Long Rite Poems
Long Rite Poems. Below are the most popular long Rite by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Rite poems by poem length and keyword.
As two, hearts dance the embrace of a fire,
plucking your heartstings as a lyre
Distrust, lies, eclipses love's satellite true- natal
loon, into a suicide hot air balloon ride!
Moves aside bend of light, chooses,
side, of a dark malignant side of moon !
In the twilight hour blues,
where passions softly stir,
emotions start to blur, turn sour,
painting pleasure in the night maw to devour two
In the depths of the night, a solitary light wound
casts a shadows upon the heart,
where darkness slowly seeps through
With every stolen kiss, a crescendo of desire,
a symphony of emotions that sets souls afire
Strings of anticipation strum
in rhythmic delight tuned to
caressing secrets, where fantasies abide, nude
Signs, who, hides moons of the truest kind!
O a tale apart
Moves side winds, breath of the dark arts,
to align into hearts maligned
arms folded in death to make with
as a stolen kiss ignites a flame,
like a symphony, our hearts fall prey to again
be betwixt in the game
With every stolen kiss, a crescendo of desires,
hollows,
a symphony of emotions that sets
souls adrift from the shallows
In passions dance in the shadows,
at Night, where secrets cannot hide their gallows
from the ghouls that preside in it's marrow
In a tale ripped apart...
every 'plete of your heart
Strings of anticipation strum in
rhythmic delight tune
turns to the knife of sacrificial rite
In the twilight raimant so blue, where passions fly,
the jolly roger of motley fools,
selling the fine line
sailing the live mines
Embracing the darkness' essence,
a tale yet for reason
harmonies of ecstasy reaching
a breathtaking peak of reasoning
Oh, the cadence of desire, intoxicating and divine,
as crescendos rise and fall, our spirits intertwine
a symphony of emotions, wild and misconstrued,
leaving souls aflame, forever marked,
for death do you sever
apart partaking your
passions dance in the shadows,
at Night, where secrets cannot hide to
desires lever toggle with every touch, new,
every sight of slight or bruise
Urban decay of a dream,
dream theater of a tragedy
playing looped scene
In the Twilight raimant so blue
With every beat of your heart
Moves side winds, choose, sides,
with a dark maligned tune
Though I'll remember nature's wonders,
sunsets and the breath of spring,
feel the wind blow through my hair
and know the thrill of sunrise cresting.
We see the universe as dancing,
two such different creatures trancing,
we two will never understand
the private notions of the other,
even if we take each other's hand.
Coming close to your destruction
you will see the other side,
who says who has satisfied
requirements for a better life?
Friendship, if we could but find it,
yields the seeds of greater profit,
greater than the seeds of strife.
I now remain just as I ever was.
I shall take my morning walk,
communing with the birds and talking
to myself while reading Kafka,
glancing at the latest headlines.
Dear Stravinsky's 'Rite' is slighted,
(he'll return when ears are righted.)
When I smell a rose I'm prompted
to recall a certain lady, gifted with
a new perception, I must sadly
take exception, for the moment anyway.
The chill of morning, people yawning,
I am tired, the blush of dawning has me
feeling ill at ease, my spirit sags,
I barely reach the second floor.
'When will you return? Is Paris so much more
than you have here?' is my unanswered question.
I drag my heels to breakfast,
listless as a lazy dog, and nibble toast,
my countenance as pallid as a ghost.
A letter would be welcomed.
I shall miss you; there, I've said it.
I am your friend, are you not mine?
Tenuous and strained, two casual
acquaintances who share so little time,
we brush elbows, like strangers passing
on a platform, sharing sidelong glances,
afraid to say hello. I watch you as you go.
Others swore we would be close,
peas in a pod, familiar.
Instead there is no warmth, not yet.
Were you to try we might combine
and nibble toast together, and take
a walk, your hand in mine, and
stammer conversation 'til we knew
there was no reason e'er to rue.
I shall sit with pleasant thoughts of you.
