Long Seeing Poems
Long Seeing Poems. Below are the most popular long Seeing by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Seeing poems by poem length and keyword.
Oh, Chita, the monkey !
Tarzan's eternal companion.
Oh, Chita. the monkey !
Playful with him like no other
With a kissy grace
Until Jane, her companion, arrived.
Oh, oh, oh!
Chita, the monkey
How she sighs and cries
Seeing that vine in the trees
That surrounds the two of them embraced
Around the waist
Getting her ass red.
Oh, Cita, the monkey !
Who is crying
Because she has heard Tarzan
Saying to his beloved Jane:
-Little rosebud
That opens every day
Hug me at night
That it's snowing.
It's snowing. Jane
It's snowing
Little rosebud
It's snowing.
Jane answering:
-Oh, oh, oh, Tarzan.
With so many things to do and even more things to see
I am sorry that I missed You that was me just being me
I was intending to say hi but before I could even think
The whole entire day went by, what seemed like a blink
And so with the day before, getting caught up in things
Never knowing what's in store and all which life brings
This week and last week and the weeks before those
Again we did not speak as for these other ones I chose
In fact this whole year I never once spoke Your Name
I didn't hold You dear nor did I feel any of my shame
In fact Lord it's been many years for many years past
Seeing in these tears I can't even remember the last
But today Lord I'm here and it's so good to be back
I know You are always near matters not how I lack
I knew I could come back home as You said it to be
No matter how far I roamed you always loved me
Ecclesiastes 3:6
A time to get, and a time to lose;
a time to keep, and a time to cast away;
I OPENED A DOOR TO A WORLD APART.
THE SECRET WORLD OF LIVING ART.
PAINTED WITH COLOR OF DISBELIEF,
HATRED AND ANGER WITH MAGNIFICENT GRIEF.
WHERE MASS STARVATION IS A REALISTIC SCENE.
LIKE BROKEN HART AND EMPTY DREAMS.
IT'S NOT WHAT THEY EAT, IT'S WHATS EATING THEM.
DAY AFTER DAY AGAIN AND AGAIN.
WITH THE STENCH OF CORRUPTION FLOATING IN AIR
AND REPORTERS AND TOURIST EVERYWHERE.
A GALLERY OF ART OF LIVING HUMAN BEINGS.
CONTROLLED BY THE MASTERS AT THE ART OF DECEIVING.
PAVLOV'S THEORY COMES TO MIND.
CONTROLLED BY MEDS AND SUSPENDED IN TIME.
THIS IS A WORLD OF SHEEPLE NOT BEINGS.
WHERE PSYCHOPATHS RULE AND ENJOY WHAT THEY'RE SEEING.
I AM STANDING AT THE CORNER OF SHEEPLE AND MAIN.
IT'S MY UNDERSTANDING THIS WORLDS INSANE.
A gentle turn,
changing colors, altering pattern
greet you sparkling, fill your transfixed eye.
You can’t resist looking through it even if you try.
A gentle move,
changing designs, swinging groove
enchant you from within, entice your heart.
You can’t stop seeing even if anew you’ve to start.
A gentle twist,
changing motifs, shifting wish-list
enrich visual experience, longing favors.
You don’t pause trying even if the mind wavers.
A gentle jerk,
changing vista, intricate framework
transform you, uplift your listless life.
You can’t stop watching even in times of strife.
A gentle tap,
changing shapes, alluring life map
morph the mind, create colored hope.
You can’t desist looking in the kaleidoscope.
In the still of the night,
I become intoxicated with the moon's soft light,
the view of Roxy Anne, City Lights.
Whispers of the wind caress my lampogen,
I let her back into my skin.
as I let my thoughts unravel, within I am drunk in;
each breath
Petraglyphs a dance, each sigh a song prepping for romance.
In this moment, I truly belong
where Time stands still, in this tranquil space,
my cup I fill-
as I lose myself in her gentle embrace,
distilled amoress.
Life draws me onto her milky page
as the night slowly slips away,
I carry this feeling into the light of day.
For in the fill of the night,
I find my soul laying upon her canvas spotlight,
may she never dry up or fade,
or cease being my muse-ment park and
sight seeing eighties and nineties Valley Girl babe. Perhaps she can romantically teleport us back to lovers/memory lane.
