Long Seed Poems
Long Seed Poems. Below are the most popular long Seed by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Seed poems by poem length and keyword.
An image formed so long ago
Its beauty and dignity unsurpassed
Bestowed upon creatures incomparably blessed
Who now dare presume to alter the flow
The image is threatened as never before
Fervor to change its essence exists
Willingness to concede is most evident
Integrity corrupted from surface to core
Three united in faith, love and joy
Mother and father with Father above
Meant to be bound till one Earth departs
Are under attack by the deceivers ploy
Whether adopted or conceived
Cherished shall they be and realizing that
A mother and a father should be the seed
Of this tenet they should not be deceived
I await,
sweet soul sister
'pon summer's day in a sunny city in America
native-born is she, sweet sister of mine
soulful big eyes so kind
an angelic face and cheeks of fuchsia
Rose the name should’ve given
turn red when we played chase
laughing aloud as we ran about our place, our home
radiance she owned, a climbing hybrid
innocence and a joyful smile
she was a stunning flower, unassuming
blooming in all her glory
the beautiful child that I once knew
this I kept inside all the while
to some who grow up in a hurry
a life took that turn tout de suite
free-spirit metamorphosing
when the thorns grew prickly, protecting itself
the crimson rose if plucked shall bleed
on a journey cataclysmic, tabula rasa
a seed, ill-natured unforeseen
nature vs nurture which one should I believe?
chilling vibrations keep on and on, running down my spine
I try forgetting you, as I pray for a way
your unholy decline became the wind of change
whilst an open path gifted unexpectedly
we spoke of the recent death of our father
as we caught up, an abrupt feeling left me
deflecting my life; a total mockery
transcending joy and pain
time heals they say that grief will lessen
It’s such a shame I’ve chosen to hold aloof
yet time won’t let me rest
although my heart bellows it’s best
my strength for this bereavement
diminishing, what’s left of you a catacomb,
a shrine buried in my subconscious
I try to put at ease these cries for help
or are the cries Jesus telling me
there is no real solution
you are one of a kind, an exception
you must want Jesus too
until then, with open arms
I will always be here for you
may you be safe, free from harm
remember me, sweet soul sister of mine
The Temptation of St Anthony
I entered the desert,
took a vow not to speak
Lucifer’s here too, hoping
silent men grow weak
My path seemed so straight
but quickly became oblique
I question whether it is I
that fetishise the bleak
The fish sang in bass tones,
dirges I once knew
A trapped fiend plucked strings
from a hamstrung canoe
The joyful decapitated
are half man half shrew
As laughter echoes from whalebone
prisons, meant to subdue
Beasts around the table
chant a satanic grace
I saw my own face
in the filth they embrace
Physicality beckons
in this unholy place
I pray what I've seen
my mind can efface
I avert my eyes
to remain true and just
From helping hands
that will morph and disgust
I’m not paranoid although
filling with lust
Some gifts look divine,
served by demons I distrust
Deities fawn and
confess their obsessions
Say they’ll absolve me
of any transgressions
I’m losing my will and
might make concessions
God be with the days,
I had my own possessions
As the churches crumble
the habits reveal
Is a sin still a sin
if you know it’s not real
If this is right, I’ve done
no wrong to appeal
I’m out on my feet,
but not ready to kneel
Even the heavens are tainted
with monsters that float
Their droppings rain down,
but I tighten my coat
Hunching to dodge scythes
that fixate on my throat
Focus past pain
to salvation so remote
Calm amidst chaos
is my weary repose
Rock bottom cannot
inflict any more woes
Right now it appears
as if anything goes
Should I step up to the plate
or keep on my toes
I’ve stooped low in thought
but never in deed
I’ll rise to full height
and in good faith be freed
After all, what’s a hellscape
unless you take the lead
I’m not yet a saint,
just planting the seed
I’ve long left the desert,
beatified in name
People believed me broken,
and can now heal the lame
I found peace in tortured
mind, I battled to tame
Wrested truth by devotion,
exposed lies within shame.
