Long Brittle Poems
Long Brittle Poems. Below are the most popular long Brittle by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Brittle poems by poem length and keyword.
Ghostly frail figure,
that I am now,
neath nebulous moon,
where I shed tears,
on brambled verge,
as thin bones quake,
emaciated earthly being,
whose nocturnal solace,
bereft of suave signage,
with a deathly sickness,
icily immune to healing,
taut threadbare skeletons,
prone to clinical diagnosis,
never fugitive in closet,
nor courtroom strict sanction,
cordoned off camera setting,
where splurge of guilty scruple,
in atonement an utter ruse,
yet musings mercurial lurk,
as the net of darkness threatens,
indignant isolate me stranded,
whilst casting mirrorlike,
reflections shed under veil,
of midnight mosaic,
on my mishap strewn life,
due to brittle bony,
fragmented awkwardness,
that wreaked wild havoc,
with long term intimate bonds,
commonly entailing excess,
swing by to overflowing wards,
I eschew self-pity, period,
so vain and vacuous,
alien and anathema,
barren rattle cerebral
sqeamish stream of,
inlaid tract,
rumination razor-sharp,
from emaciated mortal,
whose stealthy lurch,
is frame vulnerable,
torrid touchstone,
as skeleton key,
gaining ingress to,
stubborn locked doors,
syndrome blight,
hailed as,
lean skinny shell,
resignation rare,
stoic coexistence,
copper-fastens
We say goodbye,
Knowing it is over, knowing it is ending;
I hold myself in to keep from reaching for your hand.
We talk of practicalities in bright, brittle voices,
Knowing it is over, knowing it is ending;
I hold myself steady to still the shaking beat of my heart.
We talk no more of future plans,
Knowing it is over, knowing it is ending;
I hold myself still and extend best wishes to you, as well.
We agree it is better not to see each other again,
Knowing it is over, knowing it is ending;
I hold my breath against a flash of reality.
I watch you drive away, waiting for the pain;
Knowing it is over, knowing it is ending,
And I realize it is the last time
You will ever break my heart.
I will inform you once the shells are spoor.
When they're timorous around the seashore,
Just as mushrooms will grow around a grave,
If they shine like slight candles in a cave.
So, you and I will devour the beach dunes.
While a pearly moon sails the ocean tunes,
Listening to the meek growl of the waves,
Because of the eyesore, the seagull craves.
Leave the prospects of the moody era,
To the pinnacle of warm chimera,
Entirely all the measures we will climb,
Unwinding vexes will raddle each rhyme.
When the billow came to express goodbye,
Moon dimly veiled as if it were a sigh,
If love isn't exciting and no tears fell,
The ripple then needed to say farewell.
I will contact you when the seashells bloom,
While they dance with brittle light at my tomb,
We will play the doom game in parody,
I will call you when the shells grow quickly.
My deprived brain couldn't accept a farewell,
I wrote the last and final verse as well,
Like birds, you'd return to the nest at dusk,
Retrieve my typed quill that I'd drop when busk.
3rd place contest winner
Written: July 02, 2022
FAREWELL theme rhyming contest Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Lisa YY
Checked by HMS.COM/ 10 Syllables per line
In the unquiet chamber of a kitchen,
where brittle leaves of thyme and sage sway
in unison, to the hot hum of convection
crooning softly from a stove of iron.
The guests hang waiting, by turns,
for their moment in the simmering cauldron.
Thick, steaming whispers of warmth
curl around the herbs like a secret,
as the ample arms of winter wrap the day,
in a slowing cloak of comfort.
The soup, a slower surrender of spinach,
blooms in the broth—verdant and tender at first,
then shrinking away, like sunlight at solstice.
Wilted strings of greens tie memory
in their tendrils, mingling with the earthy echo
and unrushed tones of rosemary.
Garlic, its own pungent alchemy, intrudes
as a perfume, lingering like an unpaid mistress,
an alabastered addition to the elixir, a liquid hymn,
of patience.
Bones simmered to capitulation,
cradled spoonsful of succumbing, each sip
an immersion into the gentle resignation of day.
Ladle gently circles the pot and the world slows,
even more, as though time, too, seeks refuge
in the simmering depths of the ordinary,
and the richness of the balm, in stillness,
at the center of the supper.
My mouth’s in a cage, locked up and alone,
Sewn shut with no one to speak to.
My eyes have seen pain of mental torment,
A broken mirror that sees straight through you.
My ears are blocked to the screams and the cries,
A sand grain alone on the beach.
My skin’s now contorted to a dead cold bronze nothing,
Not tanned in a figure of speech.
My nose has been shattered to smells of a rose,
To the smells of happy and free.
My bones have been snapped, two pencils from one,
My body is now wasting debris.
My “me” has been broken, discarded and burnt,
Once strong, now brittle and frail.
My life is now cursed in this vegetative state,
On a bed my mind’s locked in a jail.
We met in a ferry,
Though she was in a hurry,
We talked a little,
Her voice was so brittle,
She was Khadija,
A college teacher,
But have got a problem,
Can't trace her,all are the same,
They look alike,
In their buibuis and eyes weak,
Help me find Khadija,I need her...
It was on a first sight,
But I saw a future in her bright,
The way she talked,
The way she smiled,
Left me breathless,
And made me without her worthless,
Her voice was bewilding,
Leave alone her body,captivating,
How I wish she be near,
And stay by me near,
Help me find Khadija, I need her...
