Long Anarchic Poems
Long Anarchic Poems. Below are the most popular long Anarchic by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Anarchic poems by poem length and keyword.
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Oh, small gray squirrel with paws swift and horrific,
your crimes against Christmas stir outrage mythic.
Every December, the same dang fight~
you gnaw through our twinkling strands of light.
We’ve duct-taped. We’ve sprayed. We’ve begged you to cease;
yet, you chomp with a rodent’s relentless mouthpiece.
Your tiny teeth, sharper than Scrooge’s spite,
leave our lawn a dark, half-lit blight.
Next year, we’ll rig traps large and unbenign
or string the lights with razor wire design.
But deep down we know—you’ll win this war,
one chewed-up bulb at a time, you anarchic piece of forest lore.
Emma, it was 2020. You get on the Watford train, platform one to four
I don't even know when it was, the track was rapidly receding, gone
The desire to have you be known and close to you in the car, maybe there,
Your anarchic being hesitatingly collapsed into my soul and into my mind.
Two dry flowers, only the past, Welsh Harp's imprint, imagination in me, it's home
Life says you're blooming, and that makes me happy. I love you and get a lot of honor.
What awaits me awaits you, but don't be spoiled, your twilight giggles dryly, will be off
It's getting dark, but you don't see it. The disk of sunlight shines darkly on you,
Where you are, I'm never there anymore, I'm moving on, I'm dead without a body, an empty tomb.
I don't need anyone or anything from this world, just my wine glass winking at me,
Advice for me, but wine is what fills me with all that I still have hope for.
My soul is closed and confused, my mind is nauseous, and I'm looking for a new one. Come on
The world is now empty and dead to me. Let me end here and for
But I never said anything but that I loved you. I'll stake my life against your death, mine flow
This is what I want; live without me, and let your fate be exalted, your companion forever forgotten, still
So that you can go on in life without him, hope, and maybe love. But with him.
June 13, 2022
People fear thought like nothing else on earth—
More than ruin, more even than death.
Thought is a subversive and revolutionary beast,
Shattering the chains of norms with iron claws.
Through the dark corridors of the mind,
Thoughts surge like the shadows of the night,
Tearing the curtains of silent fear,
Igniting the old cathedrals with flames of ideas.
Thought gazes into the pit of hell and is not afraid,
Its eyes, torches of sovereign disdain,
Piercing the abyss without hesitation.
Merciless, thought tears privileges into pieces,
Defying the comfort of ancient edifices.
It is an anarchic wind, bound by no laws,
Whistling through the ruins of old wisdom.
In the heavy breath of night, thought strides,
A beast freed from golden cages,
Stirring forgotten dreams with deep roots.
It advances, both an angel and a demon,
With wings of light and shadow, growing into a symphony.
Sowing ideas on unknown grounds,
Opening unseen paths in the garden of the mind.
Under the moon’s clear light, thought weaves a ballad,
A tale of liberation, dispelling the darkness,
Drawing truths from the depths of confusion,
In this storm, its strength is revealed.
At the edge of eternity, I stand solitary,
Bathed in the endless flow of consciousness,
United with whispers in an eternal tone,
Where the fear of ruin and death becomes just a dream.
Vane glorious and absolutistic,
though I defiantly,
cavalierly, and blithely attest
Yukon bet your (laugh-in) sweet bippy
mine acidic breast
houses anarchic, anti-poetic ballistic,
barbaric, and bubonic
cannibalistic demons within thy
safely guarded Pandora chest
atomic cesium clock
timed to trigger avast
burst of anxiety, frenzy, and
(What me worry
Alfred E. Neuman) blast
ting mental quietude at most
inappropriate, inconvenient,
inopportune, out classed
adrenaline rush, nausea,
palpitating heart, vertigo
besieging, corrupting,
endeavoring fractured arrant
cleft daemonic gripping
hellishly psychic chant
rendering unto sieze hoar,
a choking vise grip extant
yule hiss sieze indomitable
banshee fully controlling grant
diabolic, dogmatic, and dynamic,
anguished corporeal ache
easily, egregiously, and emblematically,
exemplified historically
graphic fatalistic, and ecstatic coup,
(koo), when I caused furious frantic flight,
and/or fight betake
king angst causing just desserts
for Marie Antoinette,
who got her humble pie cake,
thence dispensing with formalities,
where a joshing drake
(named Gill O. Teen)
also known (solely known
to mine selfish source error ways)
alias i.e. as; the Lewis (loose)
lunatic, heady harvester,
and decapitation Deacon trumpeting,
trouncing, and triumphing tranquility
for fifty three Tuesdays,
thence sea king punishing psychotic
pre pound payment
basking in glory (re: gory us)
amidship crashing quays
music to mine ears hearing plaintive neighs
high pitched straining
vocal chord hamstrung keys
regaling oceanographic
lambent hagiographic essays
and keeping at bathos bays.
