Long Rose colored Poems
Long Rose colored Poems. Below are the most popular long Rose colored by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Rose colored poems by poem length and keyword.
To alchemize an attachment
Let me sit with it.
Here comes the fear again.
Why do you care?
Stop imagining people are there.
It's just an attachment, cloaked, trying to make you scared.
They are going to talk about me
Well, there is no proof; that's bad programming. Don't you see?
Let them do what they do if that is true.
So what if they will talk about you?
What if they will throw evil eyes at you?
Send them back to God with gratitude and lovingly.
They are on their job.
Be glad that I took the time and thought of you.
Be glad something stirred in them to resonate with you.
They don't realize the attachment they have living beside them.
It's not their fault. I repeat it: give them back to God.
Worrying about past presence never will keep you in your present.
Worrying about any future action is a false idyllic satisfaction.
Worrying is my form of addiction. My heaven
It's the place where I threw my sins in. Worrying was like my tempting friend.
I didn't want to, but I had to have that repeated feeling within.
Worrying had me on rose-colored glasses.
It had me thinking all these people were straight lies.
It had me assuming and playing out the fool in me.
Worrying is one of the biggest mockeries.
It covered me and cloaked me, at times even choked me.
Worrying didn't allow for any control, and it took hold.
It is coming back for me more and more.
It is coming back for me, leaving me quite sore.
It's painful to admit I couldn't stay in my present self.
I was paralyzed and couldn't scream for help.
Curiosity exposed me. It was worrying, that facade by me.
A distortion of my face that was a mask.
As honest as I could, it was hard to reveal that truth in me.
A hard truth that I embrace with no regrets.
I'll turn it around, clean it up, and command it to bow down.
Command it to be used for a real purpose.
It will be a novel new focus.
Look at me, haha; look how I wrote this.
Energy goes where attention flows, as the adage conveys.
These words I divulge are from my heart, my truth, and sure, they are powerful.
I needed to sit with this piece.
I needed to sit and take back my peace.
There is hope. Acknowledge it, notice where that comes from, and embrace it. Take Care. ????
I got it from watching my 60-year-old abuelo come home every night chingotiado from picking cilantro till his hands turned green and purple So that his children’s children could go to school in Tejas. It was sitting on the couch with me as we counted monedas for the bus while we only worried about getting an education at Chapman across town, instead, of worrying about quitting elementary school and help work in the fields by age 10 because my father, and his father already made that sacrifice for me. We got it by watching Mami crying “no entiendo lo que dicen!” every time she stepped foot into the racist JCPenny down the street, because that is where Americanos buy their fancy clothes. And it came to us in the form of cheap insults for being more brown than white, which forced our eyes to see things without the rose-colored glasses offered to white people like free samples at a Costco. We got it by watching Trump plaster the TV about us being the problem when nuestra gente have never shot up a school because of mental health issues stemming from white-privledge, because we don’t do those pendejadas, because we were taught to respect everyone or face the chancla to our backside till our nalgas turned bright red from the embarrassment to our people.
And now, here I am in my JCPenny jeans and blouse, that was bought with the fear of being white-washed over the blood and sweat de mis padres, proudly holding my College degree en la misma mano that I used to sign my name with when I finally bought a house. Con orgullo, I watch my child give a speech to thousands of people who look to him as a pillar of hope for Latinos about changing the world starting here In California, speaking in my Grandfather’s native tongue, saying, “Si se puede” because he understands the one thing you can’t buy in any store; the one thing that is served in every latino household from dusk till dawn because it feels like a hot bowl of menudo on a rainy day to us. The only thing the first generation made sure to bring with them as they crossed the border in fear. It is the same thing that was given to their children, and their children, and their children and their children… and is now engrained into our very fiber of who we are.
Legends speak of banshees of the blue briny deep, whom cast bewitching
Spells mesmerizing voice and song, beware youthful mariner for charms echoing
Beauty, may cause deceptions fall from grace, nay naivety’s innocence
Attracts creatures of passions folly!
In the Grecian headwaters of historical mystery, these damsels of seduction
Parlous feast on the souls of wayward men, who’s lustful desires are never
Satisfied by honest women of proper barring, or noble birth!
Blue eyed vixens with erotic convictions, are more to the liking of well
Traveled men of ill reputes fashion, yet these lashes lusts are only
After the flesh, bone and tasty marrow of the living, their bonus
Is deserts just reward, thy very soul’s possession!
