Long Anemic Poems
Long Anemic Poems. Below are the most popular long Anemic by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Anemic poems by poem length and keyword.
Adumbrated aeration regarding...
crafting reasonable poetic rhyme
nothing to sneeze... at chew
asthma lingua franca –
acts as supercalifragilisticexpialidocious glue
inspiring me to skip to my loo,
and ye to play altruist gist
imagining how and why I still rue
cashing mucho moolah legal tender
courtesy bitcoin cryptocurrency,
which absolute zero funds recouped,
nevertheless dumbfoundedness ironically
found steely mettle to get smart
courtesy posting gofundme page
(titled implacable ill fate
battered treasured wealth)
on my part already got told to you
dear readers visiting my literary endeavor
written within vernacular English
spoken amidst human zoo.
Okay, the gist of anemic
checking and savings accounts averred
asked from one
FaceBook English literary
Jim Hensen creation and
Sesame Street resident Big Bird,
I could plainly enumerate
Sachin (means 'pure' in Sanskrit
and another name for Hindu God, Shiva.
The most famous Sachin
ranks as recently retired
Indian cricketer, Sachin Tendulkar).
Impossible mission to expunge poison
regarding stupidity and never be cured
of spellbinding nightmares,
and not accused
of acting demurred
the esse cent chill
dime a dozen premise ensured
prime merrily to discover
visa wells Fargo
sieve err (ala Eratosthenes) forward
solution, whereby means
to save money
against being gored
no...no...no...not to be stingy,
nor selfishly hoard
meager unearned social security
monthly allotment, aye ignored
to mention as key piece
of information a dub bill
lit tete ting bout with anxiety,
obsessive compulsive, not cavil
air lee shaken off and schizoid
personality disorder like evil
mailer daemons, which
undermined ability to full fill
quality existence, and even
prescribed about,
a half dozen plus three
medications help ill
psyche, though nonetheless mill
yens of precious moments pill
furred with profuse sweating still
interferes supplementing,
stoking, and socking
away reserve till,
last creased furrow sought out
here in Schwenksville
Pennsylvania most likely, where
one last gulp of oxygen will
finally deliver cremated ashes
into eternal void
where psychological state
free from being destroyed
and forever exempt trying
to be write lee employed.
This Citizen Banker
safely in his compound doth attest,
sans donning his typical
gabbling and trumpeting ways,
while legally tendered,
currently being cents
less lee swept away
soul fully - bellow
wing from my chest
(with fortissimo, the
whirling wide webbed
watery tidal swells
rivaling the peak
of Mount Everest)
reef furring to being
nearly reduced to poverty
hence, essentially buck
king the tide while washed out -
since day short and dollar late
circumstances force me
to cash worthless buffalo chips
astutely as you correctly guessed
from deep pull horrible
United States economic situation,
where option non
existent against invest
ting, nesting, and squirreling
financial resources jest
accessible for wealthy people
to sync investment portfolios
region of popular tax haven,
viz Cayman Islands lest
hefty costs accrue
keeping scrupulously stashed re:
sources untouchable,
where Uncle Sam canst
access ex cell lent
healthy maturing outlook
king monies, and understandable
at rage against the machine
if rainy day funds messed
up, but solvent versus
debts drowning oneself
unable to stay afloat,
where declaring Chapter 7 bankruptcy
doomed to bobbing
within a sinking boat,
and where pointless
to pull out all the whistle stops
including abandoning resorting
to heroic measures
while additionally futile
to shed tears and emote
only kidding self to seek out goat
tam ma Buddha, nor will
I resort to gofundme
(cuz ma last name NOT Kardashian),
but matter of fact lee
roll with the figurative punches
feigning tubby Jew Dee
or an incarnation
of Muhammad Ali
during his ready for prime time Box
sing rebellious jabbering
left fist out fox
sing prize fighter un
defeated champ with mox
see, his champion modesty
oozed muscles like rocks,
a bankable one man
Gibraltar with precious
mettle to the core,
not wanting with his pugilistic,
yet homegrown genteel
ringing true mark
solid core state athletically valued
bankable bonded stocks.
I was born to be the dark horse...the underdog.
But, I'm nowhere near endearing enough for people to root for me.
Some look at me pitifully like I'm a blind puppy, others see me as a disease, and still others try to trip me to see my face covered in mud.
