Long Vastly Poems
Long Vastly Poems. Below are the most popular long Vastly by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Vastly poems by poem length and keyword.
Note: This poem is the twin poem for "She Speaks for the Dead." This one is in the mockingbird's perspective.
I perch upon the locked gate,
awaiting the deepest hour of night.
My abode is among the shadows
of the gravestones, still and weathered.
There I hear a faint sound of
bare feet along the grass,
And I see a Woman near the cypress tree.
She is frail and clad in robes—
She looks at peace with the world, and with Death.
But the Woman stops as if she is waiting for something,
listening for something in the stillness.
Could it be my own voice that She is
calmly awaiting? Some trills of
Truth to break Their silence?
I feel a change in the air
as the shadows deepen on the headstones,
the monuments, the cypresses, the gate.
I begin to speak for Them
and that Woman with the gleaming
yet respite eyes
I begin to speak for Her.
My channeled chirps are
variations of lives once lived,
and my growing audience is vastly keen.
("Pema", 2017, original pen and ink)
The Journey of Souls
Dogs make the ultimate example
Of a conditionable being,
And my deaf-dog buddy
Old Pema the Pug is no exception.
Meanwhile Buddhists of all faiths
Believe reincarnation effects us all
And involves the journey
Of a soul through countless lives,
The idea of improving our lot
Being central to life’s meaning,
Improvement which comes from the habit
Of accentuating the positive and eliminating
The negative, combined with deep insight
Into our true nature.
One way to do this is through meditation
And contemplation in a mindful way,
But the point is, it’s up to each of us to do.
So back to my pug.
Like I said he’s getting old,
But he’s still a best friend
And I’m sure I mean the world to him too
At least in the basic fact of how he’s bonded to me
In a way that’s sweet but
Also unfathomable.
This morning as I worked on a project
Building some closet shelves in my study
He came to hang out with me
And of all the soft spots available
Chose to take his place
On my meditation cushion
A spot he has over the years grown familiar with.
And it strikes me as a profound
Yet obvious fact that his conditioning
Is leading him to not only follow me
In this life,
But to set a course for his future lives
To improve his lot
Whether he knows it or not.
Maybe at some point I had a similar mentor.
I did flash once on seeing the dark soothing inside
Of an ancient Tibetan temple
From the edge of a wide open windowsill
High above the valley below,
And in the moment recognized
Something of the heart, something familiar
A point of some significance
Now matured in time
To something vastly different.
And the thought occurred to me
Perhaps I was a small bird then
Attracted to the place, perhaps simply
By a morsel of food,
But in the moment heard and felt
Something much more significant
Much more substantial and transformative.
Maybe it was a million years ago
In a different galaxy,
Maybe it was just a lifetime or two ago.
What does it matter
To the dreamer dreaming this now?
Like for my pug
Pursuing his own self interest life after life,
It makes all the difference,
And eventually becomes self evident
To mean everything.
(2/21/24)
“Writing is about reality, about what men do, not what they imagine in some velvet-lined parlor,” Hemingway grumbled, his brow furrowed over a tumbler of gin.
Here is a fictional dialogue:
Wilde raised a manicured hand. “Reality? It's a dreary affair, vastly overrated. The charming veil of fiction is preferred, where one can truly be one's self.”
“Fiction is a lie that makes you believe the truth,” Hemingway retorted, gripping the glass tighter. “Your writing is all flourish, no bone, no muscle."
“And yours, Mr. Hemingway, is all bone and no soul,” Wilde countered with a saccharine smile. "You mistake brevity for depth, as if a skeleton could ever be as beautiful as a fully dressed man."
"A skeleton has truth," Hemingway growled, leaning in, "your pretty words are just a mask for fear."
"And your 'truth', Ernest, is merely the art of leaving out the interesting parts," Wilde said, a sharp glint in his eye. "You write to live, I live to write beautifully, "you write as if every verb were a boxing match and every adjective a wasted breath,” Oscar began, a languid hand gesturing toward a volume on the shelf. “Your prose is like a very long, very dull telegram."
Hemingway set down his glass heavily. “Better a telegram with true words, Oscar, than a cathedral of lies and cheap paradoxes. You talk about style, but I write about what is real: clean, strong sentences about life and death and hunger in a true place.”
Wilde smiled, a flash of emerald silk at his cuff. “Life, my dear Ernest, is far too important a thing ever to talk seriously about."
