Long Small Poems
Long Small Poems. Below are the most popular long Small by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Small poems by poem length and keyword.
We have a primal urge to survive,
That now goes well beyond this day.
As our resources fail to keep up with,
Our lasting, gluttonous display.
Have we taken to histories lessons,
Where we consume and avoid to sustain?
Or have we seen the wisdom to replenish,
Even the simplest of materials, and maintain?
Each and every one of us share in common,
The air and water that surrounds us all.
As the supportive, complex matrix built
Upon, the energetic life, from small and tall.
Our science has uncovered the blueprint,
Highlighting remedies needed to pursue.
Yet can our wisdom rely on this reality,
Where we conserve and seek to undo?
If humanity truly seeks a lengthy tomorrow,
It must be durable in its action and plan.
While we look past the pleasures of the moment,
To a distant future, for the family of man.
Tiny, silver crystals sprinkle the earth
as they float slowly down
from the place of their birth.
Peppering white along the brown,
in the cold they may be found.
From frostiness they are born,
iciness follows them to the ground,
piercing like a thorn
Many there are
yet none are quite the same.
They have six sides whether near or far,
and their intricate designs are their fame.
Yet each is very small,
in large groups they strike fast
and leave piles that are tall
when the tempest is past.
They bring coldness to the touch
and get caught in your hair.
With unpleasantness of such
they even scare away the bear.
The wind whistles in your ear
as it sends the snow floating down.
And all that you can hear
is that there is a blizzard in town.
Although very unpleasant
when blown in your face.
When all its energy is spent
it is peaceful throughout space.
It is safe to step outside
and as you can guess,
there is no need to hide.
You may forget
all the unpleasantness
for gone is all the wind's blow.
And all that lies
is a fine layer of snow,
and of the ghastly weather
there are no ties.
My ways not so well laid will do,
By guide if not well led will do.
Everywhere His eyes look ahead,
If I live like books spread, wiil do.
A puny me, puny my means,
If life inches ahead, will do.
In world where blind gets led by blind,
If my inner eyes aid, will do.
What more’s needed to meet my Self?
A corner, a small stead will do.
__________________________________
Ghazal |04.06.2023| spirituality
Poet’s note: The opening couplet is called Matla in Urdu, the last Makta, where often a poet’s pen name comes. In this Ghazal of five couplets, the Kafia or the rhyme are: crooked, led, spread, ahead, aid, and stead. The Radeef or refrain: will do.
Only in this space
do I exist,
spilling into nothingness
beyond these borders
that hold me here.
I am no more than
a faint echo clinging
to the silence inside
your head, a voice
seeking form to make
this shadowy existence
of mine move in a memory
or to inflame something
left long ago in a sad corner
of your life.
I have no breath,
only these words with which
to live for a moment
in your mind,
not as a person
put together with what
can be seen, but a mere
whisper spoken in a dream,
something small, imprisoned
in the centre of who you are,
an enigma that remains
just out of reach
of being known,
the ephemeral
in search of a home.
...And those who scream,”No gun! No knife!
Not even if to defend my life!”
Care they so little for being human
that they won’t even stand up to defend
the greatest gift bestowed by this universe?
It strikes me as incredibly perverse.
The whole of you, every thought and care,
uour hopes, your heart, your soul, your flair,
the big and small things that define us
these folks would throw it allunder the bus.
Thinking that it’s some kind of moral high
to just stand there and let themselves die…
It’s nonsense, sophistry, it's vile rot!
You’ve a duty to protect what you’ve got,
To say that your life is worth everything,
That you’re sovereign and strong, no mere weakling,
That your time here is worth any price,
and all who’d take it had better think twice,
By your own hand they may meet their end,
you will not be taken from family and friends.
And those who would not make this hard choice,
Do they really value this life they’ve enjoyed
if they are not willing, when the hour’s late,
to save themselves from murderous hate?
So if they’re not crazy, or criminal scum,
I believe that an adult has to own a gun.
Don’t forget your children, your husband, your wife,
the things that a person values beyond life.
Have you not a duty to protect all of them?
How will you do that if you have no defense?
You can call the police and hope they arrive,
but it only takes moments for someone to die.
If we really love them, do we have to right
to pretend that true evil will never drop by?
If we are their parents, the protectors of youth,
should we not be ready for what we must do?
If they drag away your daughter with carnal intent
will you still feel ‘beyond’ the Second Amendment?
I don’t think you will, I think all the P.C.
will crumble as you fall down to your knees,
gnashing teeth and wailing at what you have lost,
knowing that failure bears such a great cost.
