Long Tolerates Poems
Long Tolerates Poems. Below are the most popular long Tolerates by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Tolerates poems by poem length and keyword.
Mirror Brave
Give me days
When it gets too much
Just get outside
Soak up some sun
Haunted by dreams of murder
Surrendering to
The champion of dreams
Sirens cramp the quiet sky
Watching the torture from inside
A scream
A word with a story
Meant as Yo
I'am needing help
Not enough love
Too much extreme
The lost barren deserted eyes
Fleeting, Seeking something more than addiction
Wait until it hurts Moneyless dream
Broken bits of an old harmony
Listens to the kindness to the part That tolerates art
Driven rhythm
Escaping time
What goes around More than
What is given
To what is missing
Is then taken
And given
To the brave
Hindi lines of the Verse given here in English
.
Tp nahin kewal jeevan satya
Karun yah shanik deen avasaad
Taral aakaanshaa se bharaa
So rahaa aashaa kaa aalhaad.01
.
English version as translated by me
.
"Tenacity is not the only truth of life
It’s a state of pitiable dry gloom
Filled with the liquid full of ambitions
Where sleeps the delight of hopes in long waiting. 01
.
In Hindi stanza 2
.
prakriti ke yauvan kaa shrangaar
kabhii na karenge baasi fool
milenge we jaakar ati shiigra
Aah utsuk hai unkii dhool. 02
.
In English stanza 2
Adornment of the puberty of nature
Can never be made from stale flowers
They are destined to get perished very soon
Their end waits in the dust with a sigh. 02
.
In Hindi stanza. 03
.
Puratan kaa yah nirmok
Sahan karti na prakriti pl ek
Nitya nutantaa kaa aanand
Kiye hai parivartan me tek.03
.
In English stanza 03
.
The nature never tolerates even for a moment
The rejected stale and old broken crusts
The joy of nature takes the support and sustenance
Only from what is new and maiden”. 03
.
Original verse written by Late Jai Shankar Prasad
Translated by Ravindra K Kapoor
MP India 22nd Aug. 2016
Confusion is seldom born alone.
It arrives with noise—
too many voices,
too many fears,
too many mirrors
reflecting a face no longer recognized.
A mind deprived of solid ground
will grasp the nearest certainty,
whether true or false,
because the human heart
hungers less for perfection
than for relief.
Those who would govern without trust
have long understood
that doubt can be cultivated
like weeds in an abandoned garden.
Facts become negotiable.
Memory becomes fragile.
Neighbors become strangers.
Even the self begins asking permission
to believe its own eyes.
Yet confusion is not obedience.
It is only the winter
before a thought remembers
how to bloom.
The patient who pauses,
who questions with quiet courage,
who tolerates uncertainty
without surrendering reason—
that patient cannot be owned.
Healing is not the absence of questions.
It is the return
of an inner compass
that points, however imperfectly,
toward truth.
So let those who profit from bewilderment
scatter their fog across the landscape.
Morning has never negotiated
with the darkness.
It simply arrives,
and one clear ray of understanding
can undo a thousand carefully manufactured shadows.
Few sing of raven’s ebony,
Fewer still of its shining plume,
The glory of her grey tresses
Oft glisten my life’s every gloom.
Now that the dawn has turned to dusk,
I’ll not talk of bowers in bloom,
Nor buds that blossomed before time,
How her fragrance had filled the room.
No use nursing old memories,
Nor yet wiping them off with broom,
Soul dwells nigh in heart’s cavity,
A lifetime’s taken, it to groom.
Black is no colourless baffle,
A total loss nor is vacuum
Let it not dwell in a spectrum,
To me it signifies no doom.
Fair in life never to assume,
And nor presence nor absence fume,
As life tolerates no vacuum,
With her musings I fill my room.
Should things fail t’be so, I’d not fume,
It’s fair in life oft to assume,
And never to leave a vacuum,
Let musings fill up a bare room.
___________________________________
Musings |16.04.2024| memories, black love
Not a cruel master; a humble assistant;
To visit or not, cannot be done by his choice.
Always carries a portfolio under his arm,
A pre designed schedule saying when and where to attend.
He comes not, though invited; uninvited, stops not coming.
Sometimes comes like an unconventional rain.
He is the mark of beginning and ending of life.
But how unlucky he is!
Always listens to no other emotions except mourning.
Silently tolerates all curses showered.
His job is endless.
No single applause for him.
Perhaps, in Nature
The one and only who is
Blamed for his utmost promptness
Let's Mix It Up Poetry Contest
Verse poetry form only.
Sponsored by: Constance La France
Date: 18-10-2021.
Placed : 3rd
Without sight or scent;
Formless; Lacking frame
You none would dare reject
But neither could they claim.
Elusive as thief in night
As slips through fingers does sand
So you are having taken flight
To we who are merely but man.