"And art," Hemingway retorted, his voice low and hard, "is knowing when to stop talking and when to tell the truth with one clean stroke, not twenty just for the sound of them."
"Truth is rarely pure and never smple," Oscar murmured, adjusting a flower in his lapel. "Your heroes, they are all the same, mute men with silent anguish. You mistake a lack of vocabulary for a depth of soul."
The BBC has not just bowed but been kowtowed by the dastardly crowd
Proud Aunty allowed to be somehow cowed by this bastardly diss shroud
Got to worry the crisis takes its toll heads roll…they only had to say sorry
Avowed critics beef rowed & wowed their brief a mischief agenda so loud
With no defender the chief got so much grief his resignation did tender
Ploughed by true offender Boris the political pretender on another bender
Call out this lout who truth does flout the vile bile he does all the while tout
Dob on the blue blob snob & knob whose vastly ghastly gob makes me sob
Why on earth would any serf care about what this loony buffoon does shout
Revels in his dishevelled pout..amazed Aunty levelled razed by his crazed rout
Phoney baloney stories of the Tories glories..the Telegraph a trusty rusty crony
The BBC again slain by a disdain campaign as inane & insane as Johnson’s reign
Without doubt we’ve the clout to stop the lying vulture from rifling stifling culture
Scoff turn toff coven oven off..cohorts of suits in cahoots ravaging loots savaging
Candour…can’t pander to their dander & devil may care unfair slander propaganda
Boris not a novice as the orifice taking the piss remember the abyss of him in office
Country’s ex headmaster pastor of disaster willing killing our beloved broadcaster even faster
Picket chitter chatter about posh pitter patter at Henley Regatta scoff for that matter at the natter which does flatter SW19 scene & don't give a jot about that lot at Ascot..the big ticket for the English toff summer is a visit to the home of cricket..
Old father time’s hold over his many wards
Mystery of the history hoards told marauds
Nooks & crannies mould books of records
Symphony scored sold on adored chords
Famed for the gold framed named boards
As teams and bold dreams cross swords
Peruse the queues that start before 8
Members remember the embers of fate
Quest for best seating you can’t be late
Bleating a fleeting greeting at Grace gate
Blazer with crest for their guest do wait
Dearly nearly yearly meeting with a mate
Linen suits competing cahoots see a spate
Die hard scorecard scribe should venerate
Suss a them & us tribe vibe does permeate
Josh subscribe to a golly gosh folly & fete
Farce awash with fuss cloche on nosh trait
VIP pass posh wally with off his trolley gait
Bollinger harbinger scoff do quaff a crate
Just ar*e twee look at me upper class date
Holler that working class squalor will irritate
Elite no blue collar street scholar reprobate
Bacon & eggs hues repeating Test portrait
Prices vastly soared stop ghastly hordes
Boxes chock a block with corporate frauds
No fan roared everyone…politely applauds
Panamas, trilbys or fedora do doff towards
Caveats for toff twa*s cravats Lords awards
Our fancy dress is outlawed caused discords
Sneer at beer from kegs cheer more Landlords
No dregs shaggy hair diadoras & baggy cords
Begs no diaspora from poorer smorgasbords
A ticket to the home of cricket though affords
The chance to roam and to reap rare rewards
Champers is poured toasting the scoreboards
Stored hampers explored boasting the accords
Hosting encores bar detours welcome to Lords
Mister Bourdain clearly in abject pain
The cook feeling crook can't refrain
Asked about same subject did complain
Coffee's not a culture he does explain
Why do they sustain their campaign
His bane such nonsense won't wane
Not like the throng along the Seine
Nor the glitz of Biarritz or arcane Spain
We know a barista may have to train
Wittily says in Italy have made it plain
Breakfast frothy coffee then not again
The agony of Anthony fuels his disdain
Slicker chair made from wicker & cane
Hysteria like wisteria on a trendy lane
Specs and pecs those necks will crane
Feline design plastic surgery is insane
Their ilk less coffee more milk will contain
Let's end yuppie caffeine bean reign
The vastly ghastly inane finally slain
Shallow callow stain down the drain
Forget arty farty latte said Bourdain
He did maintain to party & entertain
Not trippy dippy hippy Lion's mane
Go loco coca not cocoa yep cocaine
RED ROSE RAPTURE
Red roses in fragrant, Spring bloom,
Dispel any sense of world gloom!
If you know, even a whiff of history,
Wars are certainly neither new, nor a mystery.
They have a beginning and an end.
