Long Unaccompanied Poems
Long Unaccompanied Poems. Below are the most popular long Unaccompanied by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Unaccompanied poems by poem length and keyword.
Face framed ornate, or curl corner blu tacked up
Childhood fanciful daring must softly be contained
Dispicable hovers inside cherub cheeked adorable
Challenge for enamoured to create correct shape
Administer discipline with compassion entangled
Potential beckons infant innately curious
Toddler discovery meshed with messiness
Woven with wonderment routine can't limit
Succumbed mother disowns justifiable furious
Besotted witness, sure estate for mischief
Nudging daughters towards beings approved
Beyond old rigidity, modern option multiples
Youth spoken forums we're foreigners to
Images of genuine and fake indiscernible
Listened to lunacy delivers messages askew
Duty to daughters reflect our similarity
Penciled declarations stuck to fridge
Devotedness focussed on child precious
Inflated effort, parents' universal currency
Whether meagre expenditure, or excess
Snippets of your prosper are written in me
Lawyer loads clothes into washing machine
Submerged both classes in a world severe
Puppets of striving in fast passed society
Consumer boom boldly commandeered
Disparity reveals parental symmetry amazing
Faithfully accommodating girls' shifting needs
Working mothers, each of us 'unaccompanied'
Various sized resources serve child raising
Sacrifice made by dedicated souls equally
Providing guidance, friendship gripes quieten
Line of latitude curved by desire to control
Old school wisdom bolsters brains susceptible
Dramatised screen infused new century children
Content quickly spirals into unacceptable
Desperately hoping, we Mother soldiers
Shield children from future provocation
Hold fort, nest feathered dedication
Thrusted comfort, reluctant scolders
Admist mixed rails, reliable station
Within swayed pre teen trajectory
Sturdy parenting depots journey
Home stands firm from outside duress
Finances overshadowed by reliability
Partnered peers approve sole success
17th July 2020
Choral Singer-
You're looking at the choral singer
You're looking at the choral singer
I'm dancing, dancing 'til dawn
I feel lonely
I'm dancing 'til dawn
It's time we had some storms
You don't wanna be stuck indoors promenading
You must think I'm unaccompanied
Everyone is musical sometimes
Don't like your rhymes
Is musical sometimes
You don't wanna be philharmonic like me
You must think I'm a back-beat
Records ain't nothing when I'm gabbling with ya
You're looking at the choral singer
Music
If you feel like wandering
Everyone is musical sometimes
Won't like your rhymes
Is musical sometimes
7/29/20
written words by James Edward Lee Sr.© 2020
My Bus Journey
Getting on the bus to go into town
Ten passengers standing up, twenty sitting down
The card reader's faulty, won't recognise my bus pass
Youths standing at the bus stop banging on the glass
Unaccompanied children, probably going to gran's
Elderly couple opposite, sitting holding hands
Driver says he's running late and that he can't delay
Gives me no time to find a seat, before he's on his way
Can't find an empty disabled seat, even though I have a stick
Able-bodied people stay sitting in them, looking at me as if I’m thick
I stand in the aisle, swaying back and forth
I'm facing south, though the bus is travelling North
I try to turn to face the front but someone is standing in my way
Weighed down with an overstuffed backpack, that pummels me as I sway
Youths at the back, thinking they're ‘cock of the walk'
With their forbidden e-cigs and their filthy talk
We come to a standstill, young mother gets on, pushchair in her hand
Though there's already two buggies on, and she's going to have to stand
She stands at the front, right in between
The passengers stay put, you know what I mean
At the next stop, I want to get off
But those standing won't budge, they just stand there and scoff
I push my way through to the front of the bus
I get to the driver, I don't make a fuss
The driver says “Sorry, I can't make them move
Good manners are a thing of the past, as this journey did just prove”
In the silence of the night, when the world rests,
I embark on a journey, without a map, without warning.
It's not a mountain path, nor a trail through the forest,
It's a journey inward, where the soul hides and is measured in measure.
On this path, steps are memories and thoughts,
Each stone, a regret, each flower, an endless longing.
But on this journey, I am not alone, but accompanied,
By myself, by hopes, by dreams, and by moments passed into infinity.
It's a journey to the center of being, where everything is pure and sincere,
Where the mask comes off, and the heart speaks without fear.
Here, in the depths of the soul, where time seems to stand still,
I rediscover simple joys, childhood memories, and my first spring.
But this journey is not always easy, nor always filled with light,
There are moments of darkness, of sadness, where the soul weeps and struggles.
Yet even in those moments, when all seems lost,
A ray of hope shines, guiding me to the hidden truth.
For the most beautiful journey is not to distant lands,
But to our own soul, where we find ourselves, alone and unaccompanied.
There, in the depths of being, where everything is sincere and pure,
We discover the true essence of life, and understand that we are truly loved.
