Long Chambered Poems
Long Chambered Poems. Below are the most popular long Chambered by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Chambered poems by poem length and keyword.
*Image of Child Sad Suffering provided by Pixabay.
Not Of This Earth
Poetic Form: Narrative
Asymmetric mistrals warp speckled vaporous pallidness toward rhythmless voids. Obviates an evacuating azure as a midday star pivots to a twilight qualm. Numinous absent souls of supine prying pupils, yon ethers sinister obscurities, caught in stained oblique ocular whites. Drunken sanguineous veins to gluttony as impish tinkers sporadic doubts riveting telltale images. Metallic aerials ousted the clouds to unperceived iniquity.
Exhausting times since the alien armada infested Earth in a furrow of carnage. Abominable hordes disembarked, eviscerated whole metropolises. Hideous beings, an abysmal sight, smothered the remote vestiges of our civilized world. Cities ere their decimation had numbers reduced in fleeing desperation. The annihilation of life on Earth engrossed thoughts upon the scraps of humanity left. Ravenous creatures generating utter rampage to and abroad, slighting none to decay. Be they mortals or breathing existences of our lesser kingdom, perished in the bloodletting. Some kept as breeders for the succession of consuming time.
A cohort strung of plain folks, thrust as one in a nameless realm, sought ephemeral refuge in a subterranean hollow expanse. Bestill for the scarcity of fragile credence as the intrepid one, espy a grotesque glistening of crimson blood, secreting from the sheathed hoariness of fangs. Sentient rouses heedful footfalls per monstrosity exposed jawbone, that swapped shrill for snorts, neath laden eyes that had shrewdly scowling luminous orbs. Creepy anvils pierced hairline, afeared incus, sensitively measures close octaves, spurs the labyrinth's nerves. Alas, its vulgar pelt of bulky fur stretch hither and fro, bars clamors reach.
Cavernous chambered partitions mimic as trepidation ebbs nevertheless. Unceasing progress to that bemused destiny, as anonymous atrocities, plague each within their shells, e'er crucifying the last semblance of their true selves. Ardent impulses seeping via their lithe ruby channels, crossing neath the bits of their betraying skins, as they escape the nebulous sepulchral. Beasts at 6 o'clock, tho' what unknown lurks yon pits facade, save a future yet to be titled.
2021 May 12
"Are you afraid of them?", the reporter asked
It was a blatant question, a bit too crass
One on the bleeding edge of ruthless
Even if it came off seemingly toothless
I contemplated my answer, as one should with the media
And thought of all the past shootings, from my personal Wikipedia
And responded with an allegory, to get the point across
For with the media, the truth is what often gets lost
"I am not afraid of the bullet, as it sits idle
Be it on the ground, chambered as a round, or hanging from a bible.
It is not the gun, nor who pulls the trigger
It is simply the end result of something much bigger
It is used with the intent to resolve a problem
Though the means is crude and is quite confused with how to solve them
So it does so the only way it knows how
By tearing into the problem, and pulling life out
The thing I fear is the path it follows
It chases dreams deferred and leaves heart hollow
It passes through walls with wanton endangerment
and presses into more lives in a lethal entanglement"
The reports were silent, cameras clicking quietly
As I looked at the room, seeing a sample of society
I sighed to myself, quite done with the politics
This parade of charades and the tired bag of tricks
"Lets talk about what really ended this young man's life
Was it the bullet itself, as it caused trauma and strife?
Was it the weapon it was fired from, with a standard flashlight?
Or the officer who fired it, claiming he feared for his life?
Was it the concerned citizen who called it in?
Who gave inaccurate information that started this spin?