Desperate, I ponder on your death,
scant breath expended twixt the two of us,
and loneliness an ache too harsh to mention,
pen in hand and no one to subscribe.
I'll scarce recall the softness of your skin,
or search your heart to find what lies within.
Should I be bold, or take a gentler path?
encourage you... would I incur your wrath?
If you were to die I'd never know your truth,
and I should lose the vigour of my youth.
When I was 16 years old, I walked into the English class on the first day of school of a new year. I’d been waiting through the long hours of Economics, of Chemistry, of Physics to get to English class, the subject I loved most.
My teacher stood in front of us and explained that we’ll be studying the theme "Coming of Age" – the transition from childhood to adulthood. We were going to read many different novels that tell this story in diverse ways, and as we read, we’ll discover the universal themes across diverse accounts of this rite of passage.”
Then he told us about the books we were going to read – Lord of the Flies, Black Boy, A Separate Peace… I noticed something odd: none were written by women and none were about a girl coming of age. I knew it wasn’t right for a classroom of girls and boys to only read stories about boys.
But what was most remarkable about that day was this: I felt a strange surge of energy. It wasn’t anger – it was more like momentum, vitality, passion. It came with a feeling of “I’m going to do something about this.”
At the time, I was a little lost – in teenage rebellion, in hating my body, in being bored with high school. Suddenly, I wasn’t bored, or lost or hating. I was excited about something. I was working toward something.
Years later I turned out to be a biology teacher even without attending any teaching school or training.
And used the opportunity to enlighten lots of female students on maturity (the transition from childhood to adolescense and to adulthood) and several female related issues that wasn't in any textbook nor in the curriculum.
Today I might not be a very rich man but I am a fulfilled man. I am fulfilled because I know deep down that I have made an impact in the lives of several females out there.
So whatever is that drive, that burning passion inside of you, that push to make a positive difference, to contribute to humanity, I just want to tell you "don't give up on it. It's only a matter of time"
Together if we all put in our little effort, we can make a huge difference.
So whatever field u find yourself, be it entertainment, music, acting, poem writing, YouTuber, blogger, teacher, student or parents, let's all join hands to make the world a better place. All it takes is for you to use your field to make positive impacts.
#POETICLORD#
(c) JANUARY 2019.
I let your eyes to visualise a garden on a loom;
Bluebells and marigolds in sway and lavender in bloom;
And there to play in a luscious green two kittens wrestling;
Up high in chirping swallow's play are feathered friends a-singing.
A figure of a handsome man is settled on a chair;
And by his side a beauty pure strokes lovingly his hair;
The Witch, or so the story plays, is set to work a-stitching;
For everyday she works to lay the groundwork for her witching.
The "Loom of Dunkele" is dark and glistens as if new;
That which it forges is by spelling set to render true;
This vessel handed down through time where Witches are sure wed;
Commutes it powers to the offsprings through that marriage bed.
At 35 she must be bride and to a handsome beau;
For Dunkele demands that beauty seeps through row to row;
The Witch beholden to this pact must honour this or else;
The Dunkele will take her beauty for its very self.
Dunkele demands a beauty in it's natural mould;
The Witch must weave the magic seams without her vêtements;
As pure as a newborn should she display her nakedness;
For Dunkele gave a perfect body not to be redressed:
No blemish, painting, marking, piercing for her skin to bear;
No jewellery should adorn her parts no braids within her hair;
Should she ignore these rulings and would set about to loom;
The magic would reverse all workings never to resume.
Above the loom, portraits in rows, of Witches one and all;
Each face a picture of a beauty unimaginable;
Throughout all time the loom has served and must forever more;
Or else a terrible curse be laid upon each maiden's door:
Indeed, to pander verily to a Dragon's carnal needs;
The Witch must feed on blood and guts and do as Dragon pleads;
Forever trapped in a darkened lair, no view of sun or sea;
The Witch would disappear from sight, no trace or history.
For 20 years this loom she spins as was the bargain made;
And in this time her beauty shone, success and wealth her aid;
Now in an hour the carpet loomed but for a patch to fill;
A slip of hair should she prepare to weave into the mill.
