Long Sentimental Poems
Long Sentimental Poems. Below are the most popular long Sentimental by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Sentimental poems by poem length and keyword.
Blue roses and chocolates have been lying there,
untouched and unopen over three days now,
sadly turning rejection into endless despair;
even light struggles to filter through the closed window...
My gifts aren't appreciated, or even remembered,
and I am torn apart by disbelief and tremor:
with the empitiest feeling ever contemplated;
my disappointed sweetheart expected more...
Perhaps a bracelet or necklace with dazzling diamonds,
would have made her definetely happy like any circus' clown;
if love lusts after material and insignificant things,
it has no sentimental value in itself, only a monetary one...
Uncaring and silent, with a blank and wandering look that
disfigures the divine face I admired and worshiped always,
my embittered darling is overwhelmed with vanity, touching her neck;
sensing visions of glamour and imagining the feel of sapphires...
Everything I gave her was given out of kindness,
and my blue roses and chocolates should be a gift
of the kindest of souls offering the simplest things;
and isn't her greed more implacable than a sullen sky full of rage?
Copyright 2009 by Andrew Crisci
it'd be indefinable and unknown,
especially unknown! and these unknowns,
they'd complete us...
it'd start with a cosmic sentiment,
a serendipity that's bent
toward this infinite-in,
where love in a radiant bouquet
bursting to blossom would begin --
there, where there's a music in you
eager to play in a mellifluous-voice
which only the heart can hear,
and it'd take you into a melodious rhythm 'n roll,
a riff 'round the sound of a whirl'd
swelling with a kiss of bliss,
'tis this that'd speak in that uncommon tongue,
the Poetic one --
it'd risk absurdity in an u n f e t t e r e d language,
divested with an unbounded-eye,
(not limited to the fatal-skin yer' in,)
that'd look and look and dare to see,
the beauty of this conflicted sentimental-reality,
this creative-destruction outpouring
into the middle of things
where good Homer nods
over a potpourri that is the Art of Poetry
For me the world becomes a playground,
the gray concrete becomes the forgiving mulch
beneath the swing set. The clouds start to move slower
and they all start to look more like dinosaurs or cowboys
when I watch them saunter across the sky.
The birds start experimenting with different genres.
Have you ever heard birds sing pop-punk music?
I think you’d really be surprised at their range,
I don’t know why they stick to classical and the blues so often.
The swans at the lake near my house stop fighting
half so often which is an amazing feat because swans
are the strongest willed creatures that I’ve ever met.
No love in the world, not even your enigmatic smile,
is strong enough to keep them from fighting completely.
Anyway, I’ve noticed all the doors I open do so eagerly,
and without complaint, no more whining or creaking.
Now that I’m really thinking about it I can’t
remember the last time I stubbed my toe or if I did
I can’t remember the pain. Splinters are a thing of the past,
my allergies haven’t come around anytime recently either.
But the thing that really stands out to me when I fall
in love is that I start seeing your face everywhere:
you’re in the window of every coffeeshop downtown,
you’re every person I stand next to on the train who smiles
sympathetically when I lose my balance as the train
leaves Boulevard station, you’re the murmuration
of starlings that weave and carve their way through pink
and orange sunsets above a silhouetted city.
I’m not sure if that answers your question but it’s the closest
I can come to answering it without getting sentimental.
In this kingdom of fragmented gates,
I'm frustrated in being chained in a glass mansion.
The world is trying to change me,
forsaking my 'chess of life' into ruins.
I yearn to soar like an unconfined eagle,
but my talons are like frozen footsteps on glaciers.
My heart used to illuminate like the northern lights,
like a perfect portrait of a poetic sunset.
Now the unkind mind of humankind attempts to mould me,
tormenting the claws of my tiger spirit.
Upon a path of nomadic illusions,
spiritual delusions, struggle to salvage sunrise,
when the horizons are a blanket of black.
Crooning clouds resemble melancholic tones,
when twilight bleeds in burgundy blood clots.
I see seas of sorrow with an unstoppable ending,
when Satan's sighs summon a history of hurt.
