Long Arrhythmic Poems
Long Arrhythmic Poems. Below are the most popular long Arrhythmic by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Arrhythmic poems by poem length and keyword.
The midnight clings to dwarfish kings
while robot drones, adorning thrones,
kneel, bowing to the Old...Guard.
Arrhythmic clocks and wooden box
grace FRiar Small-Bro’s grave...yard.
The diplohacks, like melting wax,
have swept along the clueless throng,
some dying for a life...guard.
And Nun, alone, has beached their bones
in FRiar Small-Bro’s grave...yard.
Beyond the streams, a raven screams
at loser fish that swarm and swish;
Nun slowly drains her dreams...jarred.
There are no thanks along the banks
near FRiar Small-Bro’s grave...yard.
While FRiar smiles and prowls the aisles
the hierarch obeys the bark
from maw that oozes pure...lard.
There's much ado throughout the zoo
in FRiar Small-Bro’s grave...yard.
Well, FRiar’s pets are in a sweat;
he calls the tunes near burning dunes
and taps his cloven feet...charred.
They roast in rooms, their future tombs,
in FRiar Small-Bro’s grave...yard.
His myrmidons, they drool and fawn
reciting verse near FRiar’s hearse,
extolling wild the van...guard.
Remote controls abet the trolls
in FRiar Small-Bro’s grave...yard.
With faces straight, in bent debate,
they advertise their empty lies
to every passing re...tard.
Grey zombies groom white flies in bloom
in FRiar Small-Bro’s grave...yard.
continued in Part 2
The evening stars were gone, replaced
by a spreading, ominous purple bruise of cloud.
When the wind rose, in sudden violent
crisscrossing gusts, everything went into motion.
White cabanas shook, like staked swans
flapping to fly, lavender bushes thrashed
their thorny arms as if in panic, umbrella pines
creaked and writhed like tethered balloons.
Lightning lit the winding, stony stairs, like ornamental
neon lights, as we’d run up the path from the beach.
Shockwaves of thunder accompanied the flashes
- there was no lag - the storm was there and upon us.
We were laughing and screaming, like children
chased through a dark Halloween funhouse.
The first, fat drops of rain popped behind us,
like a giant’s, arrhythmic, snapping fingers.
As we reached the open, French, louvered doors,
that led from our suite down to the shoreline,
we body-slammed them against the tempest.
And braced them fully closed with our backs, as if to vilify the
natural courses of wind and rain with an animal will to break in.
The lashing monsoon heralded our urgent, stormy union.
We were like the storm - insistent, wild and untamed.
All was revealed on that flashing, tempestuous night
as need, euphoria and lightning lit the naked night
.
.
A song for this:
Walk Between Raindrops by Donald Fagen
Hurricane Waters by Citizen Cope
Last tendered lifeline sought as battered psyche under your bellowing wave rips
Final act of penance remitted from bleeding, parched lips
Hemorrhaging from bandaged sorrows that only strerile soul doth eclipse
A hollow stare from deserted strand harboring the wreckage of two, desolate ships
Posture now callous bearing the scars of your shallow, superficial preening grips
Disheveled hair, limp dividend declaring inferior complex that from each emotive strand drips
Pale, drawn face; vessel sunken from draining sinkholes as our relationship dips
Pensive smile revealing the fault line of each strained shock as chasm deeper slips
Shuttering ears filtering out the rehearsed, rhapsodic notes of your telepathic scripts
Token, parting gesture from arrhythmic heart erasing each beat as your radar blips
After a wedding reception spent dancing…
hours my rhythm spent pursuing
I decided to look up the definition of dancing…
to see if that’s what I was doing.
The first definition is to move rhythmically to music…
but if you saw the the dance I was attacking…
you’d say how much you loved the music…
but my rhythm was sorely lacking.
The next definition is to move up and down lightly and quickly
but I’ll have you know…at 70 years old I only have two moves
one is heavy and the other is slow.
It seems according to the dictionary I wasn’t dancing
and at first I was appalled…
until I found the word arhythmic…
someone who can’t keep a beat and has no rhythm at all.
Arhythmic…there is was in black and white…I had finally found my answer….
There’s a good chance, the definition continued, someone who’s arrhythmic…will be a horrible dancer.
Ever since I was a child…to be a dancer I would yearn…
but all I ever do is step from side to side…sway a little
and occasionally jump and turn.
People were doing the Cupid Shuffle, the Electric slide, the wobble, the tush push, and footloose (dances with specific moves and names)
but no matter what the dance was called…
I danced them all the same.
It’s because I have no rhythm…at least that’s what the dictionaries say…
In truth there’s noting wrong with how I dance…I was born to dance this way.
It seems it is my destiny once I hit the dance floor…to bewilder, confuse and stun
born never to have my feet and hands move together as one…
The way I dance can best be described as a pink flamingo prancing…
So you best close your eyes…because I won’t let my arrhythmic style…
ever keep me from dancing.
Miles past the nightstand
over the plastic water bottle.
the Ambien pill dispenser
and the soul-bruised eye shades,
an arrhythmic clock
ticks like a bombed-out tank.
Of course there is the lampshade
(that lighthouse for the luminescent krill
of submerged consciousness)
that seems attached to my skin
whenever body parts want to cut ties
with a mattresses concave reality.
Secreted like a drugged shark
in the shallow recesses of a snaring drawer
a snubby barrel with six mad prayers
snugs up against a snoring bible.
The raven iridescence
of night-cats prowl a life leaking bed;
occasionally they look up
their eyes shining
as they search for an alien presence.
On its four arthritic legs the nightstand
watches;
its tour of duty still patrolling a far off
conflict of doubt and faith.
