Long Watcher Poems
Long Watcher Poems. Below are the most popular long Watcher by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Watcher poems by poem length and keyword.
She stood in thrall to the Magyar
As, one hand cupped to a breast,
The other picked careful notes
From the guitar against his chest,
So they made a living figure
Sensuous and statuesque
Yet in in its way
Both comic and grotesque.
His foot tapped the rhythm
As he sang words of passion,
The stroking of his fingers
Near driving her to distraction.
An elegant Corps de Ballet pirouetted,
Here and there across the stage
And the blind percussionist thrashed
A kettle drum in state of frenzied rage.
The watcher watched from his dream
As the spotlight lowered to dim
Then swung slowly around to
Focus its harsh beam on him.
It was almost all too much
For any mortal man to take
So, screaming with despair,
He was rudely thrust awake.
Both woman and Magyar seared
To the very depths of his brain
His heart beating wildly to
Near bursting from the strain.
Images slowly fading
Until no longer there
He slipped back to sleep free
From any trace of his nightmare.
The puppet master eased the strings,
Let his marionettes hang limp and slack
Before packing them away
In their carrier on his back.
It was all a strange happening
In the name and cause of Art
Into which each participant
Unconsciously took his part.
The stage disappeared
The theatre was gone
The World of Abstract Dreams
Slowly shivered and moved on.
To allow no repeat
Of this macabre joke
The mirror resonated wildly
Until, shattering, it broke.
(Form III — Droighneach)
The mist is shifting slowly, a soft-felt, creeping,
Along the valley side in gentle waking;
The river Shannon, in its beauty sleeping,
Before the dawn of light is early breaking.
The fields of emerald-green are richly wearing,
The morning dew of bright-felt, dewy shining;
A gentle breeze is soft, a gentle airing,
The hawthorn hedge with flowers is thick-twining.
A silent, ancient ringfort, green and lonely,
Stands watcher o’er the land in solemn slumber;
The hawthorn blossoms white, the fairies only,
Can count the blooms in such a vast-felt number.
The sheep are white as snow, a grazing, grazing,
They wander slowly on hills, a gentle roaming;
The landscape far and wide is quite amazing,
As a quiet evening brings the early gloaming.
The smell of turf-fire smoke, a gentle, drifting,
Upon the chilly air, a pleasant turning;
The clouds in western skies are softly shifting,
While in the hearth, the winter spire is burning.
My heart is fast in love, and faintly, quiet,
With all the gentle scenes of hidden places;
The fields, the streams, the wood, a muted riot,
And all the ancient, wispy, lovely graces.
I roam the bog-land, soft-felt, peaceful, treading,
Where cotton-grass is white, a shining wonder;
A sense of inner peace is gently spreading,
While I look upon the beauty and ponder.
Do you think of other women when we make love
No, no, and definitely no
I do
Well, I’m pleased for him and you, and really pleased if it’s her and you.
Strange how you mentioned Mary in your sleep.
Well, I can hardly be responsible for my subconscious, plus I don’t know any Mary's.
What about her in Liverpool.
Let's not go there again.
Mary, three gardens down with the boobs.
Ah, that was a text alert from Jeff the bird watcher, something about a rare speckled breast, never saw it myself.
Not even with they perv binoculars you use. I mean, how would you feel if some guy was perving over me.
He wouldn’t be, you’re not perv material. Now, if it was your twin sister, then that’s a definite text alert. How is she, anyway.
Probably on her back with the Air Corp.
I would love to be in that flyby.
Yeah, well, you would know all about flying with my sister.
I thought she was you.
She’s got blond hair and big ****, for Christ sakes.
I thought you had a makeover. How did she get bigger **** than you anyway, did you get the brains.
Let me see, I’m with you.
There you go, no need to answer that. Why don’t I take you out for some retail therapy, followed by a candlelit dinner, and wait for it, the big game is on tonight. Does it get any better than that.
Twenty-two guys kicking a ball, think I'll phone my sister, that flyby sounds more appealing now.
This opened moment viewed together through the mirrored glass;
Reflections of tomorrows past with all the deigned and feigned
And foreign feelings felt. This moment deep into the next will melt.
Deep enough to fill the reservoirs of all eternity’s yesterdays.
Heart to heart and soul to soul pressed together in a binding, bundling way.
As stars collide, the air will whisper across the words of all that we could say.
My dear, my sweet beloved, gather close unto your heart the far flung feelings
Of the universe. For you are like the sun and all it does provide.
An amber droplet born, the crimson life of color torn, from pages yet unwritten;
With touch that marks the night with lightning fiery hot.
There you are, and there, and there, for wherefore are you not?
The edge of lining, all my reason, birth of life and cradle rocked.
Given to release and given to self-sacrifice and given to relief
And given to the well from which all springs,
Heart to heart and soul to soul the endless song life sings.
Your breath from some joint reservoir unites with air expelled
And there is never time enough or words enough or reach enough
To so embrace this starry starry world. There is no time or distance
Between the watcher and the watched. They are the same.
