Long Cellars Poems
Long Cellars Poems. Below are the most popular long Cellars by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Cellars poems by poem length and keyword.
Conscience
Rattling around through the attic
Of twisting pathways –
Buried deep in cellars
Waiting to speak
Always present –
Illuminates
Returning phantoms of ambivalence
That won’t stay out of sight;
Lies
Refusing to stay silent;
Rationales pushed down
Jumping out like a jack in the box;
Marginalizations march
In maddening circles of consequence;
Ghosts of indecent decisions
Unable to rest in peace;
Sly designs of deceit
Slow eat away at the tender marrow;
Masks of deeds conceived in darkness
Fear the face unmasked by transparency;
Anxiety of sins uncloaked
Trembles at the eyes of the not yet;
Buried bones of sneaky words
Speak out unbidden;
Houses of flimsy excuses
Fall like dominoes;
Hallucinations born of if only
Become reality;
Sleep and solitude
Look away;
Pacing arenas of grey acres
Reject clear sunlight;
Music in the mind runs wild,
Refuses resolution;
Ever present truths, twisted in tornadoes,
Remain.
8-11-20
Contest: Infliction
Sponsor: Silent One
Humanity born on the bone of an earthen mound
froze graphics on cave walls hail their Ice Age strive,
wall carvings speak three trees, a forest be sound,
harsh times craft crept the charged choice to thrive,
they owned their time, and those old craved their life.
The continental divide craft the Americas,
termed yarn cave lifers to cliff dwellers,
from the mountainous Incans Cuzco etchers Transamerica's,
Aztec and Mayan walled labyrinth kaleidoscopic cellars,
and Far East Orient, and Indian subcontinent chiselers.
Biblically phrased had enlighten the world of Christians,
as writings on the wall are prophetically profound,
the world's a better place for Catholics and Protestants,
most have read that Scripture blesses all Faiths as sound,
Christ states to the fish and loave eaters on top of a mound.
Throughout time, an omen from The Rock of Ages,
from a second or to a millennium of years ago,
says nothing but for the claimant to ascertain the sages,
and so a man of God locked in the den of lions. Oh, woe!
Sees Daniel alive surrounded by lions. King mop & mow.
Wars between King Nebuchadnezzar and The Persians
and The Medes that had led to his loss and surrender,
and eventually to his death. The Persians claimed versions
of the city of Babylon, and The Medes took the other,
half yond Babylon. Nebuchadnezzar reflects, dies a believer.
Words on the wall are meant for just you to fathom.
Do not dawdle, if there's time, sleep on it. Then awake
and process what might be a deep chasm or a tiny atom.
Your righteousness doubted, rid the evil, and do what it take
to claim, the Way, the Truth, and the Life as a keepsake.
Harvest Bounty
Season of harvest, horn of plenty;
Tiller of soil reaping the fields:
Grains and legumes, hay and vegetables,
Fruits and plants, and gourd family genuses;
Filling silos, barns, pantries, and cellars.
Grapes abound, on vines climbing trellises,
And plump, red tomatoes dangle from stakes,
While apples grapple to keep from falling,
And livestock fatten on pastoral grasses.
Reaper of fields to feed the many.
Crops quenched by rains and meandering streams
Are ripened under the inexhaustible sun
And spring forth produce abundance in season.
Cornucopia spilling over with autumn goodness.
Slowly the sun sets as day turns to night.
Cellars, castles, and caves, places that cause much fright.
These are the areas, I call them my home,
secluded deeply within mausoleums and tombs.
Once I awake from a sleep of no rest,
gradually I rise from red velvet lined casket.
Hovering above dirty, dusty, stone cratered floor,
gracefully floating, exiting heavy oak crypt door.
Black overcoat with yellow gold buttons and links,
white shirt, black tie, fur scarf of two minks.
Appearance is normal for the society in now,
dressing the part, slightly wealthy, and greetings of bows.
Never drawing attention, til catching warm, living soul alone,
down a dark alley, quiet street corner, or invite within home.
Hypnotic dark eyes and a voice that will snare,
bringing her closer to death, she's completely unaware.
Capturing one's soul, mind, body, and heart,
moments after meeting, their blood mine from start.
As my arms wrap around you and draw you in near,
I expose my fangs, glistening white, soon red smeared.
Lifeless body, pale white as my silk shirt,
draining you empty, quenching this dark thirst.
Hours have passed, must exit this town,
dawn is approaching, as I enter graveyards ground.
Another night has passed, one less soul on this earth,
my life never ending, non-mortal, Hell's curse.
With arms across chest, eyes shut but awake,
waiting til dusk, another journey and soul I will take.
The sun lifts an edge
and peeks a feeble light
beneath a blanket
of morning fog, its dull glow
hugging the horizon,
silhouetting a stand of trees
and the cross-hatched
pattern of a factory fence.
Another day has begun
with its shuffle of trite
miscellanea.
I muster an interest, sending
out my first emissary of thought
to greet the return
of this ancient god, follow the rituals
set to guide my way, bring favor
and bless the little plot
of earth that surrounds my life.
I pray a poem to reap
a continued harvest.
Not much happens now except
down in the cellars of my mind
where I keep the past bottled
like vintage wine. Now and then
I give each a turn to dislodge
the sediment and taste
a sample or two,
clean the labels and try
and remember the details
from those that have fallen off.
Occasionally I bring
a bottle up to share with a friend,
set it upon a table, open
and drink. An insipid autumn sun
is enough to dance reflections
around the rim of my glass,
ease out a tear or a smile,
helping me up to go and get
another. My days now
have matured into simple pleasures
and writing a few lines
to label the bottles cellared
in the quiet reaches of my mind.
The sky, heavy-laden with curdled black clouds,
Burst wide open, and all night long it rained.
