Long Urgency Poems
Long Urgency Poems. Below are the most popular long Urgency by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Urgency poems by poem length and keyword.
"beyond the silence of summer's end"
what hangs in the air?
autumn's momentum
color of unabashed vigor
clouds lowering, unadorned
days snapped off by change
till cold stalks
like a hunched ghoul in a B movie
our arms hugging inside woolen sweaters
a richness of connection
October is captive of candy wishes
for children in chilly clumps of costume marching
freckled innocece before the bite of urgency
August's season
a temporary stint
limits of ownership
gone to spikes of melancholy
oh that time unburdened
like Chaplin twirling in a silent film
stealing spins of joy
when summer exits
its tracks in the brittle bashing of shorter days
graffiti marks of broken edges
seasonal lapping
in what's pruned away
but given back
in memory
remolded
Sojourners in a land not our own
seek we the place we will call our home
archetype of the promise you gave to Abraham
the future children they shall possess the land
Servants of the Truth dwellers of the tent
traveled upon your path wherever you them sent
faithful to your laws the life you for them choose
vast are your promises nothing here to lose
Happy is the one who listens to your voice
blessings you have offered who could refuse the choice
like Jesus laid down that life for Love that is True
the heavenly nature he hoped to give to you
And so in past are hidden all of our sorrows
but haunt they do the ghosts of our tomorrows
though dead and gone the memories of our past
their essences remain with us until the last
Like all those born we have fallen down
but you oh God have promised us a crown
hand picked you have only hearts of those be true
willing in Loves service your requests they do
Adoration for your wisdom clarity and light
hearts teaming with affection every day and night
a language the land of time forgot
touched by tragedy in the kingdom of the caught
Crushed and lost in the roads we have wandered
loyalty love and truth our characters been squandered
slaves to a system full of harmful thought
lack of loving kindnesses what the adversary brought
A dearth of justice , afflictions are the cost
removed from the garden all there we have lost
you have promised a return to the land of song
a paradise where all mankind will belong
We watch the events that have marked our time
your plan for the next age to bring all things in line
with urgency to keep the laws of Love in sight
for descending to earth is cast the Lord of night
Rejoice oh lovers the accuser from heaven banished
woe oh earth he comes a ravaging and famished
six millennia the blood of the prophets spilled
seeks now he does all of mankind killed
The only thing now holding back the winds
the sealing of the holy ones closing to its ends
our Son be hidden the rise of the false dawn
a century of warning has sounded the alarm
No more excuses lesson from our history clear
man has thrown away whats precious
and placed what is harmful dear
Politics and religions has laid the deadly snare
strangled and destroyed our ability to care
again this piece too long for Poetry soup
to finish this piece .....www.facebook.com/note.php?note_id=412832645980
We waited
the way people once waited for love
without urgency,
without doubt.
Days leaned into nights,
weeks learned patience,
Months held their breath.
Somewhere far away,
a hand moved slowly,
thinking of us between words.
The letter was never promised,
Yet our hearts knew its shape.
It travelled across borders,
carrying the smell of home
or a foreign sky,
ink pressed gently by longing.
The waiting itself was beautiful,
listening for footsteps of the postman,
for the soft arrival of hope
at the door.
at last delivered it,
But love had written it.
On a coloured page,
feelings bloomed like quiet flowers.
Every curve of handwriting
proved someone took time for us,
paused for us,
missed us enough to wait.
Now words come instantly,
light as air,
without warmth or weight.
No trembling hands,
no folded corners,
or a tried petals of roses
No silence between sentences.
Those letters are gone,
But they live in memory
unseen,
deeply missed.
now treasures of a time
When love trusted time itself.
(For Prof. Wolfgang Zach)
The kids beheld a bright face
Beaming like an emblem
Of the new photo-sky:
Subliming all our nativity
Sublimating our eagled rites.
His eyes were so sharp
Two fruits of nature!
Two seas of blossoming love:
Twinkling in a raw urgency
Of our black eagle.
The blond marched gently
Treading a retrieved soft soil
Of a celebrate earth
While his pious anthem thrusts
Through the heart of fading racism!
O his eyes pierced
The sour soul of unshy inhumanity
That ever-ready bird hatching agitations:
At which many lads arrowed at will
In those past seasons of no avail!
Form:
Changing Seasons
The beautiful colours are starting to fade
They make way for a different set of hues
Oranges, reds, yellows, and colours of jade
The pumpkins and scarecrows come out to play
While children get on their big yellow school buses
Waving their parents fears away
The farmers fields become a harvest place
The busyness of a new season
Is what has become the latest race.
Impending cold and darkness lies
Children play with urgency
In cloudy wisps of September skies
Cozy sweaters and the crunch of leaves
Beaches say goodbye to the visitors upon their sands
They trade their minimal clothing for length of sleeves
Glorious Indian summer makes its show
A final curtain call
One last run before the snow
The cool breezes blow the leaves in a swirling mess
The mamas come outside with their children
To make some order and reduce the stress
A new start, a new perspective, a new season
The changing of the guard
The bees realize their time is up and lose their reason
Something new and something great
Is about to happen
The trees and the sky eagerly await
As autumn winds usher in their glorious power
Of transforming scenes
And the snows begin to shower
Grace Daub - September 14, 2021
My shoes are the strong silent type in that
they rarely throw fits about the weather
as flip-flops do nor demand tit-for-tat
consideration when worn together
with socks. It should come as little surprise
then that they’re white and grey, underemployed
running shoes, meaning long strolls at sunrise
are just what they sound like: footsteps devoid
the prerequisite urgency to shift
directions as deemed necessary by
either myself or my feet when adrift
through trance-like stables of the butterfly
where train engineers mimic the station
of glacier-laced shoe-string transformation.
