Long Superstition Poems
Long Superstition Poems. Below are the most popular long Superstition by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Superstition poems by poem length and keyword.
-Look into your heart. What is its most ardent desire?
-I don’t know. I haven’t thought lately.
-You have neglected me. You have neglected your desires. You don’t know your heart…
-No, no I do better than any human does it know.
-I don’t believe I hear those words.
-Then, look into your heart. Through window that’s as clear as glass.
-Look and don’t hesitate.
-What is it that I see?
-Beasts, ghosts, and a faint glow that shines and dies.
-What is the glow?
-That’s not for me to tell you.
-Oh! My faith! I am miserable, a tarnished soul that knows not what is Best for it.
-Listen to me, and you will understand.
-No! No secrets! I am miserable enough.
-You shall feel better once I will this tell you.
-Am I so weak to yield to anything you say? No, I am pretty stout! Go Away, I do not want to hear
you any longer.
-I am as stout, even more perhaps.
-Do, do yield now. The secret is important.
-All right, I’ll yield and listen.
-Your life will end today.
-That’s all, for God’s sake?
-Yes, but I long to warn you still. Do not wait till midnight. Flee, as soon As legs will let you.
-You said I shall feel better. I don’t feel blessed, but only more in pain.
Leave me now, if it’s God’s will, if I die today. I’m not a coward. One Cannot escape from fate.
-You have defeated purpose of hand that had crafted such an end.
-What does this mean? My heart is ready for death and peace.
-No, death is not your bliss. You are too strong for death to overcome you.
-I am pleased. Now leave, for God’s sake, leave. You puzzle me- first one Thing, then another.
-All right, you will not die, but will a swamp of doubts swallow.
-Lie, lie, I do not trust you any longer.
-I still suggest you, run, for death is fast. Don’t trust my words completely, For I am testing your
character steadfast. Yet, once the curtain will come Down past the middle, and you are not
gone still, then it is fate that fell You will.
-You are, it seems, ambition in me boiling. But, yet, I still shall undefeated Stay. Go away, to the
abyss of hell, oh wicked spirit! Don’t tempt me into Deeds that any human soul may fear. Do
mind, I am not to superstition Inclined, and only half believe what you are saying.
-You are a strong man. Your request shall be now granted. And prophecy,
Now trust, it is not for you taste of. Farewell then!
Form:
Groundhog Day derives from a Pennsylvania Dutch superstition that if the groundhog emerges from his burrow on February 2nd and sees his shadow due to clear weather, it will return back into his den and winter will persist for six more weeks. However, if he emerges and does not see his shadow due to cloudiness, the spring season will arrive early. So for 2018, on Groundhog Day, "Will he or will he not see his shadow?" Following the lines of the seemingly illogical, I forecast that on Feb. 2nd it will be cloudy, and Mr. Groundhog will not see his shadow. Thus, spring will arrive early this year. That whole groundhog thing doesn't make sense to me, but I do believe that spring is coming early in 2018. I'm thinking that the snow, ice, mudslides, sub-zero temperatures and the like will have lost their punch by mid to late March.
I forecast that although there will be lots of devastating tornadoes this spring, they will be totally upsetting but not so record-breaking. Although there might be a selfie or two of someone with an approaching funnel cloud in the distance, there will be fewer lives lost due to more shelters being built and improved warning systems.
The 2017 hurricane season was unusual and is unlikely to repeat itself. The hurricanes picked their paths and packed a powerful punch. I forecast tamer and fewer hurricanes during the 2018 season. I don't think that mother nature is angry with us, nor am I certain that the 2017 season was indicative of the wrath of God as some seem to believe. He has plenty of reasons to be, but I don't think that our Maker is angry with us.
The temperatures will continue to be higher in general. The fire season will be normal to slightly above normal relative to the intensity and multiple outbreaks. Also, I suspect that people will make better adjustments regarding their environment relative to forestation.
Our prayer should be that there be less spring rain. In some parts of the country, if the heavy snowpacks begin to melt combined with heavy rains, that could be catastrophic. It would be a perfect storm for massive flooding. I anticipate more flooding in 2018 especially in the mid-western and eastern states as a result of the heavy snows this winter. May God forbide the perfect storm.
