Long Wields Poems
Long Wields Poems. Below are the most popular long Wields by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Wields poems by poem length and keyword.
How is it Possible?
How is it possible that one can be a pluralist and still be true to the savior?
I am the way the truth and the life, he said!
I AM!
Not confession or even faith, but I AM THE WAY!
And in him was life and the life was the light of men!
He is the light of the Bodhisattva!
He is the light of Buddha!
He is the light of Allah!
He is the light of Siva!
He is the wisdom of agnostic intellectuals!
He is the fury of feminist revolution!
He is the joy of liberation!
He is the burning beat of rhythm in the streets!
No man has seen God, but the SON OF MAN HATH PROCLAIMED HER!!
From the Jews who he chose!
To his humility to learn of the suffering of men!
To his exaltation!
IT HAS BEEN HIM ALL ALONG!!
ONE MEDIATOR BETWEEN GOD AND MAN!
I AM THAT I AM!
The burning fire of love that transforms all things!
And so you ask, who shall not make it?
Some may see hell, but they will not stay there!
For God rains on the Just and the Unjust!
For God will have mercy on who she will have mercy!
And so, in the end, All shall be reconciled!
He is the WAY, THE TRUTH, AND THE LIFE,
He is the wisdom of the Vedas,
He is the weak and strong force that holds all things together!
And enabled Teilhard de Chardin to speak truth to power!
He is the light of Ghandi’s nonviolence!
He is the strength of Mary’s courage!
He is the love of mother God!
Dancing in Trinitarian Jazz,
With the spirit that he wields and who wields him!
God of the Chosen!
God of Hagar’s son!
God of the East!
Lord of the Magi!
And King Supreme!
Though meek and Lowly,
He is unafraid of our exploration!
He is unafraid of the beauty of men laying with men, and women laying with women!
For he is love incarnate!
And he is THE WAY THE TRUTH AND THE LIFE!
And he shall birth new Deborah’s and New Joshuas
To change the face of Arrakis,
For he is the Quizazk Zaterack,
He is the communion of the saints and the power of the ancestors!
And in him, he has reconciled male and female,
Black and White,
He is unafraid of justice,
And with justice he wields punishment on corporate monopolies and white supremacy!
He is unafraid!
Risen, Strong, True, Just, but Merciful.
And so in the end, all shall know the beauty of God eternal.
For we shall see Angels ascending and descending on the son of man.
Amen.
The Maker : Knit and Purl
The Maker wields the needles
of predestination and free will,
One in each strong, talented hand.
Knitting the yarn and thread of our lives
Into the fabric of time with such love.
Knit ,with predestination;
His will is done.
Purl ,with free will;
Our choices made.
Knit and purl, purl and knit,
The pattern known to Him and yet
allowed to be as it is, who it is.
It is when choice agrees with His will
That the pattern becomes
as beautiful as He intended.
Until the tapestry of lives
form who we are, why we are.
Interlocking with others,
Becoming part of the
pattern of all things.
The Enemy cuts
With sharp shears of deceit.
Maniacally ripping jagged holes.
The Maker patiently mends
With healing truth and love.
Knit and purl, purl and knit
Until we are whole again.
Form:
Did you watch it, what a show
Little Mikey slammed around,
Battered slowly blow by blow
With accusations that astound.
Pocahontas on the war path,
She’s the one that wields the axe,
Indignation, poisoned wrath
Her solutions just more tax.
Crazy Bernie full of zeal
Flaring nostrils squinting eyes,
Somewhat bridled brought to heel,
Marxist fervor cut to size.
Sleepy Joe clearly not there
A hologram appearing in his place,
To his chances not a prayer
Slipping badly from the race
Mayor Pete, Amy who?
Going at it head to head,
Lots of insults, no breakthrough
Further progress all but dead.
So who won you might well ask
All who watched could that one see,
There's but one person for the task
And that person's clearly me.
Alan Shepard, astronaut, took golf balls to the moon
He whacked them only when he knew that he’d be leaving soon
‘One flew two hundred yards,’ he said, ‘and as I recollect
one came down in a crater, although I never checked.’
In seventy-one that bit of fun by NASA was allowed
Such jollity in twenty-one would now be disavowed
Like all the stuff they’ve left behind those golf balls lay there stranded
At least they do if it is true that both those golf balls landed
And then it all got boring with rockets on the wain
Those Saturn V Apollos superseded by a plane
Referred to as the shuttle like a boat, a bus or train
I doubt that space flights ever will excite me once again
Be careful what you wish for: is that not what they say
Something mad is happening, in outer space today
It should be so exciting as beyond the Milky Way
A hurtling flying saucer makes our population pray
It’s passing stars and galaxies at speeds beyond compare
We know it’s heading here because it didn’t stop off there
And now the bloggers tell us what the BBC refutes
It doesn’t come in peace because it’s loaded up with nukes
And finally it slowed down as upon our moon it came
And then it simply hovered there like it was taking aim
Then each TV and radio and stuff with speakers in
Crackled into life with a God almighty din
You humans shall obey these words and leave to us your earth
Or you shall be destroyed because you are of little worth
And then that space-ship blew apart as something smashed its shields
In orbit its astounding how much power a golf ball wields
***
[Postscript: in 1971, Alan Shepard took two golfballs and a modified club to the moon. Apparently, aware that any ‘whoops’ moments might be blamed on ‘larking about’, this was sanctioned on the proviso that all scheduled tasks had already been completed: thus Shepard teed off shortly before leaving the moon. To this day, Shepard retains the record for the longest golf shot on the moon... Duh!]
Hey lover
Another year has passed
But it's the same old story.
Like how the rabbit fell
And Alice flew
A pretty turn, a flaw in my mind.
