Long Which Poems
Long Which Poems. Below are the most popular long Which by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Which poems by poem length and keyword.
I didn’t want to let her down. She was a fellow teacher in the language institute and a very dear friend. When my husband went on trips, which was often, she’d look out for me, so when she made the suggestion to go to the student banquet, I didn’t have the heart to say no.
We were the first ones there. We chose seats right next to the big floor to ceiling glass windows. Out below us, the sparkling lights of Beirut mesmerized. A young couple sat on the veranda, outside the glass partitions, enjoying a meal in the cool night air. They were warmed by the love that hung around them in the smoke from their hubbly bubblies (hookas). The whole atmosphere was romantic and beautiful. My heart constricted. Slowly the students started to filter in, and invariably, they would come over to give us kisses and greetings. It was a lovely evening, but my heart was heavy. I looked at the beautiful girls: hair…stylishly coiffed, make-up…flawless, dresses and skirts short…tight…revealing….sexy. I tried not to cry as I flashed them all smiles.
Picture taking time: the girls posing like models, showing off long sleek legs, the young men acting cool…models one and all. I sat at my table, feeling old at 46…Old. One of the students would always come over to me and flirt…such a sweet young man. He made me feel young. As I smiled at one of my pretty students further down, I thought to myself as I looked at her…”That, that was ME.” I remembered what it felt like to be young and beautiful, what it felt like to have young men swarm…what it felt like…
I tried to push away the thoughts. I felt someone tap me on the shoulder. I looked up into sky blue eyes peering out at me from a handsome bearded face. There was Ryan, one of the young Americans who had joined our communication staff, camera in hand. He flashed a killer smile as he leaned in and said, above the pounding sound of the live band, “So, when are you going to show us your moves?”
“What?” I looked at him incredulously.
He smiled showing nice even teeth. “The little birdy told me that you are quite the dancer.”
I smiled, feeling like a million dollars. “Maybe not tonight,” was all I could manage.
Eileen M Ghali
TO BE CONTINUED......
At the wharf I donned the Wellington boots
Of the fisher deceased, to trace my roots
And see and feel what it was like at sea
For my uncle a fishing devotee.
The clammy boots were three sizes too large.
I kidded myself that I could take charge,
And fill the boots with fishers' gait and guts
Aware the concept was deluded, nuts.
I felt the lure of expectation loom
As the trawler 'Gen' breached to break dawn's gloom
I embraced the hope of a bumper haul
Of keeper fish, not tiddlers, way too small.
I felt the surge of waves tug at the boots,
Like tentacles dragging against the roots
Which held my soles fast on the slimy deck.
The sea incessant for another wreck.
I felt fish guts, innards, blood and gore,
Slather on boots as fish were brought ashore,
And unloaded in bins brimful with ice.
At days end, bootlegging was hard but nice.
~ Life Is a Kaleidoscope ~
5/25/2026
Life is a game, so, which role do you choose to play?
In lifes’s cacophony of human hearts on display?
What is your role in this drama of millions of metrical, truth-sayers?
I ask myself this, whenver a poem, in moonlight mist, I conjure up to post.
Not expecting a comment from anyone, or to be lauded,
at a literati roast!
I’d much prefer to write poet songs, home alone about
the glory, or angst of relationships.
These are the songs, that dreams are made of, in the moonglowing-sapphiric experience.
Forever dreaming of soft, magical, deep verbiage and longing to hear love’s tender, calls.
The ecstasy, the dreaming, of kissing his expectant
lips, beneath rainbow-misted,of lit gentle, waterfalls.
Do we shape the poem,verily,or..does the magic of a
poem shape us?
Are we here to impress, or dare we try to really connect with another’s spititus?
When you’re shaken and stirred by your love for another
And the song of the heart sends the head to the nether
When you clean all the grim off the hope to discover
The pale ghostly figure of a once strong lover
Standing over your shoulder and in the path before yer
All the words that was spent, all the touches too
How the blood pays the rent when the heart’s overdue
How the future’s forgotten when the past clutches you
How temperament is timed to the reenactments untrue
In the old habitual view of the beacons in the blue
All the wistful dreams admired in the over-exposed night
Secretly mishandled in the darkening morning light
Brilliantly disguised amidst the many a broken right
All pent up, packed and unboxed at heart’s aching sight
For the hard-eyed delight of which no ashes reignite
It’s a curled lip glossy spread and a pout at the ghost
It’s a damaged motor chanting on the road to the coast
Where lone-isle weary figures are cloaked standing on post
Claiming their measure, their misgiving, their bitter boast
About the thieving dream-host to whom they gave their heart most
In me, is my strongest part
...My heart...
It is made of stone
From time alone
Stronger than bone
Super dented Super man
Of the world I'm not a fan
I cannot follow the way it goes
Who knows
As time flows
I have stood on my own
Following a vision once shown
The path I follow
Past the people so hollow
So much I seek
Because once I did peek
Had a quick vision of my tomorrow
I had found my land of no sorrow
So far is my way
Struggle through my day
Stuck in a well
Nobody can tell
In which I fell
Searched so long
For something strong
A heart of ice
Felt nice
But nothing must be felt
... For a heart of ice will soon melt...
Does nothing for feeling of the alone
So my heart became bone
I must not care
I know not fair
I do not dare
Lost in my mind
I find
My spoken word
Is never heard
Your emotions I have never understood
Even if I could
Help you I may
I will not have much to say
Then go my way
You give me your fear
When ever you are near
Your hate
Terrible fate
Your sad
Not mine to be had
This is my crazy
My mind hazy
I am not the same
Maybe the crazy is to blame
I do not care
Do not dare
I want left alone
Says the heart of stone
A world of compassion
The everyday fashion
Should start with me
But, that cannot be
Do you not see
With all I have been shown
It has steadily grown
Now my heart has become stone
Because you broke my heart of bone
The crust which formed 4 billion years ago,
Only came at the extinction of the molten,
And the microbial mat fossils keenly found
From 3.48bn years ago, came from graphite!
