Long Spoken language Poems
Long Spoken language Poems. Below are the most popular long Spoken language by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Spoken language poems by poem length and keyword.
Dear exam
Sincerely I don’t hate you, I just don’t like you
To be fair, I don’t think anybody does
You issue countless threats in the name of tests
A series of poison in carefully measured dosage
Administered by well-trained ‘motivational speakers’ who apparently knows more about my life than I
They mean well I can’t deny
But the way they sugar coat high blood pressure, depression, diabetes and serve it with a smile
I can’t help but think they are in on it
Thinking about you is sleep depriving
Preparing for you is depressing
If I die now, I’d go straight to heaven because you’ve scared the hell out of me
You have me working so hard to earn your approval
Failure of which I prove to be a nobody
My parents believe in you, how you got them to is beyond me
They have bet my success or failure in life on you
Every mark I score, every grade I get reflects a future
A delusional believe that you can bring a fortune
But you and I both know that is not entirely true, is it?
Anxiety attacks and depression are a possibility
Ulcers and paranoia are a guarantee
But the sad thing is, all this anger and pain, is because I flanked the last paper
And I’m afraid, I’m so afraid of my future.
Mathematics is a headache
Economics is a heartache
Biology is a sweetheart and pass it am certain
But last time I scored an E in religion, I had to wonder if I was satan
History is past tense, I buried it with legends
Gave my undivided attention to geography, but damn it’s hard as a rock
I loved chemistry, till I saw you in it
You are such a mole, I even lost the concept
My spoken language is perfect, too bad it can’t be reflected when I write you
I mean…how do I see gray in black and white?
You are so small but the ripple effect is seismic
Instead of helping you just here to tease me.
I hate to tell you that I told you but I told you
I don’t hate you, I just don’t like you.
We live in a pluralistic world and society,
Where there's many diverse groups:
Different communities and religions -
About that you can't go through any hoops.
The web should enable all to function,
Free, empower and give identity;
Speech and spoken language are not certified,
So why restrain those who kindle controversy?
A healthy web promotes the blogosphere,
Says that social networking is a right,
That your email address is your privilege,
And that google has ethical height.
But some countries ban them all,
For fear of opinions, taunts and passions;
Governments prohibit gabbers and critics,
And large companies drive at their own visions.
However, freedom of speech and expression,
Stay golden even when trivialised or put down,
And are enabled by privacy, by no observation,
Whether there’s pleasure, distress or frown.
Every belief should be upheld:
Religious, atheist, humanist or crank;
And this premise should be written,
Such that arguments will not mark.
The first Magna Carta liberated,
The individual in society,
So a second Magna Carta is needed,
To free the user digitally.
The web should be cheap for all to use,
And user data should be private strictly;
An open infrastructure should be decentralised,
By having foreign servers for every country.
Whistleblowers keep abuse levels low,
And ethical hackers hold governments to account;
GCHQ should not be above the law,
To tap the publics digital footprints, shouts.
We need to discuss a new Magna Carta,
For the internet, with certain net neutrality,
To keep high quality content affordable,
And state internet law for all in unanimity.
During Infancy
During infancy the wires on
the TVs, which transmit or
get signals, were
responsible for
my fast brain growth at
4 weeks. My first words: declare to
be true and
affirmative. The metal pole leaning up against a
backyard veranda square post gave off
this comfy vibe that quickly made better my
visual acuity, especially made better my
depth perception. I could localise these sounds:
taps dripping in
my parents’ (I could hear their voices in the
first two hours of life) ensuite, could hear taps dripping in
the upstairs one too; the breathing of
insects and rats and mice in
the walls; the walls cracking in
the attic; the life
outside. I could sit without
any support, walk at
two months, run with no
effort or
difficulty at
3 months. I was the best at
object permanence development. Turning my
head 360 degrees was
easy, too easy. My pupils dilated at
3 weeks. Focus to
new stimulus was
award worthy, no
doubt about it. Too was my
habituation (lessened orientating response) to
done again stimulus. Skipped
babbling. Spoken language was
ultra high. Not surprisingly, my
temperamental individuality was, well,
difficult. I wasn’t easy to
deal with. Seldom I wasn’t fast to
warm up. Bond to
parents, grandparents, was
ON and
OFF secure, thus
facilitate exploration was
ON and OFF. ON and
OFF separation anxiety. “Stranger Anxiety” on
11 +.
I have bad teeth. Always have since birth. I had braces as a child and hated it. Hated going to the dentist. Put it off too long, too often. Ended up with multiple root canals, and bone grafts, and finally lost six teeth and had to have dentures.
Lately, my remaining teeth have been behaving a bit better I may lose another tooth before the end but that should be enough.
I am waiting for the development of dental clones which I hope will happen soon so I can grow perfect teeth and replace all my old rotting teach.
I tell my teeth one day my plans
“Teeth”
“Yeah master”
“We need to talk”
“so talk, dude.”
“
I am going to replace you all with brand new teeth. You have been such pain my entire life, can’t wait.”
“So you are going to kill us off and trade us in for a new model?”
“Yeah”
“Bastard, but hey we don’t have a choice since you are the Master and we are merely you’re eating machine slaves.”
“Yeah, you got that right.”
And last but not least, our optional prompt! I got this one from a workshop I did last year with Beatrix Gates, and I’ve found it helpful. The prompt is based on Robert Hass’s remarkable prose poem, “A Story About the Body.” The idea is to write your prose poem that, whatever title you choose to give it, is a story about the body. The poem should contain an encounter between two people, some spoken language, and at least one crisp visual image.