His garnet eyes feel like thorns in peacock feathers,
silencing sentiments into a voiceless cocoon,
spiralling spicing moments into solitude, so I summon
my Goddess of Thunder.
The enigmatic voice of my queen of the night,
resonates in calming flawless frequencies.
Like art from abstracts of an architect,
we bathe in my pool of sentimental stars,
delicately dressed in dancing dandelions.
Each petal sparkling in a lake of rose quartz,
under a moon affair of astral rain-dreams.
If truth had a colour it would be her chocolate eyes.
Her celestial nature tells me heaven can wait.
No longer is my concrete onyx heart on fire,
as it glows like a trillion golden dragonflies.
We only talked sanely a few times,
About how he also had a condition like me,
Although my dad, who was a pharmacist, when James was small wouldn’t say,
Obvious as it was that he had CF from his cough n' inward-growing finger-nails,
Dad decided to bypass the issue, medicine to assail.
I have CP, and needed James’s comfy chair to read,
It was given to him in misogyny because it was blue,
About three months before he died he said,
I could have it, and must convince mum and dad that it was mine;
They were Christians, fundamentalist and strict,
And so sometimes there was an elephant in the room,
Between me and James, about the physical.
Death is inevitable, but to them it was only a maybe for James,
When the doctors had said that 14 was the expectation,
I prepared myself for the worst well before it occurred,
As an atheist I am, with no qualms or hesitation.
James wanted for me the best, happiness and friends,
Wanted me to do my best physically, ‘cos he knew I wanted that too,
But he also suspected that I would grieve for him rightly,
Not like a sentimental fundamentalist who believes that Jesus is risen,
But as a steadfast atheist who knows what has been given;
So he knew to remark on my immediate life without him so as to adjudicate.
I cherished Christinna Georgina Rossetti’s poem, Remember,
Long before and for some time after James’s death,
And quietly held in my heart the loved-one’s good wish,
Mum used to think that sometimes I was cold as stone,
But really I'd faced the fact that James was dead and gone.
Although Rossetti was by no means an atheist,
Her poem recites the mantra of the bereavement psychologist,
That to get on with your life as best you can,
Is a right, the partner of grief, and the pathway for your lone self;
In the Bleak Mid-Winter puts Christ as relational to nature,
Instead of pertaining nature to Christ, as it is normally,
And so we must partake of it within our space and our pasture.
Rhoda Monihan
13/09/2015
Ever since mine boyhood
I experienced abhorrence
toward yours truly,
an extremely introverted kid,
whose parents nor siblings
(one younger and older sister) could
not arouse him out of his emotional torpor
akin being on par with
Peter Peter pumpkin eater...
whereby he (meaning
author who wrote this poem)
kept himself isolated, quarantined, and xed out
within self made shell.
Me mum mollycoddled her only son
bathed him in maternal love
omnipotent motherliness
figuratively guillotined
(unwittingly) healthy maturation,
thus development sabotaged
courtesy figurative apron strings.
No matter his filial relationship woeful
(to thee woman who birthed him),
he registered sentimental value
regarding keepsakes bequeathed,
he still keeps cherished mementoes
redolent when she lived.
Call him a mama's happy go lucky boy
whose later ambivalent feelings
tarnished, undermined and vitiated
short lived tender loving care,
which brief vouchsafed cocooned wellbeing
regarding idyllic rapport between parents,
got staind, suppurated, sundered, sullied...
in later years by incrimination
against being gainfully unemployed.
February twenty eighth ninety sixty eight
marked a tectonic seismic shift as moving vans
transported our household freight
to (at that time) R(ural) D(elivery) 2,
Level Road Collegeville, Pennsylvania 19426,
a ramshackle (summer) mansion named Glen Elm
plus whittled down fraction
of original Hundred Acre plus wood.
Relocation with Lower Providence School District,
approximately half dozen mile distance
between former and latter home(s),
nevertheless psyche of mine
property of extremely introverted kid
severely hi-jacked.
Salacious, sultry
Simplistic signs of
Seedy sensory
Semi sentimental sales on
Socials
Surreptitiously
Slinking ..