Over 99% of all known species are extinct,
Vital life is just a specification of yourself,
You will influence others for better or worse,
Life is ours and not god’s to mould or sculpt.
Those who are by you truly most inspired,
Will inevitably become strong, bit like you,
To supersede, to survive in another’s place,
Such that humankind is becoming better.
Speciation by niche events is very beautiful,
It codes life by behaviour and not by speech,
Inherited genes are based on action, deed,
Rather than on religious articulations devious.
Mass extinction is not normal, ending comes
To every species of any kind in every society:
Up to half of today’s plant and animal species,
Will be extinct by 2100 without question, doubt.
Death is ok, universal, and happens to us all,
It’s normal, and from it comes something good:
From death’s non-entity, speciation happens,
Which allows life’s structures to flow vibrantly.
Evolution does not exclude anyone, no one,
Not the week, not the disabled, not a starfish,
Every individual’s struggle and pride matter,
And the fit, moral, are modelled and mimicked.
I had a nightmare last night that had me shaking in horror
The school nurse told us.
We pulled up chairs to listen,
She was not usually terrified of anything.
She was used to things the rest of us dared not think about.
Wait! Two more yelled. I want to hear!
We surrounded her, staring, expectantly.
In my dream, I got to school next year and
I was told “You are no longer the nurse.
You are a kindergarten teacher.”
I began to protest, since I have never had any training
to be a teacher, but everyone I saw kept saying
“You can do it,” and other compliments.
They led me to a room and it was empty
Nothing on the walls.
I was thinking I need ABC charts, a number line.
I was given a budget of two hundred and fifty
which would not cover snacks for the year.
Then I woke up
Relieved.
Addiction is the compensation for something lost in childhood. You are not addicted to the substance or the thing, but it's a release from the trauma that you compensated with the substance and the addiction those feelings bring What’s crazy is
Most of our lives depend on blind faith
I was given some wise words of wisdom one time in therapy. He said, "You go to sleep with the unconscious faith that in the morning your eyes will open to see a new day." I paused and replied, "Holy crap its true!",
that means we all actually have faith built in even when we doubt we do. Even in doubt, you still have faith every minute of the day with every breath you anticipate that it will oxygenate, moving carbon dioxide from your blood to your lungs. This process is blind faith, aka body’s gas exchange Crazy right to think you’ve been searching for faith, and you have had it all along So when addiction steps in
That faith is skewed or barely hanging on So blame your parents. Just kidding they knew nothing more than what they were taught and what their eyes perceived in their own environment endured, which was full of fear, sadness and anger that unconsciously transferred to us the unaware and new baby who one day too, would be an adult now with trauma and fears without reason until they realize the reason was you. We only seen the aftereffects our caretakers were subjected to due to their upbringing where they learned to neglect, blame and shame not from their own wants but their surroundings, they too were emotionally enslaved and so on before them and all their generations passed too. This is how their trauma affects you. Addiction starts compensating for something lacking, masking an unhealed wound Pain that was never meant for a child to go through or bear painful feelings that don’t belong to you
it's the economy that has taken a major hit
where that paycheck you now receive ain't worth spit
between the bills, the kids, the Metro cards and trying to pay that high rent
your money is gone before you have a chance to see one red cent
it's the economy and what the politicians now are trying to do
is to strip the unions of their rights which will effect me and you
without collective bargaining the workers will lose their power and edge
and those in high positions of power are trying to push us off the ledge
it's the economy that has caused the loss of so many jobs
yet the big banks towards the little people they continue to rob
the government bailed them out when they would have closed their doors
yet they never dispersed any of the money that they had pleaded for
creative accounting, dirivatives, hedge funds and ponzi schemes
it's no wonder that the economy has fallen apart at the seams
President Obama is trying to do the best that he can
but those darn Republicans continue to tie up his hands
it's the economy and hopefully one day it will improve
but if it don't from this country i might have to move
(not really, but just wanted
to get your attention.)
Thus "NOT FAKE," but
poetic quasi true anecdote
infused fictionalized
by this ole goat
with prevarication
to enliven of no note
characteristic, and certainly
not worth quote
ting - for any future
reference material, imp poet
tent to sketch a biography
of one otherwise tote
tem mick drab existence,
that happens
moost would vote
as exhibiting blank pages,
which means no ghost
for me life story needed since
no words needing tubby wrote.
thus the crux of foraging
into how the missus
snorts in her sonorous way
the one repetitive sleepy tune,
that doth not
warrant a veejay,
nor and thespian to reenact
a zonked out spouse from
exercising at the
Y.M.C.A. today,
but each increment of time
imposes additional wear
and tear on the body electric,
thus no place...(except...
Swiss Side or
Willoughby), to runaway
from senescence process
so one must savor
to the maximum propinquity
of each moment
analogous as if one received
money for their
existence as being payday
before day of reckoning,
which could occur any
minute, hour, second...
with no noway
opportune time will
provide any leeway,
especially for those
ping folks immediately
at ground zero, where
husband or wife
kept awake from partner
mercilessly growling drones
hell bent on then simply jay
ping, when agent provocateur
awakens only to find
themselves bound and gagged
unable to attend the
Scottish celebration of hogmanay.