It pitter-pattered on the panes,
And rattling on the slanting roofs.
It churned the dry soil to a pulp,
Overflowed the dusty gutters.
It drove the people from the streets,
And moaned amongst the houses.
'Twas but a fluke, a summer storm
Lightning snaked the sky
Thunder rumbled and crashed
Instilling fear and panic in passers-by.
Soon it abated to a drizzle,
A thin mist shrouded the square.
And as the town clock struck the sixth hour
Ghostly figures ventured forth again.
Yet during all this precipitation
He trudged alone along the streets,
Rain dribbled through his matted hair
And wetted stubble on his dirty face.
It cleansed his external demeanour
From the grime of past lazy days,
It could do nothing to eradicate
The heaviness that filled his inner self.
The air was warm, and strange enough
He felt little discomfort from the rain.
The vault of heavy clouds ascended,
The breeze was gentle and fresh.
He went back to his favourite place,
The bakery shop has not yet opened,
From its cellars hot dry air
Surged up, surrounded by his whole being,
Warming him from the wet chill.
He soaked up the fragrant smell
And yearning for freshly baked bread,
A luxury he could ill afford.
And so he continued on his journey,
Alone, atoning for his past.
Hungry and desolate and chained,
Externally cleansed by the drenching rain
Until the day he'd die.
Come with me now to story Land
Come rise and fall with our dear girl.
Pinch into her fishbowl powder
And grab a hold of her world.
Spread open the doors
In her chapel of fear,
And pray with us now,
As we beg God for forgiveness.
We paint the ceiling with our tears,
In spite of all our darkness.
Child of lovely
Lizards lounging.
And woman of
Wandering opioids binding;
Our novena begins
Disregarding,
Ladies in tuck and folding.
Push blame like dope sick junkies,
And manifest dank cellars flooding.
As together we plunder our bounties
On messengers in blight and poverty.
Please extend your arm and hand
We ask this in God's name.
Weak and failing in a moment,
To be washed in blood and tears.
Covid spread throughout the kingdom –
the people inside the elite compounds,
if they heard the many sounds of the
ill falling dead, did not seem troubled,
not a single head – besides, it was, for
them a special day, 60th birthday of
their consecrated God and his Queen,
to whom all will homage pay –
Politicians and Hollywood celebs alike
will take numbered turn fawning accolades
at the podium mike. Tables strategically set,
armed security carefully to vet every
privileged guest before passing the Walled
Castle-door, so not to allow Covid
to take flight and soar, spreading deadly
spore through the air – over His Majesty's
Red-carpet-floor...
There are plates with gold trim, not the
painted kind – of Twenty-four Karat as their
goblets of wine, precious silver from royal
chambers, billionaire vaults, brimming over
with champagne from prized cellars, vintage
of all sorts, tribute paid by appeasing, complicit
European Courts, with thousand dollar a-bottle
highly acclaimed ports. There will be classical
music combined with White Shaming Hip Hop Rap –
diamonds and precious other gems abundantly given
for gifts, the nation having been well sapped,
American's Treasury criminally tapped,
for the king and queen's off-road treats – while
theft and murder rages in the commoner's streets –
shortages developing to the point masses of
people will soon have little food to break-bread
and manage – to the ruling devils, simply
collateral damage....
At the estate sale, among the widow - things --
mourning brooches, teeth in a saucer,
a fur stole shedding its cloak of moths --
the mirror lay wrapped in black silk.
The auctioneer would not touch it barehanded.
Even through gloves, he held it
the way priests carry difficult relics: at a distance from the heart.
I bought it because it was drawn to the way it ticked.
Not loudly -- a patient little sound, delicate as an insect worrying the lid of a coffin.
The frame exhaled the smell of rain-rotted cellars,
mold climbing the ribs of old houses,
wet roots, photographs glued together by floodwater.
It showed no reflection. Instead: the room emptied of me.
My lamp furred over with dust.
The fern beside the window sagged into threads.
The chair beneath my living body rotted into its patient skeleton of wood and springs.
I watched snow collect through a crack not yet born in the ceiling.
And behind the black glass—
not mirrored, but embedded impossibly within it—
the silver pendulum swung. Left. Right.
A small immaculate metronome
keeping faith with something terrible. Hours passed.
The future in the mirror altered by increments.
When my pulse quickened, mold flowered darker along the walls.
When panic seized me, another century seemed to enter the room.
Neighbors claimed she fled.
But I think she simply reached the end of herself.
Because the pendulum is not measuring hours - it is spending them.
Each swing subtracts something minute and irreplaceable—
not seconds, but permissions:
one more breath, one more swallow of sleep,
one more astonishment of blood.
The mirror does not show the world after your death.
It shows the world as death prepares to remember it without you.
Tonight the pendulum has grown almost still.
In the glass, the dust has settled completely.
Even the curtains hang with the composure of the deceased.
And there in the ruined chair
sits the mirror alone, awake in the dark,
waiting for whoever next mistakes its ticking for a clock.
A full-gorged moon opens its illumined glare.
Ghost lights flood the dens, burrows and nests
of all creatures,
a limpid dementia swirls blood-red clouds
in predatory eyes.
it enters bedrooms, cellars, attics
creeps beneath crawl-spaces.
It follows us into slumber
raises the bones of shipwrecked dreams,
dreams that none may speak of.
Magnetic glimmers pull together
all that stalk in shadow,
pale beams burgle darkened branches,
snare the unborn in unformed wombs,
seeds voices there before any egg is laid.
In the hearts of the desperate,
its creates an iridescence of last-hope poetry.
!t changes the stories that we told yesterday
into legends and tracks along moon paths,
then withdraws into the remoteness of
a reflected dust.
In daylight we commence to call out:
"Did you see that moon last night"?
while others reply:
"No, I must have missed it."