Long Wishful thinking Poems
Long Wishful thinking Poems. Below are the most popular long Wishful thinking by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Wishful thinking poems by poem length and keyword.
Not only a single Universe is existing !
Modern Science is predicting about Multiverses
Our whole solar system holds the same position
compared to a single sand particle in Satara Desert :
I am totally confused about my identity in this vastness.
No idea, when or where or how to enter or exit .
Where are these worlds ! Onward - backward!
within Space - time boundary or beyond,
might be Spiritual realms in fourth dimension
above human perception !
My existence in this Earth is beyond my explanation.
I am born in this Earth through inevitable Evolution
and approaching Death on natural process.
I can't assess what's waiting in my 'After-Life ' phase !
I can neither assure about immortality of so-called 'Soul '
nor any knowledge about re -incarnation,
Yet I wish to believe in both.
Actually, no doubt that this belief to sprout
from wishful thinking of Humankind.
No human being can't think
of his or her complete extinction.
Photographs fixed in fixative curse memories to fade,
As they are too true and static, starkly black and white.
Recalling a snap-shot, not how you want your memories made.
Each scene fixed in time, ever fading thereafter, in the light.
We want our memories to age gracefully, not fade,
Embellished by fuzz that blurs the lines to soft and warm,
With wishful thinking blotting out the bad bits made,
Enhancing the good bits, to pride of place in the reform.
The ghosts hanging on the wall, now growing pale,
Are not ghosts at all, for ghosts are living apparitions.
That change, as our memories change their every detail.
We want our memories to grow, not to have fixed positions.
In fading photographs of loved ones and scenes we find,
Unwanted forgotten memories, not what we had in mind.
In case of article fourteen
Quite a problem could have been
Solved completely, setting free
All from tribal pedigree
No prejudice would take place
Based on nation or the race
No one meets with deprivation
Well protected by convention
Be it truth, we could have been
Living in most fairiest dream
Ever dreamt about, or heard
Magic of the written word
Would reach out the moral height
For the sake of human rights
But of course it’s just a joke
Article fourteen evokes
Well known habit to proclaim
Vaguely written rules of game
That’s not law, but just convention
Paving hell with good intention
Fence the road, and change some slabs
Re-elect old fags and hags
No one reads conventions, man
Wishful thinking is a damn
That’s innate with human race
I would really be amazed
If the article fourteen
Meant to be a real thing.
This table is for eagles only.
Where the tough, dirty, necessary decisions are made.
Now and again, an asp raises its rage.
It has to be engaged with one way or another.
The other table is for sparrows only.
Where there's an abundance of procrastination and indecision.
Much chirping about feelings and matters of the heart.
I'm where I belong, at the big table.
Right aside focus, logic, and reasoning
Negotiating and dialogue percolating, black coffee is on.
You are where you belong, at the small table.
Aside from haze, wishful thinking, daydreaming.
Naivety to a fault, Cappuccino is on.
When the asp hits the fan, and it will.
You're welcome to dive under the big table.
Just keep your wings tucked; the eagles will be flying at will.
if i saw you watching the waterfall
i was admire you from afar and not disturb your reverie
in life, what god intends does not always match dreams or wishful thinking
knowing this, i accept and never question Him
i appreciate our friendship as it is and as it is meant to be Through God's Eyes
i smile as you realize Your Worth after leaving him
while it is a doggone shame that he did not see you as the Queen that i have become so blessed to get to know
i admire and am inspired of how much you have flourished after the fact
i turn to leave as i get the last of my fill
as you turn around, our eyes meet for the smallest of seconds
my face hidden by the shade and the mask that a stony wall provides
you turn your head and continue to take all of the waterfall's vibe in
i take a sneaky mystery selfie and send it to my Sweets
faithfulness and knowing where Home and Love is guides me to her car that She is letting my borrow until mine gets fixed
i depart to go get my Sweets her favorite chicken cobb salad
God Smiles via the gently shining sun and gifts me with a safe drive Home
Roman à clef tragicomedy...
overlaid with façade of fiction = Mein Kampf
No need for yours truly to dig deep,
(albeit bonafide figuratively)
by Dickens thru mine Uriah Heep,
a gnarled mass creep
ping, comprising, encompassing, glomming
abysmal existence strewn with hard times,
such that I wanna leap
out this metaphorical bleak house,
a black hole in the wall swallowing
i.e. disallowing any peep
ordinarily yawping, proliferating, flirting...
now fumfering lamely issued by keep
ping low profile super tramping cheap
trickster, our mutual
friend Matthew Scott Harris,
where lack of functioning heating unit
(think male organ if ye will)
upended, rendered, discombobulated...
scrappy body electric hominid
to experience quality sleep.
Principal reason I write
to balance and aright
unexpected largesse
(thank you dad), where
eyes suddenly got bright
and bushy tail incessantly
wagged day and night,
a sensible palliative temporarily
eased penury plight,
which cash equivalent,
viz four Benjamins alleviated quite
helpful thwarting necessity to fight
off bill collectors brandishing
armstrong lance's compelling me
to summon black knight
in shining armor lodged within white
castle amidst prickly bishop
obviously one prone easily to excite
amusing little lord Fauntleroy
groomed as heir to throne,
enthusiasm since his birth did ignite
(Aesop pose) storybook life,
where fanciful elation did take flight
buzzfeeding, droning, feasting
on par with Mister
Bumble bee in flight
sweet nectar amidst lilies of the field
analogous to stripling Adam - fine lad
eve vent chilly seeking delight.
