Long Rebirth Poems
Long Rebirth Poems. Below are the most popular long Rebirth by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Rebirth poems by poem length and keyword.
Before my fallen wings I plead
Let me carry out this deed
Find a love in desperate need
Of a white knight on a steed
I already have a girl in mind
Are souls have met forever bind
Lost in chaos, torn in time
She is my melody for this rhyme
If you let me lover her now
I'll go into the lights shroud
Commiting no unspoken vows
Salvaging a princess leaving proud
In her unrest she might die
I feel compelled to save a life
There is no reason or a why
She can't be happy as a wife
A guarding angel I am to her
Send me to your beautiful earth
To enter a chance for rebirth
I am the remedy for this curse
I am speaking to the grim reaper
I need a miracle before I sleep sir
Letting you chase me creeper
Into the darkness ever deeper
Permit me to adjust my sails
Select a crew that never fails
Live through all the grails
Have a romance found in fairy tales
(her)He must be big and strong
Massive shoulders to carry on
The work that's hard and long
To keep me safe and right the wrong
I am sad to be like this
Crying moping and drawing a fist
To the sky, screaming a list
Of my problems little priss
Out of the shadows he came
Bearing white, massive the same
Hushing me to comfort and explain
His business here, also his name
(Angel)My name is Micheal a worrior man
Here to change your coarse of plan
Bestow upon you an awakening fan
That keeps alive with a tan
Escape with me out of this place
Hurry, run, lets make haste
You'll remain dignified and chaste
Where no one can hurt your darling face
We could live somewhere exotic
Live the dream with love erotic
Just be us, excluding the chaotic
To decline is said to be idiotic
Grab an extra shirt and pants
We'll leave right now, expose this chance
To take hold of something with a glance
Of humanity with a slight reminisce
(girl)Alright, we can go
Somewhere warm minus the snow
Sleeping by the fires glow
Seeing more than we know
Somewhere I can where a dress
Running wild without the stress
Enjoy having emotional sex
With a man big in the chest!
(Micheal)You have made the right choice
I admire your sweet tone of voice
The way you walk and your poise
This is our moment relax, rejoice!
To this day I do enclose
A vacation that I propose
You could wear little clothes
Pushing away all your foes.
Crushing and deystroying all your demons!
Dear people,
In relation, Historically,
Historians heroically will fake it.
kids can serve themselves said correlation.
Take what is.
Record reels of Real confessions chalk full of truthful lessons on how to feel.
How to push for real progression.
Identify risk.
A population’s silent suggestion.
To get Upset, in that, to get up In accordance to time, all of mankind barely register. a blip on the tip of conception.
A burst of awareness, to realize each set is set up separate in each relative reality of self perception. To see in itself is a credit. To Receive it, It in itself ...
One second, on the surface of decades, in a sea of centuries before existence, well kept, below, a hush to a hum unheard and left off of all of the records.
Unaccredited, Easy targets to get over-credited.
When Run red their credits,
read: “It lives. Because I said it did.”
Who gives a line of credit to those who so desperately to get it, who need it like a medic,
But I’d wage to bet it’s to spend it in the opposite way that it’s intended.
Commend all of those that contended.
And anyone at all whom attended.
Correct view. Corrective is collective let’s give ‘cause it’s best to - to the rest I guess it’s -
Just set it and forget it. Much as distant relatives;
-Figure it’s Best to just let us live…
As long as it’s ...Immediately gratative...
Our best method, many mini moves toward moving for a more major movement forward,
Observe and compare pre-approved plans for improvements, no one can afford.
Redact, reform, literary rebirth bursts into the truth that in which we will record,
and now it’s more, collect, from pre accepted hits, Recreate in-an-organized-list. Of the top samples,
A fool and A toolbar together with helpful tips.
Slip bits in hidden messages, to send to ratchet kids to send them off,
Off on A trip, on a Botanically based-spaceship. Hope they know that it’s All made up,
While we Make believe that they arrive at home and safely they do make it.
IS...crazy. (Imagination)
The craziest. The human case, it is. Inside the human case within…Is a sharper image, of every last face that formulate one’s nation.
