Long Blotch Poems
Long Blotch Poems. Below are the most popular long Blotch by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Blotch poems by poem length and keyword.
You where the breath of my joy and heaven,
now you are my curse, blotch, and you delete the rainbow of my smile
Why so, woman of mud?
You where the fountain and rose of my heart,
now you’re the thrones that grow on the hills of my rose
and make my rose look like a mountain of pain.
Why so, woman of mud?
You where the highly skilled love miracle maker that turned my tears to wine
and give my cry special effects,
because when I am crying and I think of you, I suddenly start laughing.
But now, you turn my smile to clay and my tears to a red river of agony, and you roll my cry with your temper of hate down the mountain of darkness.
Why so, woman of mud?
You where the pure guide that guided all our belongings with your cloud of kindness,
and you never did without showering your waters of affection on me.
But now, you scatter all that belongs to us in the deepest pit of unkindness, and you bleed away what we felt for each other through your rain of anguish.
You always said to me,
that theirs no such thing as heartbreak,
because you will never ever leave the path of our purple love, and you shall always be there for me like the stars that set on the eyes of skies.
But now, you boldly crush and pond my heart in your mortar of anguish and walk away leaving my skies blind.
Why so, woman of mud?
*Sobbing*
You where the light that lighted up the candle of my soul when I was damp and hollow and this made me glow intensively. You also always told me the darkest secrets I could not even tell you.
But now you blow so hard to wind away the light of my soul, flushing me dip down into the land of isolated slaves, where I hear your gossips about me.
Why so, woman of mud?
You were my brightest sunset and you never did without hugging and holding my hands, for you always saw me as your palace of refuge in times of traffic danger.
But now, you’ll rather become hell, just to see me cry and burn, and you’ll rather also just walk gently into death, so as not to call me your hero.
Why so, woman of mud?
You where my law of pleasant admiration and I could never carry on without you by my life, because you where my dramatic wonder of love.
But now, you are my flaws of unpleasant admiration and I have no choice nor muddle but to move on in my soberest mood, without you woman of mud, because you are now my thunder of hate,
Woman of mud!
Near small Rapid City,
a man came up to me,
said,”Hey, I’ll show you a good time.”
I thought that meant girls,
turns out, as things unfurled,
the man had something else in mind.
We went to a garage,
a rusty, grease-stained blotch,
type of place you’d see a drug deal,
not sure I could trust him,
but then as we stepped in,
I saw a crowd, excitement real.
Just judging by the sight,
it looked like a cockfight,
roosters with spurs, green money flew,
people from everywhere
were all jammed into there,
jostling for a better view.
But then when I got close,
no chickens, don’t you know,
just a small man inside the ring,
not even three-feet tall,
the smallest of them all,
just perched in there, calmly waiting.
I scratched my head and stared,
what was he doing there?
Why did this whole thing feel so strange?
What had I stumbled in?
Fighting midgets seems wrong?
It struck me as a bit deranged.
Then came the weirdest bit,
rooster thrown in the pit,
the midget pulled a handkerchief,
It was paisley and red,
at him the chicken sped,
lashing out with two claw-spurred feet.
That midget spun around,
the rooster did go down,
and all the crowd cried out,”Ole!”
This little man was fast,
poor poultry couldn’t last,
he spun around it like at play.
Then a man at my side
told me there’d been a time,
when the midget had wanted bulls.
Size had precluded him,
his fate would’ve been grim,
but without it he’d not feel full.
He’d found another path,
and I was watching that,
matadoring the fighting cocks,
Then that rooster he faced,
sought out a resting place,
and the whole warehouse soon did rock.
Never thought I would see
such a strange victory,
they raised a cheer and paid out bets.
Matador got his share,
and I got out of there,
some fresh air I needed to get.
Guess my timing was good,
’cause right then guess who should
choose that fine moment to arrive?
Cops dressed in riot gear,
dressed to inspire fear,
they smashed the door and rushed inside.
So what else can I say,
I quickly slipped away,
and to the city I did go.
That was my strangest ‘fun,’
until I rode a bison
right through a small town rodeo…
The pin oak leaves from dormant trees,
fall on this crisp autumn morn,
as I paint the scene of an artist’s dream;
in my mind this landscapes born.
The patch work green is this valleys scene,
with broken squares of chocolate earth,
where I look across the Bear Creek flowing,
to the rising of Mount Worth.
From the autumn cold, red, brown and gold,
blotch the maples three pronged leaves.
There's the tussock grass in a swampy pass,
close where the Bear Creek weaves.
From terrain seams these gully streams,
flow in drains beyond the girth,
where I look across the Bear Creek flowing,
to the rising of Mount Worth.
Gold finches sung on a fence wire rung;
flit to feed on winter grass.
Starlings circle and whirl; land as wings furl.
A Raven caws as it fly's past.
Cotoneaster berries quiver; cause of the shiver,
is a White Eye warbling its mirth,
where I look across the Bear Creek flowing,
to the rising of Mount Worth.