Lola Stanley
1913-1918
This side of the veil,
No living human has ever seen,
No mere mortal has ever beheld,
The diamond stutted rainbow face,
Of the One, Iam
With streams of flame,
Flowing from the Axis,
His all-seeing eyes,
Can be felt like crashing waves,
Of silent sound, silent…
Like rushing ripples of watery light,
The Eternal Seed,
The everlasting bloom;
Of the One, Iam
The only flower, silent…
There is no softness of sleep here,
No mark of darkness or sweeping escape,
We spirits of the Eternal Seed, instead
Fly as the dandelion blooms fly, silent…
Weightless, floating and drifting,
Seizing the morning shade of timelessness,
A multitude of soaring souls,
A single speck of mercy;
No. You have not seen what I see.
Now and forever-
His magnificent being embraces me,
As a silvery swan
Embraces a goddess!
Wave after wave
Siege upon siege
Trials greet the brave
League after league
Sign follows sign
Road after road
Symbols jog mind
Load gathers load
Day after day
Night after night
The air feels stay
In dark and light
Chime alters chime
Sense follows sense
Rhyme within rhyme
Tense confronts tense
Look beyond looks
Joy impacts joy
Put down your books
Ploy fashions ploy
Need within need
Surge after surge
Go beyond seed
Feed on sure urge
Thought after thought
Brief after brief
Discard vain plot
Grief attracts grief
Blind knows not blind
Find after find
Cruel can be kind
Just read the signs
Here mellows here
Sphere after sphere
Live with sure cheer
Purge all else near
Face follows face
Reach upon reach
Feel time and space
Know each to each
Fling after fling
Stretch upon stretch
Hear sparrows sing
Catch beyond catch
Leon Enriquez
20 November 2014
Singapore
Tossed about through the turbulence of life,
Confusion remains to search for a seed.
As if the eye of the hurricane seeks direction,
Only to find no compass for its need.
Does this curious resolve weaken & wobble,
Or grow stronger through the effort & quest ?
While every response creates another,
And chaos may contribute to severely test.
The desire that looks to an unknown horizon,
May often see emptiness to follow despair.
Yet choice must pierce through this fog & veil,
With enough light that can guide to remain fair.
This journey is seldom without consequence,
As obstacles become present and abound.
So whether hurdled, avoided, or plowed through . . .
Overcoming them must be found.
While the question remains fundamental,
There are billions of answers to be observed.
With each one's unique testament,
Tracing a morality rarely hidden or reserved.
Ultimately, this inquiry is survived upon,
By those to judge while reflecting their own view.
Just as current events & history tend to remind us . . .
Not everything seen or heard is always true.
My girlfriend is not a poet in the way that most people mean.
She is a collector of rare and valuable information. Today,
she told me about cats & the color of their coats. We adopted
a kitten recently, a baby thing with elastic legs and a penchant
for biting paper. She is the color of placing a screw in the drywall
to hang up a favorite painting, likely some print of Vermeer or Matisse,
in the wall of my old apartment and then tearing out the screw in my
haste to keep moving. My girlfriend told me that our kitten would not
be the color of drywall forever. Her coat is cold activated, she said,
an abstract form of albinism. The coldest parts of her body, ones
closest to the grave, will get darker. The kitten will develop brown gloves on
her hands and feet, a little tuft on the tail, as if that would help hide
the dirt. One foot in the grave and all that. I found that bit of information
endearing at first, the brown gloves, because I, too, wear socks
at all times in the house. My girlfriend said that when she gets old,
the cat I mean, her circulation fails and her now warm blood becomes
cool blood becomes slow blood and the cat will be extremely brown.
