Long Wide Poems
Long Wide Poems. Below are the most popular long Wide by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Wide poems by poem length and keyword.
Upon yon banks where heather waves so fair,
In Scotland's heart, a gem beyond compare,
Loch Lomond lies, embraced by hills and glen,
A sonnet's tale, where verses oft begin.
Beneath the sky, with hues of Highland blue,
Ben Lomond stands, a guardian true,
Its rugged peak, in morning's rosy light,
A Highland symphony, a breathtaking sight.
Thy waters mirror tales of ancient lore,
In every ripple, echoes gone before,
Bonnie boats, with sails unfurling wide,
Glide 'neath the thistle's nod, with Highland pride.
As twilight falls, and stars begin to gleam,
Loch Lomond dreams its own enchanting theme,
A piper's mournful tune upon the breeze,
Weaves through the glen, beneath the ancient trees.
Oh, bracken shores, where history is spun,
Of battles fought and victories hard-won,
In verse, this sonnet finds its way,
To Loch Lomond, where Highland spirits play.
There are few things cannot be fused today.
Even the impossible, there always is a way.
Whenever two things, we need them to meet.
We find a way, even if it’s a miraculous feat.
Something that humans are yet to achieve.
Is a phenomenon that’s very hard to believe.
There is a wide chasm that so many dread.
It’s the gulf between the living and the dead.
Clairvoyants and soothsayers all have tried.
None really have contacted those that died.
Have some really seen ghosts and a spirit?
Did they actually get up close and near it?
Have they returned from Heaven back to earth,
Or souls roaming this planet round its girth?
Spirits not yet, been to Heaven they wait
Searching this world in vain for Heaven's Gate?
It’s not a bridge that He wants us to build.
So we could visit Heaven whenever we willed.
So apart from us seeing a ghost or phantasm.
Heaven to earth is an Unbridgeable Chasm.
Our Black Lives Matter team was hosting
another monthly forum on racism,
as regularly scheduled,
anti-patriarchal business as usual.
The facilitator opened with a question,
asking for a show of hands.
"If you had to choose
between two nominees for public office,
or any form of executive leadership,
one promising multicultural compassion
and the other pledged to national or corporate strength
of will-power,
one emphasizing win/win care-giving and -receiving
and the other loyally getting the practical
win/lose competitively prioritized jobs done
as quickly as possible,
which would you vote for?"
Republicans in our gathering,
although not many,
favored win/lose realistic and efficient will-power,
and the Democrats favored win/win compassion,
and the large majority of Independents
either didn't raise their hands at all,
or raised their hands both times,
or raised both hands in a fist
and just left and right retained positions of resistance.
The facilitator followed up,
"Now, what if a Green Party candidate
integrated these two cultures;
Campaigning for a resilient public/private health care climate
of strong-willed compassion
in solidarity with all Earth's balanced
co-empowering
deep and wide
networked inter-relationships?"
For this, an arcing, unsnarcing, rainbow ovation,
and little more unhealthy
elitist
business as usual.
The night before... I was in turmoil
Wait... was it the night before?
Does it really matter... how the mind will toy?
With how dreams and realities will applaud
It becomes only harder to know what is real
Because of the lies we learn to lie from
And we learn to live by what our survival deals
Yet too far and only too wide have we already gone
You can now sit for a while and watch
You can watch the world and you can see yourself
You can absently see how everything dodge
When you can otherwise see what sells
We are all tame and untamed at the same time
Because no one knows to determine a leader
And because there is no one true way to find
Will we find ways when its easy to just be followers
Was I in turmoil... nights before?
How did i become what i am without guidance?
Have you a life knowing so much more?
Then a life living without reasons?
.....................
COGNIZANT BUT NOT REPENTANT
Her baptism with fire did not provide her healing
as in dust and grime, sharp memories still arise.
The arch of her wide, blue, eyes showed cognizance
but not repentant for long ago actions of the man who
stifled her youth. She despaired.
Shoulder-length is her crown of hair. She has no money,
she modeled naked to earn her stay, this led her far away.
Beyond her, the world died and recovered but she rose
like a cork upon the tide.
Her ruined innocence birthed a fruit of cruel, curled longing.
Spent now, she's in dreamless state; her heart-crimson lips
and flashing red cheeks have been honeyed with whiskey's taste,
mascara snaked about the pale, spiraling emptiness of her eyes.
