Long Stand in Poems
Long Stand in Poems. Below are the most popular long Stand in by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Stand in poems by poem length and keyword.
© 2009 (Jim Sularz)
Faith pierces the gray morning clouds,
and a new age has dawned.
A faith that outstretched wings of peace will soar,
through stormy skies now calmed.
With faith we’ll wake to see that promised day,
when swords are hammered into plows.
faith that moves hills and mountains about,
a faith that believes and will never doubt.
Hope with hearts bared and prayers extolled,
that only good will come to pass.
When disease, hunger, the orphaned and cold,
are no longer memories of our past.
Hope that shapes a world of dreams,
and one that keeps us safe.
Hope with a soft and warm caress,
a hope that will fill our emptiness.
Love, an unbreakable golden thread,
that weaves through hearts and souls.
When love resonates with Truth from above,
the Heavens open, a universe unfolds.
Love heals those who stand in it’s light,
and guides those lost in the dark.
Love without blame and endless in scope,
a Love that forgives all, through Faith and Hope.
"To lay awake and watch the galaxy slowly move, memories stored unlocked, a touch of existence." Quote by poet
An endless ebony garden of stars,
Galaxy humming wonder earthly ours.
Ancient significant source of power,
A warm celestial kept in earthen jars.
To stand in gesture wavering flower.
Tall scattered shadowed trees gaze upon bliss.
A touch of autumn breeze, a breath, a kiss,
Untimely morning rendezvous like thieves.
A now sanctified world now quite submiss,
Transient nature sits under flirting leaves.
Within thy breast a promise earth strong might,
Quelled waft and sounds blow through the hours of night.
Reflective flow of spring beside banks end
Thrilling sublime sights and whispers descend.
What is it called?
When thousands of bats
Come pouring out the mouth of a cave
For the black gold of sunset?
Like that
The late autumn leaves tear from their branches
In a spooky warm gale
Misplaced this Halloween night
Buries the party of cars parked on the street
For the last three days of vigil
Tending to 100-year-old Lillith
Next door
Her bedroom window 30 feet from me
Where I stand in short sleeves
Amazingly
This time of year
I too wait for news
As I watch the tree tops crumble
And the puzzle pieces of starry sky
Connect their arms and fill the gaps
Creamy river Milky Way
Maybe they are holding Lillith’s hands
Asking her questions about the beyond
And knowing Lillith
She’s ignoring them all or mumbling
Oh yes yes
Peering outdoors through her curtains
Listening to my wind chimes
Ding
Like a harbored sailboat’s mast
Lashed by its pulleys and hoists
Nothing left of Lillith’s sail
Of course it would be a wind like this
On a magical night like this
That carries her away in its arms
Over the roofs and pumpkin streets
To the new October stars.
From my childhood to adulthood my
Spirit always wrestled with navigating the
Tumultuous torrent of others thoughts
and opinions seeking to discover and
Hear my own voice.
I pen my journey, my spirit, my home.
A masterpiece crafted in passion and strife,
In each fading chapter, my life is a poem.
Each day a stanza, each moment a line,
Ink of my heart in rhythms divine.
With metaphors blooming in gardens of time,
My soul finds its music, its vibrant rhyme.
For my life is a poem, a legacy spun,
A symphony woven until the day is done.
For every lost moment, a lesson was learned,
In the furnace of trials, my spirit was turned.
For the world tried to clip my wings and I still
Learned to fly.
Teenage years spelled chaos, emotions untamed,
Pages marked by heartache, where innocence shamed;
The ink grew more vivid, the essence of life.
For every insult, criticism, wrong doing I let slide
It always felt like a part of my soul died.
Adulthood arrived, with burdens to bear,
Time penned its chapters with wisdom and care.
I pen my experience with the poetry I share.
Putting one foot in front of the other I continue to
Move forward even when life may take me a few steps
Back.
To be true to one’s own poetry roots are beyond skin deep,
My ethnic background or demographical community where
I sleep and rest my weary feet.
There was time where others as well as myself thought I was unable
To speak. Then the seeds of poetrees began to grow, from the soils of adversity
branch out, above the low level shrubs and weeds to embrace the light of the sun.
A poetry that will never have to stand in another’s shadow.
Standing alone tall and strong but never alone.
The quill of experience wrote lines steeped in grace,
each face found its place.
My life is a poem each experience is a totem
So I write, and I live, in this infinite quest,
For my life is a poem, imperfectly blessed.
Like many of us men we are taught not to cry,
Show weakness or express emotion although
We are still human. I let my tears flow through
The ink of my pen.
My life is a poem.
They stand there. these enigmas of time
placard markings, memorialized remembrances refined
of less than a better age,
seemingly forever on wars rampage.
