Long Scrutiny Poems
Long Scrutiny Poems. Below are the most popular long Scrutiny by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Scrutiny poems by poem length and keyword.
I live my life believing only in myself
Why, true, for the Gods of Earth do I hold much belief
But then, I did see the glorious divine miracle
When, fed up, I let go and refused to wage my battle
Now I do believe in the skies
Now I do believe in strengthening blood ties
Why, the other world does be, full of angels, full of mercy
The other world does be, holding us in great scrutiny
So, my spirit, now awakened considers itself a free one
Now, only do I aspire to be arisen
Why, to mundane matters I cling not
They being but temporary, they deserve not my trust
Other than following my own path, irrespective of what does lie on it
I do hold nothing else as being the very aim of my spirit
Life does be surprising, life does give suffering
Life does be only for a while, life can also a thing so enhancing
And what does be my path do you wonder
Why, to that, I myself have no answer
Yet, blindly, each day and night, do I, to the skies say my prayers
For blindly, do I let my spirit be guided by the higher powers!
To judge another is no proof of intelligence:
those who delight in condemning should first strive
to correct their own failings,
for one is often struck by what is more unworthy than oneself.
The arrogance of judgment reveals less the clarity of mind
than the poverty of discernment.
He who sets himself up as censor
betrays the weakness of his own inner realm.
Criticism, when born of pride,
teaches nothing but the blindness
of the one who utters it.
It is nobler to amend oneself
than to denounce the faults of others.
The truly wise spirit
practices self-reform
before claiming to reform others.
The sternest judges of men
are often the most guilty before themselves.
The condemnation of another
often serves as a screen
for one’s own shortcomings.
One rises higher by cultivating integrity
than by proclaiming another’s fall.
He who seeks the stain in another
ignores the corruption that consumes him.
Only inner justice
remains a legitimate authority
to evaluate the deeds of men.
Moral injunctions sound hollow
when the life of the one who utters them
offers no testimony.
To judge is often to forget
that one is oneself exposed to error.
The dignity of the spirit
resides less in sentencing
than in understanding.
Easy blame is the weapon
of feeble consciences
that refuse to know themselves.
He who sees faults everywhere
shows that he does not yet know his own.
The judge’s intolerance
is but the mirror
of his inability to reform himself.
The more a man persists in denouncing,
the more he unveils the shadow of his own deficiencies.
It is easy to condemn,
it is rare to examine oneself.
True intelligence
is fulfilled in self-mastery,
not in the scrutiny of others.
One does not ennoble oneself
by debasing another,
but by elevating one’s own being
Today, we saw the handwriting of imperialism
On the walls of our democracy
Today, our sovereignty is on the scaffold,
Pilloried by a white supremacist,
Who threatened our country and her people.
Mr Secretary has written a long list
Threatening our leaders from venturing on their soil;
A proclaimed God's own country,
Where God really does not matter,
But desires that are too alien for a normal thinking mind.
On Blinken's List
Are names of men who bear our names and culture
And the Africanness that we portray.
We are no second-class people
Whose leaders can be threatened by the power of arms by America.
Blinken wrote to teach us right from wrong
But right in His backyard, more evil looms,
The US election is under scrutiny,
The Texas shooting is still fresh in our minds.
Blinking or Blinken
Mr. Secretary, stop blinking
For we are wise enough to know your inkling;
The lands you have ravaged,
And the people that have gone back to the dust,
Through the power of ammunitions you wield,
In Afghanistan and Iraq
And your love for the zionist oppressor.
A Visa Ban
One meant for your barn
And your land which will
Never be close to the beauty of paradise.
We no longer believe in you and your values
And we have no resources for you and your cronies to loot.
Tell us what good is in your country;
Hell packaged in a pleasure box
Sought by those ready to be doomed,
All your men are fast becoming women
In the name of being gay.
And your fallen dollar value
Should be a headache from the BRICS.
Tell us what is good about your land,
The drugs and the constant shootings that have become a norm,
The vices and the oppression of which your castles were built
Are issues enough for your table.
We are Africans
We are a people of worth
Who will never bow to any bully,
We are a loving people
And we can't be forced to roam our streets like your naked ones.
The days of colonisation have passed,
We can no longer accept your acts of re-colonization,
Through your list of deceit,
Where our professors are being pummelled
And our leaders are being accused
Of a crime which they never committed.
Like you have traitors
We have the treacherous
For we are a people of varying tribes
And of sages and scribes
And we also have a right
To stop you from stepping on our soil.