Oh mother dearest, protect he the lads whom seek fortunes
Favors by sails cast unto destiny’s distant shores, for beyond
Lies the forbidden isles of temptation fiery, and none return
From the aquatic wilderness alive or whole again!
Mer-gypies nomadic beasts of reflected images of beauty,
Clinging unto the rocky craggy shores beguiling the unwary
Sailor, weaving enchantment’s enticing allure with promises
Of pleasures beyond the mortal experience!
Intensity’s emerald spheres pierce through the night, these
Seekers of vulnerability’s sinful, prayer by the light of the full
Moons illumination, that at sunsets rise no man or kindred’s
Son, has gone missing beneath twilights mystical essence,
Thus so be advised he must be lost at sea, is all that is said,
To a broken hearted mother, and a sweet darling left behind!
Cast off the docks of forget-me-knots remembrance, petals
Of sorrows tears, rose colored floating diamonds shed by
Longings embrace never to be fulfilled!
On isolation’s distant beach the jackals gather in a
Heckling breach delighting amongst the spoils of a
Crimson feast, singing the voyagers swan song,
Unto the cast a ways vanquished soul!
Legends speak of banshees of the blue briny deep, whom cast bewitching
Spells mesmerizing voice and song, beware youthful mariner for charms echoing
Beauty, may cause deceptions fall from grace, nay naivety’s innocence
Attracts creatures of passions folly!
BY: CHERYL ANNA DUNN
(Written in response to the poem “Black and White.”)
Over age 40? Here’s some truth from the new generation.
Don’t get me wrong,
I love those old shows.
Classics for long
All that and more.
But if I may speak a while.
Sir, sit down and please don’t be sore,
And don’t view me as a child.
The shows of old are lovely and dear.
So simple and sweet
Parents needn’t be ware
Of the bad things and screams
They never harmed any babes, those old TVs.
But something’s not right
The black and the white lied you see.
The loving families of “Father Knows Best”
The eyes of “Lassie,” brilliant and true
They are no different from the mess
On our high definition color surround
The only difference, the only thing
Is that you never got to see
What went on behind the scenes.
Violence and hate survived in black.
Lies and deceit thrived in white.
Let me tell you why you really want the old shows back.
The simplicity and the friendly smiles
Were all painted on with a poor painter’s brush.
The breakfasts, the perfection, the people’s damn reactions!
All you want back to feel safe when you have the truth crushed.
The world is no different now from then.
The only difference is
Now we can zoom in.
Into the faces to see the lines
The living color reveals
The lies all of the “great actors’” eyes.
The fake and the phony
Is what you truly love, you asses.
You’ve known all along that the world never changed
Only plucked from your nose those rose-colored-glasses.
Let me tell you something, if I may.
The black and the white that you love so
Is the reason the under 40s are screwed up today.
The God they trusted as they slept in their separate beds
Is the one so many of us defy when your lies about Him were seen in color.
But now we know there are bad guys who DO win fights
And so we’ve learned to hold one another
At night when we know promises CAN be broken
The wind will CUSS from somewhere cold
And some NEVER will NEED vows
For the one they hold to know they love them.
Even though we NEVER fully knew wrong from right.
At least now we’re not hiding beneath the Black
And that White.
I was young when I realized my mom was different,
Different from me at least, for sometimes
She would draw or paint and miracles would happen.
Her penciled or charcoaled strokes on paper projecting life
Into two dimensions, though color, of course, was absent,
Like God, a multi-dimensional entity, manifesting Himself
Into the three-dimensional flesh of Jesus Christ,
God’s Presence too much for mortal man to take in.
Her images drawn from a world of fragmentary illumination,
Pre-dawn scenes where mind supplies the missing detail
That eye cannot quite gather in, so soft, so colorless the light.
Proportions too are faultless: contours never flat,
Roof lines never too long or short, you are with her,
Mountains exactly where God put them,
Though not strictly photographic, as if aware of her gaze,
And truly wanting to look their best for …. the Artist.
And colors too, the amazing blend of watercolors that
Always complimented even nature’s imagination.
A few strokes of her brush and a girl’s face would emerge from
What would be mere daubing on my part, believe me, I tried.
But for mom, the colors always ran, flowed into perfection,
Making it seem sometimes like gravity was up not down.
You wanted her to win, and somehow, she almost always did.
The paint itself would evolve with time to become
Who the girl herself would be, if only she knew how,
Perfection shining through the textures of mere colors,
Even the rose colored light of the rising sun wherein she posed
Erupting from her image as if Venus herself broached the shore,
Floating as it were, erect on shell, on a sea born of man’s tears.