Time to turn over the hull of being,
upright any surface
with a legibly printed label,
then haul that address back in
from the far side of an arm’s reach.
Time to shuck whatever shell
still rolls unopened in the surf
of the tossed and blanketed.
Heart Song Separation
“We got separated from us last week and I haven’t found you since.” Poet’s Quote
Too long my heart we beat in arrhythmic clashes
Languishing in sudden cardiac heart arrest
Out of sync creating dark vascular ashes
No phoenix rises from heart disease - never rests.
Too long my song we argue over melodies
Distracted by atonal hallucinations
Dismissing cradle songs of haunting rhapsodies
Elusive harmonies hide in cache creations.
Too long my words we engage in rhythmic stand offs
Glaring at my silent muse - tense verbal showdowns
Impasse of wills – procrastination’s folly doff
Disguised in masks adjectives appear as pronouns.
My aimless soul seeks union with lost heart song words
Remembering your quiet smiles of peace fullness
Your velvet vesper serene these mourning tears blur
As twilight yearns in midnight’s hypnotic stillness.
Too long my heart we beat in arrhythmic clashes
Too long my song we argue over melodies
Too long my words we engage in rhythmic stand offs
My aimless soul seeks union with lost heart song words.
12-11-20
Contest: My Created Form
Sponsor: Constance LaFrance
VERSE I
she brushed across my shoulders
the bedroom light broke
a breasted scimitar—dancing thoracic throat
what I once outran—now presses my lips
she carried no black-wing omen
yet every breath drew near
purple velvet summons
Murdering me with Cashmere.
PRE-CHORUS I
kiss drawn, the walls slant inward
and rouge, the dark-root took shape—
as if her inborne blackwork
could make the night a colourless drape.
CHORUS I
Murdering me with Cashmere
tugging at my countless heartbeats
stripping me down to bare nerve
Murdering me with Cashmere
touch that lifted a ceiling curve
a birthright that denied me standing
VERSE II
the air lost a beat near her
piano shuttered its strings
her keratin ruled its hidden kingdoms
where songs outlived clipped-wings
one quick brush of softness
could tilt the atmosphere—
an unquestionable sovereign reign
Murdering me with Cashmere.
PRE-CHORUS II
marrow-sapped, my bones bleached white
and oooh, my will to power grew thin
her presence pressed antique velour
against my browning-paper skin
a blue-litracution mocked my manly core
CHORUS II
Murdering me with Cashmere
negating my defenses
melting my deep fear
Murdering me—only Cashmere
mist that would not recede
a spell that outlasted me
BRIDGE
she stood there—the verdict given
queen without a crown
her secrets a crashing thunder
hinged to pin me down
and I—
climbed, she was higher
and her hemlock closed in—too near
I fell into her ghast-lit shadow
Murdered soft by Cashmere.
FINAL CHORUS
Murdering me with Cashmere
kindness with a strangler’s grip
a calm that finished the work
Murdering me in Cashmere
queen in vestment of highness—
Lady Caledonia Blue— cyanotic.
OUTRO
she brushed across my shoulders
the world skipped a breath to grieve
softness that occluded on my lungs and stayed
refused to let me leave
her after-mint lodged in my vertebral mind
thorn in every flowing tear—
the night she claimed my arrhythmic heartbeat
Murdering me with Cashmere.
My Plea
This my plea O world
That drags the dream of peace
Through the mud of wickedness
Rise
From the egotistic slime to wash away
Self-centered muck
Loosen
Your profane feet of clay
From self-absorbed quick sand
Break through
The entitled self-interest of the arrhythmic heart
To the steady beat of the heart of all hearts
Release
Sludge filled veins of self-importance
To freely flow with innocence’s compassion
Lift up
The hands smothered by erupting ashes
Of the shameless vicious with sympathy
Immerse
Self-seeking vanity of the starving soul
Into the Samaritan’s fountain
Transform
The narcissistic selfie flower
With unfettered grace
This my plea for peace, O world
Sing the dream of dreams vision
Pray the prayer of prayers hope
Speak the speech of harmony
Live the life of peace.
3-29-22
Contest: Your Peace Message to the World
Sponsor: Anoucheka Gangabissoon
There are stretch marks for every delivered line.
Skin keeps strumming until it runs out of sweat,
incipient and membranous they arrive
through a mutual tension. On their own
words in the woods unseen,
but when pushed through a primal viscera,
they slip through wet and new.
You try to make them civilized and grown.
you know that eyes are upon you.
Birthing’s a messy affair
something you do behind swollen eyes,
a stress disorder that defies latex
or the collective humming of incubators.
Then you look down and everyone’s looking
it’s not a poem, it is a configuration
of arrhythmic pulses,
meanwhile you swaddle an indigenous form
native to a ‘no man’s land.’
You hope someone will read it to the end,
but it’s not the end, it’s another beginning.
I stand there, poised, a statue,
holding my paintbrush to my temple;
waiting for the lightbulb of sentiment to wash over me.
Then, like a distant star shooting across the cosmos,
or an injection of adrenaline into an arrhythmic heart;
my thoughts become as clear as a summers day.
The canvas mirrors my minds picture,
a time stamp of today;
igniting an old flame whose embers Iong presumed dead.
It is like time has ceased,
I have reached the eye of the storm;
my thoughts no longer an affliction of my mind.
I coat with a deep turquoise, the colour of the Asian coastline.
I build with an emerald green that coats the summer leaves.
I flavour with the purest white, like that of untouched snow.
The sun leaps above the horizon,
my nights work draws to a close;
the fire of my heart dimming with the dawn.
03/02/2020
Pick a Title - Tristich Contest
Sponsor: Edward Ibeh
#Afflatus