Long Broiling Poems
Long Broiling Poems. Below are the most popular long Broiling by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Broiling poems by poem length and keyword.
Gone I past the planetary galaxies
Lounging on the back of comfy comet
Whistling: here I go and i will be there, through fearful void
The blackish abyss and eternal nothingness
Slipped to the polish throne, His worshipful highness
Salutation to all rulers, Emperor of the universe
Bowed, I with head touching the feet
Like Arabian knight revealing bronze palms
Brought nothing but peace seeks I
Fountain spring of the beginning and the end
The breathing stones of Diamond and Jasper
What peace! That refuses to manifest amongst the pieces
On the face of the globe
Should I squirt it, break it or relocate it
Or manufacture brand new creatures
That’s more or much realis most beautiful
In all things
With all bundle of brainy
In quantum than Einstein?
Sack shape head making the whole load
Of body, arms and legs will be
Like many ropes with clumsy clutching suckers
And the eyes larger than what they are
More than a dozen probably
So that in haste quickly reaches the end of time
And do what you are suppose to do,
Rather than rambling, knotty rivalry that lead infinite
Murdering the lads with your archaic missiles
Hissing among bodies: I am the powerful
No, I am the most potent
No, destruction I most
And all that; deceiving the deceptives
Haven’t you heard?
Haven’t you seen?
That tap of my fingers like sound of earsplitting
thunder-waves will cause hungred
Earthquake to swallow up the minute world
Spittle, because of bile of rage will outflow the ocean wave
To wash out every nation
Let me not utter the might of the suns
When commanded will shrivel burn out
The whole universe to cinders
I have done it once
With clapping thunderous storm as a memorial
A teardrop for your incorrigibility
Tower of Babel should come in as a remembrance
Beware! Of the gradually broiling boiling anger
Inside of me, beware! Warmongers
Of the sneezing vomiting flu
Stubborn fly that can 't escape the fly trap.
Silence...
...Just wait...
Wait a couple seconds...no, really.
Just WAIT...
In the distance,
a tremble of the air itself.
A subtle quiver of it's molecular structure.
A charge, causing your hair to come alive.
*CRACK* A singularity so vivid, so dazzling,
it blinds you,
forming indistinct bubbles in your vision.
Then another, farther away, not as luminous.
Another, and another. Dozens of fractures in the sky,
shining with voltages so high, so powerful;
temperatures blistering hot,
Searing and broiling anything they touch.
Fiercier than the sun's corona.
Vapourisation.
Retorts of thunderous applause,
following seconds behind, build up.
Unsure at first, escalating. Deafening.
Frightening all into submission.
Applause for such grandeur.
Overlooking the dark and forested valley,
we observe nature's perfect opera.
Above us,
angry violet mamma roil,
bubbling over the base of the storm.
Faded flashes,
illuminating the clouds,
casting mauve highlights and indigo shadows.
Far off applause,
the audience of another, higher up show.
The tempest isn't quite done yet,
the show must go on.
Not 10 metres behind us,
a tree explodes, its trunk boiled and charred.
Simultaneously, a roaring, reverberating crackle-snap ignites the air,
blasting our eardrums past their record limits.
A roasting heat wave blows over our heads,
shoving us forward, searing the tips of our hair.
Screaming and shouting, we stumble away,
no longer amazed at this horrifying opera.
Tripping down the slope,
we roll into the thick forest below us,
colliding with trees and shrubbery.
More flashes, tailed by the sky guffawing at us,
as we've become the joke of the show.
Horror surfacing on our faces,
we blunder towards the jeep.
Only thing is...
all that's left of the jeep is a smoldering carcass...
Real fear sets in,
as we discover ourselves
Trapped.
Isolated.
Entirely alone.
And up on the stage of nature's prime opera.
And we're the laughing stock.
The dispensibles.
No way out.
Two old men. That’s all; not much to look at.