I wish to breathe in ~
lose myself, as my head tilts back
and I fill with fragrance
be lost upon lost, flowing, fleeing
invisibly within layers, locked in
bound to perfumed memories
that I return to unaccompanied
a ghost within their harmless essence
you are one deep inhalation away
I stop before my lungs are full
still able to tell dreams from reality
I hold three thoughts
three notes that detail my existence
I am the rose, delphinium blue & lily white
evaporative unless curated
an apparition, unheld, unholdable
recalled only to mind
redolent and intoxicated
by lingering base notes
unforgettable
but distinguished by the fact
you remain
the unforgiven
Inspired by The Three Perfumes by Margaret Macdonald Mackintosh
Her voice echoed through the hallways
Of the pediatric oncology hospital ward
When people saw the young girl who sang these songs
They were stunned and they were floored
She sang unaccompanied
But there was music in her voice
The children all felt better
As if they hadn’t another choice
She wasn’t paid to entertain them
She wasn’t doing work for charity
She wasn’t a doctor or nurse there to cure them
She was a patient with one of the maladies
Then, one day, the halls were silent
Into her lungs the cancer had eventually crept
Children and parents were disheartened
Even, from up high, the angels wept
But, the tear drops from angels
Plus prayers from souls down here on earth
Helped to bring about a medical miracle
And her cancer, somehow, did reverse
Her voice rang out again in a soft lullaby
While future angels in their beds slept
Once again hope was planted into patient’s hearts
Once again, on high, the angels wept
I sailed an olive boat
into the center of the sea
alone
to find a cure for my loose heart
not the spring-back type, noble with elasticity
but leap-forward lecher-wild
binding to any skirted frame and drooping hemline
like friendly burrs in shrubbery lanes
sat in an olive boat
drifting mid-seas
unaccompanied but for Hope to land a cure upon my knees
to heal my lousy, narcissistic zeal
an insatiable human thinks like a possessed apiary
an overwrought dam
I tonsured my beatific locks
as bare as Samson
hoodwinked
by his pet Flytrap
tossed reflective surfaces, anything that would give my face
a way to self-seduction
safe in a roasted green-pea float
lost like dead at sea
to recover a voice that scarcely has been mine
its echo returns not
through bursting towns
busy at trade
hawkers cawing,
hucksters' crow delirious,
chattering cashboxes
traffic snakes wending
Nowhere do they end in time
always metal and rust
ferric towering towers, condominium pride,
noisome domiciles, toxic steel cages
barring the success of this voice~
the sound of your mind drowned inside the urban brawl
not a jot of space to reckon nor conciliate
blushing-rushing-golden consciences
an echo may not return to its sender then ~
a man with no name.
… do you love me, woman
it is cloudy in this street
as that sandalwood perfume
stretching between our arms
here everything of it is gone
with the floods and good
you are the only tree left behind
and love is the dewdrops
even the axe that cuts them
into pieces, remains a noble soul
falling slowly from the last leaf
to the bare ground of mire
somewhere in the mist behind the bridge
a brain is smouldering with the request
to return this soul
to its former position
and retains its fragrance
in the trap, unaccompanied
thinking about a lover is sweeter than kissing
because love is not feeling
and I cherish that moment in itself
when I am alone but through a subsequent passage
that’s why I illustrate
your perfume filling the dig we create
woman, do you still love me
I’m one of the connexions, though really why
it should be, after all, is none so apparent
your body is a cloth I wear
in this cold weather I’m
struggling with my broken left leg…
They rise and sparkle and crackle,
Shaming the nakedness of the skies
And the city, with one frightful flame of
Youth,
Burning with the zest of
Seasonal lore.
At Christmas, they salute the days
Creamed by snow and sleet,
Thrusting in us the wisdom of
Global ceremonies.
They are the lightning of Yuletide —
Lightning unaccompanied by rain.
Shaped in balls and spears, and lean
Fragments of flagrant colours,
They are armed with their own thunder —
Thunder that speaks volumes and calms the rage in
Frenetic dogs.
They are coloured paints splashed lavishly across the broadest
Canvas ever —black and seamless
We see through their lens, the running dusts
Of sparks,
The dancing circus of sky-circuits
And the happy wars waged on the frontiers
Of seasons.
They strobe around the cold earth.
New Year’s Eve is riddled with conundrums,
Waking sleepy souls to sneeze up details of
A frazzled year.
The heavens are lit up lavishly,
Electrified to stupor,
Reminding us of choirs that chorus to the tunes
Of life everlasting.
Carousels ride through our minds, young now,
Old tomorrow,
With sparks that shine this moment
And dim the next.
Such is life.
i wanna be alone tonight
i wanna be an accidental victim streetlight darkness
i wanna be the only one in the world that i create
i wanna be the yellow light sitting indian style in the middle of planet red
i wanna be my only company serving only to myself
i wanna be the only audience for the quietly whispering wind
i wanna be totally lost in thought in the gentle beating heart of blankness
i wanna be the star in a dimply lit deserted spotlight
i wanna be the only sound that i hear period end of story
i wanna be the only vision i see in all its unaccompanied glory
i wanna be the only recipient of open space's delight
yes, i wanna be alone tonight....