Long True poetry Poems
Long True poetry Poems. Below are the most popular long True poetry by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long True poetry poems by poem length and keyword.
This may come as large surprise,
but I did once take a beginner's poetry class
which I often confuse with my beginner parenting class.
In which we learned good verse
and voice
have structure
pattern
imprinting rhythm
rich metaphoric content
perhaps even epic regenerative story,
assonant bouquet,
climates of hue and cry.
Who would or could a poet be
or hope to at last become
and yet unresponsively disagree?
Not me.
Even so,
if what I write
cannot resonate within your calling day,
and hopefully tomorrow
and resiliently flow on back
through all your best, not worst,
imagined yesterdays,
Then we are not yet our resonant poetry
so it is not so richly mine,
nor true poetry at disfamiliar all
of any kind
or mean spirit
natural
or unnatural.
Strong poetry cannot flow anonymously
autonomous.
My poetic muse shrinks,
like wound from salt,
from capital competing
absent co-infested resonance
resiliently wounded assonance
cooperative co-governance
restorative resilience
of integrity's best eco-aspirations.
Poetry
with green me
grows not only rhythmic swell
and political ebb,
but also liberating healthy smell
and not so hoarding ego fell.
Poetry praises time we share
nakedly co-resonant,
resplendent as spiritual underwear
inviting nature's brilliant subharmonies
to speak again full-voiced revival choir
without degenerate
autonomous
naked despair
In which we learn good verse
and voice
have structure
pattern
imprinting rhythm,
rich analogic content,
perhaps even revolutionary story,
assonant bouquet,
climates of secular hue
and sacred silent cry.
In the twilight of a crystalline night, under the rounded silence of moonlight,
my thoughts flow like a river struggling within the banks of a poet's heart –
they become an endless stream of melancholy, of extinguished stars and untouched dreams.
There, where the echo of silence speaks, the inner voice whispers fragments of hidden truth,
and each word breathes in the rhythm of my troubled soul's pulse.
When I looked into the mirror of time,
I felt the unshared desire of the world to become the poet they would wish for,
to answer the call of a faceless crowd, but then, in that moment, I knew –
true poetry knows no compromise.
For in a world of cheerful or sad merchants, you encounter empty faces, without luster,
without true love for forms sculpted from the soul's sighs.
A merchant of illusions, clinging to the demands of monotonous days,
loses the priceless joy of pure creation,
of living each drop of color spilled on the canvas of oblivion.
In the depths of my troubled heart, unattainable dreams dance,
I paint imperfect but sincere images, for deep truth cannot be bought.
And I find myself, poor in wealth, but rich in the joy misunderstood by many,
that happy poverty that nourishes the entire universe of my own thoughts.
The light in the gaze of an authentic poet shines in the darkness of the world,
for he creates not for the pleasure of others, but for the eternal fire of his own passion.
I weave my wings from the fabric of my dreams and fly freely,
above a world that may never understand me,
but I, deep within, know that true poetry seeks its own language and rhythm –
without chains, without demands, simply, sublimely.
Reality is painfully sweet, a scent of melancholy soaked in the twilight of each lost day,
and thus, poor but happy, I remain a poet –
a wandering heart, a soul searching for itself in every word, in every note, in every color.
I wish…
That hearts were always open
To the hope and love and prayers
Lifted up to heaven… calling on His miracles
His marvels and wonders, the joy
That dances through the ones who know
He is light – He is love – He is the answer
To every doubt, every prayer, every dream
He is the reason that I’m breathing
He is the reason that I can believe
His grace gives me wisdom
His mercy gives me strength
His favor gives me the victory
So that I can always find solutions
I wish…
That souls were willing to listen
To the tenderness, the affection
The joy that delights in His gifts of the spirit
Wonderful lights, like stars in the night…
Twinkling with joy, imagination and inspiration
Freeing souls from the darkness, the shadows
That fall across spirits who don’t believe
In the brilliant rays of His truth, His grace
Pouring out joy, serenity and contentment
Into the ones who trust in His gift
The Son who brought light to a dark world
The Son who lifted hearts from the dirt
To shine like the morning sun, the Son
Who knows that love is the greatest gift of all
I wish…
Everyone could feel the love that He brings
To those who will listen to His gentle whispers
His still, small voice… assuring hearts and souls
That His blood is liquid hope, poured out so we know
He brings freedom to those who are imprisoned
He brings victory to those who were failing
He brings peace to those who were anxious
He brings light to those who were living in darkness
He brings God into hearts who were once hard!
