Long Unbothered Poems
Long Unbothered Poems. Below are the most popular long Unbothered by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Unbothered poems by poem length and keyword.
Who would’ve thought that
the rain tapping the window
would harmonize so well
with the rude honesty of my morning alarm
.
My brain negotiates with the day
and I stagger forward,
faithless and naked,
toward the coffee maker,
sliding my small ceramic cup
beneath the steaming spout of joy,
waiting for something warm to arrive.
The grinder growls through its duty,
as the scent of a French roast
slowly threads its way
into my fogged-up thoughts,
I sit and I sip and i smile
until the day, slowly and unbothered,
finally comes into focus.
There is nothing in life
so plain, so unassuming,
that inspires my senses quite like
a morning cup of coffee.
Part 2.
Into the wasteland he flies
To bury the souls of lies,
Beneath the leaves of time,
Dirty deeds must dirty die.
This then the watchman must do:
Step on the fingers that try,
With downward pulls to pry,
Into doom flower faces,
These flowers must not die.
--
The conquistador arrived.
He gazed at the unscathed bounty standing
Respect-less before him and squinted.
Surveying the laughing land,
He made up his mind with astute rat-like grace
And thrust with self-satisfied lust his mighty sword into the sand.
God’s word thus bespoken he listened, breathlessly.
The jungle though could not understand
Tectetan, tectetan, tectetan
Nor chose to hear or fear
This little man,
Oh thou little man, thou little man
What is your plan,
Little man?
The jungle laughed, unbothered
Unmoved it ignored
Untouched it continued
Unfettered it roared
With sparkling green verdant song to sing,
It sang.
The conquistador fumed
Scarlet red
Vino roja bottled fumes
Of smoky rage
Stomping he retorted
Thou art doomed
Veni Vidi Vici he screamed
Satisfied, mesmerized
With scroll in hand he did announce
All that is yours is mine
It says so in this paper
The King has made it divine
Mine Mine and only Mine
Did he but announce
Without a golden ounce
Of irony’s feathered face
Whose trace,
With obsidian plans to erase
Surely soon he would get to know.
Breathlessly he stood once again, the conquistador did
Assuming
The noise, ploys and feathery joys
Of the jungle toys he heard
Marked abdications hour
At work already
At hand
To make this land
His.
Impatient
Making up his mind
Marching straightforwardly
Towards the eye of the jungle
Sacking with gaze the mighty maze
Of spider green vines hiding before him
The craze of ores whose mint would course the earth
Soon to raise his rank to that of Jerusalem’s teutonic bearded men
He was surprised when he saw
Three sets of steely indian eyes
Peering through the jungle wall
And the flying hatchet hit him hard and true
And for all we knew he never came back again
“Ecab cotoch”
No longer Serves me
Dear Self am I resisting changes?
consistently exploring in this web
of deja vu of what no longer serves
me. Stages in my life have been
heartaches and heartbreaks similar to
a bow and arrow have more drawbacks
then ups now releasing and being carefree.
Hopes and wishful thinking seem like
cousins to disappointments broken
trust and disrespect that I will no longer
entertain no longer serves me, letting go
gibberish chatter, will I ever see changes?
hopeful thinking, will it cons to pass,
difficult to grasp am I avoiding the reality of
questions at hand usually cause of idle talk
bringing up one's past yet now I'm so
unbothered by things that no longer serves
or brings substance and growth I am
stronger than yesterday's things that no
longer serves me.
When was it, the day we first spoke?
When was it, the moment I stood next to you?
When was it, the time all guys came to me yet I seeked for love?
Maybe, I couldn't see you because from all of them, you were above.
You were right there, when I made new friends.
You were somewhere in all my pictures.
You were present as I embraced on my fears.
You were one of the voices when the whole crowd cheered.
When the whole crowd cheered, but only I couldn't hear.
You were right there, as I danced holding strangers hands
You were right there, when I saw it all break apart in a glance.
In the room of my rumours there was a presence of your stance.
Why didn't I ever realise this distance.
Coincidence, how we were the only ones unbothered.
Of all those people, was it you who really mattered.
How fate turned the tables of life giving her own name,
We both fell for her trap the very moment we entered the game.
Did you have to be the one to hate me from the start
Did you have to be the one to see me fall apart
Did you have to be the one who gets my words all stuttered
Did you have to be the one to make my heart flutter
I forgot the demons I formed alliances with.
I freed my old love and called it a myth.
I try hard everyday to fill this void,
And harder to run away when your thoughts collide.
All I wanted was to explore carelessly and wander,
But suddenly your presence started to grow fonder.
Irrational how we clung on so soon,
Now do I stay for us or leave on my own?