01172018PS Contest, Weather Forecast 2018, Viv Wigley; 3P
In the silent corridors of the cosmos,
where whispers of ancient wisdom entwine with stardust,
lies a realm unseen by the mortal eye,
where truths, pure and untainted, float like ethereal whispers.
Literal thinking, a shadow upon the sacred light,
turns the divine into chains of superstition,
crystal-clear waters of wisdom, now murky and confined,
where once the spirit soared, now tethered and bereft.
In the twilight of understanding, where shadows breathe,
a journey begins, a river of consciousness unbound,
flowing through the valleys of forgotten lore,
where the heart's whispers are the compass true,
guiding the soul through labyrinths of light and dark.
In the dawn of creation, where the first light kissed the void,
truths whispered by the divine, gentle as morning dew,
were pure as the first breath of dawn, untainted by man's hand,
yet as they touched the soil of mortal minds,
they hardened into idols, rigid and cold,
sculpted by the chisel of literal thought.
Metaphors, the language of the soul,
once vibrant and alive, now dulled by concrete minds,
where the moon's gentle glow becomes a sterile sphere,
and the sun, no longer a celestial flame, but a mere star.
In the silent temple of the heart, where shadows and light dance,
a candle flickers, fed by the breath of the divine,
its flame a guide against the encroaching dark,
where superstition lurks, a specter in the mind.
The inspired truths are rivers, flowing free,
unbound by the dams of dogma's cold embrace,
seeking the vast ocean, the infinite expanse,
where the spirit merges with the cosmic dance,
and wisdom's light shines in every drop of time.
Oh, to break the chains of literal thought,
to see the world through the eyes of the soul,
where every leaf whispers the secrets of the cosmos,
and every star sings the songs of eternity.
In this sacred dance, where metaphor reigns supreme,
the heart finds its voice, the spirit its wings,
and the truths once perverted by the concrete mind,
become again the living breath of the divine.
So let us journey, with hearts unbound,
through the mystic realms where wisdom dwells,
and find in the dance of shadows and light,
the inspired truths that set the spirit free,
in the sacred whispers of the cosmos’s embrace,
where the eternal song of truth and love forever resounds.
In recent years a amazing thing has happened to the number Thirteen,
Adding Friday, and the movies, Freddie Kruger has entered the Big Screen.
A silly guy with tights, entering dreams and prowls around at night.
Murdering, slashing, and it is a ridiculous sight.
Well in ancient times it wasn't always that way,
The number 13 was revered as a lucky number, a great day.
A calendar with 13 months, suns and moons were the norm here.
Thirteen months, not 12 was the calendar year.
It was considered lucky, and a blessed day,
Cleopatra was up for it all the way.
The ancients didn't hide or cringe at this day or think anything bad,
They celebrated with pomp and were not at all sad.
A lot of people have a misconception of the number thirteen.
Unlucky, like black cats is mentioned on our national scene.
People all around the world cringe when it's Friday the Thirteenth,
Some don't even leave their homes or work on this day, to me it's obscene.
Thirteen? Well I tell you it's just a number nothing else,
It happens just a few times a year, and should be ignored as unlucky for yourself.
The Lord has a way of laughing I bet at this utter nonsense,
How can a number be anything but that, it makes no sense.
Superstitious mumbo jumbo has taken over our daily lives,
As we let it scramble our moral thinking while humanity is trying to survive.
What is in this day that allows people to act so strange? To actually cringe,
As they let it confuse and disrupt our lives, a pretty strange thing.
Superstition is the devil's crafty invention, to confuse and create chaos,
to really confuse and get away from our Lord and Jesus.
When the Freddie Kruger's creeps into our conscious minds at night,
Allowing this day, the thirteenth, to become a social blight.
So pray that the Kruger's won't confuse your thoughts and let God lead the way,
Friday the thirteenth is a blessed and God given day.
The ancients had this number and they had a fun filled event,
l3 was lucky to them and laughing is how this day went.
