Long Work in progress Poems
Long Work in progress Poems. Below are the most popular long Work in progress by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Work in progress poems by poem length and keyword.
products of the Lord God that's what are children are
works in progress whom we pray will in life go very far
looking at these young men who wear their pants hanging down
with their rear ends exposed
I often wonder what was going through their minds
when they purchased those clothes
we live in a world where you only get one chance to make a first impression
so what do they assume people think about them in the way they are dressing
there's nothing wrong with doing your own thing but the youth need to be aware
that we are all products of the Lord God for it was He who put us here
God is our Creator for it was He who gave us the breath of life
God is our Father, our Holy Spirit and our Savior Jesus the Christ
to be a product of the church is to be a child of God
to be a work in progress striving for a righteousness of heart
to raise your children in the ways of Christ so that they'll never stray
is the best way to make sure that they'll be successful in every way
I'm not talking about just titles, riches nor college degrees
I'm talking about raising children to be productive in every capacity
for them to polite, successful, respectful, courteous and kind
for our children to be a reflection of what God has in mind
most children raised in the church tend to have less struggle, stress and strife
they tend to become well-adjusted adults who have a firm grip on life
they know how to speak in public they are more confident and sure
the know that they are loved and always being encouraged
for the word of God is what they stand for
they tend to dress and present themselves in a manner most impressing
for as children of Christ they are assured of the Lord God's blessing
they're less anxious, less addictive, less likely to be violent or kill
they know that they can unburden themselves by trusting in the Lord God's will
our children works in progress products of the Sovereign God
raise them up in the ways of Christ from which they will never depart
As I was eating some cheese the other day,
it reminded me of you, and the things you used to say.
After all, you had all the bragging rights...
because it was you who had won all the fights.
Now, when I sit here with my chins all sagging,
I can only remember those hours of your nagging.
I tried to get a word in here and there...
but then all I got was that inevitable stare.
Remember the time you said how I was so whiny,
You thought my diaper must be too tiny.
We left each other with all that passion...
In those days we knew it was all the fashion.
So now as I am eating this last piece of cheese I think...Cheeez,
I'm glad you're not here to make me say please.
No, I no longer have to hear you Whine,
As I pour myself another glass of wine.
Better still is now when I have some whine...
It's the one made from grapes and fresh off the vine.
Written: 7/31/16 (Really a work in progress)
Your foibles,
the characteristically odd ways
of your individual life appearance,
its mannerisms
your behavioral peculiarities,
and picadilloes,
will all fall away by and by.
What eventually will be left
is this alien species that bears your name.
You have died a thousand times already,
every feature of your character
has been replaced or modified
many times.
Your physicality
rinsed and recycled through
an ever-turning time machine.
Even now, the way you walk, and talk
is at the mercy and behest of a universal tide
and its shifting dunes.
The dead confirm the dead,
what never lived must pass away,
it was all a game of death
that soon will lead to the everlasting,
but not yet,
all is a work in progress,
until then
the Universe of All That Is
experiences itself as
you,
you playing hide and seek
with what you truly are.
CONCENTRATION
startling
visuals
invoking
the
unspoiled
somehow
morph
into passion
&intensity
of feeling
articulated
a
work in progress
courtesy
of
ancestry
impoverished
inobvious
the
obvious
studies the
in
ultimate
freedoms
obviously
&
enshrined
a deeply
personal
response
to community
interests
inspired
by a series
of
scenes
NOTE:THIS IS AN OPEN(organic) FORM VERSE using spaces&breaks without grammatical symbols ,the ' open' relies upon 'the one breath limitation' & so inherently requires the 'reader' (reciter) to input and responds thus making this enigmatic form a two way interplay & interpretatIon unique to the moment& changing according to mood is inherently variable.