Slowly
Sliding into your
Sphere and
Psyche.
Psychologically
Seducing
Some senses so
Suspiciously
Satisfying
So,
Surrender self;
Shield for safety,
Stand strong
Secure salient sentience
Successfully
Set sights solidly -
So soul secures solidarity
In sacred sanctuary of
Shalom
Somewhere,
Sandy sunsets certainly save,
Silky spider's web sparkles in sunshine,
Soft sensory surroundings subdue
Significant silent scenery in
Summery satisfaction.
Soporific seaside sounds
Singing in sympathy
Solitary safe sanctuary of seduction
Saving soul's sanity.
Selah.
Slowly, so slowly..
Spirituality of the natural
Nestles into the nape of
Normality
Now knowing
Nature's notably neutralising
Nurturing
Nourishment nectar of
Never-ending
Nirvana
He said goodbye,
With a smile, a hug, a gentle
That always leaves me
Feeling sentimental
He said “you’re good”
Even when I felt misunderstood,
Even when I wasn’t doing what I should,
Even when I was going through childhood
He said listen to the word
What God says,
This is what needs to be heard
Hope, faith and love – biblically blessed
He said “you’re blessed”
Even though I often felt stressed.
I never would have guessed
Such love could be expressed
He said goodbye,
Leaving me to wonder why
He left this world without a fight
Oh, yes, I know – He sought the light
He said goodbye,
And I mourned – I cried
But He left me knowing
His love would keep showing….
In the hearts he left behind,
Those he loved – He was one of a kind
Someone who gave love – someone who’d remind
That love is the answer for all of mankind.
He said goodbye,
With a smile, a hug, a gentle
That always leaves me
Feeling sentimental
To have, or not to have
Many people are from the outside, beautifully formed
with a mind that can absorb empathy and warm sympathy
but life itself makes us harder around the edges, as it is
It's not possible to live fully, shall we say, without knocking oneself free of cultural norms
Can friendship exist between the classes?
Yes, but it can be a strain
The wealthy can be sentimental watching a movie on TV
about poverty, but they will be hardheaded when making political changes that make classes more equal
Of our three classes, I have been through them all in my time
born into poverty, rising above its self-loathing tendencies
despite its richness of local wisdom, funny memes, and
often jubilant humor
Finding myself among the middle class who are stuck between two cultures, don't manage well, show contempt for workers, and loathsome dripping respect for the better off.
With this, I mean the royal household. I can't think of a more
An abject group of people, who, when paraded in public.
I have a very wealthy friend who suffers from being unsure if
people like him or not, I tell him to give me his money, it will
set him free, I shall bear the burden, whether people like it or not, alas, I have not been able to convince him
Wistful is the heart, silent the walls
where the gambols of youth echoed.
A return tale’s sentimental journey
inside the gates of Sweet Briar Road
Long it behoves me my thanksgiving
to you, aunties Yvonne and Jocelyn T.
For all the love you showed withal
and for all the good you saw in me
Hearken the jumbie bird in the night,
the heat of day and smell of rain.
And QRC bell tower sombre tolled
the hills and valleys of Port of Spain
The crowd’s roar filled its cricket halls
on window row to a grandstand view.
And an open door its gates would be
to weary travellers passing through
By candlelight on evensong sabbath
I saw hands petitioned in God’s raise.
And among portrait, altar and chattel
an old ne-gro woman chanted in praise
Downstairs eating pepper mango,
salt prune and sweet preserved plum.
And upstairs the ghosts of the dead
a trickery of wind and light become
With long treetop fruit picker in hand
softly chorused the sound of Greyfriars.
When joyfully as I picked to my ear
sung the weekly Church Group Choir
Up creaky staircase bedroom chamber,
pantry annex and old livery quarters.
Home to where my grandfather lived
with his wife, eight sons and daughters
In Christian soldier evangelical prayer
waited I for sleep’s silent lull perchance.
O but late by BBC midnight wireless
did growl the dogs in lunar trance
I followed the trail back to its past -
a prodigal son on long returned stay.
When time and fate and the risen sun
dawned upon a much younger day
Written: January 1993