A Hereditarial misclarification taken down the forsaken line and educated In within the others next of kin.
-hope you’re still out there, people,
if you’re lost, you can still win.
Tell all the worlds about the treasures found
Renaissance trace spellbound in the ancient form,
Tender and haunting; an era of time curves around
Past the present to a future beset with tech charm.
Historical pages cling romantically to our eyes,
Each epoch defines a sparkling gem of surprise,
Their fluttered rebirth is like stars changing sizes
Release by time flown from the damp demise.
That dip their limbs to bow unto gloss modernity
Like the artist and sculpture, they paint a world.
Of aesthetic peculiarities and lofty discovery,
Longing to find a place soaring free in the soul.
A vault of citadels says much; then said no more
Deep within, ancient wonders rise from the ashes
Talented beauty weaves from centuries we adore,
The time and place asleep in a waste wilderness.
The plague of colors survives in medieval triumph,
England, a literary monument of architect literature.
Finds the noble heart to express cherished breath
Creating the etiquette claimed by French culture.
Such dept alone could not be paid by metamorphism
Humanism fading in a mist has its place in society,
Heightened with extreme lust and erotic mannerism,
Italy removes the conscious veil from bizarre reality.
Ceiling significant through music strings serenade,
Renaissance dazed; allusion lay dreaming half awake
The inquisition of fate went on pilgrimage made,
German sentence commute through the classical gate.
The Netherlands explore and navigate all the distances
Byzantine adherence goes beyond impregnable walls,
depict faces of the Tsars persist in the military hypothesis,
And labyrinths take refuge in Russian banqueting halls.
The richest measured proportion of distilled beverage,
Vodka values more than all the dull limited senses,
Spanish religion repository of the myths and rage
Set the path where new western experience commences.
Portugal selfie, the pinnacle piece that thirsts for commerce
Lisbon flourished paints and medicines with Flemish.
Poland concept and conflict gain border land dominance,
Spice trade rises high and makes indiscreet allusion flourish.
We travel far beyond renaissance to the greatest monument,
When the transition of culture from the middle age evolved
Mesmerized art is a rediscovery of an enduring cultural movement,
The monarch of the Roman Empire renaissance man inspired.
As Artists Touching an Audience - Thoughts on Creating
Beyond the full experiencing and aims of the creative process in all genres, there are the results, the “made” productions, the works, ready to be sent
out there
from the self
to touch other people in some (any) way of giving,
the created work
presented
to affect the anyone in those moments
of being-in-audience
to an artwork (In the perceiving and receiving of it)
to any degree.
As writers, musicians, actors, artists, we are gifted through
the creative process: through
our Felt involvement
from onset to culmination of the created works
And also when we, too, pause outside artworks,
as with all perceptions,
to examine and receive, to be touched in some way:
sensually, intellectually, emotionally, spiritually, creatively…
Nearly always, then, we make a judgement
about whether we Like what we perceive
(in all of life as well) in an artist’s composition —
Here
Is the work we have met with for a time
and let reach us…
No matter how briefly, the created work
has thus gone from being some “thing”
To being an Experience.
This accounts, I think, for why artists of all genres
feel more than an ownership of “products” about the works done.
Like a god-parent might, we
artists invest our whole being into
shaping works
to the full completion of their inspiration.
And, then, (as a person does for a fostered one or offspring)
we have a bond…with a desire to follow the path and reception
of our works In the world beyond us.
Our created works poise apart from us…
very like living things…
Lost works are grieved …Others
Also often pass long periods asleep, away
from any receiving audience, even from us, the creators…
Perhaps going forgotten;
Some envisioned works crafted into reality
may return to a collection of once unfulfilled dreams,
which do startle if they eventually wander
out from dark corners and curled pages.
They may have stayed in sleep…to
serendipitously rise for notice in a rebirth
Like garden perennials signaled to stand
in Spring surprise…in a new season of a gifting presentation.
