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.
Celebration of Las Animas
The shadows know
When I shout into the void
Of obsession’s chaos that swallows even darkness,
Fractured light in jaundiced eyes,
Where withering blasts of winter hibernate in masquerades,
Promises lay in crumpled thoughts of raging anxieties
To crumple wings stilled by grief’s passages
Of flawed conscience.
My gentle shepherd, who walks in the brittle solstice garden,
Whispers to this stubborn lamb of irrepressible forgiveness
With healing that unites a divided soul chasing eulogy
To float upon the flowing tide, the River Agape,
Dewdrops of compassion in solitude’s metamorphosis -
Ebony’s iris nightfall – weave an arras in twilight’s hush
Where scented leaves of solitude and grace
Celebrate in welcomed cleansing wind and fire.
Released from perfectionism’s chains by perfect perfection,
Through radiating renewal on the Samaritan’s road,
Solitude’s incense from ash groves inhales metamorphosis,
Seasoned with the breath of mercy in shadowy first light
As dawn quietly peeks through the pink blush of epiphany,
Leaves behind ominous – footsteps of midnight –
Sweeping away bittersweet thunderheads on stone spires -
Finale of my seclusion.
In preludes to all things bright and wonderful
Rebirth, renewal, tethers me to new psalms
Scrubbing clean overgrown graffiti on my woodland wall
New anima stretches out in one moment of time and space
Navigating unexplored islands in the broiling stream
By argent rainbows in cornucopia’s of charity
To untangle knots of errant threads through life’s keepsake tapestry
Eternal Emmanuel, radiant message, face of amazing grace.
2-24-22
Contest: Form F – Free Verse
Sponsor: Constance La France
Theme: Life
Animas means life – communication of the spirit with the subconscious.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Suspended like a cataract’s pale lens,
*the cold-hearted orb rules the night~
its blue-gray light pooling
into the hollow of his heart.
Fourteen envelopes stacked like unmarked graves.
He fingers the topmost seal, the wax brittle as hope~
the moon bleaching
their blue edges to bone.
What ghosts swim in this lunar milk?
No answers come~
only the ache of his ink
confessing:
These are *letters I’ve written, never meaning to send~
each a whispered confession,
unspoken prayers of my soul
paper cathedrals
built on the fault line of my heart.
small, papery ghosts, haunted by the weight
of unspoken things~
each a brittle testament,
a love that breathes only in the amber of my memory.
each one unfolded
read in the stillness of lunar milk.
each page I lift,
the moonlight dissects each I’m sorry
each one swirls in specks of dust
where your absence hangs.
I see your ghost in every autumn leaf.
I remember our nights on sheets of *white satin.
Silence and regret are suffocating me.
Come home…
he rewrites in paragraphs
…till dawn bleeds gray.
Absence or presence felt like anniversary
Bonding dipped on honey or roasted like rotisserie
Cameras capturing candid moments of silence and victory
Detonating memories of bliss, struggle and gallantry
Every smile incinerates dejection and melancholy
Family or with nobody, molded like an infantry
Gentle ways you move as a whole over bristly fences
Hardened, unwittingly brittle you fall in many pieces
In and out breathing so free, beliguered by birds and beasts of hums
Jackhammered by toils, plagued by conundrums
Kayaking on clear and colored waters, flowing and never end
Life in your story beeps, commend and bend
Memories of everybody in a canvass
Now and forever, etched on walls that will never pass
On and off you charge your cellphone
Powering, vimming your daily routine without a drone
Questioning why life is bred with more tears, not laughter
Roaring like thunder, having no brother or sister
Smile and never surrender while you're still awake
The night or day after may not come again with a birthday cake
Under any condition or situation, be grateful for having YOU
Value your time, your life and people around you
Weeks and passing years will be seen and felt in your own body
Your life in a story, short or long, is a biography
Zany it will always be, your life in a microscope -- a movie in trilogy!
Undersized or measured as a miniature...
Your creation is magnified as a beautiful caricature!
(Prosebite)
Locked in the largest room of the palace,
you live days in dire existence,
sunshine caresses you with sun rays,
breeze makes you breathe life;
anything at the swish of a wand is
given to you, lonely princess of Wales!
He has no loyal blood in him,
and as many children as you desire,
He can give you-at least two.
A boy who looks exactly like him,
a girl as gorgeous as you...
he can feel inside you'll be his.
Your jealous Queen, can scream her brain out
and tell you, " I don't like that bodyguard is a joker;
he's too poor and childish, he thinks he's another prince,
but he has nothing to give you...stay in your room,
silly Rapunzel! He won't ever climb to this balcony:
your hair is too short and brittle! How can he do that? "
You'll try to convince her that he is a great guy,
" But mom, he loves me more than anybody! "
" Love without money is a tree without fruit!