Information that clearly displayed the trend
That she hated the color of his skin
I say this without remorse
As a society we are fighting a symptom while ignoring its source
He died because of his color, and his color is not a sin
But what killed him was a hate that never ends
This is not something that can be solved with a bullet
It is a systemic issue, with the lives to prove it
This is an issue bigger than what we agree it to be
It is old as class warfare, as old as slavery
So my answer to your question I must say
I do not fear the bullet, no not today
What I fear is the fact that we don't talk
About the hate we see, and the path we choose to walk
Queen Elizabeth I
A ll things are as it may, beckons a queendom of two faiths,
B orrowed Boleyn's "B" blue brocade the better choice made,
C ancer claims the spring, agrees with the passage of her sister,
D elves to part the heavens anew throne, amidst assassins, lurking
E ffervescent Elizabeth surrenders calmly a surreal destiny,
F orward justice by the will of grace, and a whimsical gestured cloaked puddle
G reat be her ascension not quiet to title claimed by Mary,
H eretics purged sweetly returns, catholicism stands down
I n a realm of stories a chapter freshens a protestant queen
J oyfulness echoes chambered walls, as a parley of power slithers
K ing bequeathed in a woman's dress, as a pence-less nation recovers
L ustrous gems befall righteously, as Spanish gold doubloons are pirated
M en neath ruffles maneuvering positions placates a capricious court
N orfolk his grace whose days are numbered for treason, pride begs none
O nly wisdom and loyalty keep heads secured, within a fickled court
P alace breeds a treacherous bedfellow, proffers an end worse than death
Q ueen banished him to seclusion as a fading insignificant consequence,
R ewards Drake, Raleigh and others from a grateful empire as her saviors
S aves her empire whilst arrogant Philip of Spain loses his in humility,
T enders Raleigh to his Virginia pretense in her name,
U nsettling execution of Mary Queen Of Scots, in harm's way, opens floodgates
V ersed in archery and horseback riding ascertains her birthright,
W ell endowed in the role of the sciences versus human endeavors,
X enial role model for women, mirrors removal tames loose tongues
Y ields to her title as the Virgin Queen, as her treasury is restored by the West
Z eal was her marriage to England, strengthen via the bogs of Ireland
2020 February 07
*1st Place*
ABECEDARIAN CONTEST
~~Caren Krutsinger
*Honorable Mention*
STRAND SELECT G any form,any theme
~~Brian Strand
DEATH OF A PARISIENNE HOUSEMATE--Monsieur L'Vampyre
The death of me lay waiting in the dark
down candle lighted steps, before mine eyes
as my love held the blade, to leave the mark
upon my neck before I'd realize
yes I knew she was there, and filled with hate
a murderess if I'd do as she thought
but I had other plans, to change her fate,
and lay her deep with all the pain she'd wrought;
my derringer was cocked and firm in hand
and chambered were both silver tips for her
whilst I had in my mind, and had it planned
in self defense I'd fire, be as it were.
just as her wolf man died the night before
from mine own hand behind her bedroom door!
(less of ****** he was humping for.)
And how she cried as he drew his last breath
I nearly had compassion for her spell,
forgetting how they'd made my life a death
and that his soul was borned straight out from hell
but grabbed she then my pearly handled knife
my very favorite blade of cutlery
I used in gutting pigs, or end the life
of anyone who'd do a wrong to me;
So down theses cellar steps she's led the chase
welll knowing I would have to end her days,
lest she could beat my play, and save her face
and then convince the gendarmes of my ways!
I heard her breathing Paris, her sweet sound,
but couldn't place the point where she'd be found
for silver tips to put her in the ground.
The creaking of each wooden step gave sway
as I tried to step lightly down the stair
until the last was stone, and had no play
she held her breath, and silence filled the air!
The shadows from the candle's dancing flame
there on the wall made nothing for a clue
so stepped I through the dim, to stalk my game
and then I felt the swish my blade can do!
She missed her mark, but cut my sweated skin
enough to give more credence to my tale
and fired I silver tips, through satin thin
and to her heart--you should have heard her wail!
She died as she had lived, a fool for me--
and looked too sweet for gentlemen to see,
And so I beat her one more time for free!
SILVER TIPS FOR MY LOVE--Monsieur L'Vampyre
The death of me lay waiting in the dark
down candle lighted steps, before mine eyes
as my love held the blade, to leave the mark
upon my neck before I'd realize
yes I knew she was there, and filled with hate
a murderess if I'd do as she thought
but I had other plans, to change her fate,
and lay her deep with all the pain she'd wrought;
my derringer was cocked and firm in hand
and chambered were both silver tips for her
whilst I had in my mind, and had it planned
in self defense I'd fire, be as it were.
just as her wolf man died the night before
from mine own hand behind her bedroom door!
(less of ****** he was humping for.)
And how she cried as he drew his last breath
I nearly had compassion for her spell,
forgetting how they'd made my life a death
and that his soul was borned straight out from hell
but grabbed she then my pearly handled knife
my very favorite blade of cutlery
I used in gutting pigs, or end the life
of anyone who'd do a wrong to me;
So down theses cellar steps she's led the chase
welll knowing I would have to end her days,
lest she could beat my play, and save her face
and then convince the gendarmes of my ways!
I heard her breathing Paris, her sweet sound,
but couldn't place the point where she'd be found
for silver tips to put her in the ground.
The creaking of each wooden step gave sway
as I tried to step lightly down the stair
until the last was stone, and had no play
she held her breath, and silence filled the air!
The shadows from the candle's dancing flame
there on the wall made nothing for a clue
so stepped I through the dim, to stalk my game
and then I felt the swish my blade can do!