Their frail, broken shadows shrunk against the sunny morning
Brightness slowly searching its way through gnarled branches
Overhead, and crisscrossing the red and black pieces
Upon their welcoming checkerboard.
I placed a solitary peanut into the waiting hands of a small, grey squirrel.
Withdrawing my offer of other gifts, I moved away,
Drawing closer to hear their wrinkled voices still
Clamoring over the last move of their deadly waiting game;
Spattering salty remarks with knowing chuckles of old combatants
Echoing former rattlings of their rusty swords.
Beneath their stubby beards sat the once strong,
Straight line of a stubborn jaw, thrust at life;
Hot for the chase that breached the perimeters of grand arenas
As Time swept aside the long-suffering hours
And slowly chiseled away massive, symmetrical bone.
They had been young, sensuous men with lapping fire at their cores,
Melting away the wet walls of passion and the searing, sticky
Sting of a promising, promiscuous tongue.
Yes, their passion was still lingering there,
Below the masks of debilitating age and cracking bone.
Their passion for life and pleasure still written across their
Wrinkled, wincing brows, clearly there for anyone to read.
I wondered how many summers those faded eyes had squinted
Against a broiling sky and felt the power of that which they are---
Two old gods, sitting in the ruins of their shadowy kingdom passed,
Oblivious to the ticking of unearthly clocks.
Two faded, gnarled and twisted husks sat in peaceful friendship
Beneath the cool and darkening, park lined sky.
Below the surface of their shabby shrouds, pinpoints of eternal, celestial light
Sought the vaporous freedom of untethered ether.
Beneath the surface, the gods still flexed their mighty,
Quiescent muscles, forever young: aged mantles flung
Against Time’s eroding shores and fog misted dangerous rocks.
The storm comes at midnight
It will be quite a sight if I’m right
Preceding it barely a sight will make many angry and scared
The sight could be anything
…
Ha! Yes, even to those prepared
… You seem confused, let me explain
Lightning will flash in the sky
Which likely will be the revealing of a terrible lie
But truly it will all start with a single voice
Then everyone will have a choice
With the crack of thunder
Every person will choose which side to try to drive asunder
…
Hmm?
…
Now you see I’ve been thinking about this quite a lot
I know being saved will not be bought
You see in an ironic way it is kind funny
What’s coming will be beyond money
…
Ah yes! I’m glad you asked
After the horrible thundering
Worse will come
The storm will hit
As broiling black clouds roll over
Rain will strike the faces already damp
As the angry clouds weep in furious pity
Ribbons of red will wave in every city
… Do you fear?
…
I’m dearly sorry
But here comes a worse part
See the beginning was merely an inevitable start
In comes more lightning and thunder
Each striking with sorry fury
No one away will scurry
…
Because they don’t want to
…
(Sad sigh) Yes… yes… we are all just sorry little fools
…
Ask me more than just “Why?” Elaborate
…
Ah, yes
See the lightning is the light to see
But the thunder is the response
Funnily enough the reveal is destruction’s key
The light does nothing but begins what will come
…
Yes this is the storm
You might wonder how could this have so much damage
Surely the world isn’t in such an unprepared form?
Fools!
Not just you! Look around! Why is it you think we’re so perfectly steady?!?
Not only are we ready with no preparation
It’s been that way so long I can see the clouds already!
Dusk is already past!
Midnight is just an hour off!
…
What?
…
Is it too late?
… No
No it is not
So what are you going to do?
Or, more importantly, is it worth saving?
TWO OLD GODS
Two old men.
That’s all; not much to look at.
Their frail, broken shadows shrunk against the sunny morning
Brightness slowly searching its way through gnarled branches
Overhead, and crisscrossing the red and black pieces
Upon their welcoming checkerboard.
I placed a solitary peanut into the waiting hands of a small, grey squirrel.
