Long Roughness Poems
Long Roughness Poems. Below are the most popular long Roughness by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Roughness poems by poem length and keyword.
My thoughts of this world lie troubled and profound
As I pause drenched in the golden hues of copper fields
Stretched to the limit of the bronzed horizons that crowned
Beaming with the aspiration of assured hope revealed
As the sun wraps reverently all around
Where old familiars have settled to retreat
I have come where tranquility and serenity abound
Looking for a place of peace
I stand uplifted by a fabled tree of legendary rhyme
That laid its roots sublimely patterned in story
To furrow richly in the swelling soil of time
Gently resting within its landscape’s glory
It grew ever so magnificently
Harvesting the goodness of adaptation
In perfect unison with nature's severity
Relinquished in the passing of generations
Strong and textured with roughness and age
From the scars of hardship it dwells
In its simplicity and synchronicity-a musical page
A soothing lullaby-a song of peace and farewell
And in that golden light I am reminded we must
In a world amid calamity, despair and strife
Find ourselves in this place of calmness and trust
Amidst gardens of hope glowing with harmonious life
What may be the hardest thing
Once thinks a human being
We people do many things
Through nonstop thinking and thinking
“It is hard to ride my new bicycle”
Said a kid with his little tricycle
Oh..no my dear boy you insensible
One day you could, said his gifted uncle
“I hardly can forget my past memories full of sadness”
It was a soldier lost everything through the war; ruthless
But, close was a stunning maiden shaped out of happiness
Her hands with a key were caressing his arms of roughness
Man can’t fly although a bird do
People said, watching what Wright brothers do
Today we all fly in a machine so,
It was hard , Yes; but not anymore
So, what could be the hardest thing, out of all
We stay thinking and thinking, no end at all
When something seems ‘the hardest’ we could think of
Another drudgery suddenly comes in front of
If you want to know, what I think as the hardest doing
It is exactly the opposite of what you are just doing
Have you ever tried to ‘be thinking of nothing’
Yeah..it’s the hardest as you are thinking to ‘be without thinking.’
13/8/2021
False faces and pretentious promises churn my heart,
like what the desert storm does to the dunes.
I can’t calm down my mind’s twirling turbulence
as the friction of fury shatters the shield of restraint.
Defenseless and discounted I disintegrate,
turn fanatically into discarded debris of indignity,
as the cloud of conceit rises from the abyss of intolerance.
Patience then fabricates the optimist awareness,
the invisible lubricant of the inner dynamics,
soothing the grind of exigent intolerant wheels
that pound the spirit of my muddled mindset.
Calming resilience is my smooth psychic mode,
the sense to step back to clearly assess situations,
respond sensibly rather than react rashly.
Hurt by the tough abrasion of the tumultuous life,
patience, an alchemic potion of healing serenity,
prevents me from being swept away
by the coercing currents of enraged compulsion,
enabling me to confront life’s challenges
with the innate mechanism of interactive attitude,
helping me to construct the durable connections.
In the remaining phase of my journey,
I cultivate confidently the wisdom of mindfulness,
as a virtue that not only elevates my conscience,
but flows outward with harmony and momentum,
flattening the roughness of my social interfaces,
and fathoming the depth of my perceptive essence
with the silent spread sanguine patience.
Thinking strength, resilience
Begins with hard hearts, roughness
Toughness that silences the hopes,
The dreams, the beautiful – the grace
Miracles on display in the glistening
Glittering parades, stardust
Whispers planted on the oceans
Sapphire shadows, skies alive with the
Floating halos, angel’s flying
There beneath the moon’s glow
Or is it only the music of flickering
Legends, wishes standing firm
Beneath the beckoning soul of a moon
Who knows that the tough, the strong
Are so very wrong…
Thinking strength comes from stone cold,
Hard hearts…
Even the stars know that the beautiful,
The soft and fragile, the falling
Become the most powerful promise,
The wish that inspires the others,
Who know that strength comes to the hope
Whose muscle is nourished by a frailty,
A flaw who remembers to grow braver,
Stronger, more powerful… because it has faced
The limitations, the infirmity, the imperfection
The softest heart often brings victory
To those who remember to listen to the way
Hope hears the gentle in grace and faith,
Love hears the potential in the most humble thanks
The meek become the strongest of all…
Saving the world from the darkness, the fall
Matthew 11:29 (KJV) “Take my yoke upon you, and learn of me; for I am meek and lowly in heart: and ye shall find rest unto your souls.”