Judas and I share the same blood, and the same unfortunate taste in friends, those with a messiah complex.
The kind that abuse loyalty as an asset, an entitlement, a death sentence.
Inside my chest, at the heart of it all, is a screwed up little house and in that house my heart hangs like an old chandelier swaying and tinkling in the anemic light of old dusty curtains.
My love is a pair of tennis shoes thrown over a power line, their shadows forms a heart on the dirty asphalt, in front of the house with all of the ghosts,
with the dead yard and the corpses of ill-fated kick balls and soccer balls impaled on over grown rose bushes.
My body is that tired house.
Sagging windows, crooked doors, the beams shudder like the people that cross the street to avoid me.
All the crucifixes hang sideways above the doorways, nails piercing the drywall like a tetanus filled stigmata.
Locked in, I watch from behind a filthy window, I'm nothing but a shadow, a wraith, no evil, just waiting.
I'm a story to make children behave at the grocery store.
I'm the face of decay, forgotten and wishing for a second change, bold enough to hope for a FAIR chance,
misunderstood because I wear my ghosts like wallpaper.
It's tempting to hide them, but the walls will still moan with their weight.
History can be buried, but never erased,
It can be changed by the winners, but the truth lives on the tongues of sinners.
When we fear them, we pretend not to hear them.
Many seek peace at the expense of truth and history.
We are the victims of fairytales.
The witches cottage
The queen with the poison apple
The hunstman with his axe..whose heart is in the box?
The all live within my walls, even darkness needs a home.
Because light needs are worthy adversary.
For good to exist, it must stand on adversities vanquished shoulders.
There is no dawn without first a howling moon.
I am the moon.
I am a screwed up little house.
Explain to me the language of your body,
Assure to me its ulterior meaning,
Pure like an angel's wing, or else,
Perhaps,
Let me discover
The ghosts of its meaning, something more akin to the
Fleeting flecks of the flowers in our irises, or
The fatal hints of the Siren's whispers,
Where words meet their end and slowly becomes a barrage of
Touches—meaning finds itself more comfortable in
The oils of our skin than the notes of our tongue.
The burnt pink tips of my fingers brushes across fields of purple wheat, who's
Edges are scorched a soft brown, like a frothy nebulae...
It asks:
How is your hair like the wheats of the English?
How are your lips like the kiss of the Italians?
Your eyes like the glances of the Arabic?
A pink summer,
Duly fitted around the pale azure of your oceanic figure,
and softly beckons to the oval
Leaves that were left,
Bled from decaying trees...
You love me,
I want to assume.
For what other reason
Would anemic sunlight be weaved into you
Hair that's speckled with mourning dew? And lately the walls have been
green with some Festering memories from
Yesterday but
The faint and sweet smell of sugar is enough to
Convince me otherwise of oblivion.
How are your eyes like the cosmic s c a r s,
Laced with an ardent yellow between an all-consuming purple and
Flecked here and there with
Pollocks of white and blue, streaked with
Light orange along the dark celestial rip a charcoal black…?
I love you,
Perhaps…
But can a door compose its candor without rusty hinges?
Perhaps…
No citadel’s too tall for mortals like you.
Even acclivity of mounts fear of bipeds like you.
Adam’s ale in its ampleness has lost its meaning.
And only with your condonance,
do the flowers un-bud and birds do sing.
But let’s see, if this almighty can pass in my little catechism;
And a test it is; shouldn’t be misconceived with any criticism:
So, in the unfolding, will you also make the butterfly to unfold,
its hued aileron as per your yearn and control?
And As per your hankering, will you as well repaint,
the black calamus of the cormorant?
What has been quenching the thirst for years,
will now go from blue to black?
will you do all this to everyone and
Then save yourself the flak?
Will the new clock scoot a tick?
The viaducts have no brick?
Will the berdas rumble and the cougars sing?
Will the off-springs dummy up their begetters in the forthcoming?
Succumb or give an answer, are the only ways you’ve got!
Cause’ what you’ve been doing, I dub it as prying.
And there exists no amnesty for what you’ve been trying.
You’ve been a fine jeweler for the prime;
Validating the originality of a corundum’s been your style.
So how come you changed your vogue; negative appraisal is all you report?
Since when were you born with the power to transmogrify?
