Long Well wisher Poems
Long Well wisher Poems. Below are the most popular long Well wisher by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Well wisher poems by poem length and keyword.
1. THE STORM
COPYRIGHT-POETESS-ANJALI DENANDI,MOM
The storm - from where, it comes
Why - comes, it ? Where, it goes ?
When - it came first ?
Forever it goes and comes
Has it any good effect ? Who knows ?
Destroy ! Just destroy ! Just- ! Must !
The nature becomes calm -
All know - it is the before stage of storm !
Oh! Fear ! The nest thinks - on the tree palm !
The storm has no own form ;
Yet - it has very strong action !
Which can break the mother's emotion !
Lives become hopeless by it !
Forever It can stop the heart beat !
Branches never come back as alive !
The buds and baby-birds never come back !
But the storm returns again and again ...!
Bee-eggs never come back -
But after storm - again bees build the hive !
Though trees feel pain -
Yet - branches , buds come back again !
The new branches , buds , baby-birds , eggs -
Take place on the empty places -
The new nests become happy again !
Cont’d
But no kindness of the storm's invisible legs ,
These always break the sweet dreams !
For these bad works - the storm feels the happiness !
To the storm - who blesses ? ! -
Try - in minds - for own love placings !
Oh ! The storm ! What do you mean ? ! -
Now - find and think about blessings !
Yes ! Yes ! Yes ! - - -
Be the well wisher of the nature ! Please !
Not destroys - creations are the lives - keys !
In front good works - down your knees !
Know - follow - who is your creator ? Who is ---
2. AN AIRY AFTERNOON
COPYRIGHT-POETESS- ANJALI DENANDI,MOM
In an airy afternoon-
I float by my little boat, on river-
Smiles, on sky, the silent moon-
I gift it my loving-look, from very far!
Waves touch my feet, which are naked;
These waves are too busy-
These never come back!
Some very little children, they are naked,
They enjoy around my boat, I see and see---
And eat pop-corn from my jute's sack;
Fishes are seen sometimes on open air-
Again hide in deep water;
My white sail- is in joy of freedom!
I reach very far from my little home!
My pets, my dog and my talking parrot,
Freely walk on my happy boat;
I call,"Hey! Children! Come here!
Yes! Please! Stand on my side;"
They do, like my speech!
Then go and on a big horse, they ride!
Which stands on bank, without speech!
of the world war (3rd!)
I'm not the forced applicant
I don't wanna be the forced applicant
of the world war (3rd!)
no; I'm not the well-wisher
not the advance receptionist
columnist, they are political analyst
journalist, they are critics of the war
socialist, they are international relationship scientist
they can greet in advance as horror enjoyer
their provocative speech, writings, paintings
as if now decorate the war in advance (3rd!)
far away, have gone far away
the first and second world wars
the earth became the asylum of the universe
oh! pain, sorrow, melancholic days of mother
for her child have gone far away,
waiting days of a new bride for her groom
became the fire on the pyre,
the orphanage became the address of the humanism
now far away, the remembrance of the wars
I'm on the Bay of Bangle,
this sub-continental, inter-continental,
continental birds chirping
soul-stirring and I love independently
of the world war (3rd!)
I'm not the advanced writer
don't wanna be the spokesman
or blood painter
cause-
the vernal breeze here gives me warm embraces,
eyes of the butterflies still here find the flowers,
busy days of ants here teaches me-
" a stitch in time saves nine"
here on this Bay of Bangle
five times Azan of Muazzin from the holy Masjid,
the pleasing sound of the Temple bell,
air balloon in the full moon night of Buddha day,
praying of the holy Easter Sunday
teach me the unity of love and universal brotherhood
I cannot paint in my dictions
the advance blood of world war (3rd!),
I cannot speak advance in my writings
the scheme of world war (3rd!),
I'm not the fertile blind prophet Tiresias
then I'll be liable for that blood war (3rd!)
more than the bloodsucker imperialist politician,
if I write, speak, paint advance the forecast of undesired war
© Mahtab Bangalee
Chattogram
October 22,2019
Lord, you know I never will be perfect,
so I won’t lie and promise to be something I am not.
Lord, you know I’m weak, but with your help,
I pray I can be strong.
For myself, I don’t have much to ask.
I count my blessings daily because I am so grateful
for my health and sanity, friends and family,
the comfort of my home and spouse,
and a job that is fulfilling.
For all the little things that mean so much to me
I thank you too:
for the food I daily savor, which also feeds my body;
for the many things each day that feed my soul -
like the beauty of the land and mountains, sea and sky,
flowers, trees and creatures I have kept as pets;
for the knowledge I’ve obtained from books and classes
and the wisdom of the ages imparted to us all;
and I greatly thank you for the talent that you gave
to actors, dancers, artists, musicians, and all the many others
producing songs, movies, shows, artwork, and sweet poetry,
for you know me, Lord, and how much I adore
those worlds created from the fertile mind,
so I thank you for that portion of talent that you gave to me,
for it has brought me to a place of joy.
