Long Upper Poems
Long Upper Poems. Below are the most popular long Upper by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Upper poems by poem length and keyword.
The sky is blue the hue too
Upon my bed, my body rest, and my reflections shine through my precious square bed by the window, the birds pass by my windowsill, to sing and upon my bed, my pillow caressed my head. Joy has come in the morning as promised my soul rests in peace with the promises of God's love flowing in what was said when God blessed the soul pay however upon my bed where I rest my head my soul, my spirits my flesh three different worlds to become one when a mirror reflex back to me myself billows roar across the lost the cost of my singleness my once was young but now my age growing old my wage my debts to pay my cross to bear the cycle of life rejuvenates sometimes how bad the cycle dresses the stage throughout without sproutsTemptations, abominations flirtations,ovations nerve races, seven heavens greets the stage with Material Heaven, Mystic Heaven Earthly Heaven and four Silent heavens Sectarian Heaven, Secular Heaven, and the Third Heaven and all need to birth. What about my flesh? My heart kneels my soul will birth in the upper realm but what about me the flesh? So this truth demanded me to open my eyes to look to hear the Voice of Reasons for so many years yet still stand to wait for you must not!
Yield not to temptation for yielding is sin each victory will help you some other to win this is a temptation Regret the Birth of Desire when it is conceived gives birth to Sin then the birth spirit sin grows and grows and when Sin and desire the temptation becomes fully grown it births Death. The wages of Sin is death So what do I wait for I guess the Grave for I am persuaded that neither death nor life, nor angels, nor principalities nor powers,nor things present, nor things to come nor height, nor depths nor any other creature shall be able to separate me from the love of God which is in Christ Jesus!
Upon my bed, I sat on the edge and do wonder who will be able to be saved
The lady doesn't dance anymore
I met a woman at an AA meeting, She had, when in the depth of her addiction, to money, slept with men, in one gather Since she came from the upper scale of our society they were not common laborers.
By chance (or not) she met a man who loved her despite her past and they had two lovely children
Lately, she felt she had to tell her husband of her sorry past, to free her soul of the guilty secrets.
I suspected her needs were, but a dream of the old days, Monte Carlo and fancy cigarettes
I told her, since she asked me, that she was chasing
a fantasy that was not real even when she lived it.
I'm no longer a member of AA, not since the guilt-ridden middle class took over, and it was a status point to admit a booze problem.
I met the lady again 15 years later, she is a respected lady who works for the betterment of trees on the avenue
She was glad to see me, but I could read in her sad eyes
what she she wanted to be, was a rip-roaring tart living it up in a nightclub
Just getting ready to open the door,
an old door with six panes of glass
filling the upper half of the door,
like six frames of distinct pictures
into the world.
Wanting to step outside and take a deep breath
of this warming spring morning,
but noticed one of the panes was different
than the others, distorted slightly,
like old time glass.
I took some time to look at the pane,
to find a slight discoloration of the glass.
All the window panes looked out onto a porch
and a backyard with trees just starting to leaf
and a few daffodils that were announcing
another spring was arriving.
But that one pane, with a differing hue
provided a slightly yellowish tint to the yard.
It made the daffodils even brighter and
the yard more sun drenched than it was.
It was, like art. One small sliver of the world
but it drew me in to take a deeper look.
I was reminded of the satisfaction that is found
by enjoying the small, unique things in life.
Some children growing up in towns,
Wear sallow faces, sullen frowns.
Streetwise urchins, Jack the lads,
Reminiscent of their dads.
Guttersnipes roam nine to five,
Scrounging food banks to survive.
Toerags daily flout the rules,
Playing truant from rundown schools.
Destitutions plain to see,
With children trapped in poverty.
Urban dwellings, tumbldown,
In the poorest parts of town.
Suburban children lives are fine,
Where peevish youngsters often whine.
For pocket money, mobile phones,
Sadly lacking strong backbones.
Little lords and lady muck,
Born with silver spoons to suck.
Dolly daydreams, demand, designer dresses,
Constantly combing cioffured tresses.
Horrid Hooray Henries, haughty asses,
Pretend to be from upper classes.
Riding lessons, will, in due course,
See little madams gain their own horse.
Suburban life is plain to see,
Where children live in luxury.
Upmarket homes maintained with care,
The sweet smell of success, everywhere.
But the beating heart of any town,
Are children neither up nor down.
These children work hard to succeed,
While helping those who are in need.
Down to earth, no airs or graces,
Pleasant smiles upon their faces.
They live in solid stone abodes,
Down narrow streets and cobbled roads.
No leafy lanes for these progenies,
That are the blossoms on their family trees.
10/ 8/ 2019.
,
Because of the weather, the game was rained out.
Baseball is something many of us can’t do without.
It’s the only sport we get to see throughout the summer.
When the game is postponed, it usually is a bummer.
For a few lucky cities, they can close the roof up top.
When playing indoors, rain will not make the game stop.
However, in most cities, they have to play outside.
When the rain comes down, there is no place to hide.
It doesn’t matter if your seats are in the lower or upper deck.
If the game is called, they will only give you a rain check.
You have to go home if the teams do not play.
Just come back when the game is rescheduled another day.
Images from a cogged apparatus.
Fingertips toggle milled brass
abreast a concertinaing leather.
Tripodal spread, pegged legs.
Women paused in pose,
a gilded stillness.
A plump bosom peek-show.
Wide-open lens revealing
knee’s, and ankles,
silky ribbons; lace decorously draped
over a connivance of modesty.
