Long Tell apart Poems
Long Tell apart Poems. Below are the most popular long Tell apart by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Tell apart poems by poem length and keyword.
From the view out our kitchen window here in the mountains…
in our little corner of the universe…
we see a multitude of winter wildlife…assorted and diverse.
From the deer who wander through our yard…
who walk so gracefully and leap with ease…
to the birds who visit our feeders…
from their branches on the trees.
We’re not sure when it comes to all the deer we see
If they are different deer each time…or part of one deer family.
You see we’re new at this…and it’s hard to tell one deer from another
to know if they are a Mommy or Daddy dear…a sister or a brother.
The birds are easier to tell apart…so many different kinds we see.
We’ve seen Caroline Wrens, nuthatches, finches, blue jays and chickadees.
We’ve seen crows, two kinds of woodpeckers,
and we’ve been known to gawk…
at the titmice with their little tufts of hair,
at the cardinals and and the hawk.
We offer corn to the deer when they come through…
their particular palate it seems to suit…
and the vast variety of birds
enjoy a mix of birdseeds, nuts and fruit.
We are happy to welcome all these animals into our lives…
wondering if they’ve come from near or far…
We appreciate their differences.
and enjoy each individual for exactly who they are.
As this new year begins..I wish everyone would resolve…
to try with other people to connect…
to treat everyone as fellow human beings…with dignity and respect.
The new year could be so wonderful…
across all lands and the seven seas…
If we could treat each other
like we do the deer and the chickadees.
While I was out walking one sunny day.
I turned into the forest, and I lost my way.
It was dark and cold. I soon felt a chill.
Next, I heard a sound that made me feel ill.
I went from full sunlight and having much fun.
To a canopy of trees that now blocked the sun.
What followed next was an awful sound.
It filled me with dread. They were the Fear Hounds!
I must keep running I thought, to remain free.
These hounds of the mind want to devourer me.
I rushed through the dark forest, thick with vines.
Their purpose only was to entangle my mind.
My hands were all sweaty and it sped up my heart.
Reality and fiction, I could not tell apart.
I ducked behind Rocks of Meditation, trying to ease my mind.
The hounds lost my scent for a very short time.
They soon sensed my panic. I knew they could tell.
Because once again, they were tight on my trail.
“Help me dear Father”, was all I could cry!
Lord, please come to my aid, I do not want to die.”
A surge of energy suddenly came over me.
The fear of the hounds stopped, and I suddenly felt free.
The forest gave way to the sun’s rays ahead.
I no longer had those feelings of dread.
As I stepped out into a beautiful, flowered field.
Joy and contentment welcomed me, and it was so real.
The Sun bent down and kissed my face.
There was peace in my heart. I felt so safe.
I no longer could hear those awful sounds.
The growl and snarling of the dark wooded hounds.
I now walk in God’s light, and it keeps me free.
And what lurks in the dark forest can now never harm me.
A make-up artist? Um … no thanks.
That’s not my kind of courtship caper.
I want the girl who wrote a paper
on Massachusetts’ failing banks.
You can keep your belly-dancer.
The nimbleness that I would seek
is cerebral: I need the geek
who’ll find a cure for prostate cancer.
A chick who’s slick in silk and satin
is just what I’m inclined to spurn:
the only beauty I discern
likes reading Ovid – but in Latin.
The field is very small, because
I’m fussy, biased, preferential:
to me, it’s utterly essential
she knows who Dosso Dossi was.
I need you to be erudite:
call if you can tell apart
bead-and-reel from egg-and-dart:
the stamen from the Stagyrite.
One thing that’s truly terrific’s
knowing the plot of Lavransdatter:
write to me about grey matter
in Egyptian hieroglyphics.
Sharon Tate? Scarlett Johansson?
My type is more Diane from “Cheers”.
She had stuff between her ears:
so save the blondes for Charlie Manson.
My ‘ask’ should now be quite transparent:
I’d love a lassie with a brain,
who writes reviews of Citizen Kane.
Where are you hiding, Hannah Arendt?
My woes are many and ever painfully afflict,
Fears fetter and doubts dog;
My whole estate is abstract absurd:
Front and back are wound in a clog,
Both inside and out are beaten hard
And either from other I cannot tell apart.
And dear reader do you not with me empathize,
As the wheels of fate my chariots sweep astray?
Not one in the world a piece of mercy seems to show,
My sails are dark and the bargains quite low;
I cannot venture a tomorrow’s reflection,
For crammed with enough murk is each day:
Adequate for its length and not beyond,
And surely not of any little measure.
The cure for all was long prescribed:
Master Time the healer of both the disease
And the hallucinations it inscribed;
The panacea dose of all ages.
May he tick away day after day
And flip his clandestine pages,
Mapping out both will and way.
Now, dear Master Time, caressing my every aching part,
Nurse my frail bones and balm my fractured heart;
Serve me the cold drink of your patient progression
Towards my final relief and ransom.