Ah to gather rose while ye may
tis futile wishful thinking,
now at mine three
score orbitz round sun,
which libido far out at bay
prurient predilections once
spawn time wracked to lay
waste vestal virgin such as... Little Dorrit,
now... raging hormones stagnant clay
hardened, atrophied, eutrophied,
jackknifed limp bizkit
long bereft testy tickle
yar seaman quizzical,
slack jawed, and sullen at
deserted abandoned cobwebbed quay
ignored do not enter, keep out,
private property signals desiccated,
no place for Peter to take holiday
barring ingress to ply skin flute
amidst hollerin hootenanny,
perhaps convincingly explaining
welcoming Voldemort without delay.
tension between
this singular male offspring and me dad
proved more ineradicable
then tensile strengthened steel rebar
which wall veritably, unequivocally,
terribly outlived purposefulness, egad
yet remained intact
even after this son left off
way after being a lad
din viz Harris heir,
withstood the test of time,
sans supremely
wrought impenetrable barrier
(hermetically sealing off
my pre and post pubescent self)
against mad as a red bull, who coped
by escaping to bedroom pad
wherein emotional wounds got nursed
finding me both angry and sad
forsooth wishful thinking,
where disappearance powers
increased by exponential magnitudes
by the sluggish passing hours
envisioning thyself,
absorbed by bedspread flowers
quilted manually, oh so inviting bowers
which idyllic dreamy state
shattered as heavy footsteps
up the staircase found me ire rate
what chutzpah!
No matter ma mama and papa
(two time tested battering rams) aye he quate
attempted without success
to demolish invisible, inimitable,
and impregnable fortress blockade
solely existed in my pate,
and reinforced with obelisks of iron,
when I got tubby late
into my second decade of life stricken
with a woebegone miserable fate.
Form:
Don't want to put a hex on things
But this winter is feeling more like spring
The grass in the park across the way
Is popping up thinking it's a warm spring day
No no lie down you silly grass
Winter's still here you're making me laugh
Everyone and everything is so confused
The weather gods must be quite amused
If only this winter was done and over
We could run and skip and roll in the clover
Now silly me, Canada's where I roam
It ain't spring yet, can't you hear me moan
It's just wishful thinking, more snow on the way
But it'd sure be great if it was here to stay
I'd run around naked picking pretty flowers
Maybe I should go put on some trousers!
Sorry my friends, I was lost in a dream
Wake up Jack, you're delusional it seems
I imagine it as
the embodiment of
the scent of despair
Or the sting of gloom
On a sore tongue
It slithered into my
unsuspecting mind's eye
I felt its chill crawl down my spine
I thought someone had
just walked upon my grave
when this furious rattling started
Akin to a miffed serpent's tail
A flurry blur of rapid motion
Quivering wildly through my mind
Like a bony twig's last leaf
That bravely flutters with vigor
In protest against the wind
which shoulders the burden of
autumn's periodic shedding spree
Its relentless frantic fit of frenzy
Drives my mind into a prison of terror
Where shivers of impending doom
Torment my cowering soul
All of a sudden the storm abates
It decides to fade away
Disappearing into the fog of confusion
Now swirling around and clouding
My perplexed subconscious
When I finally come to
Wishful thinking takes over
trying to soothe my bruised ego
If only this, if only that, o if only
If only I had latched onto its tail...
Hindsight is an awful time keeper
Always later than late!
But all the same if only...
I could have made it hold still
for a moment
Just long enough for me to
behold the truth of its nature
I wonder if it was even real
Might just have been a spooked
mind's twisted idea of a brain fart
Thoughts race my mind in its wake
And to this day I still wonder
What exactly was that!!???
Form:
There she was sitting beneath a decaying
Magnolia tree,
Whistling the lamentations of the discontented,
Absent mindedly flicking empty beer bottles into a arsenic pool,
Hiding her soul from the pestilant sun
And the bitter hope of yet another false dawn,
I knelt beside her beneath the poc-marked
Black boughs.
And watched the ripples dying a painful death upon the stagnant water
So skillfully posioned by man's skeletal hand
I pleaded
" this is no place for one so young who has the privilege of time dancing at their feet.
These dung hills this poisoned land of wishful thinking and demented dreams
Is only for lost causes, disappointed truth seekers and the battle weary who fought the world,
Who spend their days taking obscure roads
To pointless destinations.
You must return to paths narrow and straight,
Where bitter words shrivel and wither beneath the radiance of a fulsome moon"
She wants to speak but I say,
"Please don't tell me your ills my wisdom is
As deep as that toxic pool.
There is no cure no hidden medicine upon
This parasitic breeze"
But she weeps,
"Why can't they leave me be to my rhyming
And my poetry,
I was obedient you see believed all the lies
They told me never realised they're reducing
My life to office cubicle mediocrity
And now they want more,
Body beautiful is what they say, a perfect life with white shiny teeth,"
I sigh " the world is what the world is they
Will never be satisfied "
I take her gently by the hand and lead her back
To the mist that poets and madmen cannot
Pass
I kiss her on the cheek and hand her a tattered copy of Yeats 'The land the Heart's
desires '
I whisper "your pasture will be greener
Your sky the deepest blue and you will bathe in crystal clear springs of the mind,
Your soul is for you alone"
As she vanishes into a haze I hope she gone forever and never returns to this empty God forsaken land.