Oh, my mother saw everything with the genius of new eyes.
Only with my words do I dare to paint images that so touch
The emotions that shook me to the core of my being as a child.
Did my mother wreck me, did she draw me into coral reefs
Of her imagination like a siren might a forlorn sailor.
I leave that for you to judge, my reader, my friend, my lover,
Whose mind is the intangible parchment of my self-expression.
Her parting legacy to her son, the gift of my very own new eyes.
Brian Johnston
August 14, 2015
When I
was just
starting my
adult life, first
job after college
with responsibility.
Somehow, I took the
wrong interview, or was
so naive that it clouded
any rational judgement I
should have had regarding
the company where I was going
to work. The man at the top was
a crook, only I was unable to see it.
His Robin Hood act was just that, an act.
Others tried to warn me, but what did
they know? I was going to be happy,
and then they would see how much
their insight was wrong. So, after
two years of struggling through
taking from the poor to give to
the rich I ended without a love,
MY "ROBIN HOOD" WAS NOTHING MORE THAN A
or the will to live. I was a numb, CHARLATAN,
dumb, bum. Yet I was given WHO WAS
a second chance at life. DETERMINED
The Lord moves in TAKE TO
mysterious ways. FROM THE
Life, again! POOR AND
Yes, Me. GIVE ONLY TO HIMSELF. FOOLISH, STILL BELIEVING IN THE MISSION
THAT HE ESPOUSED, I FOUND OUT THE HARD WAY THAT
THE MAN OF THIS SHERWOOD FOREST WAS LIFE'S WAY
OF TELLING ME THAT I KNEW NOTHING OF THE WORLD
AND THOSE WHO WOULD SEE EVERYTHING THROUGH
ROSE COLORED GLASSES. I GAVE THEM MY ALL, ONLY
TO HAVE IT DASHED UPON THE ROCKS OF REALITY
AND TRUTH. THIS WAS THE GIFT HE GAVE TO SO
MANY OF US POOR WORKERS WHO BELIEVED IN
HIS EXOTIC VISIONS, BUT TAUGHT US THE TRUE
MEANING...HIS BEING THE "ROBBER OF THE HOOD"!
There is no power greater than the Lord's, but there is a powerful lesson to be learned by not stumbling off on a fool's errand. That idiom is a phrase that explains the undertaking of a futile effort to find or prove something that is an impossible task. Thus, the effort becomes a waste of time and a fool's game to play. It is doomed to succeed from the start, even if the journey taken is by one with a good heart. The goal will never be reached when shrewd ones preach one thing and hand out rose-colored glasses to disguise words they speak but never practice. They tickle the ears of all who will listen, but the truth is what the naive ones will never hear. The real fool's errand is trying to unveil the fools who in spite of all efforts to conceal it, reveal themselves when the truth will out.
it's a waste of time
to go on a fool's errand~
fruitless endeavor
The phrase itself implies that it would be an unproductive effort and a lesson in futility such as Sisyphus rolling a boulder uphill only to watch it roll back down again. So, don't allow yourself to be disappointed, nor disjointed when the foolhardy in the world ..."don't know how to get along, yet, they pretend they've done nothing wrong."* It would be much wiser to avoid engaging with those who are always caught up in the throes of what they haughtily impose upon unsuspecting others. Excuse these added idioms, but they will help make the point about not getting a nose out of joint thinking a fool's errand is 'not my cup of tea.' Or, I'd rather 'call it a day' then chase a fool whose life has gone astray. Don't 'shoot yourself in the foot' by being a fool on an errand that will only prove to be 'a wild goose chase.'
in a world of fools
don't be duped to prove them wrong~
prove yourself wiser
* Sandra Feldman in her poem: 'Foolish World'
Thanksgiving Dinner by Mario Vitale
Home for the holiday from New Orleans,
Happy as a bee in the tree making a tune so merrily We only get a glimpse of what is to come The thought to be thankful in a job well done Out in the street a chance to meet & greet A wooden soldier stands at the edge of my bed post The love we show comes flowing in a reason to begin again Emmet sifts through the morning newspaper only to discover His band is coming along a chance to sing a song Prancing through the leaves in a land of make believe What to soar in this life for what we are to achieve Thanksgiving comes but once a year with sweet cheer A whole stuffed turkey with all it's trimmings Only to summon a passing few for dinner well soon discover Have to say thanks to our maker up above Then to play our guitar outside in the mud Emmet will soon discover is it any wonder he got to much time on his hands A great plan out on the sled for a passing crow was full of dread There will be peace in the valley for Emmet & band you understand The tunes of glorious days gone by with a soft reply Shadows turn the mud to sod a lonely frog Give peace to all traveler's from here to far A rainbow will appear from that of one shooting star Sing out to the trees with turned up leaves to please Emmet Otter's Thanksgiving with love down from heaven up above
Father at the tiny
drop leaf, brown rosewood, mahogany
table with the gold, grinning claw feet;
Father, choler- red-in the-face, short-
sleeved white shirt and cane, says the blessing
as Mother brings in the turkey and cranberry.
