Long Transition Poems
Long Transition Poems. Below are the most popular long Transition by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Transition poems by poem length and keyword.
If you go to see a movie
After you have read the book,
You may wonder at the liberties
The film producers took.
For so many things get lost or changed
In media transition,
That I question whether they received
The novelist’s permission.
When a writer writes a book, he knows
How each scene should appear;
The characters and how they look
To him, are crystal clear.
Yet once those rights are signed away,
The writer might just find
That the actor on the screen is not
The face he had in mind.
Some chunks of action get left out
And details get adjusted.
It’s possible the author feels
Quite angry or disgusted.
I guess his compensation
Makes him leave those thoughts alone.
Control is lost, like parents
Once their child has up and grown.
But when I watch the movie
Of a book that I’ve enjoyed,
I wonder if the author’s
Feeling happy or annoyed.
Drifting along on tranquil opportunities
Embellished within the nicest ingenuities
Animating all your stanzas and verses
Giving meaning to them with so much purpose
Never holding back your promises of more
While you add creative imagination galore
Exploring your lines amongst their transition
Acknowledging their intent being my mission
Intuitive cartographic portrayed expression
Removing all of the unwanted indiscretion
Appreciating each of our distinct differences
Regardless of consequences or significance
Influenced characteristics written in script
Gliding along your mind’s many swells and dips
Returning the potential to a clear lucidity
Gracefully floating on your unwavering fluidity
Riding upon your flow of subtle illustrations
Conspicuous gallantry with trusted fixation
Emotions I feel when experiencing your words
While listen to your pieces that you record
Leaves me forever lost in your articulation
Evoking my soul, giving my undying adoration
It will take time
to phase out oil-based
technology people from
the oil industry
Could also be used
creating, pipelines
building desalination
plants o get water
Into the mountains
means plenty of work
for people
Imagine all the pipelines
you would have to create
Granted if we started today
with rich people buying electric cars
it would take time for that technology
To filter down to the poor
granted you all want jobs
you all want healthy economies
take time to change
Take time to adapt to change
create plans that include the needs
of all people God created
a balanced world
where nature had the ability
to clean the air
and create a stable environment
in reclaiming arad lad
spreading plants into places
they couldn't reach
in growing trees on mountains
that where arad before
you would be giving nature
the chance to heal the world
at one time the human race
through faeces into the street
urine and faeces in the street
created the breeding ground
for the plagues smallpox
and many more
The world looked at God and blame him
but in truth, it was their fault
they changed, they build toilets
they build sewage systems
They learned about viruses
they built hospitals
they started scrubbing hands
they overcame their pollution problem
now we face another pollution problem
one man's problem
is another man's challenge
working together
We can overcome
these problems
accepting climate change
is the first step
building plans
taking time to effect change
helping people in a job transition
there is plenty of work for people
if we use our brains
to make effective plans
They are all gone, long gone,
Crossed beyond the great
Rubicon
Yet echoes of their names comes
and goes like a beacon.
Imagination playing on my senses
I am ready to accept the unreal
Dumping the surreal events deeply
buried,
In memory crevices that don't
breakdown.
Echoes of a dirge refusing to fade
away;
Thrusts from the past to the present
as in a cascade
All playing on my imagination's
facade.
Voids so deep, time lingering
to have its fill.
Past and presenting a mix of
bittersweet thrill
Lamentations ever persistent none
to succour.
A daily scourging of the present living
none to favour
Transition of my friends the hereafter
on my mind.
A thin line between the great divide,
a Rubicon to find
Echoes in a Dirge.
(Written 16th January, 2016)
You want to cry quietly
so no one will hear
The Visible Man
wants to disappear
Although you walk with purpose
wear clothes like a guy
inside you feel like a woman
and don’t understand why
No it’s not some accident
that you find yourself here
You’ve never been the person
that you see in the mirror
So you start to dress different
at first just when you’re alone
Raising you’re voice an octave
to strike the right tone
You build up your courage
putting on makeup and hair
A bra and panties
and bind yourself down there
The right dress and stockings
matching shoes and a bag
Others might think it’s pretend
that you’re just some fellow in drag
But it’s not that simple
your inside they can’t see
If you don’t change on the outside
You’ll simply cease to be
So you search for courage
to yourself you must be true
Others who have gone before you
show you what to do.
Yes the Visible Man
took years to erase
Chiseled features gone
now a curved body, soft face
You now can smile at yourself
when You gaze in the mirror
The invisible woman you needed to be
has finally joined you here.
My wife and I watched a documentary about people going through transition. This piece was rattling in my head when I woke up. We have a friend who’s son is going through this process. I can only imagine how difficult it is for all involved.
