Long View as Poems
Long View as Poems. Below are the most popular long View as by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long View as poems by poem length and keyword.
Breathe, think of this day as a unique core
Reflect and feel the scent around
Words may never express or make you adore
The life you conspire and others view as their mound
Let life greet you to explore
Think of those who bear the weight with fairground
Love, reflect, and open all closed doors
Stop complaining, faith in life goes around
Breathe, think of this day no more
Let your troubles be gone and never rewound
This day has just began and you can let it be ashore
Please take a step, don’t let yourself be drowned!
Fight the ocean that sinks you and keep it indoor
Guard your thoughts and make it resound
Swim and get to all things you are looking for
This is a day to cry no more!
Breathe, breathe like nothing you’ve done before
Open your eyes and avoid the things that are earthbound
Accept reality and all of its hardcore
To find yourself , and let yourself be found
J-ust after the dusk fades,
O-ne dawn causes much mirth;
L-onely night is just over,
L-etting light warm
Y-our birth.
A-pril ninth looks so fine,
B-ad weather turns good;
C-louds above never gather,
E-ndorsing a merry mood.
D-arkness passes from view, as the twilight has gone away;
E-vening shadows disappear, yielding to a beautiful day.
D-elight so pure is felt,
E-arly sunrise has shown up;
L-anes up high are clear,
O-ccasion of fun won't
S-top.
S-o much blessings from God
A-re truly reserved for you;
N-ever waver nor wane
T-o receive salvation so true.
O-nly in the promised land will we no longer moan;
S-trive to be perfect in faith, for we're heirs whom God and Christ own.
OBSERVE THE OCEAN VIEW AS IT REFRESHES YOUR SOUL FROM THE SHORES OF LIFE WATCH THE FOAMY WAVES AS THEY ROAR AND CURL INTO YOUR SURROUNDINGS. LET THE WATER WASH YOUR BARE FEET AND CURL UP TO YOUR ANKLES. ITS WARM AND SUNNY IN YOUR WORLD OF PEACE, BY THE SHORE. THE SEA SHELLS ARE COZY
AND NESTLED DEEP INSIDE THE HEATED SAND . (B)
WALK SLOWLY AND MAKE EACH MILE YOUR COMPANION ON THE WHITE SANDS OF KOH CHANG. BILLOW YOUR BREATH IN THEN OUT. WIND SING, HUM A TUNE, OR SIMPLY CALL THE BIRDS BY NAME AS YOU SWOOSH YOUR BODY. GLIDE , GLIDE, GLIDE. LIKE A QUIET SAILBOAT GLIDING, INTO THE SEA (B)
FAR INTO THE DISTANCE AS FAR S THE EYE CAN SEE, THE WATER MARRIES THEE AND TOGETHER YOU SEAM, BINDING THE OCEAN TO THE LAND AND SEALING YOUR HAPPINESS WITH A SUMMER KISS. LET THE WIND IN YOUR HAIR SIFT GENTLY AND CARESS THE AIR THAT YOU BREATHE. COUNT THE MANY COLORS OF BLUE THAT MAKE UP THE HEAVENS, AND THE MANY COLORS OF BLUE THAT MAKE UP THE OCEAN. (B)
TIE A BLUE RIBBON ROUND YOUR WAIST AND THEN FLY AWAY LETTING THE RIBBONS FLAP IN THE WIND LIKE THE TAILS ATTACHED TO A BEAUTIFUL KITE. THE DAY HAS STRETCHED INTO A LONG MILE OF EVENING CARESS AND AS THE WARM LIGHTS OF DAY CLOSE IN ONYOU, THE EVENING OPENS A LANTERN KEEP WATCH ON YOUR BREATH , KEEP WATCH ON THE BODY , TEMPLE YOUR
THOUGHTS, THEN SIT AND BREATHE...(B)
March 18, 2019
On Christmas Eve, children lay in bed,
In titillating agony as they await what lays ahead,
They are in blissful torture pondering on chocolate cookies and hot chocolate,
Their eyes are wide open with anxious hope of gifts to come,
But Christmas Eve can be a hellish place for some,
For some waiting feels like someone is pulling your toes off one by one,
For some waiting feeling like you are wasting in a hot sun,
“But they that wait on the Lord shall renew their strength,
They shall mount up with wings as Eagles, they shall walk and not be weary, they shall run and not faint!!”
