I saw deer standing still to watch us;
and licking snow with no fuss.
Birds rested on gnarled branches of the tangled winter trees,
singing a beautiful twittering song;
and in my dream I sang along.
Soon, I was stirring for it was time to come back to my world,
and I saw snow had fallen outside;
still- the flakes drift and collide.
__________________________
December 30, 2018
Poetry/Rhyme/I Had A Snowy Dream
Copyright Protected, ID 18-1099-537-01
All Rights Reserved. Written under Pseudonym.
Submitted to January 2019 Standard Contest
Sponsor, Brian Strand
First Place
"A musician must make music,
an artist must paint,
a poet must write,
if he or she is to be ultimately
at peace . . . " _Abraham Maslow
___________________________
My poetic muse lives within my mind,
a spirit that can be any form;
each day I never know what I will find.
Oh, sometimes a lover clinging and warm,
sometimes, a lost, weeping and restless storm;
but there is a sweetness in this spirits voice,
and to follow- I have no choice.
My poetry is born of inspiration,
a voice within telling me to go on;
writing poetic words has been my salvation,
muse is floating within my mind today- a swan.
__________________________
July 22, 2020
Poetry/Rhyme/The Muse in Me
Copyright Protected, ID 20-1270-743-03
All Rights Reserved, 2020, Constance La France
Written for the PREMIER contest, Muse
sponsor, Regina Riddle
First Place
Full of force
Full of life
Life loves lust
Life lifts laughs
Laughs over tears
Laughs off the pain
Pain paid prophet
Pain predicted poison
Poison on the mind
Poison in our food
Food foreign fragile
Food forever fake
Fake news is real
Fake family fun
Fun is limited
Fun uniquely shattered
Shattered dreams
Shattered heart
Heart full of ice
Heart racing
Racing against time
Racing against humanity
Humanity has to fight
Humanity stripped of rights
Rights to free speech
Rights to vote
Vote for peace
Vote for proper protection
Protection from our government
Protection from our citizens
Citizens above the law
Citizens who had enough
Enough flags being raised
Enough evil evidence
Evidence we shall ignore
Evidence says Jesus wept
Wept for the dead
Wept for the living
Living organisms fail
Living God heals
Heals heaven's heart
Heals harmful hail
Hail stones freezing
Hail holy history
History unfrozen
History rewritten
Rewritten heroes
Rewritten villains
Villains
Heroes
I will never forget you ...
each one I love ... gone for Heaven above
my sister left first and years rolled
but I was left silent
no talking
but I heard ...
~ it was grandma who reached into my silent world
and gave me a safe harbor and inspired me to write my pain and sorrow
and I healed under her loving care ~
when my father left me
I was utterly shattered and broken
he had been my rock
I still recall our walks in nature and his sayings
that I now understand ...
~ don't burn the bridges behind you ... you may wish to go back
pick your battles- find the courage to walk away from a fight
hold your friends close to your heart ... and many others as well ~
when my baby died I wept for days and months ....
and my mother held me to her heart
when my husband left shortly after I was left empty
we lost my brother to a senseless war
and when mother left me I was beyond grief ...
like a wilted rose I hung my head
I was a lost balloon floating ... with no true north
but, somehow I found myself again, 'till
grandma left me 'alone' ... in this world
she is the reason I am a writer today ...
~ but, yet again I found a fathomless strength within me
and also found my poetic voice and MUSE
and express myself now ... in poetry and art forms
... broken but okay ... and I will never forget ~
______________________
April 22, 2021
Poetry/Verse/never forgotten
Copyright Protected, ID 04-1348-756-22
All Rights Reserved, 2021, Constance La France
Written for the Premier contest, Open Poetry 3,
sponsor, Charlotte Puddifoot, Judged 04/25/2021
Submitted into the Premier contest, Your 2021 N-A Choice poem
Sponsor, William Kekaula, Judged 04/27/2021
Fifth Place
Poem of the Day, April 24, 2021
Submitted to the Premier contest, Your Favorite Poem Of 2021
sponsor, Chantelle Anne Cooke, Judged 11/23/2021
First Place
I dream of a painting . . .
a beautiful white stallion is galloping
the rider is native . . . muscled and handsome
with flowing hair
feathers entwined
he beckons from the frame . . . come
then, I am a native girl within
wearing a soft beaded doe skin dress
my hair is black as the night
we caress, caress
laying tangled in love
and I trace his battle scars
as he kisses my hair and lips
until, until
weeping my loss . . . I stand alone
in front of the painting
in my dream
_____________________
April 20, 2023
Poetry/Free Verse/a painting
Copyright Protected, ID04-1451-684-20
All Rights Reserved, 2022, Constance La France
Written for the Premiere contest, A Brian Strand Premiere Contest, No. 1210
sponsor, Brian Strand, Judged 04/22/2023
Second Place
How I pine for those carefree days when I was seventeen!
