Long Abacus Poems
Long Abacus Poems. Below are the most popular long Abacus by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Abacus poems by poem length and keyword.
To, William Arthur Philip Louis
If there was just one thing I could change
I would request an odd divinity to ferment in an Elixir
Which never intoxicate, nor take the state beyond rationality
No one is an aftermath of coping, coping in understanding , way upstream.
As fallen shadows on a puddle of rainwater have nowhere to move or shift
Only a hazy vibrations tell them a lot, as eloquence are often that, just that
I can take a book that belongs to you, even without passing the faith test
And outside, the lonely balcony and a streak of a moonlit story, is still viable
I will wait for you there, your warmth, shirt and your a bit hardened posture these all,
I can still try to smell hair oil that slowly calms down a bird nest, in a placid way
And you can still surmise, after all these are turned down, and burned down,
“I was thinking about her, as, she could be a better one!”
Am I a transcribed poem? I often think these days.
Am I a sound, like an abacus on a motif, that knew today, gathering yesterday or before
As sunlight, dimmed prayer bids, these all are reaching, till none or nothing are there, in further need of anything
To debate, derail or to juxtapose even, in any specific way
I can rub your wrinkled skin, and wrinkle free attire, too.
You and I, and the nemo in an axis, of a world, as a dipthong, somewhere
The inevitable, frequency and the outlier, befitting for a fitting remnants!
Copyright © Tamanna Ferdous | Year Posted 2024
Computers are around us everyday
Some help us, whilst others let us play
No matter our ages
They can put us in rages
As they carry on with their display
They have been here for many a year
Sumerian abacus, engineered
Even a textile loom
Made this business boom
Which brought us to the modern ones near
They come in all shapes and forms
In our lives, on our wrists their adorned
Even the time they can tell
From their chip like cell
When they work, it's great, they perform
So without them we'd be awfully lost
Although our tempers can become crossed
To them I'll never condemn
Terrific silicon gems
One day us humans will be bossed
Bustling Tavern, din of thieves,
prattles sounds, like mini battles
of Sorcery, at mosaic of vomit tapestry.
Endowing all sorts in your bosom
like sins-full abacus beads.
You gather them by lamplight and promisery
of Nightlife, bejeweled deeds.
Your dangle of jewelry,
imagery into the back
of the mind.
Cleaving to your cleavage, in gilded-underbelly.
Whispered confessions, aspirations un-tamed,
at the heart of game, plays.
A maelstrom of activity brews,
where thieves and dreamers carafe their craft,
by firelight, booze, and cut-throat utensils,
for stirring the plot and tasting it's ooze.
A symphony of mirth and mischief,
lies, woven into each swirl of word.
A den of vices, a theater of souls,
where desires become exhumed
jewels, brightly interred.
Sorcery of charming, bracing,
where shadows dance in dusk,
efficacing with the flickering daylight
exuding allure, a beguiling musk,
facery painting, fishing for trust.
Binding patrons, captivated by the dire-light,
broths to salivate for spitting in its flame.
Bardic stories, each worth half a codler of truth,
confess their lies amidst the clinking of wine.
Tithes abetting their cover, to mask the grape-vine.
As hearts chase fleeting pleasures true,
where fantasies intertwine,
the weight of the world measured, momentarily
subdued in fermented promise of unsealed
magic in held balance of bottomless opportunity.
So, come, dear traveler, lose yourself,
in the spell of atmosphere.
In the spray of this sacred mace,
lift of skirt, skirting of honest wage.
Panning for adventurers,
planning under-sway of sunder's way.
Mary found a dinosaur egg
in her closet
The stork was the latest victim
Of rye bread and corned beef we speak
dancing in the everglades
A pale moon worshiped the morning sky
Trauma aboard the toy boat in the bathtub
incestuous conversation in the lobby
Golden pianos warm up the soup
Flying ninjas escalate the fight over
landfill’s gold reserves
Barf is, too, a clinical term
Jasmine Crockett, not Davy
Larry Bird, not Admiral
Eisenhower, Stevenson and Kennedy
Three Flyways
Computers yield to the abacus
tummy ache, all better
Suburban lawnmowers on the prowl, daddy
Lust's Sickness throws off the yoke, of cure?