I wish….
His love, His spirit, would fill you…
…through and through!
If only my wish would come true Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Anoucheka Gangabissoon
May 30. 2022
She took the Hearts ;We handed Her, as Family all together
Filled with Blessings for YOU Robin, in YOUR dire Family need
We Waited, without watching, only Thinking : only Praying
For YOU Robin L Gass , for YOUR Smile, For YOUR Art” True POETRY “
Your hints of return : “My PS Friends” Soup Mail being read over and over
Our Hearts, ask for more than Happy , Glorious , “ Growing Goodness “
For YOU YOUR “ Fellow” POETS : Mentors, Proteges, and Artist s
Pray for resolutions to YOUR dilemma Pray for YOUR return to us
Just a note saying hello : which WE YOUR POETIC Family : Embrace
Poetry Soup a Jigsaw Puzzle with one important piece Missing : ROBIN
LOVE FROM ALL of us TO YOU ALWAYS ROBIN L. GASS
Dedicated To POETESS Robin L. Gass
Dreaming she is a ballet star,
Practicing delicate, ballet moves
before huge mirros and with ballet barre.
There's something wistful in her smile.
She knows not, these memories will
last more than a little while and take her far.
She will be unable to post a picture
with most poems.
Knowing her poetic words mean far more
than a picture can ever hold.
An art gallery? No, she will never be.
An artist with words only, she hopes to be.
To paint both stars and mysterious sea.
No shortcuts to true poetry for her.
Her words only hers, woven beauty,
Of her history and finely.finest words.
A long way to go, to be the poet of her
dreams.
No sell outs, no teams, just wants her
poetry ala delicious, like fresh whipped
cream!
9/18/2021
I was summoned before the Devil of Premium,
and he said:
“Your poetry will not be seen
unless you pay the price.”
I answered him:
“Is it not you who should pay me—
for my fire,
for my talent,
for the marrow of my soul
poured into verse?
Poetry is not a commodity.
It is the cry of the soul,
and those whose hearts are tuned
will find it,
without chains of silver and gold.”
The Devil sneered:
“Without coin you are nothing.”
But Rumi appeared in the shadows, whispering:
“I never paid a premium to be eternal.
It was my spirit, naked and burning,
that carried my voice to the stars.”
And Kahlil Gibran wept,
saying:
“Poetry is the wine of prophets.
Would you place it in the marketplace
beside bread and meat?”
The Apostle Paul leaned close:
“Men have become lovers of money
more than lovers of truth.”
Then William Shakespeare laughed bitterly:
“Poetry is medicine for the soul.
Let it be given freely,
for no king’s ransom could buy its worth.”
And Langston Hughes smiled faintly:
“True poetry is its own advertisement.
Once displayed,
it travels further than gold can purchase.”
So I turned to the Devil of Premium and said:
“You cannot chain the Spirit of Poetry.
It is sacred.
It is beyond your profit and your prisons.
It does not kneel to coins,
nor beg to be seen.
For poetry itself is the currency—
and the true poets
are already rich.”
I rejected form.
I rejected meter.
I rejected editing.
I rejected reading.
I'm a flash in the pan.
I'm fueled by emotions.
I'm emboldened by scars.
I'm challenged by time.
I wonder how far I could go
if I took the time to study.
If I sat down and honed my craft
and took pride in my words.
I'm certainly no prodigy.
Every verse came at a cost.
Perhaps I'm finally paying the price
by stagnating in my growth.
I let my fingers write.
My mind is actually blank.
It's just a silly white canvas
that never blossomed.
I never once toiled.
I never once struggled.
If it was hard I just gave up
and deleted the verse.
I'm told I write prose
rather than true poetry.
Maybe I don't understand
what the difference is.
I never had any talent.
Writing was my safe space.
Now I have to wonder
if it was ever safe at all.
Admittedly I rejected effort.
I didn't want to actually try
When the minimalist approach
seemed to work so well.
I'm not a prodigy.
I'm not a genius.
I'm not gifted.
I'm not published.
I dreamed of the glass ceiling
but I never dreamed of breaking it.
