Long Cankered Poems
Long Cankered Poems. Below are the most popular long Cankered by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Cankered poems by poem length and keyword.
In Praise of Buddy Bolden
by Lucien Q. Senna
1. You have shown me dissipation, the tome, rhythm, and cool sonorous blue…
2. The right consciousness is always dream, it wakes in us ideology and topos.
3. Not only the blues like melic, like persimmon and soda
4 Not anything, just blonde sorrow.
5. I can’t wait to choose my own fall, the bass and pica.
6. Did you taste the drug, the white world of sound…
7. Nothing will prepare me, not even drums and delusion. I wander in their halls, their tantrums. But mine was regression and rebellion. The plumb edifice of transgression.
8. When we play, nothing else matters, not the placards on the train, not the yet and the how. We find plums and pendulums.
9. I told them this was not enough. No horses, no shoulders, no fields to drown, only blank cotton testimony and confession.
10. When we leave, we leave the pipe and the parts of the body. You whistle like a factory. Me, like an empty room.
11. I would like to test myself, and remove these old tunings and feathers, these tulips.
12. Do it then. Leave for the salty tincture of the city, the North.
13. The leaves were all cankered when I returned. Like a salvo I burned. Not for them. Not for this place. But for this rotten reflection. The only true rejection of process.
14. You meant to leave the phonetic terror moon, the New Orleans horn of sand and distraction.
15. Leave me to fall. For this is all that I know. I accept, I accept this black stone of mine, mine own three lives, my crime.
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Poison onion rings;
Bunion on a sling;
Rustic carriage bolts;
Shoe string eating, antelopes;
what's the matter
what's the matter
whose ya mad at, son;
what's the matter;
what's the matter;
whose ya mad at, son;
when it all settles, when the feet hit the dust;(this ole earth)
and the horizon falls from the skies. . .
it's on, it's on it's all a matter of
it's all a matter of dawn;
the Matters of dawn
Cankered bison crying;
While dancing under the heated son;
My cousin from Missouri says he's only seen black squirrels in Nebraska;
No one comes this town in the dawn;
Catch phrase of the 1970's was, What's going on, going on;
and the horizon falls from the skies...
it's on, it's on it's all the matter of
it's on, it's on it's all a matter of
it's all the matter of dawn;
the Matters of dawn
what's the matter;
whose the matter;
what's the matter;
whose ya mad at son;
what's the matter;
don't be a hater;
lift up your arms, your hands, your head up to the skies;
rejoice in the creator, for He made ya;
and for this ya need to be grateful;'
it's all
yes! YA
it's all matters of the dawn
This imprisonment of clay,
this putrid jarred tint subjected to time's defeat,
this cankered vile contagion.
tossed to and fro as on a sea with unrelenting anchorage of ease,
this worm, ephemeral in the bay leaf of existence.
this dirt of appointed time, fixed by irreversible decree,
fleeting by clipped tickle,
here mere mortal toiling to gather stones, hay and stubble.
with diseased brow,
worms fighting worms for passing fame.
Finite frame transiting through ceaseless vanities
myriads from these pains,
willingly oblivious of the power of Time,
throng the gates of mammon to hideous and dreadful apparition,
little minds, unwilling to enlist in the real battle.
And multitudes ignoring the signpost in rush to gaiety
several on sensuous doorway to doom.
As captives of Lust, enslaved by Ashmodeus
This Frame wears Luciferous garbs
Pharaoh and Herod bodied
The beast of pride, despising the breath of his nostril
conjures theories of atheism from his erratic emotions
arrogating his existence and all to “second cause”
despising the first cause preceding all causes.
They go on and on they go.
There were abject who in time past, cut the cables of belief
sailing over the tempestuous ocean of free thought.
reviled the coast of revelations
seeking Life among the dead,
and rushing on the mad voyage,
wondering through confused obscurity
In search of life in all vice to the very extremities,
wearied by wasted years,
came to their senses.
Looking up to His hill,
To Yonder Light through the Cross
casting all dependence aside
they enter the Ark
These now deal in matters of eternal realities,
unknown, unsought, conscripted to miseries still,
pangs shot through their faces as arrows piercing a foe,
These have deceased bodies and suffers too,
Longing for the returning of the King
these likewise are subject to the monstrous ills of the decaying filth
but for a time,
the dying body, taunted, Jeered and calumniated.
carrying about a third force unknown to all, the Spirit.
They do battles with unseen foes to keep a pace with Him
unseen spirits their attendants.
Myriads watching the match from vantage confines,
though among men, mere men no longer.
Come in No Luxury required
In a chariot of fire in the sun
blew a pale horse and pale rider’s last breath,
and on your grave sings a haunting raven
in the shadows of the valley of death.
Between trembling leaf and pohutukawa
the undertaker’s men stood grave and bier,
and brave stoic life filled the living hour
forevermore a day, a week, a year.
These time echoes rise up from its bones,
and that lone raven's song on pit row
pipes through the rushes beyond the tombstones
where time cut short above stood still below.
Yet I fear death itself I shall not mourn
when its flame bearer blows its fiery horn.
But far more does sound a haunting in me
as if your faint voice my ear passing through -
and I trapped betwixt next world and earthly
sit this day communing with God and you.
Today I upon this ploughed earth sullen gaze
and hearken in the blooms the winds of death!
Its cold foul blow that bodes ill all my days
dares to breathe on me its cankered breath.
These time whispers rise up from its bones,
and that lone raven's song on pit row
pipes through the rushes beyond the tombstones
where time cut short above stood still below.
Yet I fear death itself I shall not mourn
when its flame bearer blows its fiery horn.
Written: July 1995
OPEN VERSE form, created by Brian Strand, uses spaces&breaks without grammatical symbols relies upon 'the one breath limitation' this intuitive cadence pemits the 'reader' (reciter) to respond in an interpretative - interplay unique to the ' happening
Written: September 17, 2026, for a contest by Bian Strand
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redemptive
apprehensive
pensive
acatalepsy
hours
coil-topped
ouroboros
subliminal
ashy
patinated
yet
atemporal
streamlined
a
mnemonic
ember
a
disenthral
hourglass
hymnody
ipseity
apotheosis
selving
with
secularized
inanition
voracity
forsaken
phantom
of
steeped
haunting
oblivion
cankered
& imprinted
vanished
chronometer
incarnate
obstinate
receptive
ritual
of
recurrence
monolith
paralysed
beckoning
genesis
Breached
aether -
Influx
gilded
liminal
whispering
cadence
involving
mellifluous
syllables &
enigmatic
syntax
timelessness
nothingness
distress
one syllable
remains
unoriginate
inviolate&
breathing