Yes, she has been defaced; past ghosts hover and infest,
yet, her posture relaxed as she sat in solitude on the balcony,
noiseless, reminiscing by gone days; haunted by dreams
of might have beens before abuse destroyed her thoughts of truth._
____________________________________________________________________
~Inspired by the painting: Portrait of Carol Nye Rhoades
(Robinson) by Katherine Nash Rhoades 1915~
***for Debbie Guzzi's: Ten Paintings, Ten Poems, Ten Days NOT a Contest,
a wonderful learning experience.. Thanks... =`)
__Olive Eloisa D. Guillermo__
January 12, 2015
I thought they'd start calling me Missus Vanzetti
When Fate heard this, he laughed
Beheaded my dream with his black Excalibur
I sit by Bartolo's grave, sprinkling it with petals
Whispering my dreams to his spirit
My diamond ring, it gleams brighter than hope itself
Maybe he'll grab me by the shoulders, shake me awake
It'll all have been a nightmare that rattled my brain
Money, thoughts, and gifts can't bandage my wounds
If this doesn't get better, I'll be the one in the morgue
The one with people surrounding me, eyes wet and wide
Flowers placed and candles burning bright
If only they saw Bartolomeo like I did
The saint who lifted me out of my gloom
But since he slipped from my shaking hands like sand
I've been the only one by his resting place
A life stolen too soon, killed by prejudice
That should be in my arms rather than my thoughts
And in my dream I walk corridors with old creaking floors,
deep in the sanctum of my soul voices stir calling me to come;
and soon, I enter a hall of doors, doors and doors . . .
red doors painted bright, green doors with polished knobs.
Blue, deep and dark lovely blue, and varnished doors,
a heavy ornate church door, is ajar with beckoning hymns drifting;
one hundred year old doors with brass chimes- portals to long ago,
wide barn doors in antique grey, with open wide thresholds.
Doors with chipped white paint- oh my beating heart,
rounded doors, broken doors, some to push, some to pull;
through a long forgotten door- the wreckage of my life . . .
A door opens, new and polished- the entrance to where?
Closed doors, swinging doors, locked doors with a sign Do Not Open,
doors with steps, doors with brass keys dangling;
and doors with chimes, press here for access, my dear,
then, I see two doors side by side, a simple cedar door- a golden door.
Oh, I stand unsure, which door? I hesitate and then,
I put my hand on the knob of the golden door- Nirvana is beyond;
then, I open the simple cedar door, which takes me to the here and now,
and I breathe a sigh of relief, yes, this is exactly where I need to be.
______________________
March 24, 2017
Poetry/Prose Poetry/Doors
Copyright Protected, ID 17-9602-78-0
All Rights Reserved. Written Under Pseudonym.
Riches Of The Heart
Joanna Davis
Tinkle, tinkle, all is glass!
Ruby link to emerald clasp.
Bright and shining clear and cold,
Bewitching both the young and old.
Some thought Africans “quite deranged,”
When for gold, beads they exchanged.
Yet no jewelled trinket, on the skin,
Compares to beauty from within.
Sailors crossed the ocean wide,
Savage barbarism, in every stride.
Bible filled with king’s commands,
To steal another’s sacred lands.
Children, forced to daily toil,
On hands and knees beneath the soil.
For black gold, hard as coal,
They willingly sold their mortal sole.
While this world forever turns,
Lessons, some will never learn.
The riches that set us apart,
Are deep within the human heart.
Nellie B. Chandler
1897-1911
There I am.
Here I am now.
I am the six year old girl
Behind the glass window
That wide open wedge to the north
From inside my classroom there
At Evergreen school, ‘neath
The towering ascending elm trees there,
Shrouded in immense shade.
I am standing and staring there
Daydreaming and yearning and desiring
For my mama and papa
To come get me here,
Wishing and waiting, waiting and hoping
For them to come get me and take me home.
I hate it here!
I hate school!
My forward gaze to the north
Extends out forever as the moon
stretches its beams, outward outward, and beyond
The limitless fantastic scenes in black space.
I see out there to the north
I see four faces in the distance there,
Friendly faces, familiar faces
Of family and friends, all
Now asleep with me here,
Here in the cool calm tombs
Of Mt. Olive Cemetery.
There I am.
Here I am now.
Mama. Papa. Come get me!
I hate it here!
I am waiting…waiting…waiting…
Shrouded in immense shade.
The Gift of the Grace within
The first is the anchor, dropped deep in the soul,
A gift unearned, making the fractured heart whole
The dual river for no merit, no earning of worth,
But pours from the heavens to swallow the earth
In mercy absolute, boundless, and free
That saves and sustains the quiet refuge
Where the captive inner stillness goes free
It is saving grace, the wide, open door
Where human efforts need struggle no more
The second is the current, the fire, the wind,
The strength that begins where our boundaries end
It steps into weakness, a dynamic power,
To train and transform in the turbulent hour
When cultural storms and fierce disorders roll,
It guards the deep temple and comforts the soul
The sacred empowerment sustaining grace, the pillar of might
Turning our darkness to active, soft light
One lifts us from valleys and sets us on mountain above,
The other empowers our walking in harmony, peace and love
Both flow from the Author, the finisher and the king,
The shelter and stillness to which we now cling
Clinging to the unmerited that is sufficient fulfilment
Clinging to the finisher with divine enablement
Clinging to the inner stillness and emotional shelter in the kin
Cling to the two-fold favour and the gift of grace within.