Maybe I'm just damned to always look through it
and see writers much more dedicated than I.
I made omelettes without breaking eggs.
I created houses with no foundation.
I sang songs without reading the lyrics.
I baked cakes without a recipe.
I don't want to sound entitled
but my writing deserves to be better.
In twelve years I should have accomplished more
than using these poems as tissue paper for tears.
In 2007 I was just a kid
writing five to ten poems daily.
That effort got me noticed
and I shared my verse with crowds.
I was driven by ambition
and fueled by emotion.
All I wanted was adulation
when all I had known was the gallows.
This is the last flash in the pan.
Fleeting emotions can't guide my pen forever.
I do not know what the future holds
but no longer will I be complacent.
I am a writer.
I am a poet.
I am a lover.
I am a fighter.
This is the swan song
of my old poetic style.
With eyes on the horizon
My pen will ever be furious.
Squirts of pure wool are soaring above,
I wallow in the stand of a Neolithic sky,
Actively growing while being inventive,
As a kaleidoscope, mind and body sway.
A striving act is akin to reviewing a theory,
A wish that is an abstract burden of making,
I feel lifted as it drifts toward me gently,
Usher me to land if I quite am reverting.
A wish is just the onset, the first domino,
Ponder or crave, then heave your space,
Stars that twinkle always flicker modulo,
And every plea I convey is given a place.
Those goals lead to two distinct tracks,
Ways of rest are shrewd, fixing then fealty,
When I rally into the azure, I ignite sparks,
What will my wish be? A flying start for me
My intention might be for a world treaty,
What if hunger did not exist in real life?
What toward kids who never die hungry?
What if all plagues abort without strife?
Or that hate crimes would simply fall?
Conflicts and lives lost would subside,
One star sparkle stronger at nightfall,
Its silver hue gleams the dull sky wide.
A well, a vague wish, or a ripped toy?
Sunk ship? An ideal at our disposal?
Mystery? Renewal? A dupe decoy?
Holy jar? A hope? The nip of an apple?
The candle wish was agreed eternally,
Aside from one, may all wishes come true,
Thus, you will have plenty to aim skilfully,
Fine fortune is a result of effort subdue.
2nd Place Contest Winner
Written: May 30, 2022
If only my wish would come true Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Anoucheka Gangabissoon
All around we see decay,
seems suffering’s here to stay,
compounded by needless strife,
wasting thus, the gift of life.
Root cause of pain’s ignorance;
feral cravings within prance,
gripping mind in confusion,
plunging us in delusion.
The darkness of what we speak,
veils the truth, making us weak;
a sense of separation,
from God and all creation.
The one wish we’d like to make,
to burn not at ego’s stake,
by embracing love and light,
as bliss cascades, day and night.
How may we correct our course,
for love throbs employ no force;
a wish, we alone may grant,
God’s blessings, within implant?
Since we ourselves need to choose
without excuse, our soul’s muse,
there’s no way but to be still,
surrendering to God’s will.
What’s stillness but cessation
from desire, not sensation;
awareness thus, self-aware,
side-stepping each ego snare.
Let God wave His magic wand,
that we break free of each bond,
which binds and confines our soul,
to feel now, blissful and whole.
Thus, what we wish for is grace,
each seeing God, face to face,
recognising we’re all one,
luminous like yonder sun.
04-June-2022
If only my wish would come true Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Anoucheka Gangabissoon
I wish the best for the Earth's residents
To have peace and freedom restoration
While conquering chaotic incidents
Toward blest genuine liberty function.
To have peace and freedom restoration
True care and share we must practice indeed
Toward blest genuine liberty function
I pray* to God for love and kindness' deed.
True care and share we must practice indeed
Zeal of goodness against suppression plight
I pray to God for love and kindness' deed
Since citizens want to enjoy truth’s light.
Zeal of goodness against suppression plight
While conquering chaotic incidents
Since citizens want to enjoy truth’s light
I wish the best for the Earth's residents.
*2Thessalonians 1:11 Wherefore also we pray always for you, that our God would … fulfil all the good pleasure of his goodness, and the work of faith with power.
September 5, 2021
Edited on May 29, 2022
1st place, "If only my wish would come true" Poetry Writing Contest
Sponsored by Anoucheka Gangabissoon; judged on 6/23/2022.