Be thankful and count your blessings that the Lord has given us today,
Take the time to reflect and get down on your knees and pray.
That the devil will be put behind all of us Christians, and we should be thankful,
That our Creator is with us , we have no fear, and we are totally grateful.
As the sun fades o’er the water and birds chatter in the grove,
Two old, wrinkled, weary thinkers wander slowly by the cove.
Waves advancing and receding from the edges of the sea
Bring a bittersweet reminder of the things which failed to be.
Like the gloom above the water, they see history unfold,
Over men’s destinies, passions, unforgiving scepter hold.
As a cloud of heavy darkness o’er the limitless expanse,
Present, past, the very future are but pebbles in their hands.
To a bench in the old harbor they descend and take a seat,
Where their troubles they unburden every time they chance to meet.
One aged master stands in wonder at the beauty of the view,
While the other starts, with sadness, his life story to review:
“Hatred, envy, dread and fire, painful things I understand
And the soul’s most secret workings I can write out in the sand.
But, despite this precious knowledge and insight, I have a fetter
Which, insulting, reprimanding, I must carry to the letter.”
“For too long I’ve lived on Patmos isolated like a ghost
And by high decree commanded here to languish by the coast!
Once renowned and well respected, in Academies received,
All I have now is the shadow of the glories I have lived.”
“Bold discourses, fine attire, admiration from great men
Were all lost and I was given in exchange a prison den;
And, from all the wondrous splendor and richesse of Roman art,
I was taken to the gallows by a soldier in a cart.”
“Much as I had put my people and my honor above all,
Not a single word or action could at last prevent my fall,
For inside the Coliseum and the marble halls of Rome
A new cult and gravest danger uninvited found a home.”
“Surging waves of superstition from the Great Sea’s eastern banks
Have for many years infested all the army and its ranks.
Countless monks and shrewd fanatics with no passion for our culture
Have for three centuries labored to dethrone the Roman vulture.”
“From Hibernia to Egypt, from Hispania all egregious,
Many fools and witless beggars have in stupor joined their aegis.
Marble statues of the heroes, the art treasures of the world,
Were by angry hammers tortured and the stone in markets sold.”
[Continued in Part 2]
Find my poems and published poetry volumes at www.eton-langford.com
The things I've been, the things I have been, the things I am, things I'm to be,
a symbol so dark, a sign so brite, a mark of the heart,
shadow of the soul,
rind of mind,
as the Buddhist meditates on mandalas of rich color,cycles,devas,dangers & devotions
I embrace the world with all my senses, with vigilance,
riled rhapsody,
Christians sewing psalms into the conscious
confounded with temptation, condemnation & damnation,
as Buddhists focused towards an ineffable destination
my terminus is an awareness that explains purpose without pain or pleasure
but with an indomitable patience for being in perfection,
as blue is blue for blue,
Freemasons have their acacia & aprons,
the magic of History, of memory, of Brotherhood,
I shall memorize the wrong & right of my behavior, of my beliefs,
carry the cross of carelessness, rub beads of bemusement,
scratch thy palms upon the rough ashlar,
bleed for the sake of beauty, for the right of recognition,
as a hawk glides and swoops with an exactitude
reminding One not to waste effort, to combine instinct & strategy
into trusted tactics, salvation found in solitude,
intuition aimed at the heavens can demonstrate
there is knowledge in not knowing,
serenity can be secured through suffering, happiness in creative endurance,
a nomad, a monk, mother of a nobody
may teach that freedom is measured as strength through degrees,
chessmen bespeak the value of loyalty & sacrafice,
police have a badge, judges gavels, bankers use notes, psychologists study dreams,
artists utilize shapes & sounds to elicit feelings
evoking meaning for life,
perhaps superstition is ultimate motivation,
subjective & collective interpratations for reality which make it all tolerable,
that special definition making life personal,
when a culture abandons, or forgets the symbols of it's constructs
how can it survive,
continuity can not color & inspire posterity,
a tree without water,
as when a human neglects itself,
disfiguring the ideal into something rueful or baleful,
then the mystic symbol must change with it
as rich soil to mud,
the symbology survives, elastic and plastic like a spider web in the wind,
nature will always reconstruct,
teaching that our lives are inflamed imprints for the future -
J.A.B.
