Long Bundles Poems
Long Bundles Poems. Below are the most popular long Bundles by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Bundles poems by poem length and keyword.
The poet speaks of madness--madness similar
to what? What was spoken before this silly syllabus?
Each ant, lifting and carrying, adds bundles of dried
and curled rose petals to the soup simmerings.
Now, each ant stomps rose petals into a silken
gown, as if one could insult a shimmering insect.
The poet further sings of madness, high pitched at
times, then sliding an octave lower for suspense.
The ants love to nap on rose petals, dreaming of
rose scents which they store in their sinuses.
Rose petal soup simmers in ant kitchens calming
ant parents and poets--driving ant babies senseless.
The madcap poet imagines herself simmering,
relaxing in a fragrant kitchen full of ants.
under my bed
under invasion!
invaded by piles
of migrating balls!
dust rolls around
gathered in piles
piles tied in bundles
some are like pillows
pillars of feathers
pillows that billow
billowing towers
blooming like flowers
flowers I've gotten
flowers of cotton
curled cotton swirls
cotton-tail squirrels
squirrels in soft slippers
squirrels having litters
quicker to litter
litters are wooly
wool climbs the stairs
wool everywhere
bagfuls inhabit
spinning more rabbits
maintaining their habits
crocheting more rabbits
angora type rabbits
contagious civilians
into the millions
villain dust devils
spinning more fellows
devils in herds
please spread the word
herds I can't stop
bunnies that hop
stop them producing
don't mind the cursing!
searching the room for my broom
cursing the doom of a lint baby boom
copulation
problem making
populating
propagating weed
weeds and seeds, please take your leave
squirrels and rabbits hop hop hop
it's in the halls, like lint from sheep
I'm steeped in lint and I can't keep things clean!
When sheep need sleep,
they creep back
under
my bed!
_____________________________________________________
Hakim. The Gatekeeper from Esagila.
(A lone voice whispers)
In ancient Babylon,
I once stood alone and mixed fire
Iron and clay
All day
Creating a spell
To entice my only light to come my way
Sent merchandise of gold and silver
To her,
The Pythoness of Endor
Hidden in dark woods
Over the deepest of rivers
Bundles of finest fresh linens and purple silk
To satisfy her and her ilk
Citron wood and every kind of object
I could ever find
Made of white ivory and black marble
Whenever I could
No matter the expense
Incense sticks
And scented Egyptian
Candlesticks
Made of expensive Frankincense
Delicious crates of red wine
Bamboo baskets filled with white flour and yellow wheat
Fields of fat cattle and herds of baying sheep
Priceless trained horses and golden inlaid chariots
New slaves of broken souls
Lascivious ladies and ravenous men
To do her bidding
Even acts of depravity
Linked to the forbidden
For the fruit of my soul
And to be joined to her again
A bright light
I once saw
On a seemingly endless night
But in the year 323
When my leader
Alexander the Great
At only 32
Died and was eternally set free
In the opulent palace of Nebuchadnezzar
She
The Lady of the Wild Woods
The Pythoness of Endor
Cursed me to chase her
Forever
The Queen
I once conjured by fire
Iron and clay
So today
In the 21st century
Her I still chase
Since eternal life
Is now my only penitentiary
My only great living version
Of Babylon of Old
When I desired to sire
A queen, I once met
Dancing
The Raqs Sharqi
So fiercely
That her raw beauty
I can never forget
Adorned in soft crimson and glittering purple linen
Clad in silver
Wearing gold and shining diamond stone earrings
Reborn into the likes of
Badiaa Masabni
It's why I still chase her
If I could confess
For underneath
Beneath all things linked to trying to achieve immortal strength
It's why now
To seek her out
Once more
I always choose to break free
From the external grip
Of The Valley of Death
(C)
Copyright John Duffy
Quote ”Expensive gifts are no substitute for love nonetheless a thoughtful gesture on one’s part leaves a lasting impression especially on a child.” By Poet
In my childlike innocence I was magically transfixed,
by this spherical glass object stunning in its Jack Frost design,
prismatic snowflakes that mystic magic carousel spellbound,
Christmas reindeer coterie that cast a wide charm bijou wink,
nirvana within luminous tantalising universal infant pneuma,
layer upon layer of compacted fallen snow as aftermath divine,
then weighty rucksack on Santa’s back of glitter tie band bundles, in boot slush transit knee-deep in annual mirth,
December pageant peering deep inside my mental cavern of cartoon fun,
reassuring hug from both parents is the essence of goodwill season ethos lofty,
they beamed with festive warmth so noble when watching me,
touch and glide that silken urchin hand of mine so impish,
on this prized hypnotic treasure captivating in its glow world sheen,
with its gilt-edged gallery of down the ages Noel features bountiful,
it had this red cheek sprightly offspring gazer in a trance,
a token souvenir star dazzle as eternal recall dwelling cosset,
including mesmeric Yuletide batch of swoon and sway serenades and tunes,
chorus boom o’er ice chill swathe from dome mould gift,
enough to goad and prompt that beneficial item I yearned for,
from benign folk Elysian who lavish so much radiant attachment without curb,
especially at foot of tree swaddled present to whet the curious,
till Doomsday nipper awestruck by dream fetish awash with flair,
cute whirl and swirl toy gadget a nebula for me the tiny tot,
whose imagination swept to the furthest North Pole sighting and beyond.
