Long Sits Poems
Long Sits Poems. Below are the most popular long Sits by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Sits poems by poem length and keyword.
An Unnoticed Rose
It sits outside a window
Between the lanes of late
A price it pays each day
Between the thorns of fate
It’s glance is gone unnoticed
Between the days of din
It’s cost of bare to beauty
Between the ways of win
It’s care for color are costly
Between the hints of hue
It’s pass of pain are mostly
Between the now and new
It’s in the same of shelter
Between the brings of care
It’s bloom of soon are after
Between the spring of rare
It’s leave of listen are richly
Between the vain and real
It’s folds within the wonder
Between the rain and peal
It’s reason the brief eternal
Between the eyes of knew
It’s tell of time maternal
Between the pries of few
Touch me in silence
Remember the violence
A golden teddy bear
Sees the look in your eyes I so fear
In a cup sits a lonely daffodil
And I pour in my tears to watch it fill
But I'm arrested by the look in your eyes
Torn apart by all of your lies
I'm not the man I once was
My head aches from the constant buzz
Nauseated from some black narcotic
My reactions to your touch are robotic
Your love is a curse
A replaying and broken verse
I can't live with you
But I cannot live without you
Every time you kiss me
Liberates me and sets me free
Only to be reeled in by your drugs
Because you're a thug
I'm just some ugly thing
With numerous scars that sting
The wounds of our long romance
Always giving you another chance
Touch me in silence
Remember the violence
You're just a bastard
Seen only through broken shards
You're just a fragment
Used up and spent
I loved you, I loved you
I've broken you, I'm through
Wrinkled, worn, and weather-beaten
one old hat sits a loft a dusty shelf.
A witness to individual history,
a vision of days gone by
of both good and bad times,
a garment of many memories.
Like a King's crown,
the hat once sat cocked to the right
over a stern, but wise brow.
Well used and sweat stained,
but worn with dignity and pride
by one unyielding individualist.
A common man by all accounts
of uncommon quality and character.
A man who never lost focus
on the true widgets of life
even when it was at a cost.
A man who once owned:
a pocket full of dreams,
a desire for pure freedom,
a true lust for life,
and one old hat.
I had heard about the new gardener down the road for years.
She had been unwelcomed by neighbors because of their fears.
Has a lion for a pet, and sits on him too, one of them told me.
I brought over a welcome basket of fruit and some peach tea.
I would have been here sooner, but I used to work I said.
Now I am retired, and do not care if I wash a dish or make my bed.
She introduced me to her lion, he was docile, his name was Fred.
Strong feelings about getting away came quickly to my head.
He has never bitten anyone, the gardener told me that day.
But we love each other, and he really likes to play.
Would you like to play hide-and-go-seek with us?
I have to go see my cousin, I lied. His name is Gus.
The Broken Fountain Pen Disaster
Underfoot the dropped was-so-lost pen breaks snapping its midnight ink artery to spurt explosively out like some imprisoned force nearly dead but up again sucking in saving air and spread on
dispersing into freedom in a fly across the floor the long streaks of such random black arcs streaking falling staining the canvas on which our living room is drawn together between a sofa and yellow wing- chair on the gray carpet there will be an awful task to clean this now became a Jackson Pollock’s winking quickly cast so rapidly set.
After the stroke we gape as the room itself clutches a stiller life mood blank in an erased atmosphere forgetting any will to find a contour of drawn new breath or speech only yet
whispers feel of loss in a similar kind of dreaded time as when the casket sits in the room for a wake under mounds of white roses while hinting of prayers and phrases of grief
by Rilke
until finally someone declares the tragedy Into the past turning to suggest the use of gold leaf rather than ink on the outlines of the next drawing of the hour as it may proceed.
**********. **********. **********. **********
(C) sally Young Eslinger 11/2020
Thanks be to God
Broken Antenna
Relationships can be forced into as humans,
Poking, demanding or attacking in violence;
Subliminally gesturing to the light, lumens,
The ego pursues dominance in avoidance.
It is as if a broken antenna with a honed screen,
Of snowdrops, black and white jumping dots,
Flickering, denotes a vast, voidal gulf of lean
Towards, away from, the human space n’ watts.
This or that, god requests - chases our choices,
Decisions, possibilities, appropriations and lusts;
No consistent personality of tuned note juices,
The identity, in assaying a brush, liaison or scuffs.
