Long Self directed Poems
Long Self directed Poems. Below are the most popular long Self directed by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Self directed poems by poem length and keyword.
Vivacious, practical, self-directed
Mary Bailey, nice body
it makes no sense that just because George
might never have been she suddenly becomes a shy,
homely, lonely librarian without a dog or god.
No, it did not fundamentally matter
whether George was born except to his mother. Potter
might have taken over but why should the morality
of a whole community decline? As for the ship
going down, if a butterfly in China had fluttered
right instead of left 10,000 years ago
the tragedy would have been entirely averted
in fact the whole war would not have happened!
I pleasure in and treasure
my insignificance. If only
I could be overlooked
by the planning board and IRS.
One false note gives the lie
to the whole premise. God died
but was elected posthumously to the Senate
as for the Big Bang theory, when it
supposedly happened what surrounded that
golf ball of matter and now what
occupies the time beyond the farthest edge of space?
My wife over dinner laughs, says Face
it, you'll never know so stop asking questions.
That is how we must make music, mindful of our extreme
limits, our politics, our complete dependence on the theme
of God as feedback, bifurcation and correction.
Have not we all made our acquaintance with struggles, troubles, and trials?
When we met them, we did not say, "Happy to make your acquaintance". Nay,
When we encountered them, we sought to avoid them like the plague or other
Painstaking fellows of ill repute. On many occasions, we have found ourselves in hard places of blooded eyes, rendering void our abilities to discern heaven's good graces. Some of these places were instituted by God, and others were created by us to our own perils and sorrows. Hard places, troubled faces, slowed races, misleading traces, untouched bases, shoes without laces, empty unflowered vases. Unresolved cases, too few resorts and oasies, too many loses and
too much waste. So here and now, I do cease and desist. I pause my cause and slow my pace. I resist and refuse to persist in this my self-directed rat race
Here and now, no matter the strain, I stop and get off this runaway train.
Here and now, I still my restless heart and halt this my senselessness.
051809;posted 091419
This poem was started in May 2009 and completed Sept 14, 2019
Children's minds, a shower of light,
Pouring down understanding, love's nurturing sight.
A bridge of sensory exploration, within the play,
Tiny ships of knowledge, gliding through the joy's way.
The seed of learning, sprouting tall,
Self-directed clues, the quest for knowledge's call.
The vast library of knowledge lies within their souls,
Clearing confusion, in quiet, self-discovery's bowls.
Through exploration, a journey of discovery,
Learning's path, independent, filling minds with knowledge, true.
In the continuous growth of knowledge, light,
The bridge of learning, open to all, together, taking flight.
Ok, there’s no jailbreak.
Make room for my innocent alter ego,
because there’s nothing to rebel against.
There are zero classes in my nascent,
year-long, Harvard master’s degree.
They call it ‘self directed study’
and like rockets have stages,
I’ll have ‘self paced modules.’
Am I suddenly at Oxford University?
They’re quite famous for that (no formal classes).
Or am I suddenly grown up and trusted?
I obviously don’t have it all figured out yet,
so I’ll just trust the process.
When I started that other school
(that shall not be named), my advisor
handed me a computer printout - a list
with something like 40 courses on it.
I thought, “Oh, my God,” but one by one,
year over year, I checked-off those courses
and walla! They handed me a diploma.
It was a process.
I understand, if you’re disappointed about the jailbreak, but there’ll
be coffee breaks, lunch breaks, study breaks, bathroom breaks
and more than a few self-directed dance breaks. So stick around.
“You know,” my therapist said, so very seriously, a few years ago,
“you keep laughing,”
.
.
I've Got the World on a String by Robin McKelle
Stoned Soul Picnic by Ledisi & Billy Childs
A written account (that incorporates some
self directed hyperbole) of this veritable stranger
now appears before your screen. Soon
after reading this message, the neighbors
might discern a blood curdling series
of (hyena-like) shrieking screams.
No worry. That would be the mating call
of the hairy Harris mama bear.
Ready! Set! Click!
A scary reflection greets me whenever
I summon up enough steely courage to take
a sneak peek into the mirror. Before
spider lines start to appear across the
shiny surface and subsequent cracks
and fissures dissolve the glassy surface
these deux hazel colored, myopic be
spectacled eyes quickly absorb a most
frightful countenance and visage.
That near legendary and trademark feature
of longish, wavy and brown straggly hair
seems to fill the entire view. Hidden among
avant garde rhapsodic bohemian, Cro-Magnon,
Neolithic, non-every-man style of un-styled
non dread full locks (interspersed with silver follicles
indicative of acquired worry fighting off
garden variety prehistoric creature) can be discerned
a brutish, nasty and short proto-human with
high forehead, which allows, enables and provides
more skin surface to bang against wall when frustrated.
Form:
After I write something,
to the best of my ability,
not ever putting my name
on a work I am not proud
of – yet, I pause to say,
Thank you...pleased to have
been blessed with a tiny role
in the production. Come
now! You don't actually think
that you stand apart, alone,
unguarded, unprotected,
entirely self-driven and
self-directed? Not a star
could keep its place in the
sky without the support of
its surrounding dark. What
light we have, what light
we show, is a soulful theme
burning in the heart of its
Universe. Miraculous Passion
is where we all began – the
spark of even our dimmest
perspectives.
Sweet thoughts, rainfall
It's just that kind of day
Sitting in my favorite chair
Words here on display
Before too long a finished post
A new morning bouquet
That's meant to say ILU
And get you on your way
For you to know that I'm right here
And that I'm always TAY
Just message me and you'll receive
Response without delay
And even intermittent
I'm still not far away
Anything concerning you
Is never done halfway
My dreams of us together
Span quite the vast array
But there's one recurring dream I have
Its substance I'll convey
It's...
A first class French excursion,
A personal chalet,
Long and lazy afternoons
At quaint outdoor cafés
Romantic Paris evenings
A Moulin Rouge soiree
Moonlight strolls along The Seine,
Then up Champs Elysees
Sup late European-style
That's how they do it anyway
Why not? Just like the old adage,
"When in France," they say
And when the final curtains close
On our self-directed play
'Tis the season to head back home
And prepare to hit the hay
Then just before you fall asleep
A few things if I may:
One, I love you very much
Two, with me forever stay
Ignorance is a lie;
A construct of entitlement.
Separation is a lie;
A construct of inflated ego.
Hatred is a lie;
A construct of self-directed loathing.
Powerlessness is a lie;
A construct of apathy.
Racism is a lie;
a construct of ignorance.
Entitlement is a lie
A construct of degradation.
Death is a lie;
A construct of embedded fear.
Poverty is a lie;
A construct of perverted power.
Dominance is a lie;
A construct of perversion.
Construct: A complex image or idea formed
of a number of simpler images or ideas.
Reconstruct: rebuild from the ground up.
Thoughts are things, and words have power to transform;
A construct of enlightenment.
Chula Fleming© 11/16/2017