Then once complete the spell to speak releasing her shalom;
To lead her to that wondrous place where there awaits Handsome;
This rite of passage like forebears would guarantee the Witch;
Leaves on the blood line of her ilk a rich continuous stitch.
I belong to metallic soiled Earth,
solar-fired water's atmosphere;
these oil and blood-fluent elements
would feel freer
not belonging to you,
to us.
They
we
are our belongings
but not our property,
commodity.
Our multicultural values
measure and calculate
design and develop
investing primal qualities of time
predicting secondary quantitative spatial outcomes.
Less time constrains freedom and value and love.
More freedom responds to surrounding needs and wants and relationships
with less dissonant restraint,
competitive response;
with more cooperative invitations
for mutual mentoring regenerate options,
our pacific path revealing positive intentions.
Missing freedom suffers,
as missing incarnation dissonates,
as absent polynomials disformate.
Incarnation's value grows enculturing time
measured with Earth's elements,
temporal functions,
systems design and development.
Each element
identity
system and set
contains regenerative potentiating value,
functionally forming network constellations
of prime-frequency, flow,
rhythmic relationships,
sustaining balanced harmonies,
an ecological economy
static until its season to unfold again.
Limited value decomposes from ego-systemic mortality.
Regenerate value emerges from eco-logical coincident, co-arising comprehension.
Space enacts time's liturgical rite of passage,
as time incarnates space's ambidextrous function
with fractal equivalent information.
Ambivalent eco-normic tipping points
out equi-valent ecological potential,
permacultural regenerate systemic nutrients
for sustaining polycultural maintenance.
We grow adeptly incarnating cooperative economies
as we become allergic to commodifying competition,
win-lose systemic incorporations.
Well-apprenticed permaculturalists,
Taoists,
Buddhists,
Fullerian Synergists,
enthymematic communicators
re-ligious self-with-other integrators,
economic ecological care of Other,
Earth Justice,
perhaps even Universal Intelligent therapeutic care,
evolves yeastfully prime rooted in multisystemic integrity.
We reach deeply and widely within remembering
our justice womb of poly-solidarity,
regenerate subsidiarity swimming
remerging toward light's bright flashing flight.
We belong to Earth
and feel freer longing with all of us together
in one Earth-bound network cycle.
The Barefoot Days of Summer
By Elton Camp
When I was a child in rural Alabama during the 1940s, going barefoot during the summer months was still a general practice, especially for boys. It was feasible because few roads were paved and sidewalks in the country were virtually nonexistent. The sun on hard, dark surfaces created burn hazards that prevented city kids from going without shoes outside the confines of their own yards.
My father’s childhood had been spent in the more distant rural areas of Marshall County. He and his siblings went shoeless partly by choice and partly because it was the inexpensive thing to do. Shoes for their large family would represent a significant cost. Memory being the fickle thing that it is, he looked back on “going barefoot” as a privilege and source of delight. It was a childhood rite that he wanted me to enjoy.
“You can start going barefoot now,” he announced in June of each year. His tone showed that he considered he was doing something wonderful for me, so I didn’t want to disappoint him by revealing my true feelings. Going shoeless hurts—a lot. Sharp rocks and stubs of plants seemed to be everywhere. After about a month, the soles thicken enough that walking becomes less painful, but it’s mainly a matter of degree. Without a doubt, the sandy, grass-free yards of his youth contained fewer perils.
In the forties, our yard had what passed for grass, but it actually was a mixture of grass, clover, and general weeds. When the clover bloomed, it created a hazard that no amount of tough skin could prevent—bee stings. The pain was intense and lasted a couple of days. The only treatment my parents knew was to moisten the head of a kitchen match to make a paste to apply to the sting. Despite their assurance that the folk treatment would help, I felt no better beyond the fact that something was being done. In later years, I took a perverse comfort when I learned that the sting tears out the internal organs of the bee so that it dies shortly. The mere fact that I was crushing the insect with my foot gave it no right to retaliate.