Copyright © Brian Strand
"Dedication to Brother Curtis Moorman
~~~I put my trust, my trust on the cross
And the one who hung there to save me and the lost Jesus, Jesus"
I PUT MY TRUST IN JESUS---
I know you trust Him
Our God
I know you love Him
My Lord
And if my Jesus had to suffer
And if my Lord had to die
And If I wanna be just like Him
Then I also shall rise, rise… I too shall rise..
I put my trust, my trust on the cross
And the one who hung there to save me and the lost Jesus, Jesus
Just as I do,
But in the manner of our Lord I choose
To worship Him because I want too
And if my Savior Jesus Christ,
He prayed to the Father
Then also and so shall I
I put my trust, my trust on the cross
And the one who hung there to save me and the lost Jesus, Jesus
I’ll reach my voice and hands to the skies;
And if my Lord had to die
If I been just like Him
Then I also shall rise
Just as I do,
But in the manner of our Lord I choose
To worship Him because I want too
I put my trust, my trust on Jesus
I put my trust, my trust on Jesus
Jesus
God will strengthen you
In whatever way it is needed to;
And I know you can trust Him just as I do;
Like a work in progress He’s not finished with you;
But in the manner of our Lord Jesus;
God has Blessed me beyond measure;
It is His plesure;
To continually blessing, to keep on blessing you;
So when you’re done praying, keep on believing;
Just as I do,
But in the manner of our Lord I choose
To worship Him because I want too
I put my trust, my trust on Jesus
I put my trust, my trust on Jesus
Jesus
08/09/18
Written words by Curtis Moorman & James Edward Lee Sr.©2018
“based on words by Curtis Moorman”
Of course, art is always somewhat
subjective, breaking established rules: the artist
intuitively adding imaginary inches to a canvas;
a work in progress, riding waves, finding depth
both on and off the easel, creatively flowing – a
vision on the loose –
(paused, but never finished...a true birth
having voice and life beyond the parent's release,
like a child going out into the world alone...
a must, for the painter to keep fluid a moistening eye:
that mysterious exorcism by his instruments...a true descriptor
ultimately not bound by the Catechism of Lines nor a Page's
World-edges;
no mural out of the soul, seeking spectacular release
is ever entirely confined to interior walls nor the sides of buildings~
that is why certain poems are read over and over, as if catching up
with an old friend~filled-in on what is new, an evolutionary rapport...
or one revisits The Museum of Modern Art – finding aged modern
in the old modern, the past meeting perhaps a cloudy moment and
today a day of awakening transparency – each vintage, an individualized
spirit-manifest,
a motivating shade of scentful-color~of brightness and overcast,
with searchable, unseen dimensions, the spaces science
has yet to fill,
the private domains of both
experimenting student and seasoned mystic...
the limits of what we
know, transformed by the revelation of what we dream,
the artist, and not the scientist, life's true conjurer of miracles,
only bound, when at all, by his own restricted conceptions of
time transforming space.
I have almost absolved myself
from causing that emotional mayhem
that a youthful spirit engages upon
not having yet acclimatized itself
to whom it is, or what it would become.
All those lovers and haters
bought into an early copy
an unedited work in progress.
It’s the pity of youth that we
never give each other time for regret.
Apologies may or may not arrive decades later
often they are just told to the sky.
Forgiveness is given and accepted
between distant shadows of us.
We tidy up past regrets in an old room long vacated,
until eventually we arrive
at that state of stabilized imperfection
most of us hope to achieve.
At first glance of this writing opportunity, I thought about COVID-19 related matters. I thought about the pain and suffering that have been inflicted by COVID-19. I'm aware of how many lives have been altered; but they are bouncing back. However, I decided that at least for now, I do not wish to write about COVID-19.
So in stead, I began to muse upon subject matters surrounding my country.
It seems such a fitting description of what we are presently experiencing.
For example, for generations, most people in the world have liked America.
Even with the many changes, there's no end to the flood of people wanting "in".
