Long Selective Poems
Long Selective Poems. Below are the most popular long Selective by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Selective poems by poem length and keyword.
He’s a man of few words when he wants to be
And his silence can rival the Sphinx,
But be spins a good yarn during therapy
With his analyst pouring the drinks.
His obsession with fishing’s a mania,
Always dying to dangle the bait.
His aversion to marriage, a phobia,
His fiancée will just have to wait.
It’s all cowboy psychiatry, mirrors and smoke
In some Freudian home on the range.
Though this good ol’ boy’s often laid out on the couch,
I don’t think he’s likely to change.
He’s obsessive compulsive habitually
In matters to which he is drawn,
And he’s down at the topless bar ritually,
Unless there’s a football game on.
He’s conflicted about schizophrenia,
Thinks anxiety’s nothing to dread.
He exhibits selective amnesia,
And he’s passive aggressive in bed.
It’s all cowboy psychiatry, cognitive bull,
And those inkblots are all kind of strange.
He’ll always deny its denial, no doubt.
I don’t think he’s likely to change.
Regardless his problems,
He’d rather be thera-pissed off, than thera-pissed on.
How long can Mankind's world perform
Without a common language norm?
This world that many tongues divide
To satisfy some primal pride
But cannot, in a global sense,
Dispel mistrust and ignorance.
While every tongue should be revered
For its own worth - its place endeared
Within its context each embraced,
Its local, native, customs traced -
We still need one tongue which should be
Developed interactively.
But now the many languages
Our history encourages
Reflect the man-made boundaries
Of geographic destinies
With self-protecting vanities:
Racial, ethnic conformities.
A spoken, written common base
That can be practiced face-to-face -
To share our thoughts and hopes and fears -
To discuss freely peer to peer,
Not translated through others' voice
Or speaking through selective choice.
One common language taught with care
To people living everywhere -
To help nuture a stable world
That all can share - and well deserved
That gives a sense of worldwide pride:
A common language to provide.
Can you trust someone you have doubted in the past? It feels like asking a cracked mirror to show you the truth. Like setting your compass to a magnet and pretending the direction still means something. The apology might come, just in velvet, but still, you remember how cold the knife felt even before it was in your back. There is a difference between forgiveness and forgetting. One is a process, the other is selective amnesia. When you have doubted someone, it is because something inside you whispered before they said a word. It was in the way their eyes did not match their mouth, or how their silences were louder than their promises. Trusting again is like rewriting the room after the fire. The lights might turn back on, but do you really forget the burn marks on the walls? It is the same reason ancient maps drew sea monsters where the knowledge ran out. Not just because they believed in beasts, but because danger loves to hide in the places we have already been. There is a rhythm in betrayal that does not stop beating just because the music changed. You hear it when they say your name too sweetly, and when they offer you certainty as if it is not a thing they broke. You wonder if the sun is real, or just the same old lamp behind a new curtain. Trust does not mean letting go. It just means carrying the weight differently. It means letting them stand close again, but watching their hands this time. It is planting something new in soil you have already seen go dry. It is knowing the stars look the same from every side of the world, even though their names change.
History books rewritten,
pages turned, truths overturned.
Past reconstructed.
Memories are planted like seeds,
carefully cultivated.
Reality harvested.
Leaders cast long shadows,
dark spots conveniently erased.
Selective illumination.
Monuments rise and fall,
stone faces weather time.
Legacies carved in flux.
Archives are sealed tight,
skeletons locked in national closets.
Dust settles on truth.
Oral traditions whisper
voices echo through generations.
Unwritten resistance.
Media spins its web,
catching minds in sticky narratives.
Information trapped.
Textbooks sanitised,
rough edges smoothed away.
Comfortable fictions.
Anniversaries observed,
some celebrated, others buried.
Time's biased march.
Nostalgia is a rose-tinted lens,
focusing on the golden ages.
Present found wanting.
Trauma is passed down,
And cellular memory encoded.
Inherited burdens.
Collective amnesia spreads,
Convenient forgetfulness is contagious.
Society's blind spots.
Memory becomes a battlefield,
mind's eye the spoils of war.
Consciousness colonised.
Yet, truth persists,
stubborn seeds in concrete cracks.
Remembrance rebels.
amnesia sets in
selective memory
forgetting the gossip
written in a rhyme
poison inked words
splatter on the screen
to demean
to be mean
misjudge
tattle taler
repeat hater
carries on...
others pics forgotten
other words forgotten
hate fueled
hate sated
the true state
not debated
never stopping to think
could be wrong
has to push down
to be strong
and so it goes on
wrong after wrong
and like the publican
feels good to pray
and say
"Thank God...I'm not like others....a sinner
I'm a winner!"
Morality laden
A chaste maiden
Oh, but erased
is not defaced
there is another record
One with a trace
Seen by another Judge
ONE not common place
a remembered name
a remembered face
and I?
Well, I rest my case....
For I am nothing
but a sinner
in need of grace
Eileen Manassian
Paper started it off
Put down in front waiting for the Poet to write
The Poet was thinking in what to compose
The pen itself was in the Poetic’s hand
The paper and the pen were encouraging the Poet’s mind
They became a team in starting progress
Suddenly, the Poet came up with a concept Theme, “Logical Esteem”
Through the parallel of the open mind
Pulled like a theater curtain
The assembly of words and sentences like an orchestra
Essence smooth and serene
Aligning keen eyes with a metaphor idea
Minds, Rivers, Valleys and Lakes on the Poet’s mind
Bayou reflections being the thought
Crystal clear images
The Pen being creative
The Poet thinking selective
Wise above
Inspired below
Connecting each alpha letter serving a purpose and reason
“Rhetoric, Objective and Preserver”
The source being a Poet
Illustrating the core and showing it.
