Long Calcified Poems
Long Calcified Poems. Below are the most popular long Calcified by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Calcified poems by poem length and keyword.
The Invisible Strings of Black Light
I sing my mute blizzard on the stiffened string of full void,
the shrill echo of silence gently undoes time's curtain for me,
like a luminescent howl from a transparent sarcophagus,
that aspirates my breath through the pores of an effervescent abyss,
cacophonic symphony of angels with wings of calcified plague,
conducted by white crows singing in psalms of evaporated matter,
adorned with the phosphorescent keyboards of the abyss-color,
that blinds with its radiant blackness any lucid non-seeing,
abstract paintings of crystallized tears in dried blood,
a hypnotic rodeo of petrified butterflies in arrested flight,
metaphysical courtesans of a sterilized and eternal amor,
king without crown in the kingdom without throne and without stern,
where love is an amnesia that remembers everything in forgetting,
and presence is no longer needed to always be living disappearance,
my sinusoidal trajectory through a crystal of solid fog,
that wove our eternity into an exploded second,
to the nectarous curses floating through your granite thoughts,
the mosaic of my solar nights with fate's luminous catastrophes!
A pockmarked plane atop the wooden box
tilts as it dips in the Syrian void,
its hollow compartment lining the faults like
a silver ball which never rests but always
rolls, always weary those worrisome holes
that chisel the quarry to calcified clumps.
Six years spent fighting, flushing freedom
from his nepotistic keep, have rendered al-Assad
a face full of age, nights free of sleep,
and lucid dreams of an Arab Spring
flooding the fields his brother plowed.
There he stands, slaying the wakened womb
that would bury its own for stable graves, aware
there’s a million more marching outside his door.
5/25/17
Exit noise chaos
Enter calm centre;
Be simply still
~~~~~~~~,
Last footfalls
Silence lingers;
No birds sing
~~~~~~~~~
Park bench solitude
Blank outlook;
Old man stares
~~~~~~~~~
Drowning horizon
Crimson goodbye;
Sunny side down
~~~~~~~~~
Outdoor stroll
Preschool excursion;
Curious eyes spy
~~~~~~~~~
Words on paper
Slices of life;
Calcified moments
~~~~~~~~~
Food centre crowd
Hungry commotion;
Ready-to-eat trysts
~~~~~~~~~
Rapture of stillness
Meditative touch;
Here and Now
~~~~~~~~~
Mantra chant
Voice invocation;
Sojourn within
~~~~~~~~~
Leon Enriquez
02 November 2019
Singapore
SEPTEMBER'S POSTSCRIPT
The amber calendar dissolves,
leaving September behind to
inherit the melancholic residue
of our ephemeral summer.
The equinox arrives, a quiet
guillotine of gold,
servering the incandescent
warmth we used to hold.
September recedes, leaving a
skeletal landscape behind,
and the calcified architecture of
a love designed
in the reckless crucible of July's
blinding blaze,
now reduced to the twilight of
these shortening days.
Your absence is a reminiscence
that deeply hyperventilates,
an unforgettable phantom that
never truly abates.
I am trapped in the
retrospection of your quiet
silhouette,
navigating the imperishable
cartography of my own regret.
Every fallen leaf is a
memorandum of what we
could not save,
a fragile, amber monument
above a silent, emotional grave.
I am paralyzed by this heavy,
internal compunction,
standing alone at our love's
abandoned junction.
The autumn wind whisper of a
bittersweet commemoration,
of a fleeting, brilliant spark lost
to sudden isolation.
September leaves behind the
frost of what will never be,
locking your ghost forever in
the vault of my memory.
Balance of time slights the recurring vigil
Country's pride gleans the depleting residual
Annual tears water the artifices above manicured ground
Unextinguished pyre of tinseled youth still seethes 'neath clodded mound
The drum roll of spent days serenade each, muted mime
As ceremonial taps grant ingratiated minds trite stime
Into heroic feats rendered in soldiers' splintered prime
Human shadows hover in the solace of peace sublime
Sodden warriors' token sacrifice remains layered in lime
Sentient wreaths shroud shallower graves
Each, calcified bone now jading memory's slave
Stoic crosses reincarnate the souls of the fallen brave
Devoted progeny patriotic reserves from depleted fibers shave
The wicked souls like gasoline light up
Afire without remorse sorrow and heat
As if Hiroshima Nagasaki
In bright atomic pillars of fire burn
Unquenched like a mad lunatic bonfire
The judged the condemned the damned all around
Without mercy are swallowed engulfed by
The supernatural fates and their white-hot
Enraged furies as if to disgrace men
And fallen angels at war against earth
As gamma-rays consume their calcified
Bones they cannot withstand resist before
Megiddo's Jesus Christ whose burning light
Flash-cooks their soft moist fleshy tongues in
Their mouths like steaks as the sight of him melts
And liquefies their eyeballs into ooze
In their sockets as heads and scalps ablaze
With radioactive fire's decay and heat
Whilst ashen clothes like death's sackcloth robes fall
From rude and roasting flesh such that even
Thews sinews ligaments and tendons of
Flesh melt in the wrath of the Next Advent
Until they are gently slain by his love
Without forgiveness hope or the grace of
Redemption and salvation and are thrown
Into the lake of fire forever where
The damned are “weeping and gnashing of teeth!”