Riches can buy many jewels! You're the next Queen!
Her anger will shout her up and all will turn to gloom...
while he waits outside and freezing he rubs his red hands.
Her slickness won't last, she must have a weak spot;
if he courts her with his boyish charms, she'll become soft
and forget that a pretty princess adores him and woos him.
" I got her on my strings...she'll be my animated puppet!"
Infatuation can be blinder than love; he will get her very drunk,
and have her thinking for a minute that she can have him!
The princess and the bodyguard hug; they laugh aloud...
while the Queen sleeps on the sofa and snores, " She's too drunk,
let her sleep for hours; we are going to elope and live happily!
Ah! Such an unfair and vain mother she is! She'll realize that
even money isn't everything...if love palpitates in the heart! "
Try out his trick: be that bodyguard who outsmarted
the Queen and if you get lucky, you must thank him "
Pick: Rapunzel
Written on 2/2/2016
Attorney Sara,
There are nights when the hush of the world is so deep I can hear the stars murmur to one another, and I think of you.
You are all I have—not in some desperate cry, but in a sacred truth.
You are grace when I stumble, beauty when I close my eyes, and light when even the sun forgets its way.
I speak not just of you as a soul, but as the spirit of all things I once loved: the mountain breathing clouds, the river murmuring of memory, the trees heavy with summer's I sigh.
I walk among the living, busy and brittle.
The days are filled with the dull clang of struggle, the quiet erosion of hope, and still I return to you—this image in my heart, not fading.
You, full of vibrant light, remind me that even in tiredness, even in quiet defeat, something eternal watches over me.
Tonight the moon is a pearl in a black sea.
The wind touches my face like the hand of a forgotten god. The battles of the day have vanished into silence, and I am left with the ache of not knowing what I once said.
Truths I carried like lanterns now flicker, dim.
The wick is to short for flame.
And yet I know not why I still cry when I am privileged to see and hear of the choices that govern our life.
But you remain.
You, who are the wild lilac in spring.
The sound of water over smooth stone.
The color green in all its thousand shades.
You are all the things I cannot lose, even when I feel I have lost myself.
Even in confusion, I remember your voice—soft, certain.
I will go on, because you are with me. Because even when the night grows cold, the stars still burn. And you, always, are their echo.
Yours always,
I stood before the barren ground.
Where thorns and thistles lay dead.
I asked the Earth what it needed
to make my garden follow its way.
First I watched where shadows fell.
Where rivulets of rainwater pooled.
Where heat had cracked the virgin clay.
where restless winds scoured the ground away.
I did not rush to dig up the soil,
nor hasten to sow my box of seeds.
I first studied its wounded state;
its hunger, scars, regrets, and its needs.
For many times before, I had failed.
Rushing headlong into the breach.
Only to run out of finger tips
to plug the dam wall’s spreading leak.
So too, I mapped my inner ground.
Where grief, failure and regret lay there.
Where anger burned, where fear had pooled.
Where drought had cracked my riven heart.
I drew up a Permaculture plan,
designed to integrate on many levels:
trees, shrubs, herbs and grasses;
water, soil, air, shelter and climate.
Then, I cleared the brittle stalks,
the debris, stones, and old rubbish;
covered the soil with fresh compost mulch,
made with kitchen scraps, I once called waste.
At first, everything was very small,
Tiny tube-stock trees and shrubs;
seeds planted in no-dig fiber tubs;
vine shoots trained to climb up my trellises.
The garden grew; I planted new habits,
rows blossomed with mindful daily care.
I climbed up trees and vine-clad fences,
Pausing to gather a meal and say grace.
The work became a softer thing,
not hard-driven to reach a goal.
The garden became self-sustaining.
Earth and gardener both made whole.
So, serenity lies in being self-sustaining.
Not by will forced nor imposed.
But, by living deep within multi-layers
with planning, care, and nurtured culture.
Sight arrives first~
a spill of Mexican poppies
like molten gold across the
the Franklin Mountain foothills,
each petal swaying
in the desert’s slow exhale
Hearing follows~
the soft hiss of wind
threading through brittle grasses,
the faint click of stones shifting
under my boots,
and somewhere far off,
a quail calls
reminding me
solitude is never truly silent.
Touch wakes next~
sun-warmed air brushing my arms,
poppy petals grazing my fingertips
like small, shy flames,
and the gritty pulse of the trail
pressing its story
into the soles of my feet.
Smell rises gently~
the clean, sharp breath of creosote,
the earthy sweetness of sun-struck soil,
and the faint perfume of wildflowers
lifting from the fields
as if the desert itself
had decided to wear something soft.
And taste~
unexpected,
but there all the same:
the mineral tang of dust
on my tongue,
the bright edge of heat
settling in my throat,
the flavor of a landscape
that asks nothing
yet gives everything.
