Long Views Poems
Long Views Poems. Below are the most popular long Views by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Views poems by poem length and keyword.
I am not a religious man
And I struggle to read some writes
I have every respect for the poets
But religion is not in my sights
If I can, I try to comment
And sometimes it's over my head
But I do try to leave a comment
Because then you know who's read
My thoughts regarding the views
We just don't know who you are
If we were all to read and comment
Then just maybe, we'll know who we are
The views could be for various reasons
It's not what they thought when they opened
Maybe they were far too long like mine
I wrote them, but still I'm hoping
There's not really much left to say
As it's their democratic right
But maybe we should, share a little more
It possibly may improve our writes
The view is obstructed which is fine
There is so much out there I would rather not see
Skulls of animals slaughtered for instance
Let’s clean everything up my friend suggests.
One who wants me to see things her way
Not the window, I caution her,
If we clean it, we can get a clear view, she argues
I know if things are more clear we might be arguing as to what is right
And what is wrong. It could very well break up the family
Not today, I say, confident she will not see things my way
She thinks I am kidding at first, but possibly realizes
How serious I am as she reaches toward the window to clean it
With a dripping wet rag saturated with Windex
I use my sharp eyeteeth to gnaw off her hands at the wrists
Because a clear view could break us up for life
You can be vicious, she says in a miffed way.
Let’s stay here a little longer, I tell her.
Just the two of us, agreeing on at least one or two little things.
A clear clean window would just bring in other people's views.
I am not ready yet, and neither are you. She backs off at my fierceness.
2025.09.??
Another happy birthday.
It is normal to wish for something
On one own birthday.
It is always significant on that special day.
And it has been true to me any way.
I will be one year older, 21 plus for sure.
It has a double figure and if just one more of it,
It will associate with a symbol of devil.
I must focus on something positive,
Something that makes me happy,
Forget about the past, forget about every body.
Just me and my hobbies,
Piano, embroidery, travel, writing and music,
In fact, every week, I want to play one new piece.
Lately, one of them, I heard it on the radio,
I was young and did not even know its title.
It has been my favourite for decades,
Back in those days,
I played it on my guitar,
Somehow it was out of sound out of mind.
Now, it is time to play it on piano.
Its name was "Romantic De Amour".
Today, I treat myself with a big favour.
I have been doing it before.
Visiting St Pauls Look out, and Jubilee Points,
Maybe Diamond Bay later,
Even Bays of Island after.
Little inclining sand path,
They spread out 3km apart,
But the views of the continuous shore line.
Worth the efforts of doing it.
I come here every year, with or without any body.
All I pray for was a sunny and blue sky.
PS.
Once, JC asked about my birthday,
It is every day and it is today.
It will be fate if we meet again,
Leave along if we will be friends.
Season's decay paints the sky with autumn’s glow,
Etches each leaf with hues of red, yellow and gold.
Pastel shades of summer warmth are withdrawn from the show,
The tones of night are blackened blue, turned chilly and cold.
Ensnared by fate to fade to gray, the flowers do yield.
Murmuring their colors to leaves now dead and spent.
Belatedly, the leaves tumble to the ground, their past concealed.
Enwrapping the earth's lament in a patchwork quilt so resplendent.
Reflections dance upon the lake’s calm still face,
Fleeting mists loom in and settle, besmirching views once clear.
As life's pace slows, nature is content with autumn's lace,
Lulled to stall and beget another fall, in yet another year.
Life is expelled to pause as September withers away,
Surrendering its tapestry to the aberrant beauty of decay.
I
have
been living
in this North American
Culture
for
much too long
Too often
do we WHINE
about
such
MINISCULE PROBLEMS
that
we miss
the big picture
Let us
be able
to
pull
away
from
our such extreme CENTRIC views
and
extend our viewpoints
and
we will
SEE
what
really
is the true definition of Difficulty
I am
Appalled
by
Life
IN
third world Countries
where
but a simple sip
of water
COULD
be the determinant
of
life and death
and here I sit
worrying
about
NOTHING
How did we
let
this get
so FAR
How did
we get
into this rut
this saftey zone
Prisoners in our own minds
but we
hold
the KEY
Never rest
to save
the restless
Move along
or they
will be
breathless
Form:
A baby’s immediate circle
Of mommy and daddy expands
As he grows and his parents entrust him
To others’ responsible hands.
Then in playgroups or daycare or classes,
His once tight little circle makes space
For his earliest friends and instructors,
Each displaying a welcoming face.
Years will fly and the circles get bigger,
Overlapping as interests are found,
With the first circle members ensuring
That he’ll keep his two feet on the ground.