Then Mother asks, “Won’t you have more?” and father :
“Do you think Moll Flanders was a whore?”
(I have suffered and bleached my hair blond.)
I am silent before their replies.
Mother sighs. “I can scarce speak to her.”
And Father, too, quotes Shakespeare. (I am thin
as paper and the rose- colored bowl
of blown glass sitting on the silver stand,
half- filled with water.)
“How sharper than a serpent’s tooth it is
to have a thankless daughter”
Looking through old photo boxes
I happen to trip upon
High School memories of my Mother
Resound off the walls, faded edges
Finger printed memoirs sigh between the creases
Of the emerald green sofa
Laughing, fashionable, full of vitality
Mother to me, was
A friend, a mentor, a lover, to somebody else
Seeing how she had a life, before this family
I felt the pregnant tears start to fall
Each weighing about 6 pounds or so
8 ounces, ten fingers, ten toes
Perfect forms of some sort of therapeutic
Amends for a mistake made years ago
Taking a solitary race down my face
But I never cry
I get this kind of strength from my Mom
How is it that I don’t even know who you are?
Standing in front of the sink
Washing crusty dishes and wiping off crude recollections
On windows, what is really behind,
Those beautiful slanted eyes
I see in those photos?
The All American Dreamer
A photographer
Capturing moments in a single shot
Of insight, imagining her
Tiny frame spending hours in the developing room
Crimson passion running, igniting, illuminating her face
Dripping, re-dipping negatives, cutting and pasting
To make the world just a bit more beautiful
A touch more understanding
An image to make us human
How could she sacrifice everything?
For a bundle now grown and barely appreciating
Her surrender of a perfect dream, such ambition
Why did she accept being pregnant at 18 years old
With a wide open road and an never ending horizon
Car packed, engine on blasting her favorite Madonna song
Instead she turned around and walked toward
Home, with a baby in her stomach, returning her rose colored aviator glasses
For reality tinted ones
Sacrificing one life for another
She turned around to
Work a 9 to 5 job on minimum wage,
She turned around to
come home to
Such an ungrateful child
Mother, Unaccounted for, beautiful soul
Stuns me with radiance, such sweet
Abandon, selflessness,
I want to grow up to be just like her
In wooden covered wagons on the out
Flanks of town is where you will find the
Gypsy encampment.
Do you have an inquisitive mind?
They have all kinds of entertainment
That has to be lucrative for them to stay
Alive you'll find.
Some people say their fugitives which
Keeps them on the out skirts of town
To where their confined
Yet, through their travels they've become
Quite intelligent.
They make honey sweets with no
Preservatives that are just to a dieter
Or diabetic unkind.
In wooden covered wagons on the out
Flanks of town is where you will find the
Gypsy encampment.
People arrive to have their fortunes told.
They see the signs in front of bright
Colored tents where the palm reader
And the targot card dealer gives them
Some enlightenment
To take them away from their daily grind.
The tamborine shakes and a long haired
Gypsy girl with green eyes will mystify
Any passer by steps in to the circle which
Is the cue for the instruments.
Do you have an inquisitive mind?
I guess so. The crowd moves in closer to
See rose colored lips, pearl white teeth,
Provocative hips, that are really defined.
Sway to the beat as waist length black
Hair with just the right amount of curl
Swirls with abandonment.
Her ankle length bright colorful skirt
Shows off tiny dainty bare feet and
Shapely legs as it unfurls unconfined.
See they have all kinds of entertainment.
Watch her spin, the way she tilts her chin
As you take the dance in it gets under
Your skin as a testament
That nothing can compete with the Gypsy
Girl when she has combined
The twirls and whirls to the music in her
World she is definitely in her element.
It has to be lucrative for them to stay
Alive you'll find.
Her dance is designed
As a convenient
Way for all to hurl coins of any kind
To help support their wonderful life of
Merriment.
In wooden covered wagons on the out
Flanks of town is where you will find
The gypsy encampment.