Wars do not last forever, that is simplistic pretend.
But the news is negative to the max!
And social media, makes tingles of fear run up your back.
Be a beautiful, blooming rose to all others.
Don't be a prophet of doom that just smothers!
Allow each person, to express their views.
Even though it differs vastly from yours!
Freedom of speech, keeps us totally free.
Pray God, keep it, in its blessed, totality!
5/1/2022
In a win or lose
either/or binary digital technology game
created from an original WinPlayer/WinGame
co-refining definition,
each player can play regenerative win/lose sequences
knowing
trusting
faithing that eventually a win/win outcome
emerges cumulatively from possible
toward probable.
And what does it mean for the individual player
to win this one individuating winner-contextual goal?
To "beat" the game
is for the game's creator(s)
to win as well,
a cooperative embodied/intellectual endeavor
within a closed rule system.
It feels no great right-brain wonder
such win-ego/win-eco active hope
of probable consummation
within one mortal lifetime
would become addictive
As contrasted
to the immensity of lose/lose mortal risks
and ungraspable win/win immortal ambiguity
in the vastly grand theft stages
of Earth's revolutionary
Open Whole EcoSystemic probabilities
Of achieving nutritional win/win opportunities
and avoiding sufficient toxic win/lose risks
of one mere mortal player,
An autonomous left-brain individual
unaware of an interdependent right-brain co-presence
individuating health-game wealthing processes
as timelessly eternal
as forceful Adam with resourceful Eve
As empirical closed rule game systems
emerge from lyrically open win/win harmonic ecosystems,
win/lose Yang endurance
with win/win Yin resilience,
Left brain wealthy strengths
with Right brain healthy sustainability,
Left cognitive intelligence
with Right emotive brilliance,
together holistically open
eternally interdependent
win/win ego/eco-gaming
health/wealth memory player systems.
Could our verity be any unique?
Whenever the twenty-first century is antique,
Links are the best way to deal with everything
When even the pencils will betide self-replicating,
The whole would be vastly improved
And, the fortune of the rich would be approved
Would remove those in requisite thoroughly
There will be no grimness when there is no infirmity.
Autos would be entirely electrical
Fuel and diesel would behoove skeptical,
News and journals will be made ready on digital
People react to move visions by a flash signal.
Parcels won't be uttered for a long time
Besides, astonishingly swiftly and in prime
On voice order, pencils and pens would work
Baring, scribble down all that we would rework.
Everybody will include a robot in their house
That will perform anything, including catching a mouse
It will cook meals and neaten the home, with no screams
Additionally, conceive all your expectations and dreams.
The earth will deem even as sole leader
A man with odd propensity and backbone neater
We might glean the option to dwell out in the cosmos
And we'd stray out on rockets to shop for blue camos.
How slightly does the world treat spot our sacred history?
Purvey future posterity with a canvas to our glittery
Sober-mindedness is the best way to crumble in terror
Indeed, pens will be automatized to abject horror.
Written: February 06, 2022
Let's explore digital technology Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Simon Rogerson
Sometimes, we cry about things that should be
Sometimes, we cry about things that should not be
Sometimes, we cry about things we thought would be,
but never in our life time. And when they happened, we
were overwhelmed to the point of joyful tears. Such
tears became the source of an inquiry from my son.
Very sincerely, my son once asked me, “Dad. Why is he crying”? My son had seen an African American man, crying at a 711 Store.
This happened on the night of a historical election in America.
An African American had just become the new President of the United States, a first occurrence in America. And my son, who was 31 years of age, saw this senior citizen crying. He wanted to know from me the reason why. I said to my son that I understood the reason for the tears.
I said to my son that the African American man that was crying has lived through a lot of American history, and experienced much discrimination, injustice, and in some places in America, racial hatred. Perhaps he was overwhelmed with the reality of an African American President in his life time. He knew that it would happen ‘someday’, but not this day on the second Tuesday of November, 2008.
As if I had not answered his question, my son asked me a second time, “But dad, why is he crying? Will he be invited to the White House for dinner?” I told my son that it wasn’t likely that he would be invited for dinner at the White House.
Although also African American, I had not voted for the new president elect, and have views vastly different from the crying man. But I understood, because I had walked in similar shoes as did that gentleman. I also felt and understood that no manner of explanation would make my son understand the crying, because the two of them walked in different shoes at different times; and the times had now changed. At least for my son, this time, the tears were not easy to understand.
cj10142015