It is a singular place
a high plains lake of isolation
where erratic waves
slap the shoreline
in haunting echoes
that blow away with the wind.
It is a place of the “nearly dead”
of caution and decay
yellowish foam forms at its edges
creating abstract designs
that disappear in the sand.
I can hear liquid songs
flowing forth from rippling currents
mesmerizing, hypnotizing
moving in the shimmering sunlight.
Tufa towers stand stoic
rising randomly above the water
like obscure, calcified aliens
in a scene that is as mysterious
as the majesty of its Maker.
High winds are howling
when suddenly I need
a respite, a reprieve
for this place suits the vultures
eared grebes call it their home
as sun sets over the horizon
I know it is time to go.
Such is Mono Lake
a mystical, other worldly place
where silent stars shine bright
on a black, moonless night
over the baneful, barren lake below.
There is more warmth here
Curled beneath
The sickly, flickering halo
Of the streetlamp outside your house
Than I ever managed
To pull
From your skin
The heavy, reckless snow
Tangling in my eyelashes
Melts softer than your voice ever did
Evaporating with every blink
Until I can feel the stinging flush of blood
Creeping back into my face
A reluctant reminder
Of what a pulse
Is actually supposed to feel like
You were colder
Than the unmade mattress
On my side of the bed
You slept huddled up
Safe and cocooned
Like your mother still tucked you in
While my goosebumps
Became permanent fixtures
In the draft
“You should see him in my dreams,”
I confessed to your ceiling
In the hollow hours that chewed me alive
While my fingers traced
The little black curl
At the nape of your neck
“One touch of him
In that faded
Band shirt
Was like a swarm
Of manic butterflies
Diving headfirst into electric barbed wire”
But really an intimacy
Flatlining
Into rigor mortis
An ache so violently heavy
It calcified against my ribs
Like the residue of gin and bad decisions
So was it me?
Was I just a rough draft
Of someone else you wanted?
Did the quiet crush you enough
To play house
Only to want to lock the front door?
Did you just
Want to sleepwalk
through my lifetime?
Now I know
why your ceiling
never said anything back
But hey, at least it’s warmer here
It looked like a bleached tongue
pulled from a mouth,
petrified and incapable
now of letting a word slide over
its calcified silence.
I picked it out of the wet sand
and held it in my hand.
It had little weight, smooth
on one side and pitted
on the other. A cuttlefish bone.
It was a marvel of engineering.
My fingers followed its shape,
took in its texture, the pleasurable
feel of its form. I lifted it to my nose
and smelt its salty, faintly fishy
odor, sea washed to a clean
unsullied smell. It had undergone
a change into something
beyond life, into an artifact of time.
I kept it cradled in my hands,
held it like a sacred relic.
I have seen them too
shrink wrapped in plastic bags
on the end of supermarket shelves,
a calcium supplement for birds
to be hung on a hook
inside of a cage.
They were selling for $2.50
or thereabouts.
In sleepy
synaptic
catacombs
theorems dream beneath calcified floors
neurons stretch filaments of light
paleontologists of lost certainty
tracing the memory of what
once
coruscated
alive
each recovered syllable rises in luminosity
trailing sediment from older visions
when knowing shifted
steering truth by
extinguished
stars
their light arriving as memory does
late and changed
waves breaking against my palms
sometimes a word returns
with
a
quiver
a neuron long faded suddenly firing
unmasking me
language has a pulse too
memory susurrates in its syllables
tissue pressed beneath the skin
a word returns and with it
a face
already
fading
In dementia's neural ossuaries
they slowly resurface
refracted through time's
fossilized
strata
what returns exceeds what departed
yet what returns also slices us
so softly
with its incompleteness
a small lance lodged behind
ribs and bone
each restoration births knowing
part excavation part genesis
claimed by no century
reshaping me in return
moth-wings brushing my cheek
We become the archaeology of ourselves
hands cupping reverberations
charting the contours of our hearts
hearing again in the filamented dark
the pulse of neurons stretching
filaments of light
spelling the names
we thought
we'd lost