Been depressed lately so I reached out and got a counselor to help me reach out of my own diminishing thoughts
Been buying a lot lately because my girl said I never do anything for myself
So, I'm spoiling myself, so they don't find my flesh spoiled already
Today my life was worth $74.65
On a rainy day I stuck my tongue out and rain came down on my taste buds instead of falling from my eyes
And it was the first time I felt something in a long time
I go days on days being numb to life as of late
Waking up late and never trying to sleep in
My mood is in a rut
I never been this stuck
Slipping so far, I can't even hear the music anymore I'm trying to hang on for another day
Sometimes it's like people only see my ghost so they treat me like my feelings are invisible
No, I'm not doing good, no I can't do good, no I heard it from others
But I heard it from myself more
There has to be more
Drake said more life
But I'm seeing fewer chances and less days on the calendar
My life feels like it's in the wrong hands
So, I want to it, into my own hands just to say I'm in control
Losing control
Taking votes for my soul
The world looks so dull
And the rainbows are all black, and black is beautiful until it's all you see
Been depressed lately
p.s. hope this is not the last thing I see
My poems can be written straight from my heart
So I ensure my notepad and pen are never far apart
I’ll write humourous lines on a fun situation
Or on disastrous events, which affect a whole nation
I get inspiration from everything that’s around me
I’ll try and describe it as best I can in my poetry
A stunning sunrise painted as if by Monet’s brush
Hearing the tuneful twitter of the morning song thrush
The patchwork quilt of colour on the autumn hills
Seeing motorbike races with its thrills and spills
Watching a tiny baby sleeping so peacefully
Or moonlight dancing on a silvery sea
Listening to beautiful love song on the radio
This can evoke memories from so long ago
The death of those who were once in my life
Of good times and bad, life issues and strife
Some poems are fact, although many are fiction
But I’ve found poetry has become my addiction
What inspires me to write poetry
Sponsored by Julie Rodeheaver
09-04-17
In the shadow of a wilted evening, where busy spiders spin their fragile thoughts,
Lacking the substance for a solid tome, losing tenure and academic appointments,
They fill their purses by spreading confusion among the naive minnows,
Seeing nothing but their own grimacing faces in a delirium of mirrors.
Most of all, I doubt the rare and sincere ones,
Masters of the pale moon, with eyes like wells of light,
What do they say in their faint whispers that fade into the distance?
What secrets do they hide in their delicate and ephemeral webs of thought?
Listen, my beloved son: I have labored all my life like a draft horse,
This house and measure of savings will cushion your future;
But if ever I see you moon-struck with the desire to write a treatise
On "Whither This?" or "The Future of Something," I swear I will leave my estate
To the Society for Simplified Spelling or some such folly.
Dear child, embrace wine, hunting, gaming—
Not theorists, not dialecticians!
In a night of dreams and unfulfilled desires, where thoughts stretch like spider webs,
I remember your words, father, and your wise counsel,
For this world is full of illusions and broken mirrors,
And the truth is often lost in the whispers of those who gaze only at the stars.
In a melancholy dance of shadows and pale lights,
I find my place and purpose, to question, to seek, to understand,
To write my own choreography, in the endless spectacle,
Ever-changing, of life and reality, a sacred dance of existence.
There is a world within our language that’s we’ve spoken since our childhood…
but when it is misused…does more harm than good.
DIFFERENT is the word and I wonder…wouldn’t it cause less fuss…
If when we saw another person…we didn’t see them as different from us.
For when we see someone as different…fear seeps into our hearts and minds
and where there’s fear…animosity and hatred and prejudice…are not often far behind.
What starts out merely as a way to tell me apart from you…and you apart from me…
somehow ends up with each of us treating the other differently.
We end up in a world of labels…a world of discrimination…of chaos and entropy…a world of injustice, a world of oppression…a world of wars and bigotry.
A world where suspicion and distrust rule…and seeds of animosity are sown…all because we find traits in others….that are different from our own.
What if there was a different word than different that would help our thinking to revise?
That would allow us to look upon each other with less judgmental eyes…
What if we weren’t afraid of our differences…but reveled in their mystique?
What if instead of seeing others as different…we saw each other as UNIQUE?
Perhaps then we‘d focus less on the differences and become more aware
of not only each other’s uniqueness…but what that uniqueness has to share.
He or she is different…Do you hear how in that word hoe negativity abounds?
He or she is unique….Do you hear how wonderful that sounds?
I magine, by now, you’re thinking how different I am…perhaps you’re disagreeing…wondering how I can hope and pray for a world there’s no chance I will be seeing.
Yes…as I hope to live in a world where people are more accepted and their differences less critiqued….you may call me different…but I prefer the word…unique.
You know, you just know, its that feeling in the air
the sensation that something is going to take place.
You don't know what, you don't really care what
you are on edge, waiting, still forever waiting
Then like a stupendous flash the sky momentary lightens
and darkens again leaving an image your minds eye still see's
Its as if its been burnt every detail stunningly clear and
yet you realise there's nothing really there as light returns
All appears normal you scratch your head and puzzle it
over and over you know that you and indeed the world
saw it but what did you all see. A flash of fantastical
light then dark then light returning just simple light
You could live another thousand without seeing it
yet here comes the conundrum what was it?