He awoke, though he could not tell
if it was the middle of a long night
or the middle of his life.
The years before were sodden with autumnal leaves
and so he remembered much.
The mechanics had laid down their tools.
Social engineers played harmonic slogans
to the tone deaf.
A burdensome truth has been put down,
and few dared to pick it up again.
Then there are the girls; they have waited so long
for his kisses, and he now so aware and
no longer sleep-walking cannot undress them
with those velvet infatuations
he had saved just for this moment.
He recalls meadow larks and strong apple cider,
walks paused in the glow of painted lips.
Dark movie theaters, hands on white thighs.
Mountains and the ways around them,
the freedom of real choices.
A muffled pillow speaks to him
of what was once and what could have been.
Again he feels in the middle of both
watching time and circumstance
pull themselves apart.
He thought: How old do you have to be
to be in the middle?
Even now when the evening is closing
virgins easily birth new mornings,
he feels the wetness of their
coming and going.
He was a rough lad,
and he did what roughness can do,
now the melting has left him gentle
and in love with ghosts.
He must move without moving
drift soundless to where a world is suspended
in a timeless amber, an irreducible middle.
The new world order is off-kilter
bare-faced and inclined to decline,
its jellyfish arms glom onto
the frail and unwitting.
He will not leap forward with it,
he will abide now
where the past and future dream his dreams,
stay there at that halcyon center
where the air in his lungs is still sweet.
Remembered boy along these lines
Remembered roughness through our tough times
Remembered blue eyes with his laughing look
Remembering him reading me like an open book
I called him up the other day
With so many memories for me to say
I haven't spoke to him in over a year
And I can't remember from him my last tear
Remembered walks and remembered talks
Remembering his slyness just like a fox
Remembered our high school years with each other
Remembering the wrestling-match with me and his brother
Remembering old songs he used to dedicate to me
Remembering 7 long years of us smoking bomb tree
Remembering deep talks and the tears we have shared
Somewhere along the lines then were we the cutest pair
The pictures taken of him and I
Remembering nothing unasked or a why
Remembering bus rides down the 38
Remembering his love and never experiencing his hate
I remember calling him in front of my fireplace back at home
Remembering our plans that were once set in golden stone
I remember the years I spent by his side
Somehow hasn't completely yet died
I remember his smile and his familiar touch
Way back when I loved him so much
My pureness to him I chose once to give up
Back when we were just kids --- just little pups
But still throughout high school our love stood proud and tall
Taller and taller and taller than the Berlin Wall
Now years later he's back to reunite
Back as best friends --- never having to fight
But with him he's brought a new piece of him
For I see Sophie has scored her perfect 10
Back a bit taller and a bit wiser than before
Back into my life into my newly-opened doors
And it hurts more than it ever has before
It hurts over all over again on top of all my past sore
To see him with her is a blessing I do confess
But our strong past history is being a pest
I smile for him, I talk to him, I make him laugh
I released his true love from a contradicting, jaded, wrath
Back to his arms she is home once again
Watching my new best friend score his prize and win
I look at him now to the man he's become
And give her props because she's truly won
To see a smile across his gentle face
And to watch him set his everlasting champagne glass on a beautiful lace
Would make life worth all of the while
And make me happy to see his well-deserved, happy smile
It is good to be a fool once in a while,
What an extraordinary feeling to be a fool!
To know nothing,
To know everything,
Yet not convincing your heart—The most brilliant buffoon,
Letting your heart float like a boat
Without an anchor
In the middle of a lake illuminated by the half moon that looks like a piece fallen from something ethereal,
Vision yourself in that boat, dear reader,
Doing nothing but just letting that moon’s love
Lurk on your lips
While you yearn earnestly
With your eyes closed like the petals of a timid lotus,
I encourage you to be a fool with me.
