Long There Poems

Long There Poems. Below are the most popular long There by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long There poems by poem length and keyword.


Premium Member Pray For America 2




In preparation for prayer, there needs to be a
declaration of peace between the Red and the Blue.
Before we raise our hands and hearts to the Lord, we
need to graciously shake hands and pray for each other.
Both the hour of prayer and of unity have been
patiently waiting and prompting us to unite before
it is too late. It is high time that we all act
reasonably and responsibly before it is too late.

The entire world is watching, waiting, and hoping.
Yes, there have been miscues, missteps, and mistakes,
but every prayer brings us that much closer to each
other and to the Lord.

Finally, the letter 'I' in 'AmerIca' represents you and I.
May we cease from criticizing everyone disagreeing with us,
and let us pray that The Lord will have mercy on us all.




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Pray For America

Acrostic Poem

Peace declaration between the Red and the Blue.
Raise our hands and our hearts to The Lord.
Act now because it will be too late.
Young and old must take responsibility.

Forget about who is Red or Blue, right or wrong.
Opportunity(us) knocks, and God will open the door.
Republicans nor Democrats, but only God can save us.

All the world is watching and waiting; Many are hoping.
Many miscues, missteps, and mistakes have been made
Every prayer brings us that much closer to The Lord
Reach beyond yourselves and into the heart of others
'I' is a letter in 'AmerIca' representing you and I.
Cease from criticizing everyone disagreeing with you,
And let us pray that God will have mercy on us all.


Premium Member An Empty Street

One Texan day, a man close to his prime,
sat down on a curb beside a tree.
It was an empty street; there was no crime
nor danger anywhere that he could see.
But suddenly, the world he knew would cease to be.

He’d lived a goodly life and sacrificed
to leave his home and get a law degree.
If there were a man I knew with attributes of Christ,
he would be that man, for the epitome
of someone with great love and compassion was he.

I know this because he was my brother,
and within our somewhat crazy, blended family,
I would have to say there was no other
among us all who worked so tirelessly
to be a friend to all while meeting all his goals.  Ah, life’s finality!

He was on the threshold of his dream to practice law.
Then out of nowhere, as he sat there on that empty street,
the headlights of a drunk kid’s car he saw
barreling down on him. My brother Dale, so sweet,
was – in an instant- gone, for life sometimes can so unfairly fleet.

Written Oct. 19, 2016 
for Broken Wings'  Words Drowned In Tears Poetry Contest

A Villanelle On Fate

A Villanelle on Fate

Why do I weep at acts of fate
And gnash, and claw and cry
She weeps not for me, nor can relate

Though I ache and long to consummate
She feels no need to amplify
Why do I weep for acts of fate

There are those who seek to animate
The coldness she would fortify
She weeps not for me, nor can relate

Wildy I seek to dominate
My will dries up and is left dry
Why do I weep at acts of fate

At death do I seek to elevate
Although she sees no need to qualify
She weeps not for me, nor can relate

And though I thought myself a fair candidate
To prophesy, purify, even horrify
Why do I weep at acts of fate
She weeps not for me, nor can relate

Presence Beyond My Mind

A Sistine Chapel lies outside our house,
a cellar used by former runaways.
Recalling stories from our grandpa Joe,
remember how he always kept a horse
to transport couples found in hiding there. 

The ceiling shelves deflect a spotlight's eye
from secret spots where common folk once hid. 
Consider how he felt, my grandpa Joe,
his future jeopardized within our town.
Even with the best of good intentions,
slave owners' law - greater than freedom's law.

My grandpa kept the ceiling stocked with food
for needy refugees to take their fill
in building strength to last their journey through.

Sometimes when I am zapped and cannot cope
I am compelled to grab a light and go
descending on this niche of grace and peace.
A ceiling with more beauty is not found 
than grandpa's Sistine Chapel underground.

written 03-01-2018
contest: Eight Word Challenge - 24 lines maximum by Robert Haigh

Premium Member Quilted Love

Lying in my Grandmother's old brass bed
I watch the blades of her ceiling fan slowing turning
Around and around and around again...
From the heat of this steamy July 
There is no end to my yearning.