But Isaiah!! Dear Isaiah!! This waiting is an agony I cannot describe,
As pain indwells my insides and blood infests my eyes,
I do not wait for Christmas Trees and Stockings,
I wait for something that many view as impossible,
I wait for God to be the deity that I know her to be,
Full of might and power and wonders to behold and see,
Dear Isaiah, I know I must wait,
But every day that passes is another day that I must endure this affliction,
“But they that wait on the Lord shall renew their strength,
They shall mount up with wings as Eagles, they shall run and not faint, they shall walk and not be weary”
But dear Isaiah, my eyes are teary with the torment of a scorching sun!!
Oh God above,
Oh God of love,
Oh God of bliss,
Please don’t dismiss,
These cries I wail,
For this waiting, it is no titillating agony,
It is an endless Christmas Eve,
With no sign of the coming Son,
Oh God, I know you’re faithful,
Set me free from this agony,
Fulfill your promise and bring the Whirlwind!!
The meadow lay dark, dank, hushed, cold and clammy.
Nothing dared to move,
to break the soliloquent solitude.
Time stood still, adjourned, awaiting a warp to lift the lag.
Then, the moon peeped out from the edge of a dark cloud.
Everything changed, the scene was awash with perception,
beyond the touch of braille dots, enlightened.
Dew drops on grass blades sparkled,
with mini moon images, captured within.
An owl opened its eyes to scan the scene, enraptured.
A rabbit twitched its nose, sniffing for scents, wafting.
Now you could see the breeze caressing the grass, ebbing and waving.
See the dew drops dislodged from leaves fall, tumbling as tear-drops.
The moonlight painted the scene as it brightened,
colors and textures infilling in waves.
Not a still life landscape,
but with colors ever so slowing growing in intensity and contrast.
A beam of moonlight squirmed its way across the meadow,
as if parting the grass with a furrow.
Then, as the full moon escaped from behind the cloud,
flooding light all over the entire meadow,
the scene was fixed, its dynamism quelled, expelled, in past tense.
The sleeper awoke, looked out the window,
admired the moonlight on meadows scene
oblivious to how the moon had gradually developed the scene,
like a fixative develops a print from a negative film.
The image darkening and transforming into view as if my magic.
The sleeper returned to sleep, oblivious to how the scene of the meadow
developed with the first few seconds of moonlight caste upon it.
Never knowing what they missed as the moonlight first alit the meadow,
delightfully developing the scene before it was fixed, and paint dried.
My, My what the sleeper missed!
An old house proudly on top of a hill
Shutters open letting in the winter chill
A big wide bay window lets in the light
Bright Red Curtains can close out the night
Inside the window there is a seat so as to sit and stare
And gaze out at the view that’s available there
She sits there daily till the Postman passes
A stout young man who wears horned rimmed glasses
Who always waves and gives her a smile
As he wends his way for many a mile
She’s waiting for news of her true loves fate
The one that waved good bye at the Garden Gate
As he went off to war for King and country
Disappearing from view as he passed the old Plum Tree
To fight in a war so far very away
Will he ever return she thinks to herself every day
The thought of him having left her all alone makes her sad
Now she feels that she may lose everything they had
They are so much in love and now to be separated like this
All she has are memories of their last kiss
So that’s why she sits in her Window Seat
Looking so pretty in her dress so neat
Awaiting the words that will bring her joy
That he’s coming home to her and their little boy
Tommy is only five years old
And only knows what he has been told
That his daddy has gone off to war far away
But hopefully he will return some day
His mother Alice tries her best
To raise him right shield him from all the rest
Now she sits for today’s post
Until it arrives she does the most
To keep Tommy amused and off to school each day
And has done so each and every day
Suddenly she sees the postman approaching near
Suddenly her heart is filled with fear
Will he bring news of her love so dear
He hands her a letter marked confidential from the war department
And inside is news of her one true love that makes her feel content
Her one true love is coming home in a few days
The war is over he has survived the letter says
The postman realizes it must be good news at last
Now all her troubles may now be in the past
He has a wide smile and bids her goodbye
And travels on his merry way with a lasting sigh
Whistling a tune as he goes out of sight
Alice is back in her window seat the future looking bright
All well that ends well but she appreciates how lucky she is
They will be together again free to live in bliss
I see the number 158, and I smile
it was the store number of my favorite manager
Once upon a time I was the bookkeeper for ten Super Valu Stores
He was my favorite, because I used to work for him when I was sixteen.