By the time I turn back,
the poppies glow brighter,
the mountains stand closer,
and every sense feels
a little more awake~
as if the desert
has quietly rewritten
the way my body senses
to the world.
The ghost of Harriet Harris abhor real
disillusioned, disenchanted,
and disembodied (incorporeal
spirit of mine late mother) doth feel
displeasure toward this sole son seal
ling himself most every day inside
the one bedroom flat, a bargain deal
asper costs pegged to monthly
social security disability as sole
income intended to support me,
and the missus, who does not troll
the internet for employment,
and in fact exhibits no goal
to supplement marginal roll,
out sans unearned income, especially now,
(no surprise I wanna be a bachelor)
cuz finances teeter on cusp of red hole
mainly whereby two sizable
automotive costs (within a
six plus month period) sunk me soul,
and psyche on the point
of despair, where goal
to be alive undermined
nearly being penniless
and this communique not aiming to trawl
for sympathy, nor remuneration,
which latter would definitely draw scowl
upon countenance of eldest daughter completes
University study (housed with her eminent beau
within city of brotherly love), awl
so this papa disinclined to apprise her
meager finances put me the dole
drums mainly aforestated a cup pull
of hefty car repairs
spurs impetus to burrow self like a mole
whiling away hours of each twenty four hour
listening...perhaps for me the bell will toll
(at long last mitigating this
deplorable strait no life atoll
where today hard pressed
upon Highland Manor knoll,
and basically undifferentiated from yesterday),
budget restrictions limit choices, hence I stay
inside, where the brutal cold oye vey
also contributes preference
to remain comfortable at
60?Fahrenheit until April or May
solitary (trivial) purrs hoots
occupy time, to allay
writing, reading, meditating,
exercising... staves off ennui
until...these lovely bones turn brittle,
and shock (wave) of brown hair turns gray.
Burning snow falls quietly on
cold rusted wire and brittle bone.
An ancient creature looks to the horizon
feeling is body built of razor wire and old bones, cold,
a delicate tone transmits from on far...
Wraiths walking in the burning
snows depths, as it falls, it drifts...
In eyes buried burning bright,
across this delicate armature
of wire and bone skeletal hands clutch.
Bloody foot falls leaving no footprints,
upon the burning snow lies cinders of stars.
Transversing transcending reflecting
in a vast landscape of desolation.
While ash gray clouds drift
on oceans of spirits they race,
undulate flow to rhythms eternal.
In frustration and rage as brittle fingers trace,
each a wreckage of eons past
like broken fine china ruined
in department malls,
dead cars and neon bars.
Alone in shopping marts
eyes of the damned...
Faces blistering burning bright
listening to black concertos
in dead concert halls as eons fall.
Someone something ethereally framed
by elections runs glistening bright...
A silhouetted figure in distance thunderstorms,
lightning wreaths it fragile face
it walks among the ruins
the wreckage of rage
in ancient graves,
Insane dominions blaze...
A boney fingers trace
secretly a wooden oblong box
full of oblivion and infinite,
feel the burnt primordial clock,
a face still cracked bold but
keeps the time as death comes
as memory of all is lost.
As mortality is crucified
on wire and bone a thin
delicate in tone resonates in grace.
Walking still onward in the burning snow
feeling the drifting imagery,
cascading across its face,
an armature of wire and bone
walking forever in foot falls
of time as it falls apart sublime.
In the darkening cityscape
lightning filigree fragile and frets.
Alone on horizons distance edge
lingers an oblique and obsolete monstrosity
it drifts in the burning snow
forever alone in the forever more...
Since I was a kid,
they said I was gentle as a lamb.
Quiet.
Kind.
Smart.
So I've kept that image.
Or tried, at least.
I didn’t fail.
Not once.
Grades stayed high,
mouth stayed clean,
choices stayed safe.
No vices, no trouble,
just quiet nods and
“Yes, I can.”
“Yes, I will.”
I built a life that made people proud.
And slowly, I forgot to ask myself,
"Are you proud too?"
Well, I guess I am.
I’ve built a good name, after all.
But looking back now,
I feel sadness
because every praise I get
feels like a quiet command
that the only room I should enter
is the room of success
Every applause disregards the possibility
that I could fail at any time.
It’s like a tooth,
one that never got to grow
because a “perfect” one
was already there.
I should bear the weight of the crown I chose,
but as time passes by,
it grows heavier,
stiffening my every move.
Now that I’m older,
I wish to live without any standard.
To enjoy life and everything it offers.
I wish to say no without guilt.
I wish to rest without thinking of time.
I wish to live without having to earn it first.
But with a heart as brittle as glass,
A mind that easily overflows with thoughts,
With soft eyes that cry too easily—
Is it even possible?