Long With attention Poems
Long With attention Poems. Below are the most popular long With attention by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long With attention poems by poem length and keyword.
We have handed over control
to a phantom, that insane inner voice
we name the 'ego'.
Listen not to those demanding monologues
look not to their twisted reasoning.
Do not fight with its recitations
give them no credence.
Such thoughts come
from the invasive roots of fear,
do not feed them with attention.
Don't identify with its words,
it will talk to us
as if it were our own true thoughts
yet they are not, they never ever were.
Turn your mind away
neglect and ignore
the ego's attempts to persuade
and coerce.
Our real thoughts emerge
from that space we create from silence,
there the ego holds no sway,
there its mad dialogues
can be easily expunged
with just a simple and knowing smile
of pure awareness.
What are objects?
a silly question many will say
an interruption to things of importance..
the chair is the chair..now on to my
daily schedule..uninterrupted please..
however..after much searching to
satisfy desires..pausing with the question
might be finally reconsidered..finding that
an inbred belief in objects can be rattled
with attention to experience..telling of the
frailty of of such belief..
we experience in wholes..not in chairs
claiming their independence..
the chair reconsidered shows up as
perception temporarily..then perceiving..
a walking back to the Reality which
has been quietly waiting for
recognition..
those objects we knew before the question
now appear as they always appeared
but somehow now..satisfying the desires
we had painfully pursued...
On entering the confessional we should kneel, make the sign of the Cross and say to the priest, Bless me Father; then add I confess to Almighty God and to you Father, that I have sinned
The first things we should tell the priest in the Confession are the time of your last confession, and whether he said the penance and went to Holy Communion
After telling the time of our last Confession and Communion we should confess all the mortal sins we have committed, and all the venial sins we may wish to mention
When the confessor asks us questions we must answer them truthfully and clearly
After telling our sins we should listen with attention to the advice which the confessor may think proper to give
We should end confession by saying I also accuse myself of all the sins of my past life, telling if we choose one or several of our past sins
While the priest is giving us absolution we should from our heart renew the act of contrition
I wanted
peanut butter and jam
But settled
for bread and butter
I wanted a puppy
but got a hamster instead
I wanted you to live forever
Until I wished you were dead
You promised me everything
it was always less than enough
You lacked imagination
I was never interested in stuff
Instead of substance you offered tough
Me not being understood was worse than rough
You bribed me with attention
so I would hang on every word
I was the invisible hopeful talker
who wanted to be heard
I waited for your pauses
Hoping for a say
But it seemed that you were breathless
morning night and day
Why did I think you were amazing
the true epitome
I believed in your greatness
the carefully constructed history
A lover of self a strange christianity
Your selfishness
became your blasphemy
Daddy, papa,
stranger, ghost
You gave little but wanted the most
I wanted to know you as a better man
You couldn't tell me that I could or can
succeed in life or truly stand
You lacked the ability to be that dad
All I could think was that I was bad
Still in some strange way,
you're the reason who I am and I'm glad.
My life didn't turn out to be sad
The ones in my life
Who I love and who want
I gift them with more than tears
I've learned through my years
the strength of my ears
By listening to hopes
I've alleviated fears
At times I've been their mirrors
By knowing who they are
I've helped them go far
They're better than famous
They are who they are
When someone is loved they feel like a star
All anyone wants
Is to be on the radar
So thanks to you
I'm seen in a way
Today, when it means everything
Things turned out better than okay!
To admire that of the precious babies breath
The sweet aroma of the divine beauty of the rose
Roses are true, they are red , some purity of white
Pink - they are the beauteous of the beloved
Friendship domains that of the yellow bud
Courtship , day by day , dozen by dozen
Miraculous the meaning of thee. with true insight
Fondness of the true love the romantic fellow
A kiss on the cheek , sparkles the attention
Onto the lover's intention to therefore be loved
Admiration of the eye of the beholder, I see
Line by line, rhyme by rhyme, to be or not to be
Thee rose with a thought of loving praise
Divine my true sweetheart , sweetheart roses with prose
My oh my, I say , beauteous be then
True love - my heart may never mend
But as I admire - this wondrous bud
Still line by line - the petals then said
I love thee the most - each rhyming moment
And no lovers' quarrel be left unsaid
Then the rose I give of this the flower
That sparkles with attention seeing the light
And kiss and tell , we make up too
And the eyes glow deep in the night.