Written: January 08, 2024 For Tania Kitchin Contest
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A storm swirls, hurling hail and snow,
In the bosom of winter, icy storms grow.
A scene that is both anarchic and grand,
A snowstorm, a shunned marvel of the land.
A whirling maelstrom is a whimsical sight,
Whispered mysteries haunt the cold night.
By merging their loads, icy crystals collide,
Winter chorus is earth-crowning pride.
Whispers of wind nurture a peculiar tune,
Melodic strains cross-changing boon.
Glazing crystals and crumbles sway,
An enthralling outlay winter waltz display.
I love living in the Arctic
The cold I find so cathartic
But you must beware
I'm bi-polar bear
If crossed I can be anarchic
I'm really a huge white bi-polar bear
You can take my photograph, laugh and stare
But if you come too near
You'll have reason to fear
If I'm in Hyde's mood you'd better take care!
I'm usually very docile and quite nice
Relaxing on the shelves of polar ice
For food I am howling
My tummy is growling
I need to catch some tasty fish to slice
I possess great big furry white paws
But at times I can show my sharp claws
So don’t mess with me
Cos I can be nasty
My emotions have no get out clause
I don't really like eating seal blubber
It's tasteless as a tire made of rubber
And I don't like to swim
Unless I have the whim
I should have been born as a land lubber
My smile can turn into a frown
One minute I’m up, next I’m down
I can lash out at you
So whatever you do
Don’t call me a stupid bear clown
When I'm feeling like good Doctor Jekyll
I don't care if you tease me or heckle
I'll toss you my poop
Big scoop after scoop
Til I've covered all your little freckles
On a good day I’ll smile so nice
Enjoying white fish which I’ll dice
See me bask in the sun
Then I’ll go for a run
And play with my friends on the ice
I feel a weird change, a rumbling inside
An avalanche of emotions, a landslide
My claws are extended
Your visit has ended
Red mist all around ~ turning into Hyde!
The truth, it cannot be denied
I’m a bit like Jekyll and Hyde
You'd better leave town
When red mist comes down
Or run to take cover and hide!
Written by Lin Lane and Jan Allison
05~18~17
If I had a factory I would actually produce nothing at all because
Satisfaction can never be mass produced let alone happiness
Workers would not manufacture for their hands should be free
To craft rather than assemble in strict prearranged conditions
They would not sit idle of course but follow their creative minds
Overcome the vile dictate of fabricated needs for the masses
‘Back to poor roots’ established purveyors of doom interpolate
‘We need money machines not fine artisans and philosophers’
‘Leave thinking to the masters and disavow your utopian craze’
So while I am called a renegade rebel I lay claim to contempt
Of blindfolding slaves with cheap goods instead of pure virtue
Do not mind the malevolent label of anarchic revanchist treason
‘But what will they eat instead of the scraps from our production’
‘They will starve if we do not lead them like sheep to the slaughter’
‘We are kind humanitarians willingly sharing the means to our end’
I admit that my concept of work houses with no preordained tasks
Threatens the status quo throws a spanner into a well oiled machine
Of domination and marginalization fine tuned in centers of control
Yet the disorganized factory which I never owned in the first place
Will invent itself as soon as the non-workers can think on their own
Evolution is rather industrious and nothingness counts for a lot
Seriousness leads to statehood
Eventually it does
Fun maintains anarchic mood
A peaceful little buzz
It helps the plants to grow
It colours up the day
It makes me want to go
Just every which way
I’m living on the fun side
In hiding from aggressiveness
Through time and space I gently glide
Away from seriousness
I know it stalks me anyway
To occupy my time
With suffering about what may
Occur like senseless crime
I can be judged, despised and banned
But fun’s the only thing
That never fails me in this land
Of which no bird would sing
All the calamities I’ve known
All troubles deadly heap
Can’t shatter love, which I had sown
And fun is what I reap.