The river of reverie might reduce the roughness of abrasive reality of existence,
The vastness,
The long blank whiteness of life—
The 20s, 30s, 40s, 50s, 60s, 70s, 80s, 90s
Of age are indeed agitating,
Colorless at times,
There are rainbows too,
But mostly it's white, serene and quite like a pearl or a marble.
Some people ensnare their hearts,
They think heart is some petty prisoner,
But when the boon of life comes to an end
The truth hits them in the chest
And the chains ensnaring the heart
Come gushing down with a roar like a waterfall,
Sudden and loud.
Chained hearts often become hoarse hazards,
Chained and always chasing,
But chasing what
You never know.
Heart is a bird,
A brave one
Like all birds,
But let me remind you something, dear reader,
Do you ever notice the birds looking at the sky and singing soft melodies,
The melodies they don't sing when they are soaring high in the sky?
Birds need a bower too to rest and rejuvenate,
They don't have to adorn an armour on their chiselled chest all the time,
It's just not natural,
It doesn't seem right,
So take my hand and come be a fool with me
Or just be a bird and fly freely.
Your soul is nesting your heart,
Let down the gloomy guard,
Nurture the nest
And give it a rest.
At three years old,
she slides down the playground chute
again and again—
screaming joy like a law of nature,
not knowing her thrill
relies on two surfaces
refusing to agree.
I don't tell her
that without friction
she'd fall through her chair,
pass through the carpet,
drop through the crust,
until even the Earth's center
ran out of grip.
I just watch her walk—
tiny soles pressing the ground,
each step a quiet argument
between rubber and concrete:
stay.
then go.
Last night she asked
why ice is slippery.
I wanted to say something
about water letting go
of its own shape—
but she was already gone,
hunting for socks,
her question dissolving
faster than I could catch it.
At the store,
she pushes the cart
(I guide it, barely)
and gasps at how
a week's worth of groceries
glides like nothing.
"It's magic," she says.
And maybe it is—
all those invisible wheels
and tiny metal balls
conspiring to make
heavy things light.
Tonight, she kicks off her blanket.
"Too scratchy," she complains,
and I smooth it down,
thinking how that roughness
against her skin
whispers:
you are here.
you are real.
you exist.
But what I don't say is this:
someday friction will burn her.
Rope through palms,
knees on asphalt,
the slow wear
of things that stay
too close
too long.
What I don't say is
that the same force
keeping her safe in bed
is teaching her
that everything
she'll ever love
will eventually
wear away.
Instead, I watch her sleep,
my hand resting
in her hair,
both of us held
by invisible forces
neither of us
fully understands.
To my Quarterback,
We are first round draft picks, starters, ready to get off the bench and begin a new season.
We have tackled many problems in our lives and in our previous relationships, but we will not penalize each other from what happened in the past. Yes, there were some fouls in our past, some incomplete passes and some unnecessary roughness, but we don’t have to put our guards up for defense. This time around, we both are on offense.
The difference this time is that God is our Coach.
Therefore, there will be no blocked kicks, no onside kicks, no running offside, no personal fouls, no pass interference and no substitutes.
You threw the perfect pass (your heart), and no one was around, which left me wide open to receive it. I caught it and secured it gracefully.
I wasn’t going to fumble this one. I ran it in and that day we scored a touchdown.
You sweetheart are indeed a perfect catch.
You and I together are now on our way to the Championship, for we are undefeated!
Love Always,
Your Wide Receiver
As the moonlight shone over the mountains
The stars starts to flicker one by one
Humming winds eases the roughness
From the day's unforgiving sun.
Chilling wind caresses the darkness
Serenading them softly and low
Night critters goes out to mingle
Under the moon's mesmerizing glow.
The calm river chimes in its flowing
Flickering waves illumes the riverside
The chilling winds keeps on pushing
Quenching the thirst of the countryside.
As the sun lifts the shroud covering
Of mountain tops to the grass of the plains
Leaves and flowers bow to dew drops falling
As the sun kisses them once again.