Losing entity yet unnamed
Many move to her next of kin.
Unlike sister, she is famed
As the attainable twin.
She one could know; could touch
So long one strive and strain.
Available, yes, much;
Trying to maintain.
When found lost are they;
Settle for the least?
She seduces most to stay
They know not she is a beast.
She tolerates man,
but love is not her game.
To cause one’s fall she will, she can.
Destroy before one breathe her name.
Forsake foolish pursuit, I pray.
Abandon their ‘love’; they give none.
Shine, they might seem, like day.
But fail; they will you shun.
They are all a flower vase;
Have fluid to give one breath.
‘Tis but a pretty face
For drink laced with death.
“Trust thyself” does still ring true.
Paramount to this, love too.
Without self they matter not.
“Accept oneself” should be sought.
My husband looks tough, and I am sure he could be if he wanted to be.
But he is such a nice guy, I cannot imagine him ever thinking this was okay.
We have been together for over fifty years, which is plain to see.
Each minute a gift, each day a fresh start with a bit of laughter and play.
My husband is a helper. His business is all service, and he does all he can do,
Helps other people with computer systems he designs that are custom made.
Children know that he will do whatever he can to turn the world red and blue,
So do our grandchildren, for his loyalty doth not ever fade.
My husband is a drummer. There are drum sets here, most sublime.
He is a dog-lover, and he tolerates and feeds Shark, our snarky cat.
He can finish my sentences, as I can finish his, and does all the time.
Our pup, Sophie Helen, full of bologna always knows where he is at.
My husband would give you a house, his clothing, my clothing, and our car.
He is frankly an extremely generous, accepting, understanding soul.
That is his big heart showing you that he cares, which for him is just par.
Staying with him another fifty years or so is my ultimate life-long goal.
My biggest advocate, my patron, my cheerleader, my hero sublime.
Loves my paintings, and encourages me with black lights and words of love.
Adores my poems, reads each one, and asks if it is about him, each time.
This one is for him, my twin soul who was sent from heaven above.
In a city of shadows and flickering lights,
Where the lines between dream and reality are written in mist,
I wander through streets paved with unknown hopes,
With heavy steps of melancholy and thoughts drifting like clouds.
Here, in this realm of fragile illusions,
We awaken each dawn, prisoners of the daily storm,
In our hearts beats a clock of glass, to the rhythm of an old song,
That calls us to dance among the shadows of day and night.
From Monday to Friday, we sip from the black cup of wakefulness,
Caffeine, elixir of modern slaves,
Keeps us awake before the electronic altar, where we bow to the gods of labor,
Unaware that we are pawns in an endless game.
But on Friday evening, the curtain rises and we enter the carnival of forgetting,
Alcohol, silver elixir, caresses our weary souls,
We drown our frustration in waves of glass, chained in unleashed rhythms,
But the escape is illusory, a moment of freedom in another cage.
We have lost ourselves in the labyrinth of our own reflections,
In a society that dictates our steps with unseen whispers,
We live in the paradox of chained freedom,
Prisoners of our minds, dreamers in golden cages.
If you want to understand a society, look at its sacred drugs,
And you will see, in their alchemy, the truth about us,
We are a civilization that tolerates only what keeps us moving,
Caffeine for workdays, alcohol for nights of forgetting, and in between, an unfulfilled dream.
Touch my hand and feel the pulse of mystical melancholy,
Listen to my heart and you will hear an old song, the echo of an untold story,
We are those who dream of freedom in golden chains,
And thus, we close the circle, in an eternal dance of glass and smoke.
I can't breathe
Though I don't wear a tight mask
I can't breathe
Though I am not the patient of asthma
I can't breathe
Though I don't live in an unhygienic gas farm
I can't breathe
Though I am not in the full of terrible CFC layer
I can't breathe
Though I am not confined in the bottom of the dark grave
I can't breathe
Yes, I can't breathe
Because in this world
Human still bringing up the racism in the safety womb of the heart
Human tolerates still discrimination by the religions
Human loves the inhumane aristocracy, the snobbery in the deaths of poor
Yes, I can't breathe
Here, on this earth, still human prefers to the colors of the body skin
Human is still not taught by the conscience of universal humanity
15.07.2020 Chattogram
The fate that awaits the road, not taken, a change of course when a vision didn’t last?
It is a shadow road, unknown, never a look at the future
and never a glimpse of the past.
It is a road that will never fulfill a dream
and will never cause heartbreak or taste defeat.
It will never clam a treasure to boast
or attempt a hurdle too high to leap.
It is a safe road never to be known,
never has a destiny, never owes a debt,
only a mirage of a future that never tolerates regret.
It is a story never written with nothing to gain, only a tease
a plan that turned on the change of a mind
and drops away like falling leaves