Long Assembling Poems
Long Assembling Poems. Below are the most popular long Assembling by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Assembling poems by poem length and keyword.
Could my muse be so complex a being
That his inner drive remains in creating music
Music which would hypnotize lions
Music which would wake in me, the mystic
Music which would sing always, of the mystery
That inhabits life and all creatures that walk through it!
Could my muse be some sort of savior
Imbibed with the power of assembling creatures
As mighty as crocodiles
Crocodiles which would turn all meek
Caring not even to try to slash lions
And to swallow flamingos!
Why, if my muse were such, I would have readily
Knelt in front of him and offered him all the parts
Of my sorrowful and God yearning heart!
Pray, could my muse be one who cared not about his nakedness
Caring, rather, solely to imbibe the whole of existence
With his angelic hymns
While fully aware that nudity can be seen as a purity
When lusty thoughts about it cross not the minds
Of onlookers
Why, if he were such, I am pretty sure that music and its essence
Itself would have flocked to him!
Pray, the world remains as it is because some power
Wants it to
But, things can change
See, mighty carnivorous beasts can turn all meek
Muses can leave their abodes to tend to mortal
Beings like you and me
And nudity can become acceptable as an attire!
But, in the very end, the grip that music has over us
Shall remain that which it has always been
Why, music, when played by muses of mystery
Can bid one's soul to want to leave one's body
To kiss the stars, out of ecstatic joy
At being alive
Before returning and nesting in its usual place!
Pray, my muse, high up in the clouds, remains
A being of the unknown, and
Should I someday know of his essence
I do wonder, if he shall be as such!
For Contest Poems that Paint a Picture
Written on 8th October 2017
Sir Henryi Morgan lived a life
of rags to riches. In his time,
he first was an indentured slave.
When freed, he drifted into crime.
The century was seventeenth,
The New World under Spanish rule.
A pirate Morgan had become,
and to the Spaniards he was cruel.
Sir Morgan managed to become
the captain of his own large crew,
controlling many ships and men.
This Welshman had a lot to do!
With Mansfield, Morgan sailed southwest,
there plundering St. Catherine.
Escaping, he sailed elsewhere then
assembling seven hundred men.
A raid in Cuba yielded him
A very hefty sum of gold.
To Portobelo he then sailed.
Five hundred men they were, all told.
Four hundred men marched forth with him
To Portobelo; then again
he raided other towns and gained
himself prestige plus ships and men.
At last he made his boldest move.
On Panama he set his sight.
In jungle land, he cunningly
took risks and won this major fight.
A pillager and murderer,
in England he was later tried.
Yet in the end, he saw crime pay.
Respectable and rich he died!
For Joe Maverick's "A storm on the Spanish Main" Poetry Contest
Dusty Box of Memories Poetry Contest
Constance La France
"We'll wheel where our wills take us and never tirer loving the ones that love us."
Quote by author
I kept his birthday card in a shoebox. Inside the shoebox was a pair of Gucci men's black lace-up shoes, size 12, costing a fortune. The sadness here is that he never received his birthday present. He passed away two days before his 50th birthday. Inside his card, I wrote, "Babe if you are the last piece of chocolate in the box, I want to save that piece forever." That was 17 years ago. Today when I opened the shoebox a wave of emotions and tears hit me, and I wanted to hit back. I kept thinking, harboring these emotions all these years, "It wasn't fair. Why me God why me ... why did you leave me a grieving widow?" When I looked at his shoes I was devastated and dutifully gave them a shine as my hands trembled. He would have jumped for joy in those shoes but I'll never know. I then looked at the card, orange with kids holding balloons, and playing in a yard. Not only his favorite color. But he would have been touched because we could never have kids. But I'll never know. As I gathered myself at the altar of my life, assembling the items back into the shoebox I couldn't help but hear his voice beckoning me to move on ... I looked up, my voice chocked with tears, "Babe if you are the last piece of chocolate in the box, I want to save that piece forever."
It's eight o'clock on a monday morning,
I'm wrestling with a tissue box - it a mystery,
the guys who make these must have macabre humour,
no machine, standing, grinning, funny hat, easy to her.
My wife knows how to open, must be from a former life,
if it's difficult, it must be the Chinese, trouble and strife;
a flat-pack arrives at the door, oh no - not that again,
anyway it's done but wife says: 'shelves not right,' pain.
Upstairs is assembling a bed - from eight o'clock in morning,
until afternoon, when they disassemble - the same, boring;
the shaving foam button is stiff - there should be no fuss,
the wife looks, I press firmly and it then covers both of us.
Don't use the sat-nav if you're taking a trip to heaven, well
because there's an outside chance you may end up in hell.
He starts with the easy pieces~
the corners, the edges, the parts of life
that stay where they’re put.
But the sky refuses to behave.
Its fragments lift from the table,
hovering above his hands
like small constellations
waiting for him to remember
where they once belonged.
He doesn’t look startled anymore.
Some puzzles do that~
they rise when you’ve asked too much of gravity,
when the unfinished part of your life
decides it’s tired of lying flat.
He reaches for a star-shaped piece,
but it drifts upward,
as if the cosmos has opinions
about how he should finish himself.
He laughs under his breath,
the way someone laughs
when they’re almost ready
to admit the truth.
The truth is this:
he’s not assembling a picture.
He’s assembling a question.
Every floating shard of sky
is a reminder that the universe
isn’t something you complete~
it’s something you join
one piece at a time.
**A WINNING POEM**
That night, my heart pleaded i should
Wait over and pass the night at grand pa's
Old inn.
Enormous was my concern to reach home
And see Constance La France.... the rambling poet.
About "create your own form, may be?"
I embraced the night and darkness mingled
With my eyes;
Yonder are night workers,
Here and there they wander,
Seaching for who to plunder,
Oh! what a mighty wonder.