Financiers feel superior to farmers
and pundits have it over poets.
All to the good because if you think America's
doing just fine, don't skip to the poetry reviews.
Our enemies are barbarous, our allies duplicitous
but our smart bombs are smart - that's how they found you.
Dad said all wars are resource wars. Follow
the money. The world needs more order, nothing
less than Nazis, never may the anarchic man's thoughts
be my thoughts, each shove sends a ping,
shields urge on shields, helmets helmets, we can be
the reigning kings between the last empire and the next
or implement a vision of collective deliberation
and binding agreements. Can China's navy
be harnessed to ensure free passage through
the South China Sea? We'll see how
things work out in the next generation.
In the meantime should I read Henry Kissinger's meditations?
He who thinks poetry's effete
probably considers Darwin a geek and Einstein
a postal clerk. Containment means leaving space
for the passionate and zealous to face themselves
and giving them missiles that don't work.
Slowing everyone down until one thing's done well -
governance or sustenance or brotherhood.
When violence comes to the neighborhood
the hierarchy will hold or fold, it is then the peace work proves relevant.
Failing to achieve understanding, we're searching outer space
for an entity to unite us as humanity.
That person, or city, is consciousness.
By that what is meant. Sitting still and thinking deeply
on the relation of anger to coercion,
systems for correcting the decisions of earlier presidents.
We're required to report incidents of depression
to a doctor because you're a valued member of of our community
or so insignificant no one notices or cares.
How necessary the interface of war and poetry!
What a city I murmur to myself looking at its map.
We approached the city known as Dis,
with its vast army and its burdened citizens.
At last we reached the moats
dug deep around the dismal city.
What destroys the poetry of a city?
Automobiles destroy it,
and they destroy more than the poetry.
Dante and Virgil chased by 7 or 8 dangerous devils
Grumpy, Happy, Sneezy, Sleepy, Dopey . . .
Our heroes reduced from metaphysical philosophers
interested in god and what man has done to man
to improvising primitive tools for survival.
Hope abandoned, we rate our chances of expiring
in the nuclear fire – excellent –
during the decline of western civilization.
On the other hand, I hope
our current problems are only temporary
and it’s just a matter of time before
the public ignores the 24-hour news cycle.
Bad news sells but the good life’s all around us.
One feels love and devotion
even for the 60 million who voted for our opponent.
Vaclav Havel said with a wisdom well beyond brilliance:
“Either we have hope within us or we don’t.
It is a dimension of the soul, and it’s not dependent
on some particular observation of the world or estimate of the situation.
It is an orientation of the spirit, an orientation of the heart
that transcends the world as it’s immediately experienced.
It is not the conviction that something will turn out well,
but the certainty that something makes sense
no matter how it turns out.”
It resembles grief. But it's not quite grief. I'll give you grief.
Certain days planned to be eventful I look forward to for weeks.
Let the peaceful transfer of power proceed. The sorrow and the pity.
Never may the anarchic man find rest at my hearth.
When the laws are kept, how proudly the city stands!
When the laws are broken, what of the city then?
We are moving through some allegory between a City of Hope,
where history has been abolished, and a City of History,
where hope can be slipped in only as contraband.
Failing to achieve understanding, we're searching
outer space for an entity to unite us as humanity.
That person, or city, is consciousness.
Two ancient female poets are a revelation,
the clarity of their complaints: lost lover, lost city.
Our enemy eventually becomes our brother,
his misery lifted by coming to her city.