Defiant in-body, pleasures obscure.
A mask, of pride, a lost soul-in vogue capture, a hell-ride in the belly of a beastly whore.
The salt crystal shines your thirst back to you in a drowning mirror that blinds you.
It's image, in-retrograde.
Worship of false idol,
self, made, self that binds you.
You are tapewormed, pinned at the head,
eating the loop of tale.
A process processing by lassoing,
the masochism of sin.
The Harlot, riding an illusion abiding,
of perverted grandeur, aboding the Vale,
in a warped game of intelivision in the City Dell.
Rally the standard, flags, censors,
sensor a game, of shell, of humanity being played,
like a fiddle, rung like a bell.
Their humanity wanes,
from defiant song in the harmonic scale, of fever.
Their body a signet, of times despoil.
The occulus hourglass abacus mirror waxing cold,
fusion spirit, ether, spell for sale, sold.
Doors closing double
folding into the dimension of troubles.
Shopkeepers of the gates of Hell,
and souls falling onto the other.
Neon is in the blood, signed, *** - 666,
enter, the veil.
Apocalypservices,
the last vomiting throes of Society's-former Dale.
BDSM by Hollywood (wand not for display),
at the demonic re education menagerie.
Self's gallery for sale, while burning,
nativity to ashes,
carbon to polish our looking glasses.
Sold-out to the oil of midnite.
Snaking, on a torch lit by the way
of political prophet-eering incite.
Insight of conscience swayed
by field communications, too near.
Of Olympus-apothecarried by the scales in motion,
weighed by fears'-musings-fear.
By Reptilian, Orwellian, modern, progressive notions caught doing.
Explosive, fiery things.
Burn us to death, in house arrest,
in-deed to fuel one's own un, manifest.
Doing, one's undoing at the behest of the WEF
Words are emotion's instrument,
language elementals playing verse's lament, consciousness', lined segment.
Like a Toon, in idea delineation,
incharacterizing, crystalizes stylizes component, tending intent.
O Vehicle pigment of perception, perceiving decorate of mind's apartment.
Compartmentalized strings transported by familiar,
wings,
mind,
rune,
symbol,
telepathy of cheats,
divining what is already there,
dining on empathy.
MirrorWandPictureEntity, transposing matters,
in the art rendering of eye to eye in order to see,
A T communication advent matrix grid
abacus-ad -cabaret, place-holder of epiphany holding film of the camera times phi eating pi of voltaicity.
A connection pathed from a yearning of the soul in creative spark.
In search of combinations and angles of understanding's precision and decision of part,
in the fonts of construction leading to the charter of baptism keys to understanding
the leading to the heart.
THE MYTH OF THE OTHER
I open a foreign myth like a window cut into my temple,
for the gods of my own house smell of fact, of cold stone,
and the symbol, when I do not possess it, walks in my blood like a lamp
carried by a child through the attic, and the attic is my own flesh —
read the others; only then do you hear yourself speaking.
Half the world chews metaphor like bread
and calls it the bone of truth; the rest spit it out as a lie,
and so the sky is split into two accountants' ledgers,
some believing with an abacus in hand, others denying with a ruler,
while the poem, a snail without a shell, passes between them unseen.
My devil is a god I never called by name,
a pyre I carried down to the cellar and sealed with a lid of clay,
and now it ferments in the dark and splits the staves of the night;
everything I refuse to inhabit becomes a tenant with fangs,
everything I push behind me grows on my back, a wing with claws.
Eternity is not tomorrow, nor snow that lasts for years,
it is the dimension right here, the one that thought cuts through,
it is the tea steaming, it is the moment with a scalded lip,
and if I do not catch it in the kitchen with the flies and the rain,
I will not catch it in any paradise with a doorman and a register.
