Long Subjective Poems
Long Subjective Poems. Below are the most popular long Subjective by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Subjective poems by poem length and keyword.
Silent in the rage
Not for long
When simple clicks lead
to journeys for all of us
To partake in
As red
All red
Grips the splendid moment
Maybe subjective but
At least it's here
Have we outlined
Our cool's usefulness
Has it been displaced for
Alternative emotions
And mixed devotions
Leftover from when we
Cared less about such things
Peering at youth
I used to know
Feeling circumstantial
And no effort or ticket needed
It stays
It plays
Reverbs only when the
Truth gets way too loud
Proud
Let those or that which
Enables
Our ability to change
See the errors of every way
Everyday
All roads point to the
Compass
Which has no idea
Sans the fact
It needs to try.
(6/27/05)
Personal preference enters into every poetry contest
Outstandingly subjective
Enticing to one is repulsive to two others
Tricky to judge poems unless there are blatant errors
Ridiculous with a capital R to compare a poem against another
You can try though. Snicker. Snicker.
Comparing one poem to another is like comparing a flea to mirror.
Awesome to you is too dull for me to finish reading.
Notoriously wonderful to me is something you do not like a whit.
Normal people do not even read poetry, and yet, here we are….
Often contests shut down new poets who do not realize the numbers game.
Takes guts to put feelings to paper, and you may have to enter ten to win one.
Beautiful poetry to me is a waste of ink to you.
Enthusiasm captures my eyes, but only when written in my preferred styles.
Creativity sashays in a variety of ballets and watusi.
Outstandingly subjective. I cannot stress this enough!
Metaphoric writes intrigue me, yet I do not do them myself.
Poetry is pronouncedly purposefully a preferred personal preference.
A win means the judge liked it at this second at this minute of her day.
Reality is that you, as a poet, have to write like a painter has to paint.
Especially remember when reviewing and critiquing your own poetry,
Despite everyone else’s opinion, do you like it yourself? That is the key.
BEWICK
unhampered
unclouded
clear precise
memoirs of the mind
hollowed out of time
in domains dissected
yellow harvests
fading foliage
leaves birds&trees
depicted
with an unusual eye
a spontaneous overflow
of feelings
exposed
the rarest
of qualities
exquisitely
executed&
engraved
BLAKE
without fluence
in infinite patience
vital& neccessary
bursting with life
yet
tender&
exhuberant
marginalia
footnotes&epigrams
imitations worthy of notice
subjective
particular
in mood & nature
a miasma
intent on definition
in visions of dells knooks & corners
of paradise
in
a pitch of poetic intensity
vivid brilliancy
mist dreaming glimmers
upon
gaudy daylight
What makes a poet, be a poet?
What makes a pilot, be a pilot?
What makes a janitor, be a janitor?
Circumstances bears some weight.
Determination will unlock doors that circumstances bars.
Natural abilities also bears weight in what they call, 'a gift'.
Same rules applies, doors will unlock that circumstances bars.
It is a 'cake-walk' if there are no barriers to their goal/s, whether be a poet or a pilot.
Are you a good poet? That is subjective and left to interpretation.
However, that sort of statement is not applicable to a pilot, until the plane crashes.
If it has been determined, not to be an act of God, nor the fault of the plane, then we will know that it was pilot error.
A poet can be raw, use simple vocabulary, and be 'street savvy'.
A poet can be educated, English major, knows A-Z of a dictionary, and a walking Thesaurus.
NOW, in this high tech world, the former is easily identifiable, because of its perpetual use of it, whereas, the latter, it is debatable without a piece of paper with a University name on it.
I believe an unwritten 'pure thought' makes a good poet.
I know that of what I have written, some have been written by others, namely my mom songs, my older brother 'Sandless Sandcastles' (he supplied the title), some from friends who are nameless to me of some circa in my lifetime, then again, if it were.
It is safe to say that most that were written and dated here on PoetrySoup, are mines.
My quotes, like most quotes, who knows who said them first, lest it was recorded on paper, and then again, what if it was said before that recording, by another, who may have been famous as well, and was stolen only because it was never recorded.
I can say that the majority, if not all, are my own quotes.
Some are newly, noted, quotes here on PoetrySoup.
