Long Suits Poems
Long Suits Poems. Below are the most popular long Suits by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Suits poems by poem length and keyword.
I pen a beauty for a poetry contest,
I use the best form that suits my verse,
to convey my simple ideas the best;
The brilliance of this creation is that
it reflects my readers' thoughts;
The soul of my poem cares to connect
to the readers' mind and intellect.
I condense the use of my chosen words,
creating a rhythm with cadence
with a voice that echoes throughout;
They weave magic to create vivid images
that adorn the charm of my verse -
just like a rainbow enhancing the beauty of sky
after a short refreshing summer rain.
Now it is time to choose an apt title -
It is the first thing that the readers would see, and
gives a clue to my poem: matching my content
and shaping my readers' perception of poem.
Just as eyes are the windows to the soul,
my title will be the window to my verse.
Date: 05/07/2021
Submitted for: What's In A Title In 14 - 20 Lines Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Line Gauthier
A mobile phone is a strange old thing,
For the joy, love, and pain it can bring.
People can spend, hours a day,
Scrolling through apps, and games they can play.
But life is worth, so much more,
Than making thumbs and fingers sore.
By tapping on screens, to play on a game,
The way it’s developed, it’s such a shame.
It’s a shame that now, people look down,
In suits and boots, and dressing gown.
Instead of looking, straight ahead,
They stay on their phones, whilst lay in bed.
The fields of green, Horizons of red,
Waiting to be drawn, by pencil lead.
With colour so vibrant, in need of paint,
As pencil is drawn, ever so faint.
But this doesn’t happen, like the good old day,
As people have found, a quicker way.
To see this image, you can see from home,
Just type it in, to your shiny new phone.
Where did passion, and wonder all go?
What about the places, we did not know?
To go and see, and explore the world,
Has vanished forever, thumbs are now curled.
Curled above phones, as they scroll to see,
The places where I’d love to be.
What about talking, and having a chat?
It’s now online, I do know that.
Communities are gone, voices grow quiet,
As phones grow supreme, and more people diet.
Dieting as they sit, day to day,
On a phone with apps, and games to play.
Put down the phone, and open your eye,
See the world, on planes you will fly.
Appreciate the time, that’s limited to you,
Open your eyes, and see the blue.
Not of a screen, but a wondrous sky,
With clouds that drift, way up high.
Appreciate the smiles, you get on a street,
They’re rare to catch, from people you meet.
You never see, a smile at a phone,
As people walk on, to their journey home.
People who smile, put their phones away,
In order to appreciate, a glorious day.
They see the beauty, of the world that we live,
And see the potential, the earth could give.
They see the moon, the stars at night,
They see the mornings, soft touching light.
I ask for you, to put down the phone,
And look around, as you sit at home.
Appreciate life, in your new found way,
Travel far, please don’t delay.
Take your photos, and send your text,
But put it away, think where to go next.
Enjoy that food, and taste that wine,
Appreciate life, so precious and divine.
I remember our first picnic
In an isolated spot
By a cool mountain waterfall
On a summer day very hot
We were still just young kids
The dates we had were very few
I welcomed this opportunity
To be alone all day with you
We laid out our blanket
Near a pool formed by the stream
The hike to this isolated spot
Took hours, or so it seemed
The weight of the backpack
Stuffed with food and bottles of wine
I was glad to be relieved of
When the perfect spot we did find
It was you who suggested we take a dip
To cool off from our hike
Though we hadn’t thought to pack swim suits
A fact I was starting to like
I watched you very closely
Unveil perfection before my eyes
You were coyly enjoying me staring
I hadn’t started undressing – I realized
We swam and then we ate some lunch
Still unclothed we sipped red wine
Before our picnic had come to an end
I was yours and you were mine
Twenty-five years later
Once a year we picnic there
Still never packing swim suits
And your perfection everywhere
To observe the happy ignorance divide,
when blindside vanity takes a ride.
The affordable vision without integrity,
overspread trust in God for certainty.
Status quo in brisk and surety,
invested in generations of immortality.
While in those pleasant ideal we talk,
abusing the resources as we walk.
To gain in every art to be tried,
mistaken foolishness with pride.
Witnessing all scruple cares to prove,
to reward the borrowed love.
Propitious heaven and absolute adored,
cooking the golden goose implored.
The prosperous falling with ardent eyes,
to obtain by all means the needed price.
Blind power granted with determined affairs,
jumping boats before the falling shares.
Warnings dispersed on empty air,
economic footprints without repair.
The boundless sky in perfect image,
refined suits handle shifted fault scrimmage.
The comedy as human race preside,
not seeing history as true learning guide.
An expert is a strange bird,
That is often,
Rightly taken for the fool that they are.
The true expert however,
Has not been blinded by science,
Does not carry a trumpet,
Take out full page adds,
Sit behind a desk,
In a swanky office,
Or sleep in a penthouse.
