Long Spectator Poems
Long Spectator Poems. Below are the most popular long Spectator by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Spectator poems by poem length and keyword.
I took a chance and made some calls, cause home
Was on my mind. I knew late 2021 that things there
Wern't going fine. Of the calls i made one was to this
Guy, by the name of richard beks, editor of the spectator
In Hamilton in which he airs his dregs..At first I thought
He was alright, though maybe somewhat confused? He said
He was a jabs-worth? yet to each person their own views
I told him i knew David Noaks a farmer there, chris from the Athens
Eatery, he told me Chris was gone for years, and the changes
He had seen, old Tommy Moores boxing club was also gone
Once i touched upon its fate.. I reflected inside myself back along?
He said he'd view my writes online, and maybe do a feature
What a laugh.' If I'd really knew of what type was this old creature?
We talked some more then I rang off' thinking it would be good
To be read throughout the western districts to inspire thoughts as
Only poetry really could.' A month or two slipped along i made a
Call again He got Bronwyn there to feild my call, she said he was
In a meeting, of which I enquired of when that slot would end? She
Replied that was the question, her manner friendly enough, yet I
Sensed that beks himself was saying you get stuffed' i took the
Hint and closed the call, bewildered to say the least I'd thought from
The first call I had 'the measure of the beast' a few weeks on i did
A check on 'facebook' of all the places, and there i saw a post that
Called for 'beks account to be eras-ed.' It says he'd supported dirty
hume despite the cardinal sins he'd done 'the rotten child abuser'
And old beks had glossed over, the crimes of that scum.? I drew a
Breath of deep releif, I thanked the Lord above..Who keeps my ways
And brightens the days, who is the only author of justice and Love.!
Don’t be mute spectator of the wrongs
Rise up and protest now
Don’t suppress your rebel voice
Speak up and question now
If intolerant fire blazes your heart
Be fire burn the flare and waft away ashes now.
Don’t count what you haven’t got
Disown the past and move on now
Don’t neglect what you’ve got
Embrace them and be happy now
If storm surges clouds in your mind
Be storm blow the haze and see rainbow now.
The precious life you’ve got
Live full to enjoy and celebrate now
If darkness falls on the festival
Raise the moon and dance on its beam now.
On fate’s track of ruthless time
Walk fearless and engrave footprints now
If you face the sea of turmoil
Part the sea and cross over to peace now.
May 30. 2019
my eyes are closed,
now i perceive her
so blindness i crave,
rather losing her sight naive
my thoughts blunder,
truly conscious of her,
fool i prefer to stay,
if wisdom cost her
my feelings meet no bounds,
but in her they all subdue,
love restless so be,
to be content only within her
my actions make no sense
in her happiness i am comfortable
clown i prefer to be label
than see her eyes in tear
my words fail to capture,
her tender beautiful feature,
i rather wait as a mute spectator
as beauty beg to be define by her
my time live frozen,
warmth in her as i cuddle,
i prefer to die here,
rather from her arms far
death will play foul,
but our soul in timeless mould,
as union of true lovers be crowned
poems of our passion be written down
...rAHUL
The banners of ABK are ash upon the wind.
The keep I built with the marrow of my nights,
The logic, the sweat, the digital cathedrals—
All dismantled by a world that does not prize the soul.
I gave my "whole" to the code,
Only to find the compiler was cold, and the output was void.
?Then came the Judas-kiss from the brother-shadow,
Trading a lifetime of loyalty for the dust of the earth.
And finally, the one who held the master keys—
The one I let past every firewall of my heart—
Did not just leave, but turned the key to unlock the ribs,
And drove an arrow of white flame into the center.
A burning treason. A heat that does not heal.
?Now, the sun is a stranger.
Sleep is a gallows I am forced to climb every night.
The moment the lids close, the execution begins:
I am forced to watch the "Inner Me"—that boy of poetry—
Pick up the blade and open his own throat.
A scarlet cycle. A recursive death.
He bleeds out his essence, hits the floor,
And then, by some cruel magic, stands up to die again.
?I stand behind the glass of my own eyes,
Begging the phantom to stop, screaming into the silence,
But my voice is a ghost and his hands are steady.
I am a spectator to my own slaughter.
There is no "head-on" anymore; there is only the exhaustion
Of a soldier whose armor is fused to his skin.
?The war has been long. The war has been silent.
The field is littered with the corpses of my trust.
Today, I lay the Final Pen upon the scarred earth.
I do not surrender to the enemy;
I surrender to the weight of the sky.
The script has run its course.
The battle is over, for the warrior is spent.
Harvest of Mind
by Odin Roark
Acres of mirrors
Reflecting yesterdays upon today
Refracting wisdom’s tundra of experience
Into regret's abstract lessons.
How flexible
This mind of bendable energy,
Linking limbotic senses
Into a synaptic playground
Where one’s child-like recess plays perpetual.
Discovery beckons,
Hoeing brain’s porous marl
Bearing not the sweat of work,
Rather seedling’s preparation,
The cultivation of pain and sorrow’s rich compost,
The irrigation of past years’ yield,
That foundation of trial and error’s natural reward.
As each day's light finds horizon’s solace,
We slumber into mind’s picturesque growth,
Participating in collage-dreams,
Challenging synaptic connections
Smiling or crying,
Winning or losing,
We either concede as spectator
Or become a player,
A harvester of continuance,
The perpetuation of cognition’s daily bread.
Yes
‘Tis wondrous property we carry about.
Respected, it thrives.