Finally, but most importantly, I ask that you would bless
the sick, the poor and the downtrodden, lost souls and
those who suffer from abuse.
Of all the virtues which a goodly soul should have,
I believe it’s charity I need the most.
It’s not enough to be a mere well-wisher.
I pray that I will take more opportunities given me
to bless the lives of others.
My recent sufferings have been so small
compared to that of many others in this world.
So I know that I should have a grateful heart,
for by experiencing pain myself, I have gained more empathy
for my fellow man and I’ve learned to more appreciate
those days when I feel splendid
in body, mind, and spirit.
And thank you, God, for letting me feel free to just be me!
The Calamity of Nepal Part 2 Concluded
The crisis of Nepal is not only the result
Of manmade deeds and erratic constructions
Of erecting unplanned houses and roads
Creating illegal buildings and dams
And erecting high mountain reservoirs
On ocean like river Brahmaputra. 08
All these and many other
Horrible acts
Of changing or removing the mountain peaks
For roads, rails and for
Making concrete jungles
Without caring that
It is the most sensitive area of Earth
Where two giant Earth plates
Meet regularly almost everyday
Not for making gossips
But for making their kind of Love
Where, they often collide with each other
To determine, who has lost and who has won
These forces create
Havocs like the one we are witnessing in Nepal
They do it to take revenge
For the cruelties
Done by humans with the Nature
And with the mother earth. 09
The Earthquake is also the result
Of hollowing the heart of Himalaya
For making tunnels after tunnels and rails
For mining the hills and
Deforesting the green valleys
Removing forests after forests
For illegal mining and for erecting dams
For these reasons perhaps
The Earthquakes has hit Nepal and India both
But in Nepal it has done the worst
In spite of being affected by this crisis too
India is trying its best to help the people of Nepal
And now there are many other countries
Trying and helping the people of Nepal
Like a true good neighbor and well wisher. 10
All that is needed
In the hour of this terrible crisis
Is that we all should try to help
The people of Nepal
Treating them like our own
Next door neighbors and friends
For which every faith and religion
Always inspires us. 11
Ravindra K Kapoor
Kanpur India 30th April 2015
Linda is making her urgent plea today
to all who read her desperate message;
she asks for comforting words and prayers
for her son Eric, who is going to Iraq, whose
pride and courage reflects a young age.
Go, Eric from your loved Motherland
and bring along the Star-Spangled flag...
to remind you of a mission of liberty,
to open the eyes of those deceived by tyranny;
go, Eric and bring along God's mercy.
Saying goodbye may be too hard,
so let tears flow to release much pain,
and your sacrifice is another child's gain...
an American soldier being there to transform ugliness into beauty,
to let him, or her see how a kind and loving stranger can change their destiny.
Go, Eric and make America proud with your manly ego,
and tell your mom that another unforgettable hero
will be added to the long list of those who planted their seed;
and on his return his family and friends will hug him
and congratulate him for his bravery and grit.
God's protection is invoked by a well-wisher and a caring person like me...
to bring you home in the shortest time, safe and sound;
and may the desert nights help you find that special friend in the stars,
and may the long days resemble the radiant sun's face, and should
you break down and cry: don't let despair be your demise.
Embrace your mother, and kiss her tenderly,
show her how strong and confident you are...
to go overseas and engage in a war still fought with atrocity;
look afar...visualize the moments of your glory:
when you'll land on your adored and beloved shore.
Inspired by Linda-Marie Bariana's Blog
Copyright 2010 by Andrew Crisci
My eyes are platinum, an abyss
They reflect the midday sky, a blue relic
I blink back molten metal tears
These garments are loose bleeding petals
They hang like rolls of skin, peeling and shedding
Billowing and sagging a Gothic shape
Black and bright this sight of mine
Shimmering like veils of flaming satin
A glazed, mirrory gleam of invisibility
What of these nerve coils?
This case of absolute lambaste
I haven't a qualm of the raven's hallmark
I alight, steadfast and amiable
Blinking my eyes of evanescing quarters
Upon the ghastly faltering rip tide of Atlantis
A trick, a favorable fancy, a visionary swarming with ivory
It knocked me faint with copious screams
A miracle! It would have killed me!
What sort of jungle gutter has exploded over there?
Unstrung jellyfish kissed by acetylene
Fossils of shame, their death was delicate
I am too pure for this me-lieu
The last Victorian league
A grandiose comet trailing innards of ancient origins
Berries rot under the summer's tombstone
Buried under scant reeds, skinny and dusty
Our folk are braced for eelish lichens
Perfectly violent, shopworn and blemished
Til the pique of all furor does daunt and amaze
The gift of something beautiful, luxurious and annihilating
Where is my well-wisher, the paragon saint?
I've been hoodwinked by the moon-eyes sleuth!
Your death, oh gracious! I'll see it burnt and blood-splattered
I'll remember the Albatross of Atlantis
Home of the Arcadian Devil, tongueless and flimsy
A world of blue vol-ted days in a nostalgic geranium universe.