I am but one now, and not another prior
Never before have I trodden this path
Never before have I lived this hour
I need not do the history or the math
If my history consisted of endless days
If my distant past revealed a different me
I'd be, not human, but divine and amazed
I would not need a savior to set me free
My purpose, built-in with destiny; set with attention
My future status will be far more than 'An also ran'
My origin was formed with precision and intention
Moreover, my past was not happenstance but planned
To a past that never was will I not CLING
My existence is not a multiple-choice test
Never upon a fantasy will I place my being
But upon much surer promises, I will rest
So, with certainty, I CLING to the image-maker
I am neither puzzled by fate nor by the lottery
I was created by one who is a promise keeper
I am nestled in the bosom of the Almighty
I love my wife with claws so sharp
Tentacles sure to squeeze me tight
The fangs that sink into my heart
Consuming blood for pleasure
Keeping me alive vampire like for money
One eye positioned at the center of her head
Another one in back behind the hair
For good measure to watch me coming
And going from the past with attention to detail
A glare, like a lighthouse blinking out hope
A beacon from my giant uni-brow wife
Guiding me on to the right side of the rocks
Where crashes are inevitable up ahead
Nearer to heaven than one might expect
I know what is good but she knows better
It is best to keep ones mouth shut in front of honey
My one hump hunchback. Why not make it three
Through troubled waters she is still my wifie pooh
According to her decree and she is always creepy
Watching me from the back
Parting her hair in the middle just a little
Which is no small matter but a little scary
I don't really know her name but that's ok
She stands ten feet tall or better
Carries a machete in her iron clad hands
She is my two eyed wife with one in the front
And the other out back which is fine
So long as they both don't stare at the same time
Sometimes I'm afraid
I'm a man and men don't understand
It is better to do as she says because she is enormous
I love her because she is there
And she never misses with a knife
She is the misses and I am always in her sights
9I have a little drinking pot
It’s been everywhere with me
Ive used it every single day
For brewing my Rosie Lee.
I've looked after my pot
With attention and care
Its lovely brown patina
Coating inside everywhere.
It adds a certain depth
To every single brew.
Best pot care tradition, just
One of those things you do.
I’d quickly rinse my pot
Every single day
Just a cold water splash in
The approved squaddie way
Maybe just once a quarter
A quick hot water soak
Care of a man’s pot
Just isn’t any joke
Of course I wash the outside
Morning noon and night
So that it presents an exterior
Gleaming hygienically white.
I’m sat here in horror
Unhappiness and despair
Somebody’s washed my pot,
The patina’s no longer there.
The inside now is just
A gleaming joskin white
And I’ll swear on my boots
Rosie Lee just don’t taste right.
I know who went and did it
But I don’t like to say
So I’ve taken my little pot
And hidden it away..
It may take months to restore it
To its proper brewing state,
But I’ve got infinite patience
So I’ll just watch and wait
As the brown slowly builds
To cover the hideous white.
I know it can’t be much longer
Before my Rosie Lee tastes right.
You can steal my girlfriend,
Borrow everything I’ve got,
But for pity’s sake please
Don’t touch my brewing pot.
I’ve put up these walls for long
trying to appear cold and strong
And for long I’ve hardened my heart
Now tell me, isn’t that smart?
I’ve been fooled and I’ve been used
Broken, battered and abused
And I only have myself to blame
For hoping I can win that nasty game
My pain is hard to put aside
My past hard to forget
And this has been a tough long ride
Along with bitterness and regret
And when you look and smile my way
Showering me with attention
I wonder if you’re here to stay
Or it’s just my imagination?
Your sweet-loving glances
Slowly crumbles my reservation
making me believe in second chances
When you said, I’m your inspiration
My love I hope it’s not lip service
For I can’t survive another pain
The warmth of your hugs and kisses
Seems to tell me, I can be happy again
The walls I’ve put up seems to crumble
Every time you look into my eyes
And each time I fall down and stumble
you’re always there helping me rise
Thank you for teaching me how to fly
My broken heart you mend
I will forever be your sky
And always, you’re my wind
________END_________
There is another version of this poem.
The Wind's point of view.
Please take time to read my other Poem
" Wind: Loving Sky"
You might also want to check
Rain: Loving Storm and
Storm : Loving Rain ..
Appreciate you taking time to read my art everyone!
God bless us all
xoxo
When dad made breakfast, he always fried lots of bacon,
crackling and popping in the pan,
It scented the air, juicy and crisp, always beckoning.
Then, he piled the dark gnarled strands on a plate.
I became one of Pavlov’s frothing dogs.
When dad made breakfast, he fried a dozen eggs.
They were always over easy with lots of pepper.
No one expected anything else.
And yes, he piled them on another plate.
I added salt and ate 3, sometimes even 4.
When dad made breakfast, he toasted lots of bread,
buttering each slice with attention.
The yellow melting evenly over browned pieces,
I smeared them with jelly or honey.
We all sat with aspiring pallets at our
family Eucharist.