She missed her mark, but cut my sweated skin
enough to give more credence to my tale
and fired I silver tips, through satin thin
and to her heart--you should have heard her wail!
She died as she had lived, a fool for me--
and looked too sweet for gentlemen to see,
And so I beat her one more time for free!
A girl in the chamber
They know Kiswahili
Speaking it
To their localities
A girl in the chamber!
Is thy family
Like that of an egg
Realizing no space
Entrance of oxygen Is?
A girl in the chamber!
Days of days
Knocked the ages
As the clan of flies
A girl in the chamber!
The fool age noted
To her pass to be passed
As the pain of the-
Poisoned python passes on puzzle
A girl in the chamber!
The really NOT
The truly YES
Philosophically answers
Scholastically jokes
A girl in the chamber!
Normally recorded a record
Usually knows to the known
Her days
Randomly rounding in rounds
A girl in the chamber!
Who may carry the life_
Life her own-
Her own human development
Having sweet voice to-
Base voice
Having shapeless shaping to-
Toned shape
Having no to-
Dependable life!
A girl in the chamber!
Thunderstones
Earth quakes
Storms
And,
Limbs movements
Of human in lives
Made the chamber cracked
A girl in the chamber!
Though equal chambers,
Differently appeared in the cracks
Likely entered,
In some of the chambers settled
A girl in the chamber!
A girl in the chamber
Lived it chambered
As a doctor and-
Mathematician’s number
The numbered of the-
Victim of the chamber
Will thou escape from the chamber?
Having the domesticated monster
Likely the lion living in Serengeti
Having no uncle after victim
No ruler passed on the head
A girl in the chamber!
Actual life,
Better than the real life
A girl in the chamber!
Better think mostly, idealistically,
Than-
Acting mostly, empirically,
The replays of her uncle
A girl in the chamber!
You gonna be swollen
Under the sinful soil
No mercy before the majority
You exchanged the sticks of men
Sticking your lovely virginity
A girl in the chamber!
Said by your lovely brother
Follow the good ones
Leave the bad ones
Coping from your elders
Locally now thy parents
A girl in the chamber!
No sinful before the sinner
No comments after the commandments
No back before the benefits
No forward after failures
A girl in the chamber!
Form:
Oh, in inspirations winter dreaming, I’ve dream't
Of a mystic valley of the Aurora Borealis,
A chambered realm of frozen colors,
Exploding within reflected light aglow,
In the hushed silence of ice and snow.
Here the pondering thoughts are set from beyond
Limitations of realities boundaries.
I'm a poet on a free fall dive, into the human imagination,
Behold my polarized world of enchantment.
Tender are the delicate wildflower petals,
Gleaming beneath the frozen sun, ice blossoms adornments,
Brilliantly shining in the fields of glitter, amongst
The snow dust's razzle-dazzle, beguiling the eyes of this poetic
Heart.
A Floral tapestry of permafrost, drips with a frothy moisture
Mist of sleet, creating a dappling effect upon the white
Dandelions and ivory daisies.
Taste the frozen honeysuckle upon your lips of warmth,
As the swarming frost bees pollinate this arctic garden,
Stinging with their chilling venom of flash freezing.
Palest crystallized roses, with thorny prongs sharpened edges,
Embraces the colds icy light, but reject the soft touch of
The mortal hands of loves devotion.
The haunting sounds of the Arctic owl echoes, against the
Walls of these alpine fiord's, as waterfalls of avalanches,
Crashes downwards, cascading into the deep valley basin below.
Swirling arctic foam blasts across this translucent terrain,
Shattering the magical splendor of stillness,
And splintering the tender reed unto nothingness,
Except for the spreading of germination's life giving
Seeds of renewal.
Yet it leaves refineries thin fluffy powder, scattered for
The crystal humming birds, it is their sweet nectar’s
Refreshment to feast upon, as the swift wings sparkle,
In the dusk's afternoons setting sun last rays.
Welcome to my symphony of Tiffany, gems stones sacred
Meadow of frozen jewels, radiating luster's regalia
Of glitz and glamour, leaving behind a twinkling celestial display,
That comes from a rich imagination of a poetic heart.
“You can’t stop the waves, but you can learn to surf.” - Jon Kabat-Zinn
Time has an interesting
way of revealing
riveting narratives,
embossed within ivory
clams in raven letters,
perhaps, it is the
crippling kismet,
that dahlia dreamers are
shackled by society’s
sanctimoniousness,
but I still follow my
roseate heart to swiftly
lead this pristine paragon
of moving minutes.