The fence line’s straight broken by a gate,
each side of the cattle lane.
There is easily seen a different green,
where a paddock’s rested again.
The sound of a pump starting up,
drives water to a cattle trough berth,
where I look across the Bear Creek flowing,
To the rising of Mount Worth.
From milking sheds cows bow their heads,
grazing on the lush-full grass.
Two Shellducks glide side by side,
ever lower as they pass.
Poplar trees having lost their leaves,
stand idle ‘til a spring rebirth,
where I look across the Bear Creek flowing,
to the rising of Mount Worth.
Undulating slopes where the pine tree copes,
surround the scar of a quarry's gash.
There's the natural bush that survived the push,
below the mighty Mountain Ash.
A corner stacked of silage wrapped,
prepared for a winters dearth,
where I look across the Bear Creek valley,
to the rising of Mount Worth.
My eyes they seek the mountain peak,
denied by the misty cloud.
First gum trees welcome the breeze,
that moves the cloud mass out.
The sun shines bright to brilliant light,
‘til shadows drift across again,
this time more gray - so much closer …
Mount Worth is lost behind the rain.
Today, even the hills seem blue.
Unhappiness is just happiness ~
being torn to shreds by you.
Bartleby: "I would prefer not to."
Lawyer: "But Bartleby, you've got to.
Pull yourself together, somehow,
and make a copy for me. Right now.
It's your sad lot to."
Bartleby: "I would prefer not to."
Someone stomped on my heart with their feet.
There's the red blotch ~ on their soiled bed sheet.
Doesn't look like a heart anymore ~
more like an open, festering sore.
And ~ I'm not waiting around for a repeat.
You know what I wish for the most?
That we could drive once more up the California coast,
listening to Emmylou Harris, Gram Parsons, and John Prine,
with me holding your hand, and you holding mine,
and not stopping ~ till we had safely crossed the fault line.
Here we are, finally at our loose ends,
with no more possibility for amends.
Our love's edges just got too frayed
for anyone to be able to come to our aide ~
no elf or fairy ~ who sews up, patches, or mends.
From Barcelona, she shipped me boots of Spanish leather,
with a note that said, "So you might get to understand Bob Dylan better."
And that's the last word
from her I ever heard,
and sadly, we never listened to Bob Dylan again together.
I made an appointment with me.
I was in need of some clarity.
I needed to know why it was
I felt like I was a lost cause.
And boy, did she act snottily.
The old tree on which I carved your name? ~
during last week's windstorm, down it came.
That staunch, indomitable oak,
that saw you prod and watched me poke,
is firewood now, ready for the flame.
Here I was when you were born
With tears in her heart, she bore you.
And now you became the black sheep,
The rotten egg hard to crack.
You made pains in her heart
Accusation fingers dare point on her face
Blotch in her heart becomes visible in the dark night.
And her smile became disgusting
When it rains she found it hard to hide.
I was here when you smuggled into the house
Smelt the footsteps and the dark night howled
Next was crying of innocent blood
Sprawling on the bare floor, in the room beneath
And the money gone, gone with the wind.
I was here when the executors came
I saw when you smuggled out.
Their bright snow light couldn’t fetch you
Up you run, faster than the cheetah.
But you forgot that unknown eyes were on you.
Men trembled in fears at the sight of you.
Lord of the night, heartless, you are.
Rendering most people fatherless at the breath of anger
A lot you pushed into poverty smiling
Reaping where you didn’t sow
Remember the falconer cometh soon
And the universe has it judgment
Power lies not in the bullet jammed in the barrel of the gun you hold.
I remembered her advice to you
She warned you against crime
But the ears was too hard to heard
Because it taste to be perished.
Your maker seek your soul
But it was too far to heed
I, your creator cry loud sorrowfully
How be it that the falcon disobey the falconer.
Now is the time
The deed is done
You were caught by the law
And all the quarters you tormented by a sign of relief
Soon you would be among the weepers
Down there in the pit of hell, .
(JOHN CHIZOBA VINCENT)
At first I thought it a
random drop of light -- why
not, the universe is full of
yet to be diagnosed, while
remaining natural mysteries.
Searing through the dark overcast --
perfectly oval, left was a singe, sign of
novel, puncturing intrusion, on what was
already a hoard of unusual flashing nimbus.
Came a rumble and a roar!
Such putrid blast! -- common to the bowls of a glutenous fat man,
at a smorgasbord. Dark insatiability continued.
A thickening! Bloating stench of atmosphere. A sense that
could only be likened to pure evil. Dared seemed my formidable
curiosity! Stars, a flickering mass of descending glitter --
Was there no bottom to this luminous fall?
I shuddered to think.... But could not turn away.
What negative presence, had come to disturb the restful nature
of a Southwest summer's night? I did not know. Could not venture
even a morbid guess. What all consuming demonic presence -- light alone
seeming incapable of subduing -- rendered every foreboding blotch
amusing to me! Entertained my curiosity. The fouler the contrast, the more
excited became a deep, dank, primitive fantasy I long harbored somewhere inside. Was it simply spirit
being infected by a transient, though treatable abscess? Or something far more primitive? Malevolent?