Apart from the beach, I haven’t seen a barefoot child over a year old in a long time. Viewpoints and circumstances change and that childhood ritual has vanished. Good riddance to it.
Unquotable quotes - III
When in Rome, do as the Roman Nero.
The rain in Spain falls mainly on the vain and the
insane.
A grenade a day keeps the refugee away.
Cut your coat according to your girth.
The kettle calling the pot back.
Like father, like son; like mother, like neither.
Singing in the rain can get you pain in Spain.
Singing in the rain in Paris can get you chicks who do
the twist with fairies.
A sound heart in a sick body is like a tart groggy with
toddy.
The sun also rises best in the West.
Who said beggars are not choosers: they can choose the
place and moment they beg.
A white tiger abhors orange.
A policeman’s girl always wears handcuffs behind her
back.
A lawyer who licks the back of hands always gets paid
first.
A judge who yells at you tends to reduce the sentence to
a phrase.
Building castles in the air with sand is cheaper by far.
A marathon runner remembers the thighs but not the
laps.
At the end of the day is when you make your greatest
mistake – you go to sleep.
Churn milk to make curd: churn speech to make turd.
Pounding rice as a marriage rite brings no surprise on
the wedding night.
One swallow doesn’t make a drunkard out of a
teetotaller, but it sure signals a dry summer.
Cricketing jargon
The late-cut is the shave you missed out.
The off-cut is the cover drive turned phut.
The leg-pull is the batsman’s bras de fer to the leg
spinner.
The long-stop is the twelth man on the field.
The straight drive pierces the umpire’s reverie.
The full-toss is the fast bowler’s slipped disc.
The ton-up comes after the spin bowlers give up.
The innings defeat is the army beating the retreat.
Test matches end up in ditches for pitches.
A bumper is an un-coded message from the bowler to the
batsman.
A bumper is an overt warning to the inveterate blocker.
Tail-enders get to face the best batsmen all-rounders.
Umpires inspect pitches at the start of a match for coins
dropped by lawn-mowers.
An over-throw is a fielded ball flung by an outfielder at
the umpires and which misses the wickets by miles.
© T. Wignesan – Paris, 2016
My post-mortem may bear the stroke of your hand, in your lap,
On your knees with a single tear so priceless
That may fall on my cold cheek with power to revive, resurrect.
But not this time, not this time.
My virility dissipated, my strength evaporated, my hope diminished
My pain increased, my sadness swelled, my dying delighted.
*
It would be no accident for the entire firmament to welcome the marble statue
Off to the higher ground so sterile and so heavenly boring,
The penurious acceptance committee may not be human but would piss me off!
Well, as Carrickfergus quietly spells out its notes, may I be burned!? –
I support the idea of still being able to choose,
Just to avoid the heavens being shocked by my St Louis Blues.
Oh, isn’t it such a fascist oppression when one is wounded so deeply
That starts circling in the whirlpool of emotional punishment
And yet as an indigent vagrant almost obsequious cannot die nor live without it.
*
What the ledger of life hides no incarnation can reveal!
At the time of my rite of passage I have reached the nirvana of destruction,
No tuxedo, thank you, just a bullet-proof vest.
Walking through a quiet field of death in an early April
Absorbing the consequence of sparagmos like an icicle above my vertex
It dangled with hesitation while being depicted in the singing of blackbirds.
For others it was the most precious commodity found in that dump.
And they came, chump after chump.
The zircon in my eye sharpened while looking through the scope
Repeating the drill again, and again, downing it in a oner
The paragon of excellence that could not be surpassed,
How foolish, and how inhumanely sad!
Incredible! When one thinks of it the thoughts are being turned into an auger!
Blame me for the executions as I go through sepia - the auger through my heart,
Blame me for daring to bring it back from the event horizon
Being on the inside of it and escaping the pull
Give me a chance to embrace my life and play it under new rules,
In the jungle of the Congo like Tarzan, this time – king of fools!