Blame hardly ever helps unless it is used to express anger
it does not achieve any more than venting raging frustration
levels the playing field to a point apportioning recrimination
without actually achieving anything but turning on the tap
of seemingly futile emotions seeking for a functional cause
My lover and I were set to move on from Spain back to home
a new abode on the British Isles to work and retire for good
Sitting in a house in Valencia with boxes packed with books
memorabilia trinkets and carpets rolled up for easy transport
we simply waited for one final certificate from the authorities
Nothing fancy just a signature on paper and promised long ago
but nothing had prepared us for the legendary mañana mañana
with months of inaction inaptitude and not a thought for reason
We are working on it they said but no one seemed to care about
how much depended on the form and a long chain of consequences
Now the buyers pulled out and who can blame them as they
patiently waited such a long time and eventually merely gave up
on their dream and by proxy on our venture and own aspirations
Unpacking the moving goods will keep us busy for a short while
to make our house presentable once more and waiting to ensue
Injustice grinds its teeth at feelings and reason that do not conform
fail to find the wise mind to align their disarray and stark confusion
and so we are lost in transition that keeps on lingering for an eternity
while our souls bleed remonstrate on what ifs and other conjunctives
Lashing out at floorboards and ceilings does not deal with the grief
My grandma used to say it is what it is and advised with great caution
that one never knows what it may be good for and advised acceptance
and her problems were bigger than ours with a war raging in Europe
bombs on her head ruins devastation existential fear and an unknown
and we have each other a roof over our heads and food on our table
And yet it is difficult to be grateful when a vision for imminent future
has been shattered so crudely in its unfairness of unnecessary delay
On the bright side candles and scent sticks are unpacked as we pray
17th March 2021
Funkin AT THE CHICKEN SHACK – Tony Adamo - 1990
Jimmy Smith was laying down an incredible riff on a wall of kinetic sound that was oozing out of my car radio. I was on my way back from a singing gig at an Indian Restaurant. Saturday night is jazz night in the City by the Bay. On my approach to the Bay Bridge, I could see the fog was cold and watery wet, as it lay low and crept along like solders on night patrol in Vietnam.
I steered my Chevy Nova like it was a priceless Lamborghini the musical transition of thought. No traffic on the B Bridge…2:00AM on the steel span and all was right with me. Jimmy smith with friends Kenny Burrell, Stanley Turrenting, and drummer, Donald “Duck” Bailey were my musical guides for the ride.
I dug deep as I had to slow down. The fog was horror movie thick. Now I had time to think to the 100th power. Sho’ ‘ nuff and came up with Don Patterson, Richard Groove Holmes,Charles Earland, George Fame, Wild Bill Davis, Shirley Scott, Big John Patton, Baby Face Willette, Larry Young, Brother Jack McDuff, Jimmy Magriff. That’s where it’s at baby. The royal bloodline of B-3 players who brought us into R&B, Pop, Rock & Roll and Soul Jazz. Into the swingin’ feature goes Joey “D”. No boundries, no limits.
Bridge:
Back at the Chicken Shack people dancin’ to a kookin’ groove.
Breakin’ out into a funk sweat
Boogie sounds brewin’ from the B-3
Your twisted sister never danced like that
Reuben Wilson and his killer sounds was a stackin’ the beat shakin’ the Chicken Shack down to its feet
(Solo)
(Bridge)
What a beautiful and dynamic management of mind, body and intellect goes into coaxing Soul Jazz out of a fat Hammond B-3 organ. Was it the foggy, misty, jazzy night? Or…was it that I actually got paid to sing Jazz? No! It was Jimmy Smith’s playin’ that was vibbin’ me along the steel rail. The joyous atmosphere that hung in dense textures of musical thought was punctuating my life like bayonets turning to thumb prints on the consciousness of my creative mind. It was in thick reference to the wet fog rippling across the bridge, like fingers on a Hammond B3, Jimmy and me……free to be.
From Tony Adamo's Miles of Blu Cd/ Hipspoken Word
A life that's fading is a flame that's burning out,
I, a mortal, lament the departed soul.
Tobi Dike, your light extinguished—halfway unburned,
leaving us in darkness
—with only memories to hold.
We are all like candles—burning bright,
yet fragile
—our light shining edges closer to night.
Gradually, gradually, gradually, we vanish,
leaving only whispers
—shifting sands.
"Be kind, good, cautious" your words echo,
haunting whispers—guiding light in life's turbulent night.
The wise one says
—"a smooth sea does not make a skilled sailor."
Alas, sudden departure left us reeling, pained, lost,
yet legacy remains
—forever etched, museum of memories.
Your particle remains—testament to love, unity, light.
Tobi Dike, your light shines on comrades' hearts—
forever lit a seed of love, and unity's bond, planted in comradeship's soil.
The ancestors say
—"death is not the end, but a transition."
In time's relentless tide, your legacy stays—
a guiding star, shining bright
—through life's turbulent ways.
This in-between place
and time
and space
is *****.
Neither the straightforward seer
of new beginnings
nor the recalcitrant rear
of old sweet and sour endings.
Bicameral climates of transition
listen for our most humane imaged left
and see through our most divine beauty right
symbiosis,
complexly bilateral metaphor,
secular and sacred transubstantiation
substantiating disempowering empowerment of creolization,
of co-investments, elite and non-elite,
of left investors
co-arising right effluent divestment
away from competing capital-headed
Business As Usual
In-between lose/lose alpha-point of birth
and win/win omega warm felt beauty
harmonious destiny,
Sacredly holistic resonance
co-passioning left-hemisphere resilient liturgies
Of songs verbally and non-verbally danced
rhythms entranced
co-gravitating with and toward trans-regenerative stories
of competitively deep curious and ***** cooperations,
steeped in-between courageous analogical health
as meta-phonic wealth,
Ecologically robust polypaths
toward polyphonic metaphor.
My dad won the lottery Sultan announces to his third-grade class.
There are gasps all around, the other eight-year-olds are amazed.
How much? One of the brighter youngsters’ yells.
“Six billion or more,” he says giving a flashy wave.
“Want to come to my birthday party?” ask another bright lightbulb.
“When is it?”
“Next Saturday, all the other kids are invited.”
The teacher says nothing.
“We are buying a mansion,” Sultan tells his classmates.
“I get to design my own room.”
His family is perhaps the poorest family in the school.
They have several children, and they are in transition aka homeless.
The teacher continues working on their gift baskets.
Understanding that sometimes the poorest children have the largest stories.