One primary school scrunchy—strands of blond hair in the folds.
Two baby teeth my son had extracted himself—
payment for the Thwirly he had broken (the two 20c pieces from the tooth fairy in tissue paper).
The replacement clothes line in its original wrapper.
A set of Yale lock keys for doors forever closed and gladly put behind me.
One stick of cinnamon flavoured bubblegum from a time when I stopped smoking.
A Polaroid, circa Christmas 2003, of when I had won the Miss Legs contest,
the champagne cork from my divorce celebration a year later, next to it.
A Ziploc bag containing:
TheFacebook password on a scrap of paper—I’m missing the simplicity of back then;
an Oyster card for December 2012—never used as London was snowed in;
the gold Tower of London charm, missing for decades—the charm bracelet lost in a robbery;
a faux silver money clip holding a fiver and a dollar bill for monetary good luck.
The guest list for my second marriage—a haphazard scribble at best.
That photo (from a well-wisher) of my first husband with his ‘gym buddy’.
His pristine gym membership card—the second venue for his serious cardio workout.
One dead cockroach—I guess they are not immortal after all.
A 1980 contest slip for Who shot J.R.?—I had it wrong, anyway—jolted me back to reality.
A toy kitchen sink in an immaculate condition—let’s face it: an unrealistic ideal.
Everything, including the kitchen sink, except the cable ties I was looking for.
Oh! - Answered he, who is the sculptor of the forest's soul,
- I've lived in the songs and myths, in the hair
Of maidens who romanced me, and in my own nightmare.
There is an ellipsis right between an apotheosis
That submits the soul to a life-long worship, and a kindred mind.
Worship of what? Ex nihilio? Well, I see myself as no epigone
Of anything, in particular, but everything in general.
I am a hearer of ardent spirits that husband untouchable justice,
A pectus enkindled in thorns and brambles,
A visionary of phantasies in a hidden repository of probity,
Where I bade you to come with me onto this journey,
As I behold you, present before me, awash in
Licentious suggestions, as a well-wisher full of warmth,
And irresistible glow where no assiduity is being judged,
But conveyed when I call you to the helm.
The intricacies of silence, the ingredients of fatalism, and subordination,
Are characteristics and autonomous tendencies of certitude,
In my view, as I bestow the attributes of intuition that detect darkness,
And the darkness detects the evil you emit, and the evil is
“The thing-in-itself” according to Kant which I ruthlessly deny!
As a contrarian I advocate a different shape of intelligence,
Existent between absurdism and Quixotism, sparking my
Passion, bursting with desire to define eminence,
But leaving you to shape the soul of the forest,
Or good or evil in it, as it is your domain, your knight-errantry,
And I? I am only your occasional, lonely guest.
i send ................... copyright-poet-mrs. anjali denandee , mom .................................................................................. hey ! you ! the falling-dry-leaf !......... you come down ....... with beautiful artistic movement........... you are too-free................ you leave .............. your past tree......... it is the rule of the nature.......... the ending is must of a life..... you was green......... now you are brown............ you touch the ground........ and then it asks ,...... '' where have you been ? ''......... you say nothing , then......... you became the dead , then............ beneath the tree........... you take place.......... it is your present address.......... then i pick up you........ and on you................. i write by my unseen ink of the mind............ '' i love you ! ''........... i send you........... to find out my lover.... you find........ and then take place........ on her palm............ and she write on you then...... by her tear............ again.... '' i love you too ! my dear ! ''.......... you return again to me, then.......... and i say to you ........ '' welcome ! ''......... and give place ........ again , on my palm.......... yes........... after your death also............ you are very useful ; oh !.............. just like the alive...... of your past-life........ you are my well-wisher..... yes...i shall keep you.......keep.......... hi ! you ! the leaf !.......... ...............................................
Why is it that I truly feel
if you step inside my messy house
you see inside my messy soul?
Clothes strewn about
translate into my issues on never being warm enough
no, cold enough - or, I mean, finding that happy medium
Last night's dishes still in the sink
translate into my yet undigested thoughts
on last night's conversation
and those flowers, dead I might add,
in the vase on the counter,
translate into a well wisher that I simply haven't thanked.
Why is it that you must see all of this?
A cluttered room is a cluttered mind?
Could that be my philosophy in your knowing eyes?
Whatever the case, you know me so well
I open my door with wide open arms
and then the miraculous happening occurs.
You pick up my clothes, I'm suddenly comfortable.
You make me some coffee and wash up my dishes
and last night's conversation settles in my stomach
with clear understanding and ease
and you throw the flowers out the back door, wash the vase
(now mineral deposit stained opaque)
and hand me the phone with a soapy hand to make a thank you call.
Is it really that I just needed a little tender care?
Could that be the secret to an organized existence?
For, suddenly, I am free.
Spotless house, spotless mind
-a new philosophy-
and I find I owe you for this Spring cleaning yet again...