—————————————————————————
Experimental prose-poetry
also an “Address of Poetry” blog, PoetrySoup
(I give 2nd Apologies to Aristotle for this :-)
(c) sally young eslinger 3/10/22
Thanks be to God
In ecstatic climaxing designs
for healthy multicultural communications
ecopolitically correcting
currently imbalanced
unhealthy
disempowering outcomes
Our most resiliently robust productions
derive from nonviolent communions,
compassion restoring cooperative
healthy EarthJustice
Resilient democracy
co-invested in green peace
repurposing relationships for mutual equity,
co-empathic integrity,
win/win cooperativity.
This NonZero HomeZone
is our most authentic open design
for health and safety systemic thrival,
composed of egocenter's integral survival,
Self/Other
Me/We extending primal family zones
of great regenerational transition,
safely within our primary shelter
for cooperative relationships
with neighboring boundary habitats.
Zone One,
furthers interdependently defined
loneliest shade of Othering neighborhood properties
since the number TwoZones
in co-passionate thriving re-membered relationship
within our municipal
eco-political
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designing unitarian green communities
with woke regional interreligious education
and nondualistic natural/spiritual
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Sharing Zone Two
lived fully
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conjoining double-bound interreligious cultural connections
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for Golden Ruled bioregional optimization
of wealthy co-invested atmosphere,
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cultural drinking water
interwoven in this robust economic climate
of cooperative design
for win/win multicultural compassion.
Completing this holonic Open System Fractal
is Zone Three,
Gaian EarthMother
still cooperatively rebirthing
healthy
resilient
spring climaxing climates
remediating rebirth
with all cooperatively designing
organic EarthTribe species,
Currently excluding anthrosupremacist Zone Four
LeftBrain dominant
dualistic commodified employment
of de-nihilistic CAPITAL-HEADED fundamentalists
worshiping anti-recreative professional consumer design
bowing to an autocratic StraightWhite militarized altar
of politically uncorrected Patriarchal Capitalism
suboptimal disassociations
settling for win/lose normativity
ZeroSum pathologically uncaring
lose/lose entropic absence
of regenerative health is trusted wealth
bicameral design.
Foundation.
With the considerable rise of AI software on all social media and business platforms, will humanity lose its creative edge?
Will you be tempted to do so?
Title:
Be You
(A lone voice whispers)
Be You
Forgo assimilation
And try to avoid being spellbound and tied into the new B System
Dream and aspire before you're retired
With all your soul's, inner resistance
Don't be bound to mundane hearts, no longer open to being plowed, with ravenous curious fingers
Hearts enslaved into a dark broken Labyrinth of unspoken, and untold things
Which could linger
From sad souls who've cried, as their creativity withered and died
Absorbed by the cleverly assimilated imagery and well created lies
To be one of the many lonely wanderers
Tumbling blind through inspirations now barren playgrounds
As the new, AI Hive Minds, long reach fires up to reteach
Newly breached, unconnected human firewalls
While wild valley blackbirds and starling flocks
Scream and call out in unison, at the lack of the rising poetry
Music or literature, filled with human energy
As spiritual temperatures worldwide, fall
Putting ingenuity into jeopardy
Screeching about the impending icy cold bath of human separation
As they fly as huge wailing flocks, into the Summer Equinox
With the frosty breath, of AI Death of the Soul
Lingering around like black mold
With bony fingers
Rattling without a sound
Awaiting its resurrection
As daylight recedes and people seem to lose hope
But on that Devil's Island for some of the Condemned
The one called Earth
The Exalted Ones
Maybe like you
Unassimilated and still free
Can lift up the trapped
Those poor souls caught up in The Hive Mind
Slowly been drained of personality and self identity
Lost in the humankind labyrinth of the unspoken and untold
Who needs releasing to help rebuild the new pillars of creativity upon Earth
With their eventual rebirth
This my friend with the bright eyes unseen
Has always been a worthy oath to follow
For you've always been free to share your gift of uplifting
Energetic, raw, and visual
Literature
Music or poetry
Maybe bestowed
From The Sacred Temples of Apollo
What's says you?
Are you going to strive to stay the real you?