It’s all on our shoulders in this veil of tears,
we’re the first line against adult fears,
we carry the burden of our life and theirs,
we stare into darkness and try not scare.
So if they’re not crazy, or criminal scum,
I believe every adult should own a gun.
In a world of whispers, I hear a song, a unique melody, where I belong.
Colors dance with vivid grace, In the quiet corners, I find my space.
Every texture tells a tale, and Patterns and rhythms are never dull.
In a world that is misunderstood yet so bright, an autistic soul is a small star in the night.
Different, not less, I stand tall, In my way, I feel it all.
Every challenge, a mountain to climb, Every victory, a moment in time.
So let us celebrate this diverse hue.
In the spectrum's embrace, I see you.
For autism's beauty is plain to see, A tapestry woven uniquely, free.
Urge hints in voice:
Forge your own choice
Dare to feel joy:
Play beyond ploy
Wear a calm poise:
Rise above noise
Know that you know:
A true light shows
Heed a soft poise:
That stills all voice
Deep in your heart:
Your true soul starts
Each moment here:
Watch love fund cheer
Do what you do:
Learn to be you
Round and round curl:
Change moves the world
Be still and know:
Let wise touch show
Fool, saint and sage:
A telling page
Now face to face:
Watch love embrace
Live what you write:
Act as you cite
Leon Enriquez
04 July 2017
Singapore
I no longer check under the bed for monsters,
I don't run when I turn out the light,
Or hide under my blanket when I hear a noise,
I don't run up the stairs, scared to look behind,
I no longer cry for my mom to check the closet.
Not because I don't believe,
But because I have found worse monsters.
At first they arrived in fury,
Cabinets slamming.
Feet stomping.
Voices screaming.
But that was only the beginning.
You see,
I could run from those monsters.
I found comfort in small spaces,
spaces the monsters couldn't reach me.
That was until I started seeing monsters everywhere.
Not only in my home but in the streets,
in the grocery store,
in the halls,
even in the people around me.
No matter what I did it felt like the monsters were surrounding me,
Suffocating me,
Leaving me no air to breathe.
As I grew older I began to realize those monsters weren't real.
The real monster appeared in flashing lights,
Bright screens,
Pictures,
Mirrors,
It turns out,
The real monster
Was me.
The monsters I had seen as a kid?
Those had been me.
MY imagination.
The monsters I had always seen all around me?
That was also me,
refusing to see the bad in myself.
And lastly,
The monster in the mirror.
It was my own reflection.
Each time I wake I see the monster grow,
Slowly consuming more of me,
Taking over everything.
My interests.
My talents.
My personality.
The things that make me really me.
I no longer check under the bed for monsters,
I don't run when I turn out the light,
Or hide under the blanket when I hear a noise,
I don't run up the stairs, scared to look behind,
I no longer cry for my mom to check the closet.
Instead,
I close my eyes and think of the monsters in my head.
sitting there, the flower incased amung weeds,
will she ever see another flower when she's surrounded by these?
blocking her world, blocking her view,
smothering her beauty that's supposed to shine through,
until one day the gardener came, and pulled out those weeds,
she felt the wind gust through her tiny soul, for now she could finally see,
a small ray of light but with just enough view,
as she leaned in towards the sun, she felt her spirit grew,
just enough hope to be able to see,
to grow stronger and taller, to know she was free,
and as she poked her head out, the gardener could see,
to pull the rest out, so that she could breathe,
the space that she needed in her field was anew,
and with time and in season her new heart grew,
her essence spread wide as the wind carried her seed,
to replant and replenish for more beauty to be seen
Form:
The field does not announce itself.
It simply opens,
lupine-blue
and trembling,
a sentence the wind
keeps starting
but never finishes.
Come and see
how the morning lies
its cold hand on the grass
and the grass accepts it,
the way a door accepts
a key that no longer belongs
to the house.
Come and see
the wolf-hour,
that grey seam
between dark and dawn
where the stars dissolve
and the light arrives like a rumor,
uncertain of its own welcome.
I have stood at the edge and watched
the purple spires lean east,
not in prayer, exactly,
but in the old,
animal way of knowing
which direction holds the heat.
The roots go down
like a question
no one thought
to ask aloud.
The blooms go up
like an answer given before
the question was ready.
Come and see
how a thing can be
both reckless
and precise,
how the lupine spreads
across the slope
claiming nothing,
owning everything it touches.
Come and see
before the season turns,
before the petals drop
their small flags
and surrender
what they never meant
to hold.
The field is here.
The light is doing
what light does.
And there is still,
just barely,
time.