A gentleman photographer
throws a dark curtain over
his head.
The models are captured
framed as they are
inside a light-box of silence.
An artist has added a color tint,
their cheeks are rouged
lips glossily red.
A luster and filigree
of bygone corsetry teases the eye.
Posturing in an upper room.
A warm lamp licks Tiffany shades,
shadows halted in mid-flicker.
Feathers and brocade adjusted,
imagination moves, veils fall,
flesh flexes.
Their legacy a démodé,
an optical glow from a yesteryear,
one to be admired in secret.
I sat beneath a Veteran-oak,
In awe of His strength—
Here was a solid spirit!
Sympathy you get from Willow,
But stiff upper-lip from old soldiers,
With forged bark —
His limbs flexed, cut, rippled against the wind…
No chinks in this warrior-wood…
“Divide and Conquer!”
Then I thought of my Father—
A cook at the end of the war—The Big One!
You know the One I mean, as if there are small ones—
When the commanders were through eating
He was instructed to toss the leftovers
From the belch of plates—
Trashcans were in the alley,
The steel that seems intrinsic to battles
In one form or another—
The hungry German children
Would sneak pass the guards
And line-up;
My father would sneak pass his superiors
And his honor
To dispense carefully wrapped scraps…
Well, soon the line was out into the street
As my father was compelled to seek food
From wherever he could steal, beg or barter
To procure—This brought attention—the cat-out-of-the-bag,
And all hell down on my father,
As the captain screamed: Gus, these are the enemy (the children in the alley),
What in God’s Name are you doing?
He was forced to stop—no Court Marshal though…
I looked up again at the old oak,
Through the snarled branches
Deep into the staunch soldier,
Where I spied a nest
In a small, compact fork—
Having a canopy of extra leaves
For shade and shelter from the wind—
I smiled—hum…
His bark reddened, but like my father, no apology from this weathered soldier…
Sweet Sixteen
By Franklin Price
12/31/2016
Sweet sixteen is moving on; tonight will be its last.
Tomorrow is another year, today will be the past.
A hundred years ago tonight, World War One was on at will.
Horses drawing caissons on mostly dirt roads still
Radios were barely blaring, no television yet,
No computers in our lives, of course no internet.
Operator assisted telephones, used by the upper sect.
Birds were the ones who tweeted, not the president elect
My how times have changed since then, is it really for the best?
A whole new set of challenges to put us to the test.
The world is now much smaller with Internet and instant news;
Provided by most anyone, some lies, some truthful views
ISIS recruiting wirelessly, from the lost and searching throng
Politicians with their pockets full, asking, “Whatever could be wrong?”
The last trains that are running are about to leave the track
No respect is left for anything, “Will we ever get it back?”
The world is now a different place, most accomplished by cell phone;
Conversation, text and tweet; seldom face to face alone
We meet with friends on Facebook or some other cyber way
The expense of transportation limits traveling today.
With sixteen coming to an end, as the clock strikes twelve tonight,
As the ball drops down in Times Square, pray that things will be alright.
Seventeen will be another year, let's work together for the best.
Work with those who work with us, contend with all the rest.
Happy New Year to you; whether a stranger or a friend.
Strive with me to make you, the latter, by the end.
In the Year of seventeen, be the best that you can be.
Offer a friendly hand to all, it will be better, you will see.
The winds blow lightly in the silence,
It's raining with sad leaves in quiet tears,
Lost rays dream of light, hot impatience,
Upper tired branches slowly break their fears.
It's autumn. Hopes are dashed in the dark fog,
Colors fade, and the pink flowers die,
The moonlight disappears in choking smog,
I began to roar, I began to cry,
I choose to sing together with the wind,
To cry with the golden leaves through the rain,
To embrace a ray of light, to be kind,
To feel the great sadness and flower's pain.
It's autumn, from her wealth of hopes we reap,
A new time to laugh, a new time to weep.
I watch the plant grow, and I could feel my heart melting like the snow, summer was buried in the clouds, and winter has stranded my soul. It is summer here, but it is winter elsewhere.
It is as cold as ice, but heaven is still rolling the dice in New Zealand, Bolivia, and Peru, and if you cannot find the tale it must be somewhere wrapped up in the veil. In Chile, South Africa, and Argentina, the cold is dripping from the sun, and alcohol is oozing from the pores of their skins as winter seeps in.
I open the in window to see what was going on, but sunshine was spilling all over the lawn, setting fire to the cold and settling the tension that was running beneath my feet. It is summer here, so come and join me on the path through this thoroughfare.
Pack your patience and come and let’s have tequila and white rum in the sun and examine the beach goers playing hide and seek with the people they meet. The journey is long but heaven will give you a helping hand. The rhythm is moving beneath their feet, and destiny is trembling in their upper “leg” while summer is creating havoc in their “bed.”
Come and play the violin for me and settle the score on the count of three. From a distance I watched him fall on his knees with a bouquet of flowers in his hand, and the band playing a magnificent tune on the stand. There is always a surprise in the sun, only that you don't know where it is coming from.
The Eiffel tower is high, and lovers are sailing in hot balloon in the sky, they broke the record in the street as destiny swept them off their feet. I open the door once more and destiny leads us safely across the shore.
It is summer here and its winter in Argentina, chilly in Australia and very cold in Peru so you are going to need an extra pair of shoes. So, get ready for the next journey for summer is in a hurry. Its summer here and there is nothing to fear.