I am the silent witness that looks down from on high,
The silent witness who inhales carbon through cleansing veins,
The silent witness that exhales oxygen to give you air,
The lifeline for humanity
I am the silent sufferer of turmoil from the abyss to my roots,
Who breathes the torment of the culling of my brothers and sisters,
Where the haunting silent echoes fall on selective hearing,
The fragility of my realm,
Destruction by humanity
I am the seasonal encyclopaedia that holds the truth of what has passed,
I hold the truth of our histories within the depths of my trunk,
Certified by the dark circles etched within my core
I am the silent sage who has witnessed your ancestors,
And the silence of their reverence as their spirits brush past my leaves,
My silent testimony is cradled in the soft winds of the Groves,
Between us we whisper and “Tell it like it is”
But not in the tongue of humanity
Yet, though I whisper,
no human asks for pure testimony,
Shhh! But if you listen – “I will tell you like it is”
But you must open your ears and listen, please listen…..
30/11/22
'Tell it Like it is' competition
Sponser: Mystic Rose Rose
Black History is Our history
Black History is American history
Black History is World history
Black History is The history
Black History IS History
Although it is celebrated in February, Black history is not just a month, it is every day history.
Black History is a reflection of the segregation and discrimination and the sacrifices and struggles for our freedom for justice and equality.
It reflects how far we have come, from where we were to where we are.
Black History is History. It is written by “We the People,” and in case you didn’t know, we are part of the “We.” Our story matters and our ancestors stories matter.
So no matter how much they want to have “selective memory” and try to dismantle or impose restrictions, take away fundings, or pick, choose or limit how much (if any) is being taught about Black History, it is our job as parents, grandparents, leaders and people to teach our children, nephews, cousins, friends and others about “Our” history.
Black History is History and it’s not just up to the teachers to tell our history. With that being said, parents, Be the change! Teach them at home, individual, in group settings… take them on field trips to museums, monuments, parks, take them on a bus ride, show them videos and books… By doing so, we are allowing the history (our history) of our civil rights leaders and ancestors to be remembered as their sacrifices for our freedom was not in vain.
Black History was then, is now and will forever be a part of history.
Quivering lowest limb
namely mine little feet
medication side effects
analogous running dead heat
most often while fast asleep
the missus claims thrashing feet
easily mistaken for epilepsy
disrupts her pleasant dreams
claiming legitimate grounds
for kickstarting divorce
bachelorhood amenable
versus her furious
expletive laced outbursts
crying out loud
further under_scoring, necessitating,
mandating, accentuating...
feasible solution for Pete sakes,
thus favoring me night owl schedule
mine circadian rhythm
easily reoriented,
reestablished, realigned
when she goes beddie bye boo
I feel unbounded energy reserves
bubbles forth courtesy microcosmic
La Brea tar pits interestingly enough
preserving fossilized traces,
when shut eye cycle
regarding yours truly
synchronized more optimally
with counterpart, which
vagary linkedin with
one or more
pharmacological prescriptions,
yet this mister loathe
to forego synthesized agent
that calm emotional provocateurs
particularly diminishing
frequency and intensity
formerly debilitating panic attack,
which vestige chronic anxiety
prevalent thank you sweaty hands
profuse dripping perspiration
during torpid heat waves,
where combination
central air conditioning/
(albeit malfunctioning)
doubles as warmth
generating source
one bedroom
apartment unit B44,
which aforementioned detail
lacks relevance in toe toe
with healing power of
selective serotonin reuptake inhibitors
cuz clinical depression
linkedin with diagnosis
constituting genetic package
biologically bequeathed
to this anonymous hominid
amazingly graced with
psychological ills affecting
academic and employment functionality,
hence lifetime struggle
to live hand to mouth
hardscrapple existence
plaguing dependents and spouse
dealing with mailer daemons
compromising her mental health
translated as without income,
therefore financial shortcomings
lured by castles in the air
pipedreams, a lottery winner,
I dream of genie - in a bottle...
which farfetched stroke of luck
less likely than
getting struck by lightning
with sunshine illuminating
man cave within
which scrivener scribbles away.
I’ve seen wretched souls
fall poorer by stealth
I’ve seen frail old people
endure pain as they knelt
Climbing mountains barefoot
pilgrimages never stop
A penance for being born
light your candle at the top
I’ve seen false prophets
adorn halls with great wealth
I’ve seen saints being evoked
promising to cure ill health
Down beside the grotto
past where wheelchairs roll
Believers lie prostrate
whilst souvenirs are sold
They beg for miracles
hoping prayers will be felt
Some have their spirits raised
gods name becomes misspelt
Selective interpretations
scriptures bent to suit man
Dogmatic, stern beliefs
hushed silence, vetoes, bans
under forced indoctrination
this mind started to melt
Brainwashed in a classroom
with the strap of a belt
Now feel worthy of nothing
and deserving of it all
I still must climb mountains
but try avoid the brick walls
By David Kavanagh