One could not get to azure, if you ever denied?
It’s never too late for home, even if you start back today,
You’re never too late for home, if you grow into a new You on the way.
You’ve been vexing the orb for years and yet go on, cause it owns no speech.
Narcissistic you are I hate to say; You never did as you preached.
But you still get a chance, to outweigh all your flaws,
Capitulate to the architect; cause he’s the only one who knows,
How the orb would relearn to live and the art for the orb to re-grow.
To bend is not for the anemic; But for those who aspire to learn.
Meek you’re not but strong enough to have ‘to be transformed’, as what you yearn.
Believe me when you reach home today,
they will get to see the stronger You.
For yes, I’d still like to admit
No citadel’s too tall for a mortal like you.
Form:
I know,
in both head
and anemic heart,
other climate healers
right here and now,
compassion theaters
across Earth's internationalized space
and throughout tribal time
Breathe integrity's potential
acting
thinking
feeling out and in there and here
somewhere close
and somewhere far
across Earth's polluted oceans,
Yet my own everyday
immediate family relationships
neither speak nor hear
anything of this cooperative win/win integrity.
What am I?
What are we
listening to instead?
Internal climates of despair
about outside long-weathered detachment,
disintegration,
desecration,
degeneration
Win/Lose competitive commodification of life,
evolution of ego-expansion,
anthro-history hubris of detachment,
now rabidly fragmenting
into organic ecosystemic empires
of self-isolated would-be communicators
for and against our future experiential lose/lose outcomes,
or maybe win/lose, though highly unlikely,
in a ZeroSum,
winner takes all, capitalized Wealth economy,
or maybe win/win personal and public
economic and ecological
political and empowering prospects
of secular/sacred integrity scripts
scriptures
Regenerative transcriptions
still powering with
not not degenerative inscriptions
To Lose exterior nature, is to Lose interior spirit;
To Lose secular faith, is to Lose sacred hope;
To Lose integral health, is to Lose integrity wealth;
To Lose RightWing Win/Lose zealous zero-zone dominance,
is to Lose LeftWing ego-liberated,
not interdependently ecocentric,
climate health EarthTribe prominence.
To Win/Win
breathes in and out transubstantiation,
just this here and now
appositional cooperative,
secular/sacred compassion.
Curious,
such lack of re-attaching courage
to give voice to feeling needy
for shared compassion
with each other,
within our families, extended and nuclear,
within ourselves, eco-big and ego-small,
as with Earth's exterior healthier climate
prospects for future familial regenerators
of all species,
and parties,
and local communities,
and global universities
of ecological/theological inter-relationships.
Forgotten bells
I wake up before bells and faint dreams
There are many days that I don’t want to wake up
I feel that I want to fly to the oblivion
And repeatedly wakes me up the prayer of love
But I cannot paint the length of the night
I go and come together with the wind through the season veins
At the grave of father Fishta I could find none of my bones
As in black and white celluloid I touch the corps of the re-departure
One another final way of infinite pains
Over the thousand days I don’t know who is killing me more
The misfortune diagnosis above the sky I cannot kiss either
Sugar in blood of anemic books
Verse lung cancer
Or soul letters tumor
I feel so close to the end of the beginning
As the bells that are not ceasing once
There is so much hunger for freedom and thirst for another life
And I cannot decode the Becket’s mask into Dante’s circles
All those whom I love don’t turn me their backs
Prayer roses into a dry spring without heart
To open the door I want, there, where angels suffer in silent tears
And, even in the end of the end of the beginning
Do not ever stop lullabies for the cradles
Don’t ask me for more while I breathe the air as Lasgushi
Do not make prayers into mornings and evenings with lots of anxiety
And if nothing and at all you will remember
Nor the buried poet and people with a lots of wounds
Damn me once with voice of the soul
There, where bells play funeral announcements
Although, we don’t recognize the length of the day and the darkness kills
And, often we would not want to wake up from the curse of the nights
Repeatedly we are greeting the day
Forgotten within loneliness but closer to the language of God
Haunted House was built on cemetery grounds
Completed at a time before the aliens in white arrived
