Long Centrifuge Poems
Long Centrifuge Poems. Below are the most popular long Centrifuge by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Centrifuge poems by poem length and keyword.
Great moments in childhood
THE PLAYGROUND.
Responsible for
bumps, bruises, broken bones
busted egos
Redeemed by
spontaneous acts of wisdom
retaliation, retribution and mercy.
THE “JUNGLE BARS”
A ten foot high tower
ruled by a reincarnated
Olympic gymnast.
THE “SEE-SAW”
An 18 foot plank
Balanced on a fulcrum
(never trust the other kid
to dismount slowly and ease you down)
THE CENTRIFUGE
(aka the kid killer)
A 12 foot in diameter lever powered device.
Purpose - to allow children to spin so fast
that they could be thrown in a tumbling
mass across the stone strewn ground.
THE “SLIDE”
A 15 foot long metal chute
Capable of reaching temperatures of 125 degrees
on a perfect “let’s go play in the park” day.
THE “SWINGS”
A controllable Grandfather Clock
capable of inducing great fear and excitement
and an insatiable desire to get higher – faster.
(often thought of as a “gateway drug”)
John G. Lawless
©6/15/2021
What is the vision;
Capitalism
Socialism is this bar and reprimanded
Truth is silenced
Political guidance
Rapture coming forth
Evil breeze on me
Centrifuge called and they lose
Breath and takes
Pandemic dilemma
War on humanity
No dire calamity
Science and politics don't mix
The reality is more the devil's tricks
Warren is not his tricks that contain us
it's our choices that defamed us
Listening to the wrong voice and choosing the wrong choice as they encapsulate us
What is the true vision what is the truth mandate
What is the purpose of this political mandate
Business circulate by being a hypocrite
When you don't participate
What gives you the right to complain and yet
Political dilemma
War on humanity
No dire sincerity
Politics and science won't mix
The truth is in the heavens
Just resist the devil
And he will flee
This is a spiritual
Not physical emergency
10/28/20
Written words by James Edward Lee Sr © 2020
Manifestation of métier write
As an indie alt rock'n
tribe beck ha rolling stone dishabille poet,
who views challenge of writing analogous
to begetting an heir or heiress,
which former includes
gestation of an emotion,
idea, sentiment,...unbeknownst
if outcome birthed to be fabulous
then however the whimsical notion spins
within thine cerebral centrifuge,
the imagination pregnant with fetus
of a fledgling concept feeling
with byte size sea legs,
not quite ready for prime time
and beak combs devious, industrious,
overconscientious (hopefully), victorious...
though, as swollen womb dar full expansive
lettered girth manifests and coalesces
into miniature Confucius
versatile Buddha baby
(unless unexpected contusions
render exertion aborted effort), the proud
pro-creator bounteous, glorious, riotous
which unexpected success inspires
brassy, ironic, steely wordsmith
to tackle another and fleeting thought
and sire by product with audacity.
Oft times the sacred seconds silenced
by stillness louder than "Big Ben"
ear splitting only to me - squirreled away
in this makeshift manorial man cave
the grateful dead foo fighters quiet, a riot
with audio logical sonic boom decibel -
asper water nymph sprung from fen
or when the quick brown
(sneaky, leery, and fiery) fox
jumps over the lazy dog
slips into the house,
where the yolk cull doth roost
long fostering mass squawking
of manifold egg on eyes zing hen.
the end result metamorphoses into
a totally tubular unforeseen jumble
of gibberish senseless wordy clump
aspiring to convey some essence of logic,
though best to take a furlough than persist
to interpret dump
of discordantly strung English bits,
which intractable insistence
might spell f-o-r-c-e-d g-r-u-m-p
as the mood one may find them-self,
unless he/she can call
the literary mod squad to resolve harrumph
and with any lucky the once amorphous lump
pen pro lit tarry hit might undergo
an amazing transformation a mugwump,
a cherished poem plump
with juicy fruit weighing down the boughs
as if limbs ready to slump.
On Saturnian nights I rise;
homing in on apogee and perigee,
my soul rises.
Free-floating energy mingles,
with crackling static;
my body feels nothing and I feel no body.
Crystalline ice in hydrogen milk,
can float my soul forever;
safe in its womb, am I.
A celestial merry-go-round;
Saturnian rings spin Saturnian dreams;
they lull me to sleep.
On Saturnian nights;
etheric body in flight greets many souls;
who’ve gone before.
A classroom of grace, it is;
a spiritual recharging station;
Saturnian nights invigorate all of my senses.
A soul in flight on a Saturnian night;
hears symphonic lessons,
in staccato verbiage.
I awaken from Saturnian dreams;
a new spirit in an old body;
with wider zest for life.
The Saturnian centrifuge,
brings much clarity.
she drifted through an egg timer
as if imprisoned in a snow globe
a speckle of dust in the heat of sequence
turned upside down and back again
a centrifuge of forced cohesion
control anger self-imposed consent
she slipped on the endless surface
banged her head against the ceiling
dropped to the treacherous floor
only to take a breath of despair
suspended in broken limbo and
a script written by wrath injuries
incarceration dogma and defeat
wreathed with a crown of thorns
lacerated scared and vulnerable
puncture marks and crude exclamation
of a protagonist in agony
eventually the looking glass broke
shards and fragments set her free
no shelter apart from mental pain
bruised shattered and surrendered
a barely audible voice released the void
as she gathered the grains of doubt
enforced discomposure and surprise
she realized that she was far more
than the sum of intangible parts
and picked up the pieces aware
that certainty and collusion
had not been her friends but
evil foes had ruled her sentience
scattered strew swept her skin
as if to say sift through the dredge
once the cover dissipated in the fall out
no more a shell of crushing forces
she walked away as fast as the storms
that had held her captive for so long
02nd August 2021
The butterflies flew off some weeks ago.