I weighed a mere hundred twenty pounds and was rather lean!
I thought I could mount an Arab steed and conquer the world!
Before me bold adventures beyond the horizon lay unfurled!
In my precarious youth I never dreamed of growing old.
I assumed I'd be seventeen forever, truth be told!
But suddenly in the blink of an eye I was thirty-five,
Then I reached fifty, so stealthily did it arrive!
I hardly turned around and suddenly I was sixty-five.
Grandson Zach exclaimed, "But Grandpa, you're still alive!"
A reward upon reaching that exalted rung of maturity,
Was that I became eligible for medicare and social security!
So quickly did I reach the age of seventy, a septuagenarian.
I might as well hang around and become an octogenarian!
Though I enjoy the privileges of the golden years, forsooth,
I'd much prefer the unpretentious days of my youth!
Oh, feckless youth, how hastily thou wast spent.
I clasped thee to my bosom and was so content.
But anon you abandoned me much too soon.
I really think that was so inopportune!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(© All Rights Reserved)
they tell you we have to have war
to secure peace
so mankind soaks up these lies
till they believe everything
they are told
and what are they told?
that war is always fought
over
what is right
so in the name of peace
bombs are dropped
for truth
justice
and rights
it`s the innocent
who wins the least
by the ones
that char the earth
of this
precious land
by the ones
who have
bloodstained hands
so suffer does
the whole of
mankind
so when
the smell of death is in the air
and the rivers flow with blood
and when
the innocent that
cry with despair
and people pay
the ultimate price
over a tiny piece of land
so will man
just bury their heads
in the sand?
or will they
show they truly care?
satan must be
laughing at man
because he is
blind to all that is
good
so they play his evil plan
as he turns him away from
the light
now life becomes darken night
so all that is left now
is a soul that`s
just an
empty shell.
Now and again I like to peek back through the mists of yore,
To muse about things that now can only be recalled as lore.
Things that are as American as apple pie and barbeque,
Traditional things of which my grandkids have no clue!
I recall the Fuller Brush Man who made his monthly call,
With suitcases full of gadgets that could do any job at all.
The Watkins Man offered spices and Carter's Little Liver Pills,
And Lydia Pinkham's miraculous brews to cure the ladies' ills!
Encyclopedia salesmen made their spiel, took the money and fled,
Implying sans his tomes your kid would become a dunderhead!
You bought more Cloverine Salve than you could ever use,
Since your kid was trying to earn a bike, it was hard to refuse!
I avidly read every word of a newsy little paper called "Grit."
It certainly expanded my country boy horizons quite a bit!
Butcher's Funeral Home distributed fans for most every occasion,
Especially to churches regardless of their religious affiliation.
You could find anything at Kresge's Five and Ten Cent Store.
They returned your change in a tube from the second floor.
Glitzy malls, computers and off-shore acquisitions,
Have almost left us bereft of some great American traditions!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(© All Rights Reserved)
The Mind’s Cornfield
Dreaming deeply on this dark, dank, frigid-cold night,
My spirit-body walks freely in this place of solitude—
The Mind’s Cornfield, where fantasy and reality are one.
In this place, free from mortal constraints and strife,
One can see and speak to spirits of those now dead,
And to those whose souls wander around aimlessly.
These spirits know of my still-mortal connection to
The earthly plane and are sometimes confused by my
Wandering presence with them in this vast cornfield.
I believe these spirits sense a form of hidden conflict
In my own spiritual body manifested perhaps by a
Tragic event impacting my soul from a former life.
I have learned over time there are others like me who
Are still mortally-connected to our human world, but
Who choose to walk about in this place of solitude.
Questions abound: Why does this netherworld exist?
What is its true purpose? Will the wandering spirits
Move on? Will they find the peace they are seeking?
And with this—I wake up again and find myself centric
In this mortal world of human creatures who are made
In the very keen, like-image of Almighty God Himself.
I can’t help but feel a psychic-style influence with this
Image of a mental cornfield in the chasm of one’s mind.
The soul’s bond to the ethereal world may be the key.
Situations like this call for a real mystical awareness of
How one thinks, what one sees, and what one perceives—
In this finite mortal world that defines us as human beings.
Gary Bateman, Copyright © All Rights Reserved
July 29, 2018 (Tercet)