Neglected, it weeds.
Rejected…
But a fossil-in-the-making.
Like a tsunami from the ocean
I want to churn everything, inside out
But rue the fact that,
Like a bubble in the air
Have to be content with only
Being fidgety inside myself.
When the rocks try to stop
The natural flow of river, downwards
Even the transparent water, gets bloodied,
Breaking its head on the rocks,
I can feel its squirming and quibbling
But can remain only a mute spectator.
Whenever I feel oppressed, in any form
My heart seethes and fumes
My blood Inside tends to boil over
Only to become cold again, why?
Perhaps it is not in my nature to retaliate,
Then, am I condemned remaining wounded, perpetually?
Unable to do much about oppressive relations,
I pine away with my grief
Only wishing I could also free myself
And others of the oppression and the pain it inflicts
And enjoy the happiness and freedom
endowed by nature, in relations.
But looking at nature’s infinite vastness, where
Despite tight bonding and discipline in every bit
All relationships out there enjoy
Innate freedom, harmony and fairness
Then Wounds inflicted by the experience of oppression,
Fill me with jealousy and pain even harder and deeper.
Hope is life, maybe quite dreamlike
The change, which would destroy
the current forms of oppressions
and build relationships, free and fair, anew
seems to be a far cry, as of now.
the volcanoes are also destined to remain
dormant inside, for centuries, before they erupt.
Self Translation of my Hindi poem 'Parivartan'
First thing in the morning when she gets up
he would get up from bed too
whenever she opened her mouth to yawn
he would also follow suit
He would follow her into every room in the house
like a cheerful newborn puppy
attached to the bosom of his mother
When she walks into the bathroom
he sneaks up behind her
she can't go in there
without a spectator present
or waiting patiently by the door
When she maneuvers into the living room
to switch on the television to Miami Vice
she can't even take a nap
and sip a Switcha in solitude
all because he always plants
his miniature body upon her lap
with his endless snuggling and affection
like lime juice sprinkled on conch salad
Despite his irking habit
she would often brag to her friends
about her appreciation
of her little shadow and little stalker
who always follow her everywhere she goes
Mornings nail me to the chair of the clocks of my penance,
Minutes pierce me like poisoned needles.
I devour luminous mirrors
That regurgitate falsified truths.
I feed on bitterness and devastating pains,
To endure the dictatorship of suffering and indelible scars.
My lugubrious laughter has fossilized,
My wounded heart has turned into a granary of grudges.
My demons and ghosts knock at the door of my fate
Like soldiers demanding their tribute.
I sign contracts with my own perdition,
I rent my youth for a few bills tarnished by my cowardice.
Outside, crowds kneel before the showcases of misery,
Praying to plastic idols.
They sell their time at the market of sterile chimeras,
They call freedom this cannibal chain.
I would like to scream until the dungeon of my existence shatters,
But my throat is clogged with dust.
I would like to break this glass ceiling
That separates me from a life I have never tasted.
I am a voluntary slave in this morbid century,
A spectator forced to contemplate his own decomposition.
I cling to notebooks scribbled with the blood of my sacrifices
Like a castaway on a raft of ink.
If one day my melancholic monologues escape their bars,
May they become a fire in your veins dilated by fear.
May my pain turn into a banner,
And at last may this ordeal implode beneath your wounds.
Fathers
Forever loyal, even when it hurts
An actively engaged player; not a spectator
Teaches with his life; not mere words
Highly regarded, honored, and respected
Earns his strips the old fashion way. Work.
Reasonable, tolerant, and understanding
One who would marry a dear lady with a young child, not his own,
Becoming her stepfather, and treating her no differently than his own.
He also takes in his new wife’s mother and makes her a part of one family.
He instills the value of relatives and being connected to them.
One who teaches his kids simple things, like how to tie shoes;
And dutifully reminds them to keep those shoes clean.
He’s one who builds ‘a swing set’ for his kids and their friends.
He teaches his kids how to drive, even stick-shifts(5-speeds).
He shows them how to be self-sufficient and independent; encouraging them to face people and make sales from his vegetable garden.
He allows them to own a puppy and helps them bury their dog in the front yard after he is killed by a very mean man.
Sometimes misunderstood, but stays the course perceived right and proper.
He’s one who is unafraid of taking on greater responsibilities.
He’s one who regularly takes his kids with him in his truck;
And he makes all of his kids proud to be his dear children.
That was the kind of dad I once knew until he passed away
at the age of 58 when I was 13 years old.
05252016 cj PS Contest, A Father Is, by Brenda Chiri-Carrol
“Walking the last mile the time to keep the spirit high is now” – Quote by Poet
Don’t be a mute spectator of the wrong,
rise up with the courage to dissent now.
Don’t suppress your rebel voice strong,
speak up to emphasize the right now.
If the inferno of engulfing intolerance
blazes your beleaguered heart now,
ignite another fire to burn the instance,
and blow away the ashes now.
Don’t count what you haven’t got,
forget the past and move on now.
Accept with grace what destiny has brought,
embrace them to be happy now.
As the storm surges with the cloud of strife
across your mangled mind now,
be a sweeping squall in the fortified life,
waft the mist away, see the rainbow now.
The transient time you’ve got as God’s gift,
live it full to enjoy and celebrate now.
On the festival the dismal darkness falls swift,
raise the moon, dance in its shine now.
At the edge of time’s tide on the track of fate
walk fearless, engrave the last footprints now.
You face in the end the rough sea, don’t wait,
sail serene to the island of bliss now.