Look at that supermarket,
And a man with a mask,
Gun and matchet,
He most be a burglar,
Oh! i must be undercover,
Or else i step into danger,
For the night is in dark anger.
"Ahh! ahhh!! ahhhh!!!" the cry of a victim,
Something must have wrought a cry,
Who will be the rescue?
For me, this night walk must linger.
Look at the police, having me as an
Accomplice, they need my identity and money,
Yet yonder is the victim crying....
Look over there! drug users
Assembling in dark corners,
Swaying like feathers,
In the midst of their daily rituals,
That is never beneficial,
Oh! blind earth leading to an open death.
Group upon groups, stationed in their post,
Looking so malicious, looking so vicious,
Brandishing weapons, ready for the slaughter,
Gun shoots clatter as a group fight starter.
Charles melody has seen wonder
And endless palaver.
Knives mingled with flesh, blood and bone,
Men eager and bold,
Heads bounce like ball,
Suddenly, calmness......
Gba! gba!! gba!!! another trigger's verdict?
Lord when will these pass over?
For i am likening to salt in water,
Never to calm and ponder,
The night walk seemed not to be over.
For the night is in dark anger....
BY CHARLES MELODY (Lightening Ink) **14TH PLACE IN
CONSTANCE LA FRANCE CONTEST,
WITH THE THEME; "DEEP, DARK AND DRAMATIC".
===============================
The form of this poem is called,"stream of consciousness."
i formed it so because the thought kept coming
like a stream or river of consciousness in my mind,
i was conscious of the dangers i knew, especially in my Little
African village and the war that covered it.
For "Constance La France, the Rambling poet's contest.
Precious people, pals
Yearning for the open air
A breath of fresh enlightenment
Discovered in a group of friends
Getting together to share the moments
With a loving spirit of hope and promise
For happiness found within a crowd
Partiers, vibrant and loud
Opening hearts and shouting delight
Into the happy place
Where music is a part
And lights beam all around
Welcoming the noise that resounds
Echoing voices coloring the night
In enthusiasm and laughter
So much warmth to paint
Heavenly hues of inspiration
Discovered in the exhilaration
Of knowing this swarm of party pals
Will be honoring the moment
With dedicated prayers
For healing that comes
In the knowledge
That a party creates
Serenity in knowing
That this get together is one that
Speaks to the heart of hope
And flavors the spirit in blushes
Of crimson rays, sunny days and love
For those who share in this
Party promise of poetic peace
Party pals thrive on compassion
Felt when gathering together
With those who share kind musings
Hebrews 10:25 (KJV) - Not forsaking the assembling of ourselves together, as the manner of some is; but exhorting one another: and so much the more, as you see the day approaching.
Party Folk Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Julia Ward
December 4, 2020
French Bread
Your index finger
draws figure-eights
in the dusting of flour
on the counter top
where you lean
quite casually,
watching as I make
a loaf of French bread.
Then, laughing a bit,
you insert your powdery finger
into my right ear.
I’m startled...
I was so very focused
on assembling ingredients
that I wasn’t aware
of my surroundings,
at least not enough to see
your finger inching its way
toward me. I laugh too,
realizing the intimacy
of your floured finger.
Somehow,
I don’t believe
your interest is in my baking,
but I proceed on to
proofing the yeast
in warm water,
watching carefully
for the always-shocking
bloom’s suggestion
of the possible,
our palates fine-tuned
to the perfume
of earth and damp places.
Thus begins the slow tango
of dryness becoming wet,
a touch of salt-taste,
elements bound together
by the slippery
until there is inseparable oneness,
deep warmth in the joining,
the inevitable rising,
swelling seeking relief.
But not yet, oh no...
First there must be a pause,
a relaxation of the engorged,
consummation delayed,
then the pressure of my hands,
pressing-on,
pressing and shaping and pressing.
We sip our wine,
talk quietly, anticipating
the inevitable increase,
saying between us,
“We’re ready for the final phase:
the heat that binds,
coalesces the disparate ingredients,
yielding at last to the
inevitable delectable finish.”
Later, cooling as it always must,
we can’t resist
nibbling still-warm bits
dipped in melted butter,
feeding them to each other,
transcending words,
finding new ways of seeing
one another.
Written November 23, 2013
for Charlotte’s Scorchers.
RETHINKING FOUCAULT
Just as a verse comes from verses,
a song comes from songs...
Text comes from texts,
Everything comes from the whole,
nothing is just an extract
of what already exists and has...
Everything is in place... and just copy and paste...
Of course, transforming, assembling
the story to taste...
But the new fact doesn't exist
nothing exists new...
But there is knowledge,
the innate talent!
Archimedes, renowned scientist
exclaimed his Eureka!
upon finding the "solution"
to a complex proof,
in a general field or mathematics...
Later, in a less long-lived stage,
well before the calends
Shakespeare, the theatrical wizard,
confirmed this missing piece for us!
A non-blatant copy of the plagiarism
perpetrated disguised by
his abysmal talent...
Nothing is created, everything is copied
nothing new and so new
the genuine is old, ancient
everything comes from the one!
... ALEA JACTA EST
ready! AND DONE "
When we want to begin healing ourselves,
We finally take puzzle boxes from our shelves.
We begin with identifying every edge piece,
Deciding if what's outside is worth our peace.
We then work assembling pieces slowly,
Working towards center, thinking deeply.
When the picture becomes full and clear,
We then remember people we hold dear.
When we want to know more about things,
We learn all answers are within all writings.
Like a word search, the words are all there.
You just have to "listen," show how you care.
When you feel so lost in any life chapter,
Just remember what you were originally after.
Just as we solve puzzles, you have the power
To reassemble yourself even after disaster.