I
I never understood what happened
I never erased your evidence.
it seemed magic not science
Still lives in me your presence ...
II
Something strong without comparison,
as adherent as a dementia
suppression of my consciousness
primal puzzle without explanation ...
III
I feel suchlike an airplane without fuel.
in the air without emergency landing
only you to cerebrate, without stopping...
IV
Even to death, I am insensitive
nothing has for me so much urgency
if only I live to recall and dream ...!
inexplicable to me why your being:
beguiles, fascinates, intrigues, lures,
orchestrates, radiates tantalizes this
CVS patron, who dares himself to
let spill forth (like sought after shim
mer ing liquid (perhaps the elixir for
eternal life), aware that thee might
partake draughts from this supposed
glowing, mirroring, pulsating, exqui
site lee teasing unquestionably an at
traction, and tis on account of such
captivating, fascinating, mesmerizing,
youthfulness finds myself helplessly
drawn to thee, who asks for nothing
asper his attempt to codify, glorify,
lustily communicate this intoxicating
kickstarting, manifesting, organizing
cascade of appeal, ye most likely did
not necessarily intend directed at this
regular run of the mill bipedal primate
who knew not himself the inexplicable
stupendous effect, and if nothing else
feels compelled, goaded, linkedin with
your self, which could be sustained at
the platonic level, or which appeal to
a nymph like spirit could perchance
evolve into a dynamic, kinetic, titanic
(maiden in america) gluten and msg free
(oh...of course NONGMO) friendship
proceeding in one direction with no par-
tickle har rush, but allow, enable, and
promote a sustained endeavor imp poe
zing no uncomfortable urgency. even
procuring a sweet hello or adieu on each
occasion that finds my stock of pharma
sue tickle medications in need of ma
mad dog ripple ace ment. aye could
(if thee would permit meet for lunch
(on premise and promiss not to steel
a kiss), boot rather to exalt in an unde
finable blinding aura, charisma, karma
inducing this con tempullet heave, intro
spective, quiet natured house broken,
dog gone, muttering smartpet avoiding
(without waste ting) your precious energy,
nor diverts and value able sands of time...
matthew scott harris sets pro active non
threatening overture as his exposure
therapy (cuz he latched onto risk
averse) be have your decades in
the past that still “smart” his psyche,
thus no intent to cause aversion, ire,
uneasiness nor rile explains this
unexpected hoop fully pleasant
surprise communique.
I wonder if some part of me was running,
while I gathered up my thrills in wanderlust;
scattering them like dust to the fire, that feeds a lazy afterglow.
The Adventure of Wonder. The one I embellish just a little,
because that time away is my big trophy
full of glitter. I can't hardly reach in without distortion.
My portion of that place was different than I expected-
a beauty exceeding the dreams
I'd constructed from photographs, but it was tamed and balanced-out.
Tugged under gray skies like a great god asleep in some hidden cave
beneath a thriving city.
And I made to-do lists daily, as I'd done in college to ease the pressure
(with specially constructed spots for sightseeing)
And some days when I wandered off to little Irish villages,
I looked for better places to stuff the notes
of future plans. (I found them everywhere)
I found them even in the glare of the rocky cliffs that stood naked
to Atlantic winds. And I shoved them in and went off
and saved them inside my tiny travel-friendly lap-top, which I took
even on days that I felt like a god,
because no one I knew would ever walk the same places
I had. I grew up and I grew proud
and then lost it again, when plans
collided with the world that was. And the cycle repeated;
It still does.
And when the day finally came that I descended
hazy-eyed from the journey of dreams, I felt the same
as the day I left. That familiar blend of joy and thrill
and anxiousness, that leaves my chest tight for days.
Weeks passed before I grieved.
A dancer in Leeds once told me:
sometimes all you need is a new pair of eyes
not a destination. I believed her,
and I still do.
And I'm happier too, when I see the faces
of the ones I'd missed; the memory of something lost still fresh.
But then there's that other feeling,
the one I let take me across the Atlantic
like a stranger with welcoming eyes (that somehow seem familiar)
that has me writing everything down, arming against disaster.
Only now the notes die faster.
I wave them off hoping in the future (when that twenty-something year-old
sense of urgency dies, or transcends into realities of peacefull coping)
I can use them as a witness to myself, and they'll tell me nothing's lost
in the breakdown. Everything just comes and goes.
And whether we've never had it, or we have it all,
I think I'll never know. There are those things
we must learn to let go.
As I finish my day
with a hot cup of chai,
eyes slightly heavy
and yawning a sigh,
I ponder my thoughts
hoping for a last write
before I give in
and I call it a night.
A brief sense of urgency
catches my breath.
What if tomorrow
is fated my death?
I still haven't written
that one masterpiece,
fulfilling my life
so to die with a peace.
I'm still wide awake
though I can't believe how.
This yearning consumes
every part of me now.
Even when working
I'm watching the time,
searching my mind
for a meaningful rhyme.
I have to give up now,
It's getting too late.
My coveted masterpiece
just has to wait.
I say to myself,
"There's always tomorrow"
but still I can't help
feeling whispers of sorrow.
Maybe someday,
if I sort them all out,
the words of my masterpiece
might come about,
one of these nights
as my day says goodbye,
while I sit and enjoy
one more hot cup of chai.
-Jeannie Minor