Eyes stuck open - of angel in the mud -
Skies cry soundless pelicans in flight
Panicked Santa Ana winds shake tips of entangled feathers
An ambulance ignores this stop rushing for a human
Heaven in distress aches bloody, distorted sunsets
The child in me is missing her winged guardian
Vulnerable darkness falls on the grieving beach
Levers smooth reality.
One can't even tell apart purity from mud
I build white castles and move in
So tides would come and take me to Atlantis
They say it is a weightless city,
where crippled hearts totally recover
and anemones teach you how to bloom
when oxygen of soul is scarce
...and one becomes a legend in the storms...
www.scripca.com
The mind is the devil, not the heart,
when in doctor’s garbs, can’t tell apart,
an engaging smile, then the death blow,
some died real quick, some very slow.
the touch was soft, voice saintly gentle,
poured potion with love to dismantle,
they drank never to wake up again,
did they die in peace? was it in pain?
went from home to home to rob the old,
his eyes shone kindness, his heart was cold,
He held their hands to win their deep trust,
offered not cure, but eternal dust!
His heart would have writhed within in strain,
his conscience looked at him with disdain,
yet mind was blinded by pure evil,
curing hands were now tools of devil!
No one immune to Satan’s designs,
between good and cruel no clear lines,
face no longer is index of mind,
learn to peep farther, deeper behind!
3rd Placement
Written 31/08/2022
9 syllables each line, 5 quatrains
Joe Maverick Sponsored
Harold Shipman contest
Today is hot; tomorrow, not.
This summer’s been like this a lot.
It’s tough to know which way to go
When making outdoor plans and so,
You must choose twice, that’s my advice,
For just one thought will not suffice.
A lovely hike, which you might like,
Won’t work if temps begin to spike
And pouring rain would be a pain
And cause all parties to complain.
An indoor spot when it is hot
Might be the best choice you have got.
A place to start is where there’s art
Or dinosaurs to tell apart
Or go to eat on any street,
For that can always be a treat.
Once plans are made, don’t be afraid
To change them if your mind’s been swayed
By Nature’s kinks or sidewise winks,
Since that won’t help at all, methinks.
Into the heart of darkness,
Viciousness and despair -
Into the very Tartarus -
Enters the prince of Air.
Ceiling is bleak and starless.
Nobody knows your name.
Inside the heart of darkness
Flickers an open flame.
Everywhere, creeps and scoundrels
Feeding upon the souls.
Under the heart of darkness,
Broken glass and coals.
Think that I might take flight, less
I also burn to death.
But through the heart of darkness
I must create a path.
Something ignites and startles
Amid the sulfur fumes.
Inside the heart of darkness
Torment of souls resumes.
Demons and fiends and gargoyles
Crowd me on every side
As through the heart of darkness
I take a tourist ride.
Skin catches fire and sparkles
And from it pours hot blood.
Within the heart of darkness,
Boiling and ruddy flood.
"Have you lost all your marbles?"
"If I did, would I care?"
Inside the heart of darkness
I can't tell here from there.
Place is unmapped and chartless.
All roads lead to Rome -
That is, to heart of darkness -
And from it rises foam.
Nothing is seen apart; yes,
Mirrors on every wall
Reflect the heart of darkness
At everyone and all.
Evil has many partners
And many a disguise.
Look in the heart of darkness
And train your ears and eyes.
You cannot tell apart us,
Me and the souls on fire.
It burns, the heart of darkness,
Outside, inside, and higher.
Where do I stand or start? Yes,
Write with a piece of chalk
Map of the heart of darkness
Upon a lotus stalk -
Lotus that, like most marvels,
Grows in the thickest mud
And through the heart of darkness
Reaches to heart of God -
There will be no more markers
Upon my path, as I
Burn through the heart of darkness
Into the open sky.
There go the Sundersons, someone said with a laugh
It was Norris, the notoriously crotchety old man giraffe
The triplets, riding their bike, a sight to see said a frog.
The ostrich twins were irritated now, chased by a dog.
They are so identical, I wonder if they share a brain said one.
I was not amused, being a twin, this bullying is not fun.
Maybe you share a brain with their triple bike, I said.
The Sundersons rode by, and one yelled out “Hi Ned!”
So Ned was his name, and now being an enemy was his game.
He glared at me hard, and I did exactly the same.
The Sundersons are hard to tell apart, said Norris, you have to admit.
I did not like hearing this either; I did not like it one bit.
If there was no poetry. . .
the flowers all would wither and lose their pretty hues.
No songs would we hear playing -neither happy lyrics nor the blues.
If there was no poetry. .
the birds would stop their singing.
We would not see even one bird winging.
If there was no poetry. . .
the sun and moon we could not tell apart.
Emotions could no longer swell in anybody’s heart.
If there was no poetry. . .
the rivers, seas and oceans would run dry.
No horizon would there be to touch the sky.
If there was no poetry. . .
I think that we
would cease to be.
Jan. 22, 2020