The old vintage rosebuds on this wallpaper
Speak of its long gone days now no longer new
The paper's soft faded colors
Cast a feminine pinkish haze that mix into a golden hue
On my tan rural arms and long toned legs.

Somewhere in this old farmhouse
A fly is trapped... I can hear its incessant buzzing
Making its last ditch effort 
For any type of escape
I had done that same thing so long ago.

But now I am back here in this familiar room
Lying on one of my Grandmother's quilts
Pieced with love of more than hundreds of pieces squared
Each stitch handcrafted perfection, 
An ancestral prize to be loved and cherished.

Softened by the decades of delicate washings
I can smell the breezes from its last airing
I can feel my Grandmother's loving embrace
In this quilt that was so intricately made 
With so much love and caring.

Each piece of the hundreds of fabrics
Each of the thousands of tiny knots 
That were cut by hand and tied
Were executed with the surgical precision
Of a lifelong Quilter's eye.

Love radiates from this heirloom blanket
Created by my Grandmother's gorgeous vision.
Each block and stitch 
That were placed by hand
A kaleidoscope of patterns was her mission.

It will be my lifelong reminder
Of a life that was well lived
Of my Grandmother's love and caring
A wonderful remembrance of her talents and gifts
That I too, can share someday.

And so back in her room I find myself
Lying on my Grandmother's quilt
Watching the fan blades go around and around
Reflecting on my Grandmother's past
Wondering if she ever thought about me

What it would have been like
To have left this strong old farmhouse 
To have left these safe ancestral lands
For the biggest of the big cities...
And then to have decided to come back.


 
(January 27, 2011  Wausau, Wisconsin)

(c) Copyright 2011 by Christine A Kysely, All Rights Reserved
Form: Lyric


The Mourning Dove and Her Chicks

You wouldn’t believe what happened here
Sit down please and grab a beer
The urban legend this is not
So, let me run my train of thought

New York in summer, heat deluge
A/C’s a must, to have refuge
I own one, installed last year
A source of comfort, like cold beer

I left it out, I plain forgot
The grill to cover A/C slot
And didn’t care much at first
A business guy, I am immersed

The month is May, no heat in sight
But quarrel, squabble, angry fight
Then peace and quiet at the nook
I didn’t care enough to look

A bit of racket, birdy’s chirp
Right by A/C, a high-pitch twirp
A mourning dove with main squeeze
They moved right in, asked for no keys

This couple fights, amusing stuff
If there was sex, it sure was rough
I didn’t look, I had no time
They didn’t bother me daytime

The heat arrives, hey, don’t gloat
I need my cool, where’s that remote?
A/C would jolt but doesn’t work
What have I done, the stupid jerk?

I pulled the unit from the wall
Lo and behold, who’s there so small?
The chicks, the young, in my A/C
And mourning dove that looked with plea

She and her guy, they flew with food
The labor’s hard, to feed the brood
I pushed A/C back in its place
To guarantee their peace and space

A month flew by, cold air’s a dream
It was so hot I could have screamed
Saved by the fans, they kept me cool
I was a gentle kind of fool

One day the racket ceased for good
I looked and there was no brood
Then cleaned a pile of twigs and grass
A/C was back to save my ass

Thus, story ends and my report
I played landlord, of birdie sort
Heck of a story to uncork
It happened in good old New York

August 6, 2026
© Ed Kay  Create an image from this poem.
Form: Rhyme

Premium Member Halloween scares

Should I write a poem about Halloween,
full of psychological horrors and gruesome things?

Like deep romantic wounds getting infected,
herpe kisses or Donald Trump getting elected?

I could lean on shuddery tropes, like haunted houses
or more real world threats, like cutthroat spouses.