He is gone now, but when I see the number, I think of him and smile.
He died really young, at forty-two, which I thought was old then.
A pink cardinal flies down into my car’s view as I drive up my hill.
It’s a cheery hello from my mother. She had a tablecloth with pink cardinals.
I would have loved to have had it, but my sister took it right off.
My sister had taken care of my mother in the end, so I said nothing.
Glad one of us got it.
The dogs are barking at the woods when I stop the car.
For one second, I see my daddy.
He is usually seen in a blip out the corner of an eye.
He has supposedly been gone for thirteen years.
When I put my coat into my closet I reach for Daddy's’ plaid jacket.
It still smells like him.
I say “Hi, Daddy.”
I feel him here.
The Fifties Were never Like This
Tom’s Thoughts
1/7/2021
I hear a lot these days about cancel culture,
and social injustice. Many treat those who disagree with their point of view as the enemy. Why can’t mob violence just be wrong no matter which direction the wind is blowing from? Wrong isn’t owned by a political party or a certain religion. Those who think they’re important and have names that influence others have kept quiet for the past one hundred plus days
as Minneapolis, Portland, Seattle have been looted and destroyed. But now
when the wind has changed directions, they kick the hardest and scream the loudest. Violence is wrong and should always be condemned as such.
Not just when it fits our narrative. While I may be considered a nobody,
I am embarrassed and concerned about what I see and pray daily for our country and it’s leaders.
Tom
Form:
We flew through the air on a refurbished plane,
the shakes and the rattles sure gave us some pain.
But we were the ones who fortune had named
to spend years Far East with our dad’s army game.
The journey exciting, we’d not been before
to a place where the winters did not foul our door,
so with overcoats changed for our tropical clothes
we boarded the plane to where God only knows.
With propellers screaming we tore on our way
and rose in the air as the ground dropped away,
though creaking and groaning the plane struggled on
though both the wings flapped as we flew to the sun.
British Eagle, the airline that carried us away,
a turbo prop plane that had long past its day.
But that’s all our army could ever afford
when transporting dozen of families abroad.
Though night time in Turkey, at our first stop,
was not really the place where we found it too hot,
when we landed in India, some time around noon,
I think that it dawned what we’d be facing soon.
As we walked down the gantry to this foreign place
I thought the plane’s engines blew hot in our face,
but as we walked away the hot stream still blew strong
and it soon became clear t’was the wind all along!
But soon we resumed on our creaky old ride,
like sardines in a can we were packed back inside
and as Singapore rose in the sky like the sun
our new life in the tropics had really begun.
From a plane that just made it, next day was a train
with another full day of rough travelling again,
with seats made of wicker on which we would ride
and bunks made of wood crammed with people each side.
The view as we trundled down the track for that day
was worth any discomfort the train threw our way,
plantations and jungle, bananas and palms,
made this glorious Malaya a world full of charms.
Four years in Penang with its warmth, sun and sea
changed not only my life but the essence of me,
though it’s now fifty years since I had to depart
this ‘Pearl of the Orients’ still lives in my heart.
Ivor G Davies
Painting on the easel,
The things we do apparently aren’t right.
The taste of bitter sweetness and the smell of diesel,
They say my last name sounds mediaeval,
Well,
Alright.
I see the world through the goggles of a pessimist,
We might be feeble.
The winds whirled and caught my kite,
Release my grip and forgo retrieval.
What’s mine isn’t mine by right,
It’s just how we see it through,
I’m talking about life.
About my life,
The pain we’re free to view as truly painful.
Poetry and that feeling to write,
Writing truly shouldn’t feel this shameful.
A dutiful soldier who finds poetry too graceful,
A stoic paladin whose words ride alongside my brother,
The Sky.
An angelic family tie.
My brothers laugh travels on by,
A Paladin’s poetry needn’t make you cry.