(C) Copyright John Duffy
In the thicket forgotten of deeply anchored thoughts,
Where ideas nest, across time and tailored spaces,
There I stand, guardian of the undimmed realm, the archivist of the flame
That knows not extinguishing in the beating winds of history,
Guarding the pure light that does not fracture from darkness.
Shadow does not frighten me, in the tumultuous whirl of the ephemeral moment,
The virility of my pen is the bastion safe from political venom,
In my fortress of books, ideas, and eternally glimpsed dreams,
A candle of knowledge, a lighthouse piercing the fog of despair,
And my intellect, a fleet that can quench the thirst of the abyss.
I am the knight battling the windmills of forgetfulness and ignorance,
At war with the shadows that attempt to speak of present suppression,
A country does not parade its grandeur in the fleeting plays of political stages,
But in the echo it leaves through a waltz of creative genius in the world's libraries,
Through art, science, and the poetry whispered by blossoming briar circles.
A nation does not stretch into the arms of death when it is defeated,
Nor embraces the poison when lords change or thrones waver,
But on the wings of those who walked through the subtle circles of thought,
They leave an endless imprint of the dream in the springs of eternity,
Weaving its chronicles, over centuries and wisdom its people grow.
And I, amongst waves of misunderstanding and barriers of indifference,
Submerged in creations that speak in languages only the stars comprehend,
I traverse the fine line between present and dreaming eternity,
I build from words a wall that no terrestrial battle can crumble.
I watch how politics spins like an old mill in the fickle wind,
But I keep my distance, with my quill dipped in eternal ink,
Agony and ecstasy, in a wondrous dance of knowledge,
Never forgetting that the sunrise from my mind is the rebirth of the world.
Beneath my intellectual hoard, with its invincible nature,
I warm centuries, illuminate unfoldings, and cultivate hope,
For, regardless of the whirlwind that beats at my gate,
I am master of my counsel and the dream I embrace.
Politics may haunt the streets and squares,
But the eternal plays in the laboratories of my tranquil mind,
Where I, the architect of this human sanctuary, undefeated,
Weaving eternity with my intellect, remain.
I am swimming in a sea,
Of depression,
Hurting because of my heart’s repression,
Your feeling suppression,
Now I gotta learn this life’s lesson,
When you fall in love,
Make sure her feelings not a guessing.
My heart should have no reason to hurt,
Started out with a little flirt,
Now grown to full blown love,
Feelings of cloud nines high above,
The earth, feeling my soul’s rebirth.
Wanting to kiss your lips,
Wanting you to heal the rips,
The tears, in my heart,
Us never to part.
Where do I start.
Do I say that I am sad,
Could I have it this bad,
That missing you puts a hole in my soul,
Like the joy is out of my world,
I want to curl, up in a ball,
Not to keep warm,
But to weather the storm,
To keep out despair,
I got no where, to go,
No one to talk to,
To tell what I am going through.
I want to pour out my soul,
I do it with only one goal,
In mind, to free her heart,
Encased in ice,
Tell me I will pay the price,
To have your love,
To be called your dove
Tell me I can have you,
Tell me that I am not doomed,
To die like an already withered rose,
In bloom,
Tell me I have not made a mistake,
Tell me my heart won’t break,
I don’t want it to be broken,
Say it with words already spoken,
I want to scream out that I love you,
To hold you and take your mind,
Soul, heart and body to,
Places they have never been,
Make them see happiness never to be seen,
With anybody but me,
How do I make you feel,
The love that I know is inside.
Can I open my arms wide,
Can I welcome you in,
To say no is a sin.
Come take my hand,
Follow my plan,
Close your eyes.
Listen to my words,
Feel them inside your soul,
Put your hand to my chest,
Feel my heart beating,
Listen to what it says.
Understand what this means,
Right now my heart is bursting at its seams,
With, wait,
Won’t say it again,
Scroll up and you will know what should be said,
I know this may seem weird,
Yes we agreed to just stay friends.
But I want to change how that story would end,
With all the time we came to spend,
When you said we wouldn’t,
And we still got a chance to speak,
And your voice made my knees so weak.
