Long Anthracite Poems
Long Anthracite Poems. Below are the most popular long Anthracite by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Anthracite poems by poem length and keyword.
“If a tree falls.....?” No, there is no sound
Without an ear to hear.
If light shines on....? No, there is no sight
Without an eye I fear.
Footsteps are not heard upon a stair.
Nothing that can be heard is heard there.
There - is as still as night before dawn,
Like waves with no shore to break upon.
Images do not appear where we peer.
Nothing that can be seen is seen there.
There - is as pitch as anthracite,
Like flint with no steel to strike.
Just as a candle lit upon a spirit boat
We flow through our dark world afloat
Thinking the world bright, but the light
Shines only within, all else is midnight.
There - everywhere - is dark and muted,
The senses are but energy transmuted
By neural lobes, without which life is stark;
An amoeba oozing silently through the dark.
Copyright 2021 Paul Thomson
NEANDERTHAL
In times gone by, now recondite,
Neanderthal, erect, upright,
spoke softly, tones so lily-white,
and tried to put the world aright.
He taught us how the flame ignites
that wearing furs will warm the nights,
just why the rolling wheel excites,
and how the beveled flint stone bites.
Before the days of dynamite
he fought his foes with spit and spite,
and swung big sticks with all his might,
and rendered death with stones in flight.
Engaged in never-ending fight
(arenas were a global sight)
he forced his forces to unite
to sate his oily appetite.
To quell rude thoughts that may incite
he ruled the realm with fly-by-nights
and culled the winds of words in flight,
and darkened minds to anthracite.
With fairy tales of evil sprites
and how the fist of freedom smites,
he washed the world with flames alight
to vanquish hoards of parasites.
Each dawn the damage brought delight,
the foe was bent, a bit contrite…
yet battled on with no respite
until the dusk and evening light.
Encamped beside the firelight
Neanderthal, that shiny Knight,
awaited morn while sitting tight
assured the end would be alright.
Yes, conquest seemed his sacred right…
Forevermore?… well, no, not quite…
Neanderthal's extinct tonight
and lies beside the Trilobite…
MORAL
The Oreo is round, not bright:
while rolling near the candlelight
at first the searing seemed so slight,
the molten cream an oversight…
NOTE:
This screed has nothing to do with the noble Neanderthal (whose brain size exceeded our own).
It has nothing to do with 'times gone by' (though who knows what future beings may see and think).
It has nothing to do with anything…
and even less to do with something…
unless of course, you think it does….
Five Shades of Anthracite
Triads of black white and grey in the middle colour in above and out within
Five silhouettes a passion play mix shadows dancing in the moonlit night
work art and framework on the vertical horizon of ecliptic thought’s array
Alchemy casts precious golden sculptures in the feeling fondness wisdom’s
mind tending to its business slow and fast evolving rainbow’s kairos white
Five shades blend into one reasoned action intuited perception truth reality
embodiment beholding earth wind fire water aired in carbon gilded nuances on
the journey’s crested prism’s holograms when three plus two engraves infinity
They overtone refinement’s overture into the pentagon from anthracite to gold
by way of any tinted tingle unadulterated quintessential and concerted meaning
13th September 2016
his path strewn with sink holes and driftwood
took him to the edge of fear and utter despair
and perceptions often mislead more than they guide
until he chose to be more than a mere survivor
love had brought him incredible satisfaction and joy
yet impermanent suffering shadowed his rainbow
for a while painted in anthracite charcoal and ashes
black on dark canvas ghastly grim and forlorn
depression reeked its ugly head as a stark reminder
that life owed no happiness but he beheld himself
in courage hope faith and the hard labour of searching
for grasping the meaning of pain and thorough rebuilding
on the verge and crisis near the abyss and valley of death
he came upon the crossroad and decided to forge a third way
went to the beach and gave thanks to good things to come
the vice cannot squeeze any tighter
bolts crushed under the benchmark
gather dust with nuts and lost screws
a DIY manual mocks arrested craft
I cannot hold it together much longer
limbo has me instead in its firm grip
machine oil lubricant is frozen despite
heated exchanges with my inner Self
short circuited when the fuse box stalled
the battery leaked current in the seizure
a few flickering brain waves remind me
that the power tool work shed is empty
a dark hound rests on my sunken shoulder
quite happy that I am the one on the leash
a personal dog leather collar with spikes
commands me to halt all resistance as it
only cuts deeper into my lacerated neck
while crows pick far too close to my eyes
I try to smile in the face of this peril but
the grimace does not even reach my face
a lonely tear dangles in suspense at the
lowest end of a beaten brow and evaporates
teased out with no meaning other than fear
an out of joint limbo dancer in slow motion
a pantomime of hell plays out in my soul
epitaphs scribed in smeared heart blood
clotted the thrombus waiting for a final kill
while an embolus of nothingness fights
for instant release on its way to my brain
life support fidgets with receding resolve
infused with darkness and charcoal ink
I try to light what resembles some tinder
and ever so slowly an induced coma melts
fraught with ashes and suffocating ember
but an anthracite embrace is the only option
to clamp the vice into limbo rather than myself
21st December 2020
grandma had always been a magical offspring of nature
collected herbs images mushrooms psychedelic support
tattoo in her mind rebellion independence and freedom
mescal beans at stakes looking like witches’ broomsticks
cultivated night shade a belladonna of sorts in the woods
tree house cut from the forest and the stepladder frayed
an outpost for the paradigm bare of dogma and convention
a jungle of green sheltering indigo orange and violet of mind
no phone no computer only drums of heart and pulsation
spirits did not haunt her impression of legendary surprise
a pen cut from charcoal a sharpener cut from pine growth
opinions and premises and razor sharp wits and emotions
no delete button no erasure only stream of the subconscious
free flow of psychedelia as she flowed in crocheted pants
over all happy and void of convention and stifling dogma
lotus position next to a mat woven from strawberry fields
coarse linen cushion haunted hunting to mould her behind
future certain breast happily sagging but pendulous thoughts
wicked and mysterious and candle light a flaming lamppost
from desk to kitchen and boudoir as a anthracite fire raged
pendulum swinging from knotted branches swayed in the wind
crystal balls blown from history nostalgia and fierce resistance
tea leaves coffee ground a cup full of memories and aspirations
never too old to have a happy childhood she abandoned the past
tribulations conjectures treasure chest of nuggets wisdom’s appeal
the old scribe never died for an apple seeds quite close to its home
26th June 2020
she showered the sky in anthracite crimson and sepia
eclipsed broken pencils and crayons moulded together
took a fading snap shot in memory of what’s yet to come
a soft touch surpassed clawed grips of splintered sorrow
outlined peripheral beauty on the transcripts of passing
rescued cinnamon and ultramarine from darkness of night
as she climbed past the pinnacle of rational composure
fresh mysterious shades surpassed stark intentional hues
compounded tapestry of magical sketches into her truth
when the moon waxed in slow motion to a tune of innocence
doubts waned as evaporation dried the canvas and pattern
of unrepeatable capture of reason to emotion’s delight
she took another sip from an overflowing fountain of measure
repainted the scene from scrap books of subconscious mind
unaware of translucent epiphanies moistened on parchment
18th May 2020
The taproom is a crush.