What is more disturbing to me is the way "we' are beginning to feel about ourselves. There is nothing wrong with "inward looks and observations" for self improvement. I hope I'm wrong, but I sense that we are loathing who we are and desiring a "new us". We are wandering in a huge wilderness of redefinitions with too many mirrors; too few windows.
In such a 'mirrored wilderness', one tends to look inward, finding more dislikes or even self-hatred. Of course, the nature of Americanism suggests that we are one of a kind, a work in progress. But it appears this Juncture of Change is 'over the top' and if not careful, we could self-destruct. Wandering, yes;
dark and devious challenges, yes; but presently, I think not that we are lost sheep. We are not yet lost because there is a 'God Presence' still at work and a foundation yet in tact.
Some years ago, I came upon a baby sparrow in a parking lot. I picked him up, rescuing him out of harm's way. Not knowing what else to do, I lifted and released him to the sky, and the little birdy flew away. Whether America or your own country, you and I are among the ones to do the rescuing. May
we keep praying and believing for our great country. As I see it, the eagle is still flying.
120921PSCtest, Pick A Title, Vol. 27, Edward Ibeh Title Choice, Wandering, Not Lost.
(In the late 1300's, veteran painter Barna of Siena
was killed when he fell from the scaffolding whilst
working on "The Crucifixion", the final panel of his
fresco cycle in the Church of the Collegiata, in San
Gimignano, central Italy.)
I'll mount the scaffold first, sir. Mind the rail -
at one point there, it's not reliable.
Oh, careful, sir. I'm flattered you should come
from - Monteriggione, is it? - here
to view the work in progress. As you see,
- that rail, sir - the scheme is an ambitious one.
You have the standard scriptural episodes
arranged before you. Here, my Crucifixion
- unfinished, need I say? - in pride of place.
The pinnacle, and culminating piece!
Oh sir, you're kind. You like the cobalt ground?
I know my limitations. No, it's true.
I'm past the time in life when confident morn
returns upon the awareness, like a song
remembered. See my hair? Once chestnut-gold,
where now it is not knotted with hard paint,
the years have slowly snowed the color off.
I'll never go to Florence now. No, no,
I mean it. I'm no longer sure I want to.
We work on this commission - there's my son
below, mixing the plaster - which is fine.
I'm not an angel. God chose not to shower
astounding gifts on me - no, hear me, sir! -
as on his Chosen Ones. I don't resent it
- not now. For man, there's no escape from work.
Our ambit was determined by The Fall.
And if I do this task, and do it well,
do I not please my God? And think again -
a thousand toilers in December mud
in earshot of these bells would switch with me
tomorrow, counting themselves blessed. Here
I'm quiet, I direct the work, and if
not warm, I'm neither rained nor spat upon -
that's something. No, I can't say that I'm happy.
It seems to me that few are born to that,
lead lucky lives, have touched the Savior's hem.
Who of the rest of us, if honest, can
claim to be happy? Well, I certainly can't.
Ure my chemical imbalance tipping the scales
Ure the voice shouting leaving me pale
Ure the fright in the middle of a soulless night
Ure broken glass on the sidewalk
Ure cuts thru my shoes while u mock
Ure poetry in motion with nausea
Ure incurable when I wanna be done dotta
Ure an audio clip on a permanent loop
Ure the scandal rag with a crappy scoop
Ure rinse and repeat without a cleanse
Ure finite resources thru a single lens
Ure the reason for recurring work in progress
Ure my daily dose of fogginess
Ure the vacuum of perpetual thoughts
Ure the story who cannot be bought
Ure the constant double edge sword
Ure responsible for striking a chord
Ure the force I try so hard to counter with good
Ure responsible for me being misunderstood
Ure my nemesis and friend all the same
Ure the one enabling me to be creatively insane
No pills, no frills, just terrifying numbness followed by troubling relaxations
A pattern of chills trying not to succumb to this rollercoaster of varying sensations
Copyright © Christopher Delegans 2023