Withdrawing my offer of other gifts, I moved away;
Drawing closer to hear their wrinkled voices still
Clamoring over the last move of their deadly waiting game;
Spattering salty remarks with knowing chuckles of old combatants
Echoed former rattlings of their rusty swords.
Beneath their stubby beards sat the once strong,
Straight line of a stubborn jaw, thrust at life;
Hot for the chase that breached the perimeters of grand arenas
As Time swept aside the long-suffering hours
And slowly chiseled away massive, symmetrical bone.
They had been young, sensuous men with lapping fire at their cores,
Melting away the wet walls of passion and the searing, sticky
Sting of a promising, promiscious tongue.
Yes, their passion was still lingering there,
Below the masks of debilitating age and cracking stone.
Their passion for life and pleasure still written across their
Wrinkled, wincing brows clearly there for anyone to read.
I wondered how many summers those faded eyes had squinted
Against a broiling sky and felt the power of that which they are---
Two old gods, sitting in the ruins of their shadowy kingdom passed,
Oblivious to the ticking of unearthly clocks.
Two faded, gnarled and twisted husks sat in peaceful friendship
Beneath the cool and darkening, park lined sky.
Below the surface of their shabby shrouds, pinpoints of eternal, celestral light
Sought the vaporous freedom of untethered ether.
Beneath the surface, the gods still flexed their mighty,
Quiescent muscles, forever young: aged mantles flung
Against Time’s eroding shores and fog misted dangerous rocks.
Revival fire makes spiritual summer cooking ablaze
...since souls are nourished with Scripture-blessings' bounty.
Tasty delicacies sizzle with love's impact against apathy’s coldness
…while brewing friendships turn to sweet blends of fellowships.
Thru the summer cooking festival of personality development
…I have learned the basics of right menu preparation for life-balance
Along the reinforcing lessons of good ingredients' mixing in humane dealings
…for wholesome relationships with meaningful bondings.
With summer cooking pursuits, I’m exposed to broiling tests
…and roasting trials that reveal integrity’s credibility.
Likewise are sautéing demands toward drive-acceleration
…with oil-utilization pressures against slothfulness and fruitlessness.
My spirit delights in every summer cooking quest for well-being's upkeep
…where The Master Chef’s virtuous cooking standards are showcased.
There expert cooks of various specialties are mentors par-excellence
…of courage, patience, steadfastness, and grace under fiery challenges.
Never will I miss summer cooking sessions of faith-fortitude endeavors
…that burn my doubt and heat me up for service in God’s furnace of compassion
Especially those times of being grilled against selfishness’ pride
…making me shaped, baked and flavored toward valued recipe’s perfection.
Thus, summer cooking ventures of reaching-out missions are to me vital
…needing divine fire for rescue, life-building and feeding engagements
Best of all, I savor dining moments with God, the Chief Cook
…midst simmering joy, bubbling gratefulness and steaming triumph-praise!
*Habakkuk 3:2 O LORD, I have heard thy speech, and was afraid: O LORD, revive thy work in the midst of the years, in the midst of the years make known; in wrath remember mercy.
June 30, 2018
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.
Dave Percell
Dave Percell was many men,
Many of them were meaningless.
Five faces we will talk of here,
Some of kindness, some of fear.
The first I will attest to
Rises with the morning dew:
With ruffled hair and smiling fun,
Dave Percell says, “Morning son!”
He tarries late and leaves for work
Fighting traffic in New York...
This face curses, absent mirth.
Just in time, he reaches the yard,
Steel beams rising, like windows barred.
Blue-collar friends Dave Percell has,
They leer at woman as they pass.
Saturday finds Percell’s son gone.
At a friend’s ‘till morrow’s dawn.
Dave's at home with the boy’s mom.
Beers are out, along with wine,
They strike a rhythm in no time.
Gentle he starts, as a rule,
But soon, his movements are cruel.
He gets angry and chokes,
Savoring the screams the action evokes.
Like a serpent Dave does strike,
Laughing at her screams of fright.