Then, there is the third poet, one that is a true natural. Not of the streets, nor well learned, but a true 'gifted talent'. Their words are lights of their souls that they pull from their hearts and share with this world.
Just do not ever stop, Soupers--not for the slightest--Write On!
05/29/2019
RECOGNITION
I wonder, is there an eternal truth
A concept ignored in busy youth
Yet some claim it is real, forsooth
But isn’t everything a mere fiction
All subject to subjective depiction
Or is it out there, for all to find
The comfort of loving brings relief
Yet the hoping for it requires belief
Or is it like an autumnal falling leaf
With something greater to discover
Rejecting a story to accept another
Maybe indecision of a different kind
Distractions require one not to waver
Personal sacrifice and strict behaviour
Giving recognition to the one saviour
For the few, commandments are law
Such a view is based on faith for sure
Rare, in a logic-driven scientific mind
For recognition, truth is in the name
Cognition is still thought all the same
But considering options is not a game
For many, it’s their chosen way of life
That seems to help with joy and strife
Offering a way through the daily grind
Self doubt and self confidence
are a result of your environment
so is happiness so is depression
undoubtedly the influence
of everyday events
subjective oppression or pressure
those days which are intense
they build or make you lesser
yet both leave their indents
be it humiliated failure
or success beyond your sense
will add or chip at layers
become what one expects
but you can change the flavour
the same way light deflects
make yourself the stranger
rid of your defects
the change is but a drainer
but not of intellect
on spirit put this strainer
don't give in to stress
the scope stays as your aimer
walk on nonetheless
and you will be the victor
who made yourself your best
When It Is Winter
Whence from shine the seasons to whom and to where
High on snow peaked mountains sits the Buddha under a fir tree
Exalted warm in the glow of change and stillness he mediates
Never ending contradictions assembles frost transcends right there
In the heat of the desert Northern lights shed their guidance
To similar truth’s complementation seek meaningful sense
In abandon vast perception’s years cycle from our point of views
Swift within and without riches and scrap heaps of dissimilar hues
When periods swell and spell interchange across planets and orbit
In constant revolution vison blind folded deceptions and ruses
No one come high tides water or drought can simply absorb it
The winter is summer as spring turns to autumn and perspective
Emerges in harmony when my lights in the South levitate from
Reclusion where wise humans freeze sweat which is highly subjective
Vamp through idyllic darkness
The silent void willing to cradle you for a while
Only a while
Dance alone
Dance together
Just move in any case
Guidance is subjective
Available only through wicked heat and token redemption
Sit center
Sit still
Let the lack of motion propel you to unearthly heights
Those suggested by derelicts which spot the dormant horizon
In they walk
In they stammer
Leveling granite and assumptions with every stumble
Cozy in the still life which captures blooms and blemishes
Searching for core which alludes even the earnest traveler
And the original sin leaves a pedestrian skid mark
Against the surface that dares not breathe a word.
(9/3/10)
like a dying flame
looking down
from
a
fired coloured
sky
a visionary
in his earthly
life
mysterious
in every detail
tempetuous
and yet
subjective
a lonely genius
mused
by fierce
inspirations
tearing
imaginations asunder
visions
of paradise
in near
abstracted clouds
of colour
delicate
detailed
often sombre
the spirit
of a willing mind
writing
designing
engraving
printing
copper plates
on a rolling press
&
a poet
so sublime
none-the-less
The voice of freedom.
The thought of faith and hope,
Within our hearts,
Within our minds,
Becomes part of our soul.
This is what makes us who we are.
The veins in our bodies are like,
Roads in search of true nirvana,
Which leads us to true independence,
Freedom in our lives.
Sometimes it takes us lifetimes,
To try and find these lives,
Which show us our happiness.
Most people you pass on the road,
In life will still be searching for their,
Ideal subjective idea of happiness.
Independence, freedom, the ability,
To move freely in this plain of,
Existence or the next,
That is true happiness.
The meaning of happiness is shown,
To be different things to different people.
For all it's an individual and,
Personal attribute to only a selected few.
The picture of happiness is,
What movies are made of.
The pot of gold at the end of the,
Rainbow- Is this truly what we have,
Earned or never being able,
To attain such riches.
Happiness is not about money,
But about wisdom and knowledge,
Within the heart and soul.
This is truly the meaning of happiness.