School years somehow morph into adulthood,
With new circles of jobs and romance,
Which invite both new colleagues and lovers
To come join in the circles and dance.
Soon new families form and more circles
Beckon other new parents as friends
And what happens to earlier circles
Is that sometimes, the overlap ends.
Circumstances may sever a segment,
Such as change of location or views,
Which may cause a once-widening circle
To shed members they’d just as soon lose.
Time will march and will bring with it aging,
With its own set of issues and rules
And the circles will shrink and will tighten,
Some denying and acting like fools.
At the end, just the tiniest circle,
Like the newborn’s, will likely remain
And those lucky enough get to share it
With no need to bemoan or explain.
There are two trees in my back yard
I turn to when my days grow hard:
I’ve named them Grace and Solitude,
they serve to cleanse life’s dust accrued.
Grace comforts me with peace unearned;
with mercy, should a bridge be burned.
Its tranquil shade my spirit lifts,
reminding me of God’s good gifts.
When under Solitude’s lush bough
I rest refreshed (at least for now).
On plush grass I luxuriate,
to skylark’s tune I meditate.
Content to bathe in nature’s views -
then back to hear the daily news.
I sigh as I hear of disease,
desiring solace from those trees.
From respite I too soon adjourn
and to my daily tasks return.
I crave to lave in quietude;
my place of Grace and Solitude.
Written 6 May 2020
Entertainment on TV
Or radio depends
On funding from the government
Or ads for private ends.
Both PBS and NPR,*
With Public in each name,
Provide such joy for tuners-in,
With years of much acclaim.
From children’s shows to orchestras
To journalists with news,
The varied offerings present
A host of different views.
Yet now an order has been signed -
I’ll let you guess by whom -
To end all public funding,
As these stations meet their doom.
To stop “woke propaganda”
By the “monsters” on the “left,”
This, instead, will damage children
And leave listeners bereft.
The only monster I can see
Is one who thinks he’s king
And every day I wonder
What new horror he will bring.
*Public Broadcasting Service and
National Public Radio
In the deserts of Arabia, Medina had many Hebrews
And Khaybar Oasis was full of farms run by Jews.
To this day Muslims shout Khaybar, defeating Jews hits a chord
Because Mohammed took both places by the power of the sword
After his death Muslim armies took more
Palestine, Syria, Turkey, and that just opened the door
Then they took parts of Persia and Central Asia, these fearsome men
It's hard to believe Egypt and North Africa were Christian back then
Muslims on a roll took Morocco, Algeria and Spain
They did this for the sake of Allah, not for monetary gain
They conquered much of the subcontinent, was it genocide?
Hindus, Sikhs, and Buddhists claim that millions died.
Today, Jihadists wage war from Nigeria to Mozambique
Islam is on the rise, other religions seem quite weak
You don't hear your local church crying for African dead
Their priorities are more parochial, even progressive instead.
Islam also spreads in peaceful ways, I don't want to deceive
Traders have spread the message of the prophet whom they believe
But what strikes me is that Muslims whose ancestors may have been Christians or Jews
When polled today, express missionary views.
It interesting too to see Islam collide with Chinese rule
The Uighurs are being digested; the process very cruel
Nonetheless, Iran and Pakistan all want China's aid
At least for now they're willing to make that moral trade.
History is often made by the tip of the spear
A minority of extremists can maintain and spread the fear
The Koran does say there is no compulsion in belief
But in practice, that Arabian gazelle has teeth.
Even here in the West, if you draw a blasphemous cartoon
Never mind paper freedoms, your end is likely soon.
I was sitting beside the driver’s seat, quite a stress!
We were traveling back, from the mosque to address.
We barely talk on topics. So, continuous silence.
And I could see those long and winding tracks
Those turning, shifting, puzzling, vigilant trails!
Did we ever love each other? I think often
I often thought quite seriously, trying deeper,
To make a connection of those scattered dots.
And, I struggle to find the rhythm, with words
Thus, I feel, I lost it altogether, once and for all.
I asked for peace only to dispose of it in denial
I urged for a dream, and nothing felt right, at all.
I longed for a walk, remained a dream yet to convey.
I held my little ones closer, only to lose them, slow...
Finally, I wanted death, this, I may proceed, I know.
I was frozen, in a fix. And I was informed then
A tiny little soul was growing inside my womb.
A good, wise doctor was educating me about abortion
A cautious choice, but, a wound with a legitimate core...
A few days ago, he turned eight; looks just like his father.
I came back, and I lost it all. Nothing left intact now.
Each phase of bitter cold snatched a piece of warmth
Inside me. Then my agony was melting my courageous
High down. Enigmatic views on the window glass, elusive.
I saw my hidden stories of teardrops in the moonlight, there.