I never wanted an ornament of honour, as there was no honour in it.
Give the golden brooch to the old lady witch at the sooty ‘Meyhane’!
Just sail on under ‘the bridge over troubled water’- and keep sane.
(to be continued...)
President Elect Alexandria Ocasio Cortez - 2024
Circa...Approximately one month
following her thirty fifth birthday
October 13th, 2024
AOC became the first
female commander in chief,
and youngest person ever
to assume Oval Office
amidst landslide victory
among competing candidates
ousting current establishment incumbent,
elected to serve United States
despite being neophyte,
she received most
votes of any contender
since founding of Democracy
to assume modestly furnished
Capitol Hill - Washington
District of Columbia
most powerful post
within the United States
immediately electrifying North America
with her megawatt smile
crackling, snapping, and popping
with positivity, integrity, energy...
Deafening applause swept across nation
upon ascending dais prior to uttering one word,
she immediately wowed
darling of the hour received standing ovation
across greensward donned bajillion crowd
cheering, imploring, pumping...
green sleeved fists acclamation
action speaking decibels
louder than words bowed
young lady brought to genuine tears,
asper bona fide accreditation
understandable that newly
minted ma'am felt proud
to stride rite, (an air of modest
confidence) did enshroud,
sans an angelic halo augmenting
as optimistic words heard aloud
heralded sincere charming, intimating,
radiating... no frills accustomation
as if pledging troth to every citizen
(inclusive every flora and fauna) vowed
to steer ship of state toward ecologically,
environmentally, essentially...activation
away from fossil fuels shifting energy
consumption vis a vis alternate modalities
sow rejuvenation plowed
back into Earth prioritizing monied allocation
(dollar amount well worth investment) actualization,
where future generations will be grateful
to dead recent forebears for gift endowed
worth more than fine spun gold regarding
preservation of Gaia, how *****sapiens adaptation
made existence for all living creatures
(animals, plants, even this fungi) healthier allowed
populace to breathe easy and rest assured
quality of life for billions (ushering universal
family planning), despite tense adjudication,
especially when linkedin with
nuclear warheads disavowed,
but eventually kickstarted synergistic administration.
No Matter The Floor You Pass Out On
I awake as any other madman slash poet.
Apon the floor naked pizza box for pillow a members only jacket for a blanket.
yes the libary sure has changed over the years.
less and less people were reading buggets were cut meaning
libraryies were under staffed and rarely did anyone dare venture into
the stacks and thank good for that. Cause being i preffered free sleeping
it was probaly for the best.
but no matter the the floor you pass out on most all fine
american men wake up with are god given birth rite.
That which after a trip to the restroom like
that early morning madness that was christmas pressent openning
was over way to fast and was kinda disapointing.
Floors werent the best beds in the world in fact they
sucked altogather but drinking and common sense dont even
belong in the same room togather.
Portsmouth Va was a strange world indeed a place where upscale colided with skidrow.
Me I preffer the company of a outdoor sleeper to that of a
spoiled spoon fed yuppie turd.
the art school cranked out angst ridden buble people by the second.
They walked the street soaking in the pain of life.
there heads stuck so far up there asses I always felt compeled to trip them as they walked
by.
acting as though they were outsiders yerning to be mainstream
they'd rape there mothers on a mtv reality show as dad cried in the background.
Just for a taste of stardom.
True talent who needs that?
but no matter the floor you pass out on one
thing was clear.
In a world were you could have a bus load
of kids and get paid for it.
fame wasnt such a rare thing anymore.
The floor I passed out on was cold and cruel but surrounded
voices from the past.
the floor these hollow reallity show bottom feeders
passed out on. Had to besoft as there heads.
Otherwise there brains would splatter across the floor.
And some TV exect would have a brainstorm to have a show
were washed up celebrities would have a contest.
To see who could bore us the most with there sob story
Yes friends id rather have a pizza box for a pillow
than a reality show pillbox for a brain.
and the truth effectsus all form no matter
which floor so you do choose to pass out on.