Pools of blood from my pierced heart have dried up.
My feelings leak insignificant flow -
I no longer drink from passion's sweet cup.
Still, you must realize that love never dies,
for it derives from more than skittish heart.
My soul and my eyes could never disguise -
I still hope that our story soon might start.
Tamer, now - fire, somewhat softer - desire,
but, for all that, hardly less strong or true.
I've guessed from first glance - your face - angel's choir!
I still think it could be right - me and you.
I'll admit - sometimes I taste fear in wait.
But love is patient ... I submit to fate.
6 May 2023
Manifestation of métier write
finds yours truly sitting today
December 24th at 2:41 P.M. with slight
hunched over mien as edge of night
quite some hours away when height
of Santa Claus appearance bright
rosy cheeks glow insync with
Rudolph the reindeer red nose.
As an indie alt rock'n
tribe beck ha dishabille poet,
I view the challenge of writing analogous
to betting an heir or heiress
which includes gestation of an, emotion,
idea, sentiment,...unbeknownst
if outcome birthed to be fabulous
then however the whimsical notion spins
within thine cerebral centrifuge,
the imagination pregnant with fetus
of a fledgling concept feeling
with byte size sea legs,
not quite ready for
prime time and beak comb devious
though, as swollen
womb dar full expansive
lettered girth manifests and coalesces
into miniature Confucius
versatile baby (unless unexpected contusions
render exertion aborted effort, the proud
pro-creator bounteous
which success inspires this scrivener
to tackle another and fleeting thought
and sire by product with audacity.
Oft times the sacred seconds silenced
by stillness louder than "Big Ben"
ear splitting only to me - squirreled away
in this makeshift basement den
the dead quiet, a riot
with audio logical sonic boom decibel -
asper a water nymph sprung from a fen
or when a sneaky fiery fox
slips into the crowded house,
where the yolk cull doth roost
long fostering mass squawking
of manifold egg on eyes zing hen.
The end result metamorphoses into
a totally tubular unforeseen jumble
analogous to uglies that bump
of gibberish senseless wordy clump
aspiring to convey some essence of logic,
though best to take furlough than persist
to interpret dump
of discordantly strung English bits,
which intractable insistence
might spell f-o-r-c-e-d g-r-u-m-p
as the mood one may find them-self,
unless he/she can call
the literary mod squad
to resolve harrumph
and with any lucky trump
petting, the once amorphous lump
pen pro lit tarry hit might undergo
an amazing transformation -
a cherished poem plump
with juicy fruit
weighing down the boughs
as if limbs ready to slump.
No one can see my eyes
they a covered with dark sunglasses
Dark as my soul and my thoughts
When life goes in grim backstreets
it's reflected by a deeper truth about who I am
My most penetrating screams are always silent
Why should life be so difficult,
where we wear a mask ?
The underside of my wings,
will lead me away into another reality
There is a lot of mystery attached to the theater of life
Out and in of different roles
and various performances -
placed in a centrifuge
When I feel I fall eight feet straight down
while, in reality, I'm sitting in bed
The choices are that I don't need to
to identify me or my own experience
with the content of my thoughts
25.09.2019
Sun :) - A-L Andresen :)
Copyright © All Rights Reserved
In the backstreets of my mind
Sponsored by: Silent One
2nd place in the contest
The night was dead silent and my body was on fire, sweat start rolling from my head leaving a pool of water in the middle of the bed; my tee-shirt was soaking wet and I was gasping desperately for breath, I thought I was coming down with the flu but that was far from the truth, the external temperature had risen and it felt like a crucible was moving around in the heavens, and so I went outdoors and felt myself drifting towards the shores. I didn’t know how I got there but I was sitting on a big ship, with loud music on the deck and people moving around in duplicates with beach towels wrapped around men bodies and women parading in bikinis. For one moment I felt out of place as the ship move from place to place, through choppy waters and the music gets louder and louder. Waiter and waitress were moving around serving all forms of beverage for extra tips with sliced lemon on the edge of the glass; I knew that the journey would last. I did not plan it, I did not organize it but I find myself in the middle of it. No one was serving me, for they could not see me, but I was silently enjoying their company. More people were coming from inside the ship, and the scene suddenly changed into a carnival mood, and everyone start taking off and tossing their shoes and dancing to the carnival rhythm. The ship kept moving around dropping off and picking up people around cities and towns. I got off at one of the stops and that was the ship’s final stop. The crowd was so thick, and everyone was doing their own thing as they join the carnival rhythm. I felt a deep premonition, but I could not tell what was transpiring on the inside, my body was still hot and something was dripping from the ship that docked beside the board walk next to the crowded bench. I kept drifting from crowd to crowd, until everything was spaced out, something was getting hotter inside me as I made my way towards the edge of the sea. Everyone was having a good time, but something was bubbling up from the inside; the forces were so strong, that it emits a strong energy that exploded in the ship. People were running and screaming and stepping on one another. I woke up from my sleep and realized that I had drifted in the deep and was traveling in my sleep. I was still hot and water was dripping from my back, and the rain began to fall.