From being forced to cross the Atlantic Ocean under the cover of stars
to volunteering for a mission above every ocean to the stars.
From being stared at on an auction block and having the family sold and separated
to ten years running, in the most watched block, as a priceless model of the family unit.
From working for peanuts and fertilizing somebody's land with the blood that runs off of
the back
to owning the land, working the peanut, and transfusing the blood back.
From being robbed of a spoken language, losing a religion, a culture, a god
to influencing: the language spoken in cultures, songs in religion, and the pathway to God.
From losing a hand and a foot or a leg for not being fast enough to get far enough away
from “the man”
to using the hands, legs and the feet in running farther and faster than the average man.
From the king, of a nation, beaten into a personal slave and called names like coon,
spook, and “Boy”
to a boy named King who would grow up to “win over” a nation for the equal freedoms of
every person.
From generations that had to take the last names of past presidents
to being the name that can give a future generation its first president.
The Meaning Of Humankind
Forever people look for a complicated word
Years, decades and centuries they search
One sad word that gives meaning to humankind
Poets have written pages looking for the word
Singers sing their songs trying to find just the right word
Writers tell stories about the search for the word
Not one poem, song or story can find the perfect word
The perfect combination of letters and sounds
No one can find the one word that describes humankind
The perfect word is there right before them
It has been for all the history of the spoken language
In Greek, Latin, English or Aramaic or Chinese it has one meaning
Five letters, three syllables work together to giving meaning to humankind
The word the poets, singers and writers have been searching for
That word is simply alive
A sad word because it always has a final moment, a moment of loss
Yet, a happy word because while we are alive
We live, we love, we learn and we experience life and who we are
Sad or happy “alive” is the meaning of humankind
Thank the gods for the happy moments yet do not fear the sad ones
For that it life
That is the meaning of being alive
When the world was youthful
spiderwebs sang as they were spun.
Language was woven in the air
as accents of winds and trees
conveyed by an eloquent sky.
Untrammeled meadows annunciated
upon the lips of dens and burrows
scooped by shrew, mole, and vole.
Fresh bathed daisies signed a speech
as they swayed,
buttercups birthed calligraphy’s of sunlight.
Giddy rills gave voice to fritillaries
that flew to the sun or moon.
Words were idioms painted upon
the melodious leafage
of the up-risen and rising.
Then that shaggy brat
the primordial ape it grunted forth,
translating its gripey gut
through the clack of a creaky tongue.
Guttural and gregarious
it learned to babble and
belch an oral discordance.
It yapped and yawped,
yawped and yapped
until a spoken language
verbosely pivoted to prolix
polluting the very airy air.
Then it was
that a nascent poet boldly stood
rhyming would with could
until even the dumbest of his tribe
understood
and cheered him fit to bust
while the green grown world
with all its idiomatic kin
lost the will to express
as before
for the fluent earth again.
Love is not just a spoken language
nor will it always heal like a bandage.
Affectionate actions and self sacrifice
should come naturally - not at a price.
Real passion is not only lust and desire,
simply two souls connecting to inspire.
Unconditional love is the foundation of trust,
learning to forgive in actions deemed unjust.
A gentleman is always thoughtful and genuine
yearning for a beloved, elegantly feminine.
After all these years, it's still his only dream,
the one wish changing his life into supreme.
When burdened he'll rest his head upon her chest,
listening to her heartbeat, he'll know he is blessed.
With soft hands stroke his heavy head lightly,
her heavenly sanctuary embracing him tightly.
Her beautiful lips tender, rosy and calm,
yearn to be kissed, like a healing balm.
Yet she remains a dream in the distance,
his heart craves for her with daily persistence.
Beloveds hoping to merge without resistance,
celebrating love, breathing it into existence
Silent One
Written 1 January 2016
Oh you broken infinity; gray in nature.
Allow me to repair you.
I am a handyman of words,
breaking down this soft-spoken language in rhythmic remedy,
yet only for you, my good neighbor.
You are the everlasting universe,
but let's not stumble over words.
The universe is infinite; yet not quite infinity,
and the great field of stars must be jealous,
for infinity, you are here on Earth.
And now I am a handyman of kisses;
easing what is broken in your essence,
yet the complexion of infinity
is all the bad or good that completes itself,
and maybe that's exactly why the universe
isn't quite adequate enough for that word.
So perhaps I should spare my lips and release you into space
where you may become one with the stars.
I am now but a broken handy man of muted words,
signing written verse with paper kisses.
Hurt is a Spoken Language
It came from your heart,
like gas on fire,
burning everything in its path.
Hurt was your spoken language.
Fluent in anger,
flippant with pain.
Words tossed carelessly,
thoughtful or thoughtless.
Sweet and bitter,
hard and soft.
All poured
from the same vessel,
from the same heart.
Intentional or not,
your words were nails.
driven deep,
one word at a time.
Hard words,
hung heavy in the air.
Emotions burst forth,
taking the path
of least resistance.
They make their way
to the tongue.
Ah, the tongue!
Sharper than a sword
cutting deep to the bone.
Like salt in a wound,
words don’t disappear,
even if its goal is accomplished.
Time may move on,
hurt may not.
Lingering like ice
that’s slow to melt.
Daniel
6/2013