I can hear the wanton
wolves devour the
magnanimous moon,
transcribing unheard
nocturnal tales, emanating
through deep russet
eyes of a silent stallion~
as I leave poetic footprints
through heels of a black
caviar horse by
the nacreous shoreline.
Someday, the sun will rise
and allow me to embrace
colors of you again,
although torturous tentacles
of marine monsters malevolently
try to steal the soothing hope
within my soul,
from a thousand seas away.
If only they knew, skies
can reach beyond
prancing peacock dreams
emblazoning distant horizons,
with a plethora of
milky quartz, perfumed
in whispers of lemongrass,
reflecting silvery echoes
of a cosmic whale’s conch shell,
floating in an ancient bottle
of antique emotions,
anchored to the depths
of bottomless oceans,
where corals have
our fate rewritten
within chambered nautilus.
So, wait for me when
twilight dims, and meteor
showers come crashing,
to pour blazing stars
upon lime green planktons,
for my soul is surfing
through aquatic realms,
to find my homely
sanctuary in your arms
glossed in lavender balm,
I breathe beneath seraphic spheres,
devouring the ticking seconds,
dancing to the wind that whispers
in trembling tunes,
unafraid and unshaken
by the unknown.
I live in the moment,
celebrating the air that wraps
me in wisteria warmth.
The sun-soaked stairway
to porcelain
peacefulness,
is to steer your heart,
through the art
of mindfulness.
There is a beautiful ancient burial ground in the Ozark mountains that is the resting place for countless generations of my lineage. One of those places that completes a part of me that remains incomplete wherever else I might be. It is the place where I can best see forever. The fulcrum of my forever...
I love this place.
To me it is the very garden of grace.
Jesus gladly endured Gethsemene and Golgotha so that each mouldering stone would herald a continuing hope.
I have Old Lebanon Cemetery to turn my sweat to blood as I implore my god.
I make the journey often but never often enough.
As I draw near, my spirit races ahead.
Eager to embrace the rest of me...
The best of me who have been awaiting my return.
This lovely mountain knoll spreads out upon sacred earth.
Ancient oak and cedar stand sturdy watch over rows of shifting stones.
Over piles of chambered bones.
These token efforts to cast permanence upon the temporal.
To me and mine, 'tis folly divine...
The holiest of holes in eternity's veil.
Where those souls precious to ours set sail...
Without a single tear among them.
They know what we can hardly imagine... forever.
Even as granite turns to sand and soil is amended by what is left of man.
I feel the gentle burn within my soul ushering me toward the portal of what awaits... To whom awaits.
They must know how this fever will grow as I settle in to watch the door for a bit.
I rub the stones and chew the bones of those who made me... Me.
I share the salty mist that gathers upon the windows of my soul with the soil of their interment.
It won't be long
before this song
of my people includes my stanza.
The footnote of a life too long.
When measured by right and wrong.
Summed in verse, some epitaph too terse.
As I gather to leave I feel them here.
Gone yet near.
I feel the warmth of soul smiles assuaging my fear.
I imagine them the whole day long, as I write, being the song and sending me a lyric for every tear.
Love's Symphonic Passion
by Odin Roark
Shimmering whispers urge forth,
A beginning seeks release from darkness,
The voicing of struggle proclaims arrival,
Like miniature cymbals of resolute announcement,
The humble cries of emergence
Clash ever so quiet with air and space,
Once portending grace,
Now its melodic genesis.
The matrixes of parent/conductor
Anxiously hum nursery rhymes
Through white enameled side-rails,
Vertical portals to unfettered ears,
Absorbing even when sleeping,
Evolving passion's invitation.
The precious first movements
Grow from those one-finger dissonant phrases,
Sometimes pounded upon the black and white landscape
Where an merging piccolo's infant smile
Finds support by paternal contra bass and maternal cello echoes.
Remembrances of tinkling melodies
Soon enjoin its pure and simple
With conflicted movements of trial and error,
Evolving the inevitable adagio of growing up.
Hence forth
The scherzo's innocence of adolescence
Crescendos into threatening measures,
Where layered tones of choices
present challenge,
chaos,
counterpoint to independence,
or sympatric harmony.
The family of voicing
Develop love's thematic material,
Rhythms,
Keys,
And more complex harmonies,
Creating the free fantasia,
A coalescing of passion's varied workouts.
Its strings worn thin,
Arriving at life's largo movement of peace,
That place of reflective consonance,
The weight of its chambered containment
Rests forth its closing bars,
Housing now but the waning echo of a baby's chorus.
Its shimmering whispers
Float upon one last wave of the baton,
Stirring life's ethereal essence
Into heroic chorus
A higher bonding…
Awaits.