I remember her first laugh,
For sure it was full of love,
Her body was of wasp waist,
Leave alone her figure full of taste,
I crammed her number overhead,
Coz that's the only place I had,
To keep the sweet memories,
As a rejuvenation when I deplete my calories,
They say love is blind,
Truly I lost my sight,and to you bound,
Help me find Khadija,I need her...
I already have plans for us,
My cardiac is waiting for you to nurse,
Itst serious you gat my future,
Since yours is a mother nature,
My kids will have a mentor and a nurture,
And in a happily married family they will mature,
Come over my sweet aurora,
I put a ring in your finger among the flora,
Then we say Yes I do after while,
Help me find Khadija, I need her...
PoetIgweee
Wild and eccentric
Delicious sin
A naughty pick
A bull with no pen
Only a disk
No real relation
A fantasy twist
Of imagination
Goosebumps formed
Fine hairs erect
Becoming warm
A sensual wreck
Body of brick
Persuasive and stern
Delightfully sick
Passions burn
Smooth brown hair
Camouflage his horns
Convinced it's fair
She bears the thorns
Position of authority
Gives any girl a rush
But without priority
It remains a crush
On the edge of my seat
Heart thumping
A good girl's treat
Throat lumping
The screen went black
Fingers crossed
Mild heart attack
The ending was lost
How could it end
Right in the middle
Wrapped up in the wind
Satisfaction brittle
Slightly livid
Feeling deserted
My heart still amid
The author flirted
Leaving me to decide
What comes next
As though he lied
I'm feeling perplexed
Hungry for more
I try distraction
But I'm still on the floor
Solving this fraction
Perhaps this explains
The best seller label
Audience left in chains
For the few who are able
How clever was he
Giving a thousand endings
Some would agree
The sequel is pending
Promising never to be apart
I never knew at the time if it was the right thing to do
If so much of my budding life truly belonged to you,
Yet I proceeded demurely to let you hold my arm
And decided with some trepidation to coyly tag along.
Our life together began so aimlessly unpredictable
Not knowing the directions to a successful endeavor.
Tenuous were the links of love young and immature,
Unprepared to face obstacles potently formidable.
A clash of our aspirations and untenable ambitions
Soon brought about forces of immutable conditions,
As the portrait of young love cracked under pressure
And soon we broke up, bereft of romantic pleasures.
That was some fifty years ago as we now recall fondly
For the interlude of our separation lasted only briefly,
And we began anew to enjoy a triumphant relationship
Cracking the code of life to raise a wonderful family.
The sketch of our being hangs proudly in our hearts,
Never giving a second thought to our wary shaky start.
Brittle bones now foretell life remaining is quite short
So we make the best of it, promising never to be apart.
Placed 5th
November 2, 2017
Eight Word Challenge
Sponsor: John Hamilton
Our hearts one with Yours with brothers' accord,
we have common foes whose downfall is due.
April honors your resurrection, Lord.
Help us abandon idols we adored
as we pledged our full allegiance to You,
our hearts one with Yours with brothers' accord.
Guide me, dear Savior, as I read your Word;
show me your insight as drawbacks accrue.
April honors your resurrection, Lord.
Broken promises You've always abhorred;
my own brittle faith I hereby renew,
our hearts one with Yours with brothers' accord.
Audacious lying no longer ignored,
God, let this Christian convey what is true.
April honors your resurrection, Lord.
Jesus, your fellowship brings rich reward
when we surrender a selfish world view.
Our hearts one with Yours with brothers' accord;
April honors your resurrection, Lord.
July 12, 2020
Sotto Poet, contest: Springtime Villanelle
Before the ink, the silence was a throat
too wide for breath, a hollow-hoarding room
where syntax slept in dust, a formless mote.
Then came the stroke—the necessary doom—
that etched the first shaky consonant of home.
We named the light, and naming made it fear,
a brilliant terror cracking in the air:
And in that sound, the echo was a tear.
The lexicon is porous. It accepts
the slow encroachment of the sudden “gone.”
I’ve seen the tense shift while the subject slept,
the “is” dissolved before the “is” was done.
I hear your laughter, a broken, brittle run,
a syntax in the doorway of the mind
that leaves the quiet, comfortable behind,
a shape I cannot hold, but seek to find.
I have attempted to define your hand—
its knuckles, a syntax of necessary stone—
but language is a shifting, sliding sand,
it takes the shape of all that I have known
and breaks it down, a solitary moan.
I know the definition of the wait:
a vowel stretched until it cracks with weight,
a verb that acts too often and too late.
If I could pull the vowels from the air
and rearrange the grammar of our loss,
I’d make a structure sturdy, stable, fair,
a monument that does not pay the cost
of every single, sudden, final frost.
But every word is stolen from a sigh,
a breath that knows it only needs to die,
a sky that mimics emptiness to fly.
The inevitability is, in turn,
a pivot where the poem starts to break.
I feel the syntax of the darkness burn,
the structure of the longing that I take,
the shape of every mistake that I make.
I find myself within the space
between the first and final, fast embrace,
a memory I cannot quite retrace.
So let the lexicon be what it is:
a porous thing that lets the silence in.
I trace the syntax of the final kiss,
and find the ending in the way I spin
a language from the skin, and from the sin.
The tide returns, the lexicon is wet—
The words are drowning in the sharp regret—
And I am learning, slowly, to forget.
Forget the sound, the shape, the solid hand,
and keep the empty, loud, and lovely air.
I understand the way the broken sand
creates a new topography to share,
a syntax in the middle of despair.
The ocean does not need a name to be.
It is the final, endless, opening plea,
a memory that only lives in me.