So many lives lost to viruses and other means
Personalities that once held smiles happy to be seen
These people were our brothers and sisters that we closely knew
Now they are back with the universe with spirits being renewed
In their lives, they danced and played and spent time learning things
Just like us they were packaged with bundles of ripe enjoyable feelings
But now they are cold, bones turned to ice-rods and warmth is at it's end
How could we know that time would come and take away our friends
We can choose to remember these souls and send them endless praise
For the time will come where we'll be shephered in a similar way
Death is to life, as life is to death
Let's never forget how special it is to have a God-gifted breath
An hour before dawn,
the market people arrive
then settle like resting birds
beside the Ping river.
Girls squat over large straw hats,
hats brimful of dried chilies
or small freshwater fish.
They lay down bamboo mats
laden with okra, aubergines, mangosteens
and rambutan.
They are not from Chiang Mai
but are a Thai hill peoples,
villagers that have cycled through the night
to bring their produce here.
Carefully they wrap your choices
in newspaper bundles tied
with red raffia.
They offer this livelihood to us
with modest smiles.
A daily subsistence parceled with a grace
that can be felt as a currency, a simple act
of transference.
A few coins are exchanged.
The barter and haggle
of a busy city market is absent here
just the affable contact
of a hand to hand correspondence.
A mutual recognition
of the rivers that join us
and the oceans between.
You can, if you wish,
watch your thoughts change
into small dinosaur-birds
feathers returning to armored scales;
see the terrible teeth native to the sparrow's beak.
Tucked into small bundles of feathers
a thought reveals thunder lizards struggling for dominion
of the earth once more.
To send a thought out to think for itself
is a kind of archeology, a paleontology
of the present.
Brains see nothing of what is to come,
they recreate what was and make us see
what is hidden in the now.
The brain-fields are still being harvested
by dinosaurs
it's just that the unwary brain feels no pain,
if it did it would scream in its bone cave.
Let a thought fly high enough
then an antediluvian sky will envelope it,
morph it into a mythical creature,
it may return to you
as a dragon seeking your brain
to nest in.
We are a field of seeds
for ripening ancient thoughts,
and the elder world harvests them.
An ancient past hunts us,
it hides itself in the chipmunks trembling heart,
as it digs under the house
for the remains of its existence.
My owner, George, wrestles with leaves every Fall.
Even though I'm getting old and parts of me are
breaking down, I'm there for him upon every call.
He loves me and refuses to toss or give me away.
Because the leaves fall in bundles for weeks,
He does his best to keep me prepared for work.
He knows that I am among the best, and getting
old is not tantamount to becoming useless.
I'm the scooping type, not the pitch shovel.
I can pick something up, but cannot dig for it.
Presently, my handle is broken, but he hasn't found a fix.
George is respectful and calls me Vel, short for shovel.
My coworker friend, the rusty old tool box, is gone. My
master gave Rusty away, hoping a new family will love him too.
George gave Rusty away, not because he was no longer useful,
but because he felt someone else needed Rusty more. I miss Rusty,
and I pray every night to remain in George's family until I die.
081223PS
This is quite a bit overdue my friends
It's an ode to Brussel Sprouts
Those delicious spherical bundles of joy
Not too popular hereabouts
Poor wee fellows just want to be loved
Along with the other veggies
They've long had a real image problem
About as popular as a wedgie
Thinking of starting a worldwide petition
Any Soupers wishing to join
Send a hundred dollars to me, Jester Jack
You'll receive a commemorate coin
Along with the coin you'll receive a bushel
Of these oh so luscious little critters
As a bonus for ordering before December
An autographed picture of John Ritter
Hey, it rhymes doesn't it !!!
© Jack Ellison 2013
All night he climbs his spinal cord,
up and down he goes
a worker ant
gathering globules of memory.
The bony spine itself
offers handholds for his ghosts.
At each spinal notch
he enters the swim
of sub-osseous neural bundles.
Images are scooped up,
mixed into an alphabet soup
of alternative realities.
He climbs upward only to pause stymied
at the brains tightly packed folds
listens as an outsider
to the down-time humming
of a million closed circuitry heartbeats.
There is too much convoluted counting there,
too much to harvest in one night,
and so he travels back down the cord
to a low-clouded complexity
where shrouded stems burst open
their dark flowers
to engulf the embryonic mythologies
of sleeping giants.
In the morning
he hears himself thinking:
the thoughts are loud
they beat upon the top of his skull
like starving children
trying to escape.