On Sunday, the sun does not rise
Behind a sea of clouds lies the bright prize.
The two souls awaken early,
His hair straight and hers so curly.
Dave Percell?s wife has a bruised face.
She puts on make-up, like a race.
Dave smiles, ignorant her pain.
They crawl to the car, through the rain.
At church early on that day,
They heard their good pastor say,
“You should never hate, rather pray.”
At that, Dave?s wife turned her head
And to God she silently said,
“LORD, take not Dave, but me instead.”
So now you know, the story’s been told
One forever new, yet ages old.
You’ve heard of Dave Percell and his life,
You’ve learned about his lovely wife,
You’ve listened to their marital strife.
“What did happen,” you may rightly wonder,
Well, just listen to the heavens’ broiling thunder,
You’ll sense the scrutiny Dave Percell’s under
You’ll know his fate, on Judgment Day... asunder.
Ionah: first
(Morfil Gwr (Whale man).
Angry winds tore at the sails of the distressed little ship
Waves crashed and harried intent on destruction
Below he hid shaking with fear and loathing
Begging to be cast into the storming broiling waters
To escape the eyes and voice in his head.
Remembering how he stood at the edge of the dock
Watching tides swirl in and out with hypnotic intent
Fear in his mind forcing him to flight
Away he ran trying to feel unnoticed and small
Still he was found no peace for his plight.
Down he sank into the maelstrom deep lives saved
By his supposed good deed mind going blank
Down he went ,down he sank
To the depths he fell cold and black
Welcome death he cried his body slack.
Out of the deep with jaws open wide he came
Great fish of the deep, sifting the sea, Morfil by name
And swallowed the man his grief, anger and all
Shaking with anger tears streaking his face
Admitting defeat asked to be restored to his place.
With a great gush of vomit spewed onto the beach
Found him gasping as air filled his lungs
Grudgingly yet he ventured into the city
Looking at all his eyes full of pity
And they flocked to hear the words that he spoke.
Out to the wastes with anger in his heart
Leaving the people and city behind
Angry with them and the creator
Hiding away like some spoiled child
Under the searing heat of mid day sun.
Yet then the creator saw and loved the man still
Despite his tantrums and anger within
Sent help to feed and shade his head
And still the man asked and wished he was dead
“Why Me” was the song that he continued to sing.
Andrew P McIntyre 2012.
Enchanted by skylarks I surrender my time.
Day's sun unabated riveted me to broiling heat,
I stew in my skin. Every toxic thought
Pollutes my surface as is intended,
But corrodes and cankers their patron's heart.
The statue has a skin change too: skylark rest,
Merely superficial - smiles surfacing for air,
For culture goes deeper than color here.
Under the statue like a sheltering tree
I stand awed at my eroding liberty.
I count the red pennies, and watch the moods
Of racuos skylarks and people interchanging.
Standing diminished of labor's properties
And even the honesty of facade history,
I am watching skylarks sky diving for bread.
They all have long black wings
And they cry awfully; some say no one sings
Again, that rap is a longing to tell our own story.
I am listening neither rhythm nor art here
But a purposeful cry dense with bitterness.
The pennies I am counting fall, and do not roll.
Birds towering above me, on a sun scarred wall
Survey us ruefully as apart we fall:
Our ideas and paradigms like rubble and litter
The skylarks beyond our vision's fetter
Cry against the unexposed anger, the facade
That marked us polite as we crumble
Like old iron raw in salt mist and nitride air.
Under the statue of liberty the crowd mingles thoughts
In silence. The statue's massive, iron breast
Stilled, as the shrieking skylarks dive and digest
Crumbs of cold, callous film of charity
That goes easily to animals and birds, forsaking
The validity of man. Birds foment in the sky,
Skylarks still crying as the boats go pass.
A shadow with a fleeting cloud shifts and I see
The statue turns green, livid green, green as grass.