But of course,
A lover is only worth a penny in the den
A God that wields man.
So please bury me in pride, and dignity
Hey lover, when you walk over my grave
Turn and kiss me
Don't fall in whole
One heart is enough
When you run into my heart
In the false meadows of love
Please, keep my blood in your veins.
We fall, scramble, cry
You dig your claws into my soul
Oh my agony, in pain and seclusion
We fall, scramble, cry
You dig your claws into my soul
Lemon in my throat,
Acid in my brain
My hat won't work, mad hatter
Guess one's handiwork is enough to make one fall in deep
Street of love,
Bed of roses
Make sure not to fall,
Oh, pure evergreen saint.
For my heart will rot in despair,
Dear lover.
When Truth goes down to the Center,
To the Bottom of all things,
It makes the way for wedding dresses,
And tailored suits, and rings.
If you cannot tell all you’ve ever been,
And done, you may be sure…
That one day the awful truth will out,
And you’ll be on opposite sides
Of the door…
So I must advise (myself above all)
That the way to trust your friends,
Is to sign up for the Truth Detail,
Where nobody possesses hidden ends,
Where nobody exposes what’s already shown,
For nobody has secrets that wait to be blown,
For the Truth is a Healer, who wields cup, or sword,
And the Truth needs no Lawyer, to cut up the hoard.
When Truth goes to the Center,
He cuts out the disease,
And then, people can love
Without secrets to please.
"A melody whispers through the trees in the Autumnal season.
A colorful song, a sing along, and nature's beauty is the reason."
~ by poet
In the night, a mellow mist softly veiled
verdant meadows, and over valleys it hailed.
But in dawning skies, sunshine prevailed.
His golden rays warmed the lands,
and it was trusted to him for safe keeping.
Leaves rustled from gentle winds sweeping
as willow branches began their weeping.
Autumnal changes made many demands.
Tree limbs are bare in this season of the year.
They seem to be desolately sad and drear
as though gloomy, in mourning they appear.
In a flux of malaise is a grove of elms.
Pumpkins are being harvested in fields.
Maize and wheat crops giving abundant yields.
Scythes, the tools, the farmer now wields.
With a chromatic palette, Autumn overwhelms.
Upon heavy boughs, ripened apples teeter.
The early harvest produces those much sweeter.
These things I see and write in poetic meter.
I see migratory birds flapping their wings.
Daylight dims much sooner in this season.
Mother Nature's calendar is the reason
the night air has a chill that I find quite pleasin.'
What breathtaking landscapes, Autumn brings.
Shades of crimson, burnt umber and gold
covers hillsides with hues so strikingly bold.
Blazing, like flames of fire, the colors unfold.
The scent of oak woodsmoke fills the air.
Keats' 'To Autumn,' speaks of "swelling the gourd."
Squirrels are scurrying to collect acorns to hoard,
and we'll have a feast in thanksgiving to our Lord.
Autumnal glory has a vivid flare beyond compare.
Soft and smooth, freshly manicured with
No trace left behind of struggle or woe;
Hard to gauge the multitude of daily trials
Or the enormous good and success bestowed.
He’s not afraid to let harsh enemies see his strength.
Strong and firm, his grasp telegraphs immaculate powers,
His steeled convictions and unyielding determination,
And the hell that might rain down in furious showers.
From all directions his enemies test his mettle
Then find themselves wilted on bloody ground.
Respect replaces immature, misguided disdain and fear
When he wields the power of Light and sound.
Gentle, with kindness and bountiful praise
He guides his family and subordinates through remarkable lives.
To others, “You will do it because if you don't...” his favorite phrase,
As he looks intently into their cowardly eyes.
There’s no wavering, no fear. His hopeful message is crystal clear.
Each declaration of his executive powers is deliberately penned
To fight prior injustices, selfish evil, and despicable greed.
The American people know in his powerful hands is all the strength we need.
Max, the politician, wields a razor-sharp axe,
Slicing his chicken-bleep opponents' necks and backs.
"How dare they accuse me of power politics?" Max asks,
Innocent jowls masking the jaws of a shark's attack.
His gangland campaign staff for money never lacks;
Max' men shake down local pimps, and dealers of cocaine and crack.
As for the fuzz, Max is hip; he's got the inside track:
Scoring deals for them on the best ecstasy and smack.
First elected back in '72, Max walked the length and breadth of the state,
A reformer, he was, a renegade; at least the voters thought so and fell for the bait.
Ensconced in palatial power ever since, Max has glad-handed, partied, drank, and ate.
A 'politician's pol' all these years, his formidable paunch and polling punch have proven great.
Belly out over his belt, this balloon of a man once again challenges fate,
Can he hang on again in 2018, or will this be Max' last hurrah on the party's election slate?
When I read my old poetry, I'm quite saddened about the lines,
ones filled with pain, sorrow and anger, all those of my declines.
I looked back at the decades of my life, and found myself pondering,
how life is like a parade, people passing by and just keep wandering.
Choices I've made along the way determine who I am and why.
The voices I hear every day make me laugh, some make me cry.
I've looked through envious eyes, but those visions were too dark,
when the old personality dies, it's easier to find a new path to walk.
I admonished the one I used to be, but she wields my pen and ink.
She writes poetic verses about all kinds of things before I can think.
She pens stories of past longing and of loves that were left behind,
of the need for belonging, and of the memories that tickle her mind.
I let her have a free hand; she's not an easy muse to hold down,
and when I try to take the pen, she draws a face wearing a frown.
She's my conscience when I falter, a voice guiding me from wrong.
I'm the horse that wears a halter, she holds my reins all day long.
I'm content with life and no longer care about what could've been.
I looked down at what she'd penned; a smiley face wearing a grin.