Ayinla Muyideen
(C) 2023
I do not mean to hurt your feelings
That is, if you have any, to hurt.
If so I apologize now for any future offenses
As I will be throwing darts at your picture
As I compose this ne’er to be posted “text”
In the event it is used in a future indictment.
It seems that “words” have become the currency
Of a bankrupt language seeking a following
Thus, all “words”, grunts, moans, or gurgling
Are to be considered “protected” “speech”.
Depending on how that speech is interpreted
By the “ear bud” deafened masses.
Ditch the dictionary and thesaurus and
Purchase a new edition “imaginasaurus”
Wherein every word is defined by
what we imagine its meaning to be
and “multiple connected strings of words”
“once classified as sentences”
Will be subject to scrutiny and dissection
By an AI (Arguing Idiots) group.
If and when I meet all the parameters
Of the Asinine Algorithms of America
And filter it through the
Fatalistically Philosophical Philanderers Assn
I will slip a note under your door
Pay no attention to it
Meet me under the old Elm on Tree Street
Or the old tree on Elm street.
//this message will destruct in 3,835 galishtins//
Ice dancing is enchanting
Wonderful and incredible
It requires total dedication
To achieve perfect harmony
There are many exhausting
Rehearsals and tiring executions
On the acting itself on ice rink
They are like birds flying free
A beautiful art representation
Often synchronised with rhythmic
Motion of emotions and grace dancing
In accompanying soulful music theme
The audience see the whole impact
And every round about ordeal of action
Is not exempted in the scrutiny of the jury
The winner is crown the darling of the moment
And the most spectacular in all captured lens
But the glory of them all is one that does
The totality of those actors in the rink
Whose dedication and aspiration is unmatched
The expertise in their craft with love unreserved.
A Sense of Diamonds
To hear me would sound like a symphony of octaves –
played all at once with concrete fingers
on diamond in the rough strings.
To see me…O’, to see me you would have to turn,
ever so slightly sideways, to ensure proper exposure –
one would not wish to either scar his or her retinas
with too much light; or murder their spirits with silky
raven on a moonless night, darkness. No, no. That
is far too much for the eyes to bear.
To touch me would be like dipping warm fingertips into
a pool of liquid mercury; like the sun’s rays beneath
the water, touching the ocean’s deepest silver depths.
The scent of me would bring your waiting nose to a
dichotomy of frenzy – one side wanton, and as eager
as a schoolboy with a playboy – but the other side!
The other nostril would shrivel under scrutiny; buckle under
the burning scent of disgust and unrefined madness, as if you
were smelling your own death, not the florid scent of Eden.
And to taste me…to taste me would leave the tongue
as twisted as a winter apple’s branches; as torn as a wool
tartan from the shoulder’s of a traitor; and as confused
as a year without Spring. To taste me would be like
tasting every dream you ever lusted, and every ending
that ever broke you – like sipping lemonade in the void.
But…if you are the one; the only one in the midst of all
this impenetrable chaos who can sense me, beyond
the average man’s malleable stone-walled borders –
than I bid you come. Test the likes of this diamond
against your rough-hewn backdrop – try me on for size;
see if you have the stones to not. Get. Cut.
The Dogs of War are on a Blood Trail.
The first, Blinken, of many vermin that will lead to Biden's son, who is up a tree hiding, will soon be devoured.
Just before Hunter, now hunted, is tracked down and torn to shreds by public scrutiny and judicial process, will he likely take his own life, being the coward that he is, to spare his father from further embarrassment?
Or, due to his own frailty, and utter corruption, will the resident and cheat, father Biden, suffer and collapse from heart failure by the sheer weight of his own sins?
The story is unfolding, like a Shakespearean masterpiece, that will be retold for centuries to come.
Nixon, Kennedy... will be like children's Mother Goose stories compared to this epic, Romanesque drama of fortune, tyranny, and betrayal.
So great, they may have to edit Dante's Inferno, just to include the heads of Biden weeping on that icy lake.
Now, lay quietly in the bushes, from vantage points, and peer down on the amphitheater before you.
The stage is set.
The General, Trump, can be seen lurking in the rafters as his legion are concealed within the trees at the Battle of the Teutoburg Forest.
Will there be an Arminius, a Republican, who had acquired Democrat citizenship, that will lead the 50 FBI agents into ambush, and perhaps lead to the fall of Rome, a.k.a. the Democratic Party?