After becoming confident
(das ernest frank gent) handled ignition
jerryrigged knobs, levers, motors,
nameless other parts quintessentially,
set registers to “understand” vital www xy zone.
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A blitzkrieg capstone detonated explosive forcees
generating horrendous instantaneous jolt,
Krakatoa lost mighty noise,
outrageous phenomena qualified regarding
tremendous unearthly violent
whiplashing xing yawping zeitgeist!
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Imagine; The giant from Jack and the beanstalk, deign
Paul Bun, or the Jolly Green Giant,
straddling an imaginary line
between fall and winter. Therein lied the rub
(a tub tub three men in a tub), a question of mine
if pecking peccadillos peculiar per pretend puppies
engaged in any...Snoop...doggy style spine
tingling homosexual behavior,
no who matter intimated naked playtime also flourished
amidst can dyed cornicopia of good 'n plenty eats
contrasted with paucity,
life and death, Halloween evolved
as a celebration and superstition with wine
woman and song. Such weaning of the hallow,
or hallow of the weaner originated
with ancient Celtic festival of Samhain,
when village people would light vanity of bonfires,
and wear politically incorrect costumes
to ward off roaming ghosts of inept leaders
if necessary rivaling Tarzan impressions
swinging on a vine.
The Mound of the Hostages car bon mot dated
(by this amateur sigh hint hussed)
at 4,500 to 5000 years old, or there about
suggesting Samhain celebrated long before
first Celts arrived in Ireland
about 2,500 years ago with no cleats boot riveting clout
Samhain (pronounced /'s??w?n/
SAH-win or /'sa?.?n/ SOW-in,
Irish pronunciation: without,
or possibly Greek to this doubt
ting Thomas – [s??u?n?]),
a Gaelic festival marking the end,
when pollination ceased to flout
ushered advent of harvest season,
and beginning cust tomb of caw king grout,
discussing the epic winter of Gilgamesh,
or the "darker half" of the year,
when one feasted on giblets and sauer kraut
Halloween rooted er beer reed in ancient biers
caravansari doggedly exhumed along route,
66 (the third beastly 6
Written: September 09, 2025, for contest by Edward Ebah
**********
She was born beneath a waning moon,
a beautuous whisper in the tohubohu—
intertwined with chaos,
yet lithe as a zeugma in a poet’s breath.
Her name lost to the fog of forgetfulness,
her kismet sealed in a miraculous pact
with Fortune’s flexible fist.
The stars, agog, offered a panoply:
a pavonine tapestry of beauty and danger
a palimpsest of pulchritude and peril.
She danced through the swarm of youth,
filled with forgetfulness,
her lungs a stertorous hymn to breathing,
her heart a riparian ravel of love and myth.
Fortune, affable yet fiendish,
bestowed a dubious crown—
spurious laurels woven from flapdoodle and fard.
The world, a compilation of excessive praise,
sang stories in hackneyed tongues,
while she, a rebel of her own ilk,
resiled from the solace of admiration.
She grasped the gadzookery of glorification,
It's tarantism of desire
It's ischemic hush beneath the applause.
Each accolade is a hollow victory,
each smile a jussive mask
in the penumbra of reality.
Then came the cacophony years—
dyspnea in the soul,
ergophobia in the bones.
She wandered the maelstrom of memory,
a collector of regrets,
her dreams tinged with blood,
Her mornings are packed with petrichor and paucity.
Fear clung to her like fard,
a superstition woven into her identity.
She improvised hope,
but the light grew dim.
Even meliorism, that mellifluous myth,
felt like flapdoodle on the horizon.
Yet still, a spark remained—
a zoetic pulse beneath the shadows.
She started to create new stories,
flexible as a pavonine breeze,
slender as a summary of sorrow.
She found coolness in strangers,
Love in the ductile moments,
and in the petrichor of failure,
a panacea of purpose.