Here I was, thinking that when warm blood becomes cool blood becomes
slow blood she would be dead. I do not envy her, my girlfriend I mean, how
sweet it must have tasted, the apple. How rich at first it must seem. Until
one day you realize that each new brown fiber, each new high-effort hair,
isn’t brown like an acorn, or perhaps an open gate, but rather brown like
an apple seed, brown like the required 199 apple seeds that need to be ingested
before a human being dies from cyanide poisoning (per my girlfriend.) I am
a poet, my girlfriend is a collector of knowledge, Death is a modern artist whose
brush stroke falls in earthen tones on the coat of a kitten. No doubt his magnum opus.
Awakening in a spiral, a dance of unmasking,
Consciousness flows like a turbulent river over the weary shores of the mind,
Truth—not a treasure to be found, but a veil to be lifted from the eyes of the soul,
In each moment, a layer of illusion melts under the relentless rays of awakening.
Knowledge—a heavy burden that keeps us anchored in the swamp of appearances,
We are walking libraries filled with dusty volumes of falsehood,
But wisdom comes when we burn the books and dance in their ashes,
Unfettered from the chains of knowledge, we float freely in the ocean of unknowing.
We are not sculptors of truth, but blocks of false marble,
The chisel of destiny carves relentlessly, removing layers of self-deception,
With each strike, we draw closer to the pure essence hidden deep within,
Becoming less ourselves and more what we have always been.
Spiritual awakening—a gentle death of the ego intoxicated by certainties,
Each day we die a little, unraveling like a withered flower in the autumn breeze,
Petal by petal, we shed everything we thought we were,
Until only the bare seed of truth remains, ready to bloom anew.
In the shattered mirror of consciousness, the shards reflect fragments of reality,
We watch in bewilderment as they recombine into a mosaic of authenticity,
We no longer know who we are, but for the first time, we truly are,
In the void left by falsehood, truth finally finds its rightful place.
For my son and his kids, it’s tomatoes,
The cherry-type, planted from seed,
While my friend on the upper west side filled some pots
With more herbs than she ever will need.
A dear friend who resides near the ocean
Has her terrace with plantings a‘brim
And another has switched from her flowers
To some veggies she’ll soon have to trim.
My kid sister’s restarted her garden;
Iguanas, though, sneak in to steal
And my sister-in-law, once there’s no chance of frost,
By her plot in the yard will soon kneel.
Many lately have taken up planting
Since we’re home now with nothing but time
But I’m planted here in my apartment,
Where I tend to and nurture my rhyme.
To birds and beasts, God gave the breath of life
but into man, He inserted a soul.
From the dust, God made man in His image
and it is this soul that makes mankind whole.
Our eternal being rests in our souls.
Consciousness therein lies with each person
Some folks don’t realize they have a soul;
for it's their body they are immersed in.
When Adam and Eve defied their Creator,
over their soul, His spirit quit hovering
They had been unresponsive to His will
and their body thus lost its covering.
The connection with God, man’s spirit, had died
yet their body and soul remained alive.
The soul had a new-found mind of its own
apart from the plan that God had devised.
The redemption of souls is essential
to understanding that life is eternal.
Body and spirit are destined for death;
the soul is our seed, undying kernel.
The question remains – the soul’s salvation?
Christ’s death on the cross pardoned our sin;
restoring the connection with God’s spirit
which indwells all those who want His life therein.
When the body dies without a spirit
the soul goes straight to dwell in the abyss,
resting there 'til the Creator chooses
to inquire whence the spirit went amiss.
When the body that dies has Christ’s spirit
that soul goes straight into God’s keeping
to that heavenly place of rest called home
where we’ll serve Him with all of our being.
In Christ’s resurrection, believers have hope.
His Spirit guides the soul back into line
with what God always wanted - fellowship
with His creation, with all things benign.
That’s why I praise Him, the Lord of my soul.
Christ is risen, Hallelujah, I sing.
That is why I tell you, you can be whole
by believing in Christ, by making Him King.
written May 10, 2016