Long These Poems
Long These Poems. Below are the most popular long These by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long These poems by poem length and keyword.
MIt's been a month of Sundays
Since I have set face
Anywhere near this band of angels
In this most Holy Sacred Place
Guilt may overwhelm me
Shame may do me in
This day set forth may break me
Great sinner that I am
No one is less deserving
For I am the least of these
As I am covered in God's glory
Awashed with an inner peace
The days that I've been vacant
Are all a part in the grand scheme of things
Bringing me to my knees in my need of saving
And back to the Eternal King
As my brothers and sisters in Christ surround me
Pouring out love, not ones to judge
Tears of joy like flowing fountains
As another Prodigal son returns
two roundels
“Mommy, let’s go ride Maxwell, Don’t say no again.”
My son has named ev’ry horse on the carousel.
“We will go soon!”, I promised but I don’t know when.
“Mommy, let’s go ride Maxwell.”
“Lots of people are sick; just how long we can’t tell.
The park is all closed up, no one is allowed in;
and we have to stay in our house for a long spell.”
“H-O-R-S-E” spells Mikey with a big grin.
I play music as he rides rocky horse, Cowbell.
Lifting a sleepy boy, I hear him whisperin'
“Mommy, let’s go ride Maxwell."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
With the passage of years, we'll be able to freeze,
to kill the threat of COVID-19 and its fears.
Note Mike will still smile when he hears calliopes
with the passage of years.
Bear in mind, e-lessons we'll learn on new frontiers;
the strengths we'll gain connecting as close families.
How Face-Time helps victims to cope, shedding good tears.
Praising those who man hospitals and groceries;
remembering those who've died all across these spheres.
Thanking God for new medicines and expertise
with the passage of years.
written March 28, 2020
Contest: Quarantine Poems
Hostess: Julie Leigh Rodeheaver
When I was young, my weekends started with
an after-supper bonus Friday nights—
soft drinks and candy bars. We watched one of
three channels while we relished these delights.
In college, Friday nights meant a reprieve—
a brief one—from those tomes that ruled my day.
Sometimes I dated or went out with friends.
I couldn’t let life be all work-no play!
Career choice is one key to happiness
and satisfaction. I remember great
rewards and challenges throughout the years—
and FRIDAYS. Sometimes I could hardly wait.
Retired, I’m now my grandkids’ driver, cook,
etcetera. I go that extra mile.
I’m not as busy as I used to be;
still, going home on Fridays makes me smile.
entered in Brian Strand's Premiere Contest 140 on April 12, 2018
Poetry with a Conscience
When are you going to stop following idiotic mandates?
Preparing your entire family and you,
like sheep in obeisance, for life in a totalitarian state.
What happened to the freedoms you
so dearly held and cherished?
Wake up, speak for those things you
love...many rights have already perished.
And we poets, drool over monarch butterfly wings and
study endless poetry form tutorials.
Whilst the freedoms guaranteed in the Constitution are
quickly becoming dead, granite memorials!
We are fearful to write about blood-filled American streets.
Till it be our very own, oh, how ugly to ponder and how
bittersweet!
These pages might be our last chance to wake others to our
present insanity.
Lest we all lose all freedoms, and find ourselves living in a
hellish Totalitarian inhumanity!
It's time to resist and revolt, right now and stop your
poetic, sweet and wonderful hidings.
Lest the freedom door finally closes, and the morons forbid
you from doing any writing!
Panagiota Romios
July 19, 2020
8:30am PST
We present ourselves to perform this day,
As a faceless crowd grace our seats of fame,
Let us share the joy and make it timeless,
Stage made fresh to paint your face of our play,
Suffer mirth be our guide for pleasure's sake,
Release your souls and make wet these dry seats,
Unearth the life of you that dwells so deep,
We shed light from the girth of you to wake,
A terse verse surrenders the sum of thee,
Yet, a full score unleash the whole of it,
Dramatic tidbits weighs in their own worth,
From seats edge, then back, taps all to agree,
When moments began your existing hearts,
Breathes one's skills, a passion to spread its feats,
A crucial rush to rise to full measure,
In sync with wild hands, cites thoughts, never parts.
Vanna keeps on going and going
How she maintains her attractive appearance
That smile, her style, her girlish figure
To maintain it must take perseverance
How has Pat controlled himself
Does he ever give her bum a pat
Get it... a little pat on the backside from Pat
In 30 years, wouldn't blame him for that
Now, now, let's not start nasty rumours
They've always been friends... wink, wink
With a body like Vanna's for all these years
Pat's got control, don't ya think?
Well I have no doubt they're just good friends
Though it'd be easy to get all sloppy
Admire Mr. Pat for showing such restraint
Thirty years no talk of the naughties
© Jack Ellison 2013
The Laurels in my garden line the fence,
resplendent in their leaves of vivid green,
the undersides are coloured less intense
and on the gentle days, they hang unseen.
But, come the fiercer wind from the south west,
the boughs bend to its will, nowhere to hide,
both trees yield to the force, do not contest,
as all leaves turn and show their other side.
We show one side to all, that's clear to see,
when life is good, and no hard choices made,
but only when in tougher times like these
our characters turn light or darker shades.
We all have sides that many do not know,
true colours, only shown when ill-winds blow.
Lost in the crowd but I can only see you
The outside world falls into the background
I succumb to the frenzy all around me
feeding off your energy
I'm infatuated with the way those nimble fingers tickle those strings
I laugh at the gentle violence nudging my thoughts
Wishing it were me
These vibrations fill my body blushing I can no longer stifle the joyful scream caught in my throat
On my tounge a thousand bees are buzzing
To seize the honey dripping from your eyes
Bodies move in unison, the rhythmic humming of our hearts
This melodius ritual , feet pounding out our beautiful hysteria
I could dance to my death.......
Disaster is imminent
shout the popular press
and the anointed
from lofty pulpits. Wars,
pestilence, earthquakes,
divine wrath are about
to be visited
upon a wayward world.
Meanwhile, a lovely still
has settled on the surface
of the river and has become
a canvas for a pair
of swans on which to trace
their brief passage across
a mirrored morning.
Beauty seems so fragile,
tethered to a moment
when the sublime manifests
itself through a tear in time
and gives pause
to the march of armies,
the self caused calamities
that rush towards
our little, insignificant lives
and illuminates
the sad distances we have
opened up between ourselves
and what burns brightly
at the centre of things -
these lovely mirrored mornings
to which our stiffened backs
are turned.
These sky’s are my prison
And if we could die in heaven
Only the sky’s would be my prison
And yes we we’re dreaming
We just couldn’t leave the riches and luxuries of this life
My friend
I truly miss the comfort
The misery of drowning in the night
I’m giving you something in writing
It’s no longer pain
It’s something like a human substance in lightning
Just like you
I to, would like to witness peace
It brings me back to those lonely days
I’d lay shivering in unsanitized sheets
Hard times and jealousy
Left me a desire to murder my savior
Envy remains a tempted favor
And when it rains
I can hear him calling my name
Another sunrise
It’s there, under the stars, beneath the sky’s
A world of temptation in his eyes
Lets go there, lets escape this city of nothing
Yet the sky’s are my prison
And if we could die in heaven
Only the sky’s would be our prison
And we could escape this city of nothing