The apocalypse is not a blaze but the mist that lifts
from your neighbor's face and shows him suddenly holy,
it is the end of the one road, of the padlock set on truth,
and the kingdom is the moment you see your enemy shining
like a glass of water held up in a June window.
They told me: at the edge of life you will come to a chasm. Jump.
It is not as wide as fear believes; the old skin
has to be shed, or else it rots on you —
hell is the dried-out life, the snake that refuses its own tail;
and still, torn into being, I whisper "Ah" — and it is spectacular.
A huge Alsatian barks at a passerby stranger
as the pond geese honk sensing grave danger
Trudges back home a rangy lone ranger.
Big and little aubergines cast a purple shade
In the twilight birdsong begins to fade
Night makes navy-blue of the greenery's jade.
Wolves howl in the distance
Panthers prowl near pig pens
Ocelots growl around the dens.
Dolphins perform in the aquatic circus
Kids count on the time-old abacus
All in all the miracle of creation's fabulous
Elsewhere the morn dawns upon wee ladybirds
And shepherds go about grazing their hungry herds.
A rare sight of starfishes settle upon beach pebbles
Pink salmon in a see-through lake breath out bubbles
Bombed by tech; corpses found in debris and rubbles!
Wild species lurk in the murky forest
Stands tall and hovering high mount Everest
A chance to enjoy nature at its very best!
Admit it O' mankind no one can ever be
at par with your and my versatile Creator
The billions of species is far too extraordinary
He single-handedly created all that variety in nature.
For even the clever human who invented the radio
did not as well model the computer.
The one who designed my dresser couldn't design my patio
It'd be rare for a shoemaker to also be a tutor
But God He made both ant and elephant
and there's absolutely nothing that He can't.
You can count on your fingers
You can count on your toes
You count all the petals
On a newly blossomed rose
You can count on an abacus
You can count apples on a tree
But, most of all
You can always count on me
You can call on a phone
Using a mobile or land line
You can call for a pizza
They deliver all the time
You can call for a recount
You can even call on your PC
But, if there’s anything you need
You can always call on me
You can travel by boat or plane
You can travel by car
You can travel locally
Or you can travel away far
You can travel around the world
You can travel anywhere
But, wherever your travels take you
I can always travel there
You can find yourself a spouse
You can have a couple of kids
You can marry the church
Like Sister Teresa did
You can wed the same sex
Even if others think it’s bad
But, no matter what you do
I’ll always be your proud Dad
How precious life is…
When the old rocker rocks in his wheelchair…
ACDC heavy precious metal ‘like a wheel spinning’
‘Highway to hell…on my way to the promised land’
‘Where have all the flowers gone’ merges mellow into
Guns and Roses, let us hope the latter on the ladder
of Zeppelins and friendly tunes of ‘Stairway to Heaven’
Thomas has no doubt because Saturday is visit time…
No Black Sabbath and not Bad Company today
not stoned any longer where Black had been Black
but Deep Purple floating the beat in fading memories
a Sweet Child in Time ‘line between good and bad’
Uriah Heep’s Sunrise and ‘new day is breaking through’
The ageing blues takes its due…
For ‘Whom the Bell Tolls’ on lemmings’ way Ding Dong
ABC frosted roads searching for Camus’ stranger come
use your remembrance because it won’t last forever when
the sea parts and Odysseus stays in the grave underworld
where Dante’s Inferno meets Mephisto but Satan can wait
A traveller close to the gate of redemption…
he counts his blessings slowly on an ancient dusty abacus
123 he takes lock stock and barrel laughs at the numbers
In his prime he had refused to accept he could not divide
takes out the ruler to conquer his world computes divisions
adds them all up tallies on the wilting spread sheet of time
Inheritance subjected to paper he determines…
not gold no diamonds just a coin here and there
weaves nostalgia to ribbons from a few shoe strings
attached and detached bound closely together as he
holds photographs to his priceless brain caresses
them dearly touches his soul and soothes his mind
When the stroke assaults and takes him home…
he crosses the flow of the Styx and finally recalls how
precious life has been and dies a happy man on his way…