The true expert can often be found in the field,
Wears more than just suits,
Does not look out of place in gumboots and shorts,
Owns a laptop that is case hardened,
Carries a notebook that is dog eared,
Does not bite off more than can be chewed,
And is not afraid to look down or up,
To make sure your eyes have not deceived you,
It is wise to throw a few questions in the expert's direction,
To see if their instinct is to dodge them,
Or catch them.
Written By: D. Collins 1/12/2017
I can mesmerize you before I truly come out.
Then, you will know what I am really about.
Articulation is just one of my strong suits.
But, don't get it twisted, I will come right at you.
You may not like the words that come off my tongue.
But, I carry a big stick and a big 'ole gun.
So, whosoever out there that has a problem with that.
Please meet me on the other side of the tracks.
I'm a professional brotha with a streak of dirt.
And, I really don't mind putting in a little work.
I could turn that into my after hours hobby.
Repelling down into an upscale lobby.
That is how easy a person could be mesmerized.
And, the last thing they would show is silver-dollar eyes.
Because, they know the reason you are actually there.
An unexpected situation, with no time to prepare.
I have heard of crows and crones
But these old geezers are overblown
over dressed with suits that squeak
beady eyes, scrawny necks, and beak
are they from the barnyard then?
Their necks all wrinkled to their chin
I have heard of crows and crones
But these are ugly as crawdad gnomes
it’s weird you say that said the chicken
they are abnormal roosters, hearts a tick’n
we call them Slim and Slam for fun
They walk real slow, neither can run
They appeared out of nowhere in the fall
They are scrawny and weird added pig Paul
They do not talk, whistle, peep or talk
Weird to even us fowl, added the chicken hawk.
Desolation smoothed at the calming of the swell,
begrudgingly accepted solitude, vacationed in Hell,
nails are sore and broken from the scratching of the well,
strengths gained through weakness? Only time can tell.
Inhalation of mist so that I may envision,
a clarity, a beauty, an historic masochistic decision,
a heart, a soul, birthing from an optimistic excision,
building blocks erected, no hope nor want for precision.
I walk now, I breathe the air that others may begrudge,
this history within me, in the grand scheme is just a smudge,
a beautiful mind now thinks of me, and with her thoughts I budge,
for sometimes to be strong again, you need an aiding nudge.
The sky looks so much brighter now as I search it for my star,
darkness and clouds need not affect the people who we are,
I have learned to look beyond the dark, to a new and fresh bazaar,
I sound so much more beautiful now as I sing to my guitar.
My layers peeled and my inside revealed, this look suits me now,
no need to yield or keep afield, nor take a solemn vow,
to the ghost of death that stole my breath, It's retreat I do allow,
as now I am bare and I'm suited right there, I am happy again somehow.
Like gladiators, though in suits,
They marched onto the stage,
Their confidence or nervousness
Impossible to gauge.
The moderator welcomed them.
The crowd gave their applause;
And then we held our breaths, in hope
Of seeing someone’s flaws.
Their words lashed out, attacking,
Modern weapons they were wielding;
And both repeated errors –
To the truth they weren’t yielding.
We squirmed a bit at things they said
And silently entreated,
Encouraging our candidate
To not act so defeated.
The commentators waited
‘Til the battle reached its end
And then declared the winner,
Which supporters would defend.
At home, we turned the tube off
And, elated or dismayed,
We wondered if the undecided
Might have gotten swayed.
With two more competitions
Plus the VP’s set to meet,
It’s too soon to determine
Who will end up in defeat.
If time could rewind,
Then I'd fail my med school exam,
So no pain of being a doctor will ever be.
You need to be one to understand.
For I'd be relieved of long hours on call,
With no sleep, no rest, not even a doze,
Yet fresh work must begin the next day,
As if my bed took all my sedatives.
Legs struck with cramps during surgeries,
Eyes drained of vigour from restrained sleep,
Yet the brain must stay most alert,
Else their wigs and suits will bleed your pockets dry.
Work is done in currencies spent in dreams,
Rewards are paid in miserable coins to bank accounts,
Teachers frown at late school fees,
Landlords wave quit notices for overdue rent.
When the body begins to complain,
And mistakes seal up excellent procedures,
In their wigs and gowns they will order,
“Cease his license; he’s not capable.”
Yet the bed sheet that wrapped many years in emptiness,
Will now be used to soak tears for the rest of the years,
And on their lips will rest the cruel words:
Good riddance to bad rubbish.
Your life is lived without fun,
Yet those in the so called noble profession lie in wait,
To milk dry twenty-five years of hard work with pain,
By then, grey hairs would have weakened the brain.
So what use are those years of heads buried in books,
When it's in dullard's pockets money is minted,
While you work as if work was yours alone,
So, time, can you go back to that med school exam, please?
Take your stethoscope, give me peace in its stead.