You slide between heaving shoulders,
squeeze between pockets
of overheated laughter
to a small room set aside,
a place closeted in smoky isolation.
Here the barmaid appears on the half hour or sooner.
Mostly she’ll let the ‘snug’ be,
while a clot of patrons nurse their dark brews.
Grey mustaches puff in the stuffy fumes, noses drip.
In a cast-iron frame, a sooty anthracite smolders.
A fat creamy dog stretches on the scuffed linoleum;
as you step over it, it bares yellow teeth and farts
garnishing a long lingering funk.
There’s a rain-coated woman sipping in a corner.
You consider a few pick-up lines.
The plump barmaid arrives.
Calling for another you scurry to the counter.
Behind your back, the woman leaves.
When, with your foaming ale, you turn back to the room,
the locals are smirking,
as if they’d known all along
you would be leaving the snug - alone.
Is dance a metaphor for sex?
You’d think so if you knew my ex
(at least the barflies all believe
she’s hoarding something up her sleeve).
But what makes people want to dance?
An aural frenzy? True romance?
Would Hamlet, Shylock or Macbeth
ever dance themselves to death?
Strasbourg is the kind of town
that’s unassuming, buttoned down.
These people don’t let down their hair:
rarely reckless, somewhat square.
The year before a reign began
(that’s Charles the Fifth – the Habsburg man):
to celebrate Saint Vitus’ Day
a Strasbourg woman’s new ballet
was launched in Rue des Hallebardes
(a strange event in all regards).
Right outside her Strasbourg home,
a stone’s throw from Strassburgerdom,
one Frau Follea hit the street
(and man, that chick could move her feet!)
We don’t know what her motive was:
perhaps she did it ‘just because’.
Did she deserve the looney bin?
No - other folks were joining in!
With twisting torsos, poor and posh,
the city streets were soon awash.
Without the need for record player,
the followers of Frau Follea
bopped and boogied through the night,
as hot as Rhineland anthracite.
Did scruples sting at morning mist?
Did conscience prick them to desist?
Did people halt their hellish dance?
Not one mosher! Not a chance!
On they conga’d, rocked and rolled,
oblivious to heat or cold.
More Alsace dusks, forever amber,
reverberated to their samba.
The local grapes are full and juicy:
the people step a mean watusi.
There’s such a thing as civic pride,
but this lot cha-cha’d till they died!
Housewife, beggar, baker, barber
were parties to the danse macabre.
Was their motive pleasure? Fear?
Penance? Sydenham’s Chorea?
The reason for the quick-quick-slow
I don’t suppose we’ll ever know.
* MAGNIFICATION-
I see, I feel chose up, Natural soul mine atoms mold
Compulsive make up looked upon, so
I see Seismic waves micro-
I feel High pressures temperatures carbon atoms
Of coal matters at very high pressures and temperatures,
I see gem jewel marvel pearl
I see treasure wonder crown jewel
I feel carbon atoms squeezed so touching more atoms knows?
As well I feel and see plum imperial phenomenon COAL
I see, I feel chose up carbon atoms bond
I see atoms and result diamonds formed
I see amplification overemphasis
Overplaying, dramatization mustn't hold our breath
Over dramatization fuel scoria
I see, I feel chose up Embellishment of anthracite carbon char
Enhancement extravagance ember culm
Hyperbole aggrandizement coiner ash
Additions carbon, intense heated press together glitters diamonds sparkle-far
the surface of earth's mantle create I see natural diamonds brawn
180 to 300 ft adorned down drape array furbelow overstatement task-dawn
I see, I feel chose up look at the pressure exaggeration
I feel and look process of something or being magnified,
especially visually speculation
I see, I see, I feel chose up gem jewel marveled pearl
I see treasure wonder crown jewel
I feel carbon atoms squeezed so touching more atoms
As well I feel and see plum imperial phenomenon COAL fathoms
I see, I feel chose up, somethings be made diamonds
pressure exaggeration
Processes of of being magnified, visually I see, I feel chose up speculation
I see, I feel I see, I feel chose up chose up
12/11/23
For Magnification Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Julia Ward