An enchantment that could not be, once entertained, so easily subdued, extracted from the mind. From the heart. Impending doom for a foolishly inquisitive soul. The ancient document, the incantation
I held in my hands, seeming to radiate an offer of unbridled power. What would I do?
What would anyone sane mortal do on All Hallows Eve? Burn the damn thing!
My dear incredible pen,
you are the pinnacle of writing instruments! Looking refined with your elegant ebony shaft and gold-filagree trim, you are a true technological wonder to behold and a master calligrapher.
I am amazed at your ability to ink my thoughts onto paper without a single smear, skip or blotch. You fit my hand like we were custom crafted as one, allowing me to gently glide your easy-flow tip over a blank canvas and create literary art.
Oh, my dearest, most reliable pen,
I am enthralled by your ability to interpret my scribbled thoughts into meaningful, coherent sentences. You are my inspiration, confidant, and protagonist; I would be lost without your profound influence and companionship.
You have established an almost intimate psychic connection with my muse, and together, we three create poetry. I love the feel of you in my hand; you give me the confidence to explore fantasy while at the same time anchoring me to reality.
My most beloved, exquisite pen,
the mere thought of holding you sends shivers down my spine, for I know you are eager to take me to faraway places we've never been as we explore the deceptions and truths of humanity. You come from a proud line of writing instruments, including cuneiform sticks, quills, and fountain pens, to the ubiquitous ballpoint pens of today. May your ink never dry up, and your contribution to literary works be recognized and appreciated, for you deserve no less.
(Ode)
03/03/2023
Write an Ode Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Jeff Kyser
Bloodlet me, my precious
You can make this my willing sacrifice
To cure me of impurity, of sickness.
Cut gashes into my face.
Discard chunks of my body.
These cliffs into my mind,
Scars of unhealing, they save me.
Blotch my red everywhere.
Nobody wants my stained mind, but you—
You save all the sympathy—
Iridescent, darling, could you ever understand?
Can't you see,
I want to be your victim.
Choked with pinprick holes across my neck.
Extinguish.
Ignite.
The panic.
The torture.
Please take your uttermost care
And give me all the treatment you've got
So you can value me the most that one could.
Fulfill my empty shell. Take it, deem it worthy. And trust should I lend? You own my vessel.
Please force a choice, for I can't choose.
Please, don't, love,
And, take it all away when you do,
But I do, do I? For what purpose?
This undeserving freak,
Atrocity of mankind.
Since I'm now aware of how undeserving I have been,
These restraints.
Control.
This capturing of this frame of mind,
And the recapture later.
Conservation...
Anticipating.
You could make it all end,
But, convince me of the latter.
Come, scutter back quickly.
Cunning tendencies of a creature.
Come forth to me again.
Incarnate yourself.
I hate salt for the sake of my cake
That is sodium-rich by the baker's mistake
And the syrup I poured
That I never ignored
Is more salty still
Then a fish with a sword
I like sugar and spice and everything sweet
For the sake of a snack or the lack of a treat
But I struggle and fight
With a big appetite
For a cherry cheesecake
And a bottle of Sprite
Yes I really hate salt by the savor I taste
That is bigger than big by the size of my waist
And the water I hold
That is bigger than bold
Is a day at the beach
In a battleship mold
If the salt I consume is the fault of my doom
Then I might as well vault to the back of my room
But I’m heavy as heck
With an iron neck
And a big Mack truck
In a miserable wreck
But if salt is to blame for the blotch in my fame
Then I might hopscotch to a different game
Where a sodium fix
In a bag of tricks
Is a sugar high
With some different kicks
If you still chase rats by the look of your hats
Then you might as well race to the Utah Salt Flats
Where the salt lick alone
Is more dry than a bone
And your new conversation
Is a drop in your phone.
"If you desire healing,
let yourself fall ill
let yourself fall ill."
Jalaluddin Rumi
Why, life is such, made of tricks and twisted ways
Life is such, made of sunny warmth and rainy days
Life is such
A blotch on our minds
A mystery
Waiting for the one to demystify it
A puzzle
Waiting for the one who would solve it!
However much ignorant am I of life and its ways
I can, though, fully ascertain
That life is meant not to be lived as if it were a ride
A ride down the river of sooth
A ride down there where love and peace thrives
Pray
Life is meant to be a torment
Life is meant to hassle us
Life is a disease and should we
Want to be freed from its poisonous grip
Why, we should only follow its course
Indulge in it
Allow ourselves to be touched
To fall ill
To fall even more ill
So that, when faced with our insurmountable misery
Life shall itself open up
And allow us to be healed!
Yes,
Life shall itself open up its gates of wonder
And allow us to walk through them to the other worlds
Those worlds said to be made of eternal bliss!