And I got captured in your smile,
Knowing all the while,
That maybe I shouldn’t,
But I still did them,
All the poems, the songs, the letters,
Trying to show you that I am better,
Form:
THE ARRANGEMENT
It's a dull, grey afternoon in the middle of October, with nothing much to commend about it. Last of the autumn leaves are falling from trees with the icy breeze, too chill for even the ardent gardener to be out and about, where streets are deserted, and children are not yet out of school. Clouds are softly framed in bands of charcoal grey.
Our heroine, Erin McCarty can't distinguish whether the distant rumble she hears, is a brewing storm, or her empty stomach. It occurs to her she hasn't eaten a thing, except for the quick granola bar early this morning at the bus station.
As she approaches the old house she sees that the garden needs weeding, devil grass taking over the wind-whipped faces of faded, dreary, old chrysanthemums. It is so unlike her mother to let it go untended. Seeing it so unkempt, makes her a bit uneasy.
A suitcase heavy in her hand, she hesitates before turning the knob, or ringing the bell, taking a moment to compose. She waits a moment. What will they say, ...what will they think when she tells them everything that has happened, and where she has been all this time?
The old place seems strangely *****, as if she’s gained new insight
As if another eye had sprouted new, to view the past more clearly, and the present, more objectively. She seems to perceive shade and shadows, shape, as if she were watching from above.
The chrysalis that held her in, has drawn her back here again.
How will they receive this unexpected return? Will she still be welcome?
Have they been able to forgive her for leaving without a word?
Her hand on the knob, the door is locked, then almost without her control, her finger has pushed the doorbell. At first just the silence, .....then the sound of muffled footsteps. Someone is coming.
The door opens...........and she is startled. Who is this?......?
Who is this stranger answering her mother's door?............
Follow Erin's story to the captivating ending...
a story of hope, renewal and rebirth. A story of coming of age, coming to terms with both love and sadness. It will remind you, that love and compassion can renew the spirit...even when the world has turned upside down.
__________________________________________________________
For the Contest Sponsored By Judy Konos: "You Have Written A Novel"
THE ALBATROSS
Under thunder blows a colder wind, across an endless sea,
Like a voice from the call of a far off shore in the solitude we perceive;
For ago remained an innocent age, torn away by a thousand years
Where sincerity alone is tied to its own majestic grace;
But flow on the bluest waves over the oceans deep and wide
Waiting long for things abandoned
Forsake those condemned to the early dawn, far past ten thousand year’s,
Still in all its silent symmetry, flies by a bird on wing;
Mysterious seemed that outstretched arm, in all 10 feet in span
Grasping what came from the east, bound to rays of light;
For seas are blessed by both good and bad
Waiting long for what’s abandoned
Fifty years is doomed to its own intent, lost in its own emotion,
While all that we can hold, is a time fifty thousand past;
Come see what waits is a soul possessed, holding a daylights passage
Where what seemed lost is an albatross, staring through its blacker eyes;
But all we see is the bluest sea, left under tomorrow’s sky
Waiting long for things abandoned
Crashes still those crystalline waves, warmed by spring’s rebirth,
Until we see an albatross, departing as the seasons change;
And a hundred thousand years escapes, slips away from time and place
Bound to the cliffs and bound to the rushes of a land so far away;
For over the bluest sea, is the sunlight that we seek
Waiting long for those things abandoned
Surrounded is he who waits in the shadow, lost to the rhythm we’ve created,
While somewhere stands an albatross, and drinks its salted wine;
For now is past a million years, gone to the mystery of life
Lost in the worth of simplicity and the innocents of desire;
But now the bluest sea is calm, with no sign of what is past
Waiting long for things abandoned
Escaped the thought of an albatross bound to the symbol of its virtue,
Leashed to the seas and the sound of the waves, longing a far off shore;
Hold on to the meaning of our vision, past ten million years
And hear the call of an albatross, its beauty and its wonder;
For here we see the bluest sea, in a land of lost intent
Waiting long for those things abandoned
By m.norton