There won't be enough bread and circuses to save the Plantation Party after this loss... one can only hope.
by,
Martin Braun
4/23/2023
Source: rep harriet hageman calls for anthony blinken to appear before weaponization committee over intel letter about hunter biden laptop
To those who seek instant gratification -
I am a process, not a destination.
Happiness.
We attempt to crack its code, however,
It remains a lifetime long endeavour.
Deeply desired, wondrous state of mind -
Its fleeting facile feeling redefined.
Teasing and taunting us with verve and grace,
Happiness’ touted appeal won’t erase.
It collaborates with chaotic foes
Under scrutiny of their highs and lows.
It often veers from solid status quo -
Moment of now would be its best m.o.
Even though happiness scoots on the run,
Give it a shot and catch it when you can!
Sunlight seared gold across cold tiles,
her mother’s hands moulding tender skin.
Cheeks pressed to air, she ruled with wiles,
blind to the tide that pulled her within.
Her father’s pride beneath the boards lay deep,
a silent swell, austere, deliberate.
I see her still, the child who could not keep
her innocence from the world’s weighty state.
She ran with him—a coin, a whispered trade,
sunlight congealed in a shadowed veil.
Her pulse became a ledger, each hope weighed,
each warmth exacted, each fragile detail.
Iron hummed beneath her feathered wings,
like merciless strings, the bars pressed down.
Hands—greedy, precise, exact—claimed all things,
erasing her ledger, her delicate renown.
The rope coiled soft, intimate, oppressive near,
pressing secrets into skin she could barely hear.
Her palm touched the bars, half trembling, half brave,
half in fragile hope, half sensing the grave.
A hollow bell clicked, echoing slow,
matching the pulse she could not let go.
A laugh drifted—tiny, absurd, slight—
crumbs of joy in a caged bird’s faint light.
She fluttered, recalling mornings unconfined,
bread and honey, innocence revered.
Ink smudged across her trembling mind,
thoughts folded quietly, silently steered.
Repentance coiled tight, sheets worn by nights,
Sometimes she wished to unmake herself.
Yet some pulse endured, a whisper of lights,
existence persisted, quietly itself.
A breath, a glance, a pulse enumerated twice,
moments of being cruel yet precise.
She smiled faintly, defiant, exiled,
gesture small, impossibly concise.
Wings bound, body claimed, heart betrayed,
yet she moved, unbroken, unafraid.
Even here, carved in air, her truth persists,
precise, unclaimed, in shadowed twists.
Life insists in tiny, unclaimed motions,
in fluttering wings, in whispered devotions.
And I—entangled, witness to her vertiginous plight—
behold the child, the ledger, the caged bird’s quiet blight.
Not emancipated, nor entire, yet awake,
and in that delicate exigence,
all phenomena suspend
in hushed, unpossessed potentiality,
suspended,
perhaps,
to be fathomed—
and should we linger in this scrutiny,
we cannot avert our gaze.
I could feel the rhythm of my obscure
thoughts in sync
sturdy scrutiny, into the mirror
I glimpse deeply in the
reflection of the nymph
somehow I outwit the quixotic
hold of the sylph,
frightened to my demise,
tons of strength fills my belly,
blinking lights, driving under the influence of my mind
You!
you ruined everything,
I'm not in the position to connect
or link to you no more,
no! I'd never use me this woefully
i’d never use me this poppy
but you did!
you Did!!
you stopped before we even proceeded
You were my everything,
my everything!
still you mortified me horrifically
you neglected our tryst,
don’t!
don’t try convincing me to feel better,
you built my moments yours
left me in the cold
I remember every lie you notified me with,
crushed my hopes with thunderstorm,
pushed my stoicism without no thinking,
rejected my Lips and kiss like cancer,
I curse the day I thought forever,
you moved me into inferno,
let me inquire one more time
Do you ever think of me?
shhh! shhh! lies! lies!!
I stridently oppose those professed fibs
they seem untrue
wait! my confusion is your continuous lifestyle
in untruthfulness
You split my bosom in seconds
left me in 2
I detest you!
I detest how you lived without me
I hooked you when you cut down
I smiled when they jested
held you by the kneels, put you right back on edge
still, you picked the nerve to pull out on me
you quit on me?
Exploiting yet preying on me?
how do you feel?
no! do not dodge
Respond to me, how do you feel now?
did you think you could live without me?
Ugh, this sunrise encounter is terrible
with you here
i’m Completely
Buggered Now, You Should Forget Me.
Zip It.