The making of immortalized imposing images dissidents
destruction of both soldier and innocent citizens
that paint a picture blackened to dark and gray
for those who endured in living that day
and the struggles that took others away
in bombs, debris, and democracy exploding to decay.
A war in no uncertain words swirled
the shot of guns and ammo took round the world
to share the hurt, the anguish, and the pain endured to defend
the threat to never retaliate again without an end.
Too long the wars, the battles fought
brief interludes of peace are never bought
and the battles rage, and the missiles roar
as we stand in tears and memory at freedom's shore.
Light the lanterns, shed some light
is peace lost forever in its flight?
Speak now, speak loud
never hold your peace
or the battle cries
lay forever in repeat.
I stand in the aftermath
between the oscillations of time
wondering idle thoughts of you
I feel my mind haunted by
the passing moments of you
like passing effigy’s funeral parade
idle images n bright photographs
only your shadow hides in my mind
as time lingers on by
these moments caught in apathy
have you seen the leaves drifting in time
turning the colors of Crimson, amber, sublime
see orange fires, a hue of Oblivion’s season
watch then fall over and over again n again
thinking only of you, only of your hue
have you ever seen
the snowflakes suspended
in time, caught in the cold air
before it leaves this moment
down, down, flutters, and spins
melts away
how can you dare
Not understanding what I bear
all along my stair
I see you in the flowing night
It jars my mind
filled with ruminations
deep in my eons primordial form
I stand in the glare of the oncoming light
floating in your eyes, drifting in your smile
I stand in the aftermath
between the moments
of you n seconds of my wrath
linger the idle images of you
dividing the turns of the hand
into moments divided
into some infinite
infinity of parts
the black flock of the clergy, pass
I see you there in the snow
as it drifts upon your hair
the church is bare
all have left the service
streetlights flicker on
I stand in the twilight watching
wander away, not saying a thing
feeling the snow, fleeting
linger in the air, feeling your shadow
linger on quietly n despair
I stand in the aftermath
between the oscillations of time
wondering idle thoughts of you
I feel my mind haunted by
the passing moments of you
Quince wads pack gaps in particleboard.
Yellow newspapers underlay linoleum.
The apartment is a nicotine
an atlas of a blotched sky
can be read on the ceiling.
He has a friend that he visits once a week;
she will stand in front of him to masturbate.
Her apartment walls are paper thin. She tells him
that at night her neighbors scratch on them;
she thinks they are writing to her.
Later they go out to a small pub,
sit quietly in a corner
holding hands until closing time.
One day she is not there.
He scans the headlines, obituary columns,
the classified ads --- there is no news.
Weeks pass. Her parents live in Surrey,
he can't find them in the phone book.
He stops looking for the lost.
You stand in the crowd
Stare at the sky
You look around
And wonder why
You feel so alone
Caught up in your pain
you feel like no one
Can take it away
And the people walk by
Like you don't exist
You hold in the tears
And try not to cave in...
The words cut you deep
Leaving Scars
Where no one can see
Deep in your Heart
You lock yourself up
Alone in your room
And cry yourself to sleep
So you yourself can bloom
And the people walk by
Like you don't exist
You hold in the tears
And try not to cave in...
And you drag your heart
On a golden chain
Right from the start
To take away the pain
And the people walk by
Like you don't exist
You hold in the tears
And try not to cave in....
So let those tears fall
like an old oak with a dried up knothole
I stand in the wind, feeling her iciness now
arthritis flares up in my roots when there is a wind chill
Wind chill being the perfect word for it.
like an immovable mountain, I stand my ground.
Sure that I am right; unwilling to change any ideas
for I have changed them too many times already.
This is what getting older does for some mountains.
like a summers day I dance in many colors of oranges
Pinks, reds, purples and greens too; I am a frothy fluffy mess.
Time has shown me that being myself and living my truths is preferable
to being a young willow whipping around in the wind, thinking she knows everything.
Written: April 18, 2024
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Another atrocity: letting stone or lime tears slick.
A majestic sight—an albatross-nurturing chick.
Midway Island, where strings were hung.
Birds covet between land and sea for their young.
They saw a feast, a bounty to witness.
Human waste of all kinds is not worth swiftness.
A dwarf chick gently waits till his parents return.
A fragile bird wept, fleeing from an unseen spurn.
Below their skeptical gaze, the chick played.
His parents, as warden angels, never strayed.
They opened their mouths and started to eat.
In agony, they wept, shaking as if life retreat.
Longing for a life, the birds once yearned.
They began to sing their hymn of peril termed.
Survivors are clueless that men spread lethal flu.
With a split heart, I stand in shame, void, and blue.
Sans doubt, man is a fool—no care nor claim.
A tender poise between empathy and blame.
Whoever enacts a crime will bear the shame.
Is it too late for any of us who are aware to tame?