I could make you look up scary looking words, like Syncretism.

gasp What caused that creek in the floor?!
Who’s that banging on the door?

Is that blood on that rag?
Is there a body in that bag?
Is that your husband in drag!?

Relax, have fun, chill-out,
Oh, better get a bowl of candy out.

Happy Halloween!
.
.
Songs for this:
Monster Mash by Bobby "Boris" Pickett & The Crypt-Kickers
I Killed You by Tyler, The Creator
.
.
*Merriam Webster: Syncretism: combining different forms of belief
Form: Rhyme

Premium Member What We Need

What We Need
(RESPECT)
By Franklin Price
06/24/2020

What we need in times of struggle
Is a place we can connect
We the people need to search for 
Common ground for some RESPECT 

Otis Redding wrote RESPECT 
A thought provoking song
Only made a minor mark
'Til Aretha came along

She put her whole heart in it
RESPECT, her final goal
For RESPECT for one another
We must reach down in our soul

If you haven't been there
Then you don't know what it's like
To be called by disrespectful names
Honky, n----r , wet back, dyke

Now I've gone and done it
Put the words down on the page.
Is the anger welling from you,
From a long time pent up rage?

Life is not of black and white
And the differences of  races
It's of RESPECT for one another
And our common times and places

We all are brothers, sisters
Why can't we all just get along?
Have RESPECT  for one another
Listen to Aretha's song

If that doesn't do it for you
Follow the Golden Rule
Treat others, as you would like to be,
Don't continue on the fool

R.E.S.P. E.C.T
Form: Rhyme

Premium Member The World Without the Self

Between conjecture and classification there is
observation, experiment, data (collection and analysis),
statistics, calculus, and a good guess
about God's intentions - probabilities, fractals, chaos and complexity.
This is the thunderous city.

The form of the poem, the rhyme.
 Form cannot be first if you want to reach high artistic levels, since
      you are then bound by form, and that form is very often a
      betrayal of reality.
Yet I find I am attracted all the time
to philosophies in short skirts, jewels and eyes lined with kohl.
I love where her legs lead, to her very soul.

Three women hike by under an umbrella in a winter rain. Two men side
      by side run in rhythm.
An oil truck takes the hill in low steady gear.
My old Marine, 89, died last night without anxiety or fear.
May I overcome my pain enough to reach the place  where the deer lay
      down their bones
and, like them, die alone.

 When making an axe handle, the pattern is not far off.
The purpose of school is to introduce us to the world's innumerable
      wonders.
The periodic table, World Wars I and II, Huckleberry Finn and Jim.
      But soft,
what light through yonder window breaks?
It is a billion trillion nuclear detonations per second without which
      nothing can be done or faked.

 The temple bell stops, but the sound still comes out of the flowers.
Forests and the composite species will be nameless. Genetic prowess,
receiving the sacrament, performing Lohengrin from the Great American
      Songbook,
the look of love in all the wrong places, facebook,
fakebooks, folios of old family photos on or in pianos.

When we took Pop-Pop off the ventilator, 
we put him in a refrigerator.
He stopped eating, he stopped breathing. Circle with a dot.
 He had his dream, he'd rowed his boat.
Organic computers using polymerase and qubits came later.
Form: Verse

Charms



"Charms"

Just when you think 
you’ve worked it all out
the light splits it all apart

a million leagues 
into her 
you dive, want or not

into her ocean
there the ensconced 
bedded siren shell calls

like some holy font
pearls all opening
you dive, want or not 

into her 
cool and fathomless 
treasures contained and hidden 

waiting in her 
mysterious 
Pandora’s box

the deeper sea
in her 
calls you into her charms

transfixed 
want, or not
mesmerised

Just when you think 
you’ve worked it all out
the light splits it all apart

a million leagues 
into her 
you dive, want or not

Just when you think 
you’ve worked it all out
the light splits it all apart


(LadyLabyrinth/2023)
at Christmas, 2023
Form: Narrative

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