Hearts torn and shattered,
Yells at tyrants, a dire plea,
Yet torture remains unbothered,
Greed inflicted agony.
Young and old precious souls,
Against murderers of democracy,
Arrogance, firepower, overrules,
Unfazed atrocity.
Those who raise their voices, beware,
For they may lie dead on the ground,
Heroes choose to dare,
Rallying justice to abound.
Who cares for Myanmar's plight?
Their struggle and their pains?
Should darkness engulf their light?
Shrugged, none of our concerns?
O wake up comfort's slumber,
Let's not be blind, their hearts bleed,
Nor let their hopes torn asunder,
Or leave their courage fade.
Crusaders of democracy,
Myanmar against tyranny,
Their lives of sacrifice,
Shall not fail our eyes.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Midwinter’s blush—not born of frost,
but coaxed from shadows when days shrink
to slivers. A star-shaped constellation
pressed between panes, each scarlet leaf
a silent flare against winter’s gray.
Some call it flor de Nochebuena,
flower of the Holy Night~
as if crimson could hold reverence,
as if a plant remembers angels
or the weight of a child’s breath.
Yet here it stands: unbothered by theology,
a bold geometry of joy.
Watch how its gold-tipped stamens
ignite like votives~
not praying, simply being light.
Spring season
Spring cleaning
Spring puts a spring in the step of the year
For cold winter gives way to a warm spring atmosphere
Where everything is renewed as green and colorful
Once they appear .
Spring weather as natural as an underground spring
Clear and cleansing spring water
untainted and unbothered.
New flowers and plants spring up out of the ground
After a winter long slumber.
Trees are strong as ever their trunks
stand as tall as their lumber.
Spring showers give way to lightning flashes
And echos of thunder.
A peaceful spring afternoon filled with inspiration
And wonder.
Which STILL are you - are you this Still?
Still mad
Still fussing
Still bitter
Still lazy
Still complaining
Still tripping
Still jealous
Still doubtful
Still insecure
Still petty
Still ungrateful
Still childish
Still worrying
Still messy
Still confused
Still stupid
Still negative…
Or are you this STILL? Me, I’m this STILL
Still believing
Still standing
Still blessed
Still strong
Still powerful
Still grateful
Still loved
Still praising
Still trusting
Still learning
Still prosperous
Still amazing
Still destined
Still smiling
Still covered
Still thankful
Still driven
Still confident
Still unbothered
Still praying
Still Beautiful…
So, which STILL are you?
Above the threshold of the door of death, I stepped
To walk into a new and welcoming golden light
Reflected off the stones of an ancient Etruscan hill
Of a ruined mining hamlet where the air was fixed and still
Here in a forgotten unsuspecting hidden rock cliff village
Where bales of hay and giant weeping fading sunflowers
Line up against broken wooden farm yard fence and wall
A resurrection and renewal was about to take place for all
Unknown to the constant follies of its blinded peasant men
Unbothered by the benign barking of mud-covered hunting dogs
Or troubled by the perversity of the crimes of its puerile troop
This god forsaken land was about to be visited by the hand of God’s truth
The sounds of terror of the distant crucifixion still heard yet muted
Silenced by the overlooking Appennine peaks covered in snow
And caught in the thick vegetation of the vines and olive grove
Where once living saints still wander chanting hymns of praise and love
Here the voice of salvation was to flow into an eternal harmony
And enter into a human heart to realize its providential purpose
Where money would no longer matter, abundance promise reached
In the wink of a ray of sunlight in the dawn of the new year’s infinite glow
Upwards is his destination
Lost is his designation
No call from Stars above
No message of half-hearted love
Green reconnects with Red to combine
As our Smith relaxes his invisible spine
His journey so far has been to hone and refine
It is all he can muster, so far out of line
No matter his blindness, he saunters past
The Fire's Cot, mid-molten blast
Making Names wander, til' the Bellows blow
Up stairways, they travel, where our Smith now goes
Steep and coarse, the walkway is cobbled
Thrown together, stone and metal were knobbled
Though our Smith travels slowly with a slippery crawl
He soon gains some confidence, and takes steps, small
Almost like a snail with it's juice left behind
Our Smith leaves a trail a hunter could find
Green and Red splotches on a watery rind
Moving unbothered by secrets enshrined
He shivers and coils to the top of this 'case
Wriggling his body to scream from his face
"CaN i PlEaSe ReTuRn To ThE BoSs' GrAcE?!
i KnOw I'm NoT aLoNe In ThIs SpAcE!"
The steps begin to brightly glow
A clear departure from ash and shadow
The metal grey shifts to a sharpened Pink
"A fallen Smith is a missing Link."