Existing, a stiff, distant being said sits nobly aloof,
As if dumbing the fondly human, once perambulating;
The ancient man-god grasped immortality’s roof -
The backdrop of ascendence into the everlasting.
Roman emperors claimed a posthumous good life,
Immortality from a head to a god, Augustus to God;
Heroes famed for terrifying war victories of strife,
Were seen voluptuously in luscious heaven’s trod.
His language was mundane, overt, gossiped, feel,
Real, hitting no heights of conceptualisation’s raise,
So the Romans battered his sprawling crowd real,
Striving its sound to plunge into disarray to graze.
This or that, we could believe or not, relaxing fair,
Reject, fan the ancient man-god as God, or lunatic,
Myth, truth, liar, a mistake, fake, god, Lord or blare,
We can hint, glimpse, look, give all to prod osmatic.
A broken antenna sits happily o’er the human space,
Drawing the unspeaking pulse of life of sedate form;
This and that, he takes either form to mildly ace,
This or that thoughtful, magnanimous, tender norm.
There is a hush
that does not beg to be broken,
a pause so deep
even breath dares not disturb it.
The young guru sits—
not as one who knows,
but as one who has unlearned.
Around him, the elders
carry their years like dry sticks,
ready to burn,
ready to become light.
Silence does not teach.
It unravels.
It is not a voice but the space between voices,
not wisdom but the falling away of what once seemed wise.
Beneath the vast sky,
even the wind forgets to move.
And when the disciples rise,
their questions have not been answered—
they have simply grown weary
of their own noise.
What remains is not knowledge,
but the silent revelation-
they were never separate
from what they sought.
Aaron was born with club foot,
But had corrective surgery cool,
So played tennis until aged 14,
When he changed to table tennis.
Very soon after, at the age of 16,
He tried out for ParalympicsGB,
Even tho’ he didn't see himself,
As disabled in any way or form.
He loved the thrill, excitement,
Of competing against other folks,
On the same level as himself,
So entered many competitions.
His first contest were Europeans,
In Split which sits firm in Croatia,
In 2011, and so qualified for 2012,
The Paras that changed the world.
Then 2014 he won team silver,
In Slovenia, Slovenia and Italy,
And in 2015, in Vejle in Denmark,
He and his team won a bronze.
In the China Open, the singles,
Aaron won the gold triumphantly,
And in the Lignano Master Open,
They won team bronze with skill.
In Rio he won the team gold,
With Ross Wilson, Will Bayley;
Born 27th August 1991, London,
He lives and trains in Sheffield.
Steal me away
Wind beneath my feet, blowing though my hair, whispering a song in my ear. Smells of sweet nothing everywhere, fresh breath of clean air
As waters crash upon the rocks on the shore
The waves of this life takes us on a journey
As the ripples make their indentation in the sand
each line another path we must face
Wind beneath my feet, blowing though my hair, whispering a song in my ear. Smells of sweet nothing everywhere, fresh breath of clean air
As the buds spring when the timing is right
The clouds play a game of "What am I"
As the moon sits still in it's place
My imagination is going wild
with the freedom of this place
Wind beneath my feet, blowing though my hair, whispering a song in my ear. Smells of sweet nothing everywhere, fresh breath of clean air
The last time I sat here with a friend we gazed at the water as though
that moment in time would never end
As we listen to the sound of the crickets scratching
and fish jumping, a boat skims across the sea
I could hear the wind yet talking to me
I can't see you but I know your here
stealing free touches with nothing to keep you clear
Wind beneath my feet, blowing though my hair, whispering a song in my ear. Smells of sweet nothing everywhere, fresh breath of clean air
Form:
I didn't forget his words,
before he go.
I didn't put his cross down
and stop following him.
Luggage I off load,
and ascend the mountain without load.
The day Jesus came back.
I saw the star from east to west.
All eyes were looking at it.
I saw the dead people rise.
Even them, they were looking at it.
Am still think about it.
Other were carry a load,
when they see him,
they unload their load.
Other were steal,
when they see him,
they try to hide themselves.
Other were killing other,
but when they see him,
they try to regret.
I was on the way of following him,
when I see him, I celebrate.
I ascend heaven and be demonstrated my
chair which prepared for me.
I sits on it and get life.
By patric ndidzulafhi munyai