Cold fleshed, green teethed, in gray seasons grip
Beneath the rocks in molded soil hidden
Bones lifted in a dig disfigured
More dead than alive, lost souls vacated
The spade laid down for a seconds spell
With crusted man along the dirty rock
To take a breath and gaze into the void
Sweat serene, glistening, dripping from the brow
Elongated fractured skulls rest settled
Reveal nothing to the nothing new
A grave robbers truth comes with uninvited guests
Moved in unannounced uncounted under haunted house
Under a blood drained moon anemic to the touch
Giant trees shrouded, doomed, draped in black
Fog hides dark sins, cast dim images, shed in mystery
Surmise a death spiral rising from the grave
Comes calling along the last crusted leaves revealed
Dried, turned brown, died, dead on the boughs
Hung over the inevitable advance of age
Blown hollow now on Winters wind deceased
Clouds gather at the ripe time harvested
Watch gouged out eyes inflicted by angry aliens
Nails sharp, metallic claws, ripping at the throat
Scratching at the vacant skies half maddening
Exposing a complex skeletal system poisoned
A cobwebbed network of limp branched bones
That fill in the nightmares shared by strangers
Fall collapsed, civilization followed, laughed
Cemetery house claims an ugly infestation
Aliens, lost souls, elongated skulls remain
Quiet, serene, for the time being
Visitors tongues are silenced
Cut out with a smile, glistening white
Poem created on 9/28/2016 for "Scare Me Good" Poetry Contest
December
knows the speech
to transcribe double-edged thoughts,
dried between cognitive spaces
of comets tattooed
with razor-sharp ink~
infused with cinnamon and clover,
emanating toxic perfume
of decadent desires~
as our love was an ice-storm~
beautiful, fleeting, destructive,
and promises we made are
like petulant paper-dolls,
misplaced in the wounded effervescence
of snow-covered sins, melting in vain…
Yet tonight, I taste the smoky
truth in tears of time~
trickling like muted waterfalls in mist,
as my insomniac heart follows faint
scintillas of soft sparkles,
stitched gently into skies
of sullen moonflowers and lilies,
soaked in raining memories…
For I am the eclipsed sun~
drowning in the afterglow
of poetic gloaming outlined with
amethyst embers,
while interlocked as ethereal tendrils,
intoxicated by the elixir of white topaz,
contrived from the musical starburst
of my anemic quill.
But amidst lines of twilight,
tailored with wolverine lies,
can you still hear our
songs in Cupid’s crystal sighs?
Or was it just a kiss in the dark
on winter’s lips,
swirling through neon ashes,
like frosted glows of
juniper twin-flames?
I remember your light,
the lunar lamp that refused
to cloak the image of us fading,
when the wind suffocates
the delicate stems that
home roses and orchids,
we designed to the silent hum of grief.
So let me rewrite the words
you used to say,
with the pointed tip
of this mutilated muse,
to compose a resonant requiem
with dahlia dust,
flowing as purple prose
within my cathartic bloodstreams
in supernova coherence…
Waiting. The minutes groan arduously.
Somehow, perhaps – my heart fails to beat
with the rush of your momentary attention.
Perched precariously on spikes
Flesh colored, yet artificial –
Manikin fingers, fidgeting.
Mournfully drenched in factious apology.
Our eyes meet briefly, then dart with bashfulness,
Choreographed precisely.
Words uttered repetitively from wine stained lips
Fill the tortuous silence – hesitantly.
Your hollow ghost memory, porous and unsubstantial.
'We can work at this, ' you finally choke
An unfamiliar innocence, grasping -
Your voice childlike in its simplicity.
And for a second, I recognized that old stranger.
I muster a skeptical nod – and smile limply, dismissively
Fingering the rim of my glass.
'And deceive ourselves with promises made before?'
I winced with audacity – impatient of your feeling,
As the words ripped your heart out clean.
You clear your throat in an effort to speak -
Those words never did surface...
My acid tongue, an all too familiar indulgence.
I raise hesitantly, your gaze fixated as I shrink.
A tormenting embrace, clothing saturated in your scent
Sodden with tears unshed.
Humoring your touch with finality –
An unspoken understanding sneered behind the mask.
Face taunt with incomprehension, as sorrow squeezed out the substance.
I avoid the depths of my black dying heart, defiantly.
Anemic with reluctance – I usher the door
A smiling parody of phantom reminisce -
Poisonous and seductive.
An enormous tear got away,
As you lay fragile and broken – bereft.
I’m sorry.