We are the same. This moment opened as a gift bestowed.
Unfolding you and I and all that may begin.
The opened moment beckons sweetly
Come in, my love,
Come in.
All my life
Been by myself
Calling out
Don’t regret
Ever been so thankful
Fall on my knees found my life in Jesus Christ
Glorious great mercies Lord, God
Heaven bound surely
Involuntary fed
Jesus gave
King of all this world
Loose He this ole world
Merciful Lord
Noted provider
Omni Father
Peace be gather, granted
Quiet whisperer, prayer defender
Righteous
Savior
Temperate
Universal merciful forgiver peace giver
Volatile voice incarnate
Watcher of our souls
Xth to the highest power
Yours forever now through eternity
Zeal. . .
The abc’s of All my life in the Hopes of Jesus Christ
1/25/20
Written words by James Edward Lee Sr. 2020©
Nobody should ever fear whilst the Alba Eagle flies overhead.
For if you know the Alba Eagle you'll know his words are said
He's a watcher and a keeper, having been here for hundreds of years
For you've been invited into his realm, to allay life's living fears
Being universal, European or other, through his door your welcomed all
For he shall forever roam to allow blooming lives to thrall
He absorbs the hurt and pain so that others can live so free
If you could see the inside of me, you'll never believe what you see
There will be a day, before your eyes you'll witness so
For into me shall travel your hurts, and allow your spirits to flow
http://www.thehighlanderspoems.com/fantasy-20.php
I’m in touch with my earnest feelings,
delight, pleasure, elation, gladness,
each day I awake to sunshine,
is’nt it such a grand privilege,
which I now deeply cherish,
for eternal moment lodging,
without inhibition or delay,
or at random point of reference,
other than to pause and gaze,
in burghs, hubs, alleys, drives,
to treasure, revel in, foster
gatherings of cordial folk,
who sense fellow inklings,
that impromptu golden spark,
of hobby, post, humour, zeal,
as time that astute passerby,
non judgemental watcher,
sentient in its observance,
does not dare to cut across,
interrupt or belittle magic,
on the hour instant interaction,
vital for searcher’s true quest
I’m a watcher
An observer
A fly on the wall
I’m big, but small
I see everything that happens outside of me,
yet I see nothing
I experience everything everyone else does,
yet I experience nothing
I notice things,
the little things
The way that someone walks,
the way they flick their head to look away from me
Is it something I said?
Or didn’t?
Do I look small from the outside?
Would anyone ever notice me
the way I notice everyone else?
I see you,
the other observers,
the ones in the shadows.
Would I ever get them to see me?
To know me?
When will someone take special notice
for the way I walk,
for the way I behave?
It was never going to happen.
How can one experience so much but so little?
I want to be known.
To be watched.
To be noticed.
But that was never going to happen,
for even when they know me,
they pretend they don’t.
Even when they see me,
they wish they never had.
Was it enough to live?
Or did I have to feel
like I was living?
(Poet’s Note : AI will be able to decipher Light Language soon. For now, it cannot. Light Language is not classified as an “other” language yet.)
language of Love has
no w Or dS
ong s’allie ding ma nokie ja ra so ligt lite
ong ma n’a soe doe ra la me da koo KA
ding ding can nooo
De let. E. PIC
has ty lang Age
do ta ra poet RY
POETRY speak
ING wi OOye
footprints in sand : pic fo Heart
Mys heri
chic ken
castles make
laugh heave
vie li ta
ti ma heal her withdrawal
thirsty 4 jui ka si ma
soe ma to ma ri da no
wORD sssssss
forgive them, they know not
what they do
imag ikie Heart
__———— NISH
mystic n’a new
water rOse shower
rose faded
ful cri dis
aPEAR
heaven F
aLL
ING
¥¥••¥¥
watcher in ada rye %•
eat jud brea ge satamanaramakri’ansh
no mica nnn hungry
waves 222 surf
high /\/\/\. clean 2metres
~**
no rul no ma ge
gotta Lo
ve water
so ma toe ri la ma di
sika
mien ra da
De. Ciet
eiki dee ma to ta powersth
AT B
wonder cice li fear ?•••
DISMISS.
Dear Brain,
My dear brain, forgive me, won't you?
I've filled you with alcohol, time and again
My heart's silence drowning the head's tin can
Once and for all I am delivered to you
Forgive me, won't you?
I walk now in dry landscape
The full clarity of the mind's wrongs
Radiating against my neurons
Bristling against the inchoate...
Fix it, put it all in place...
Give me time, an agenda if you must.
Make me a shoe salesman, a bird-watcher,
A circus clown, whatever...
But keep and restore the Trust
Of the spirit--
(if I can't hear it
than they can't hear it.
If I don't sing it, its never been sung.
Though if I write it, I've made a puddle...)
Without it there is no sailing.
No joyous movement; only love's curtailing.
Forgive me, brain.
Sincerely,
The Rest Of The Body