Now she sits beneath an ancient tree,
in harmony with the wind,
her story a palimpsest of ransom and release.
Fortune, that impetuous nemesis,
no longer holds her hostage—
but dances, melodious and mellifluous,
in the ripple of her breath.
She is not free,
But she is no longer bound.
Born of stardust to experience duality.
Should I thank my Ancestors for providing a path to me?
They say sweet baby don't you cry.
But I don't know how to lie.
They say an empty vessel makes too much noise.
But I don’t know how to fill it with my voice.
They say look before you leap.
But I am afraid I will fall in too deep.
They say seek the daily truth.
But I am afraid it won't suit.
They say the tone of your voice speaks louder than your words.
But I have an amplifier with me to be heard.
They say an ounce of protection is worth a pound of cure.
But I have none of the symptoms for sure.
They say listen to your heart's melody.
But I have a brain to follow my heresy.
They say temper your ego for it does not know divine timing.
But I love me being me in finding.
They say put your best foot forward.
But I love to read books with no foreword.
They say explore all paths and leave no stone unturned.
But I love to get lost in the woods in turns.
They say a rolling stone gathers no moss.
But I proclaim so do the stones that cost.
They say temper your ignorance, superstition and fear.
But I proclaim to be present here to be rid of fear.
They say being part is being whole.
But I proclaim everything is the same in the blackhole.
They say push the envelope
But I proclaim it is better first to say hello.
They say listen to your heart and intuition.
But I seek the proper instructions.
They say don't stop believing.
But I seek fulfilled living.
They say wrap your troubles in dreams and dream them away.
But I seek clarity when I am awake.
They say see the true colors and hear the true sounds.
I now know that is the source of true surrounds.
They say time shall heal all wounds.
I now know patience is a key to making mounds.
They say all is well that ends well.
I now know there is no journey, it's all destinations.
They say bridge the gap.
I go to formless from form.
They say inform yourself to reform yourself.
I go into the void where there is no self.
They say better late than never.
I go where there is no time.
Thank you for holding the truths and sowing tender love.
Now it's my turn to shine the light and reap tenderly in the Gardens of Thoughts.
waved away from certain topics
Yolanda and her Singing Saw blade
captured the intellectual integrity
of a generation in readjustment
freedom springs only from freedom kids
so lock your shields and set your pikes
and whatever else unmasks the poseurs
making mischief upon civilization
with zero police penetration
weighed and calibrated by the
by the US Bureau of Insanity
warned by the masked men at Masked Men U.
we'll find out if your daddy raised a fool
putting on a carefree face
clinging to childhood like a lost puppy
once again it's political suicide everywhere
the archetypes are tramping
through my head like Hitlerjugen
convulsed in the Little Death championship
strutting and hooting for a mate
will today's monster be tomorrow's arbiter of grace
Godzilla was eventually tamed was he not
he now does handyman work
and can come around some time
and get that squeak out of your door
that feudal ignorance and superstition
start with whatever impedes your mind
laughter will watch your back
cognition is a word game
rally and carry the colors with insolence
like a glowing catalytic converter
streaking across the endless night
distant from instinct like a horizon
illuminating a physics of the psyche
alive with maladapted ardor
like a dynasty of serial plagiarists
what then exactly is attention
news flash we are way past neolithic
up where the power meets the grid
if your point of observation is outlawed
only the involuntary spasms will remain
and a persistent mania for theology
to be dissected like laboratory toads
and poked with battery wires
where pickpockets with scissors
leave your pants a bit breezy
while clicking the mouse button of God
in a well orchestrated decoy fiasco
a talent show for the inept
tonight we have a knockout lineup
with lots of orange explosions
horrendous vs. hellacious
mastodon hair from the freezer
slapped on the bald spots
by a rapidly wilting imagination
strumming its ukelele in a hammock
burnt to a crisp in a flaming car wash
his soul finally attained its freedom
such as it was soot and ashes by then
From "Engine of Didactic Beauty" available on Amazon
Artist Portfolio: http://walteralter.byethost32.com/