Long Chunks Poems
Long Chunks Poems. Below are the most popular long Chunks by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Chunks poems by poem length and keyword.
12 BARS
Twelve brazen bars, one frozen lock!
Confined, sublime, an ancient Roc
endures inside a barren cage,
her catacomb in sundown sage.
Of former days there is no trace
except displays of fallen grace –
Twelve dreams, abiding in her place,
are free, inhabit yawning space:
12 DREAMS
... of wings unfurled, and seething eyes
that dredge the depths of dawning skies,
divining clouds that cling below,
once ice, dissolved in morning’s glow;
... of clutching winds that carry free
above an anguished leaden sea,
dispersing dust of distant stars
midst chunks of chain in slave bazaars;
... of swooping to a silent shore
to perch beside the ocean’s roar,
at last to feel the sobbing breeze
message the leaves of rooted trees;
... of stalking strays and twilight tramps
within the fog of lighthouse lamps
that blink forlorn through caldron nights
in search of shades of errant Kites;
... of darkling vast deserted lands,
with shadowed stones on windswept sands,
where ghosts of Moorish maidens lost
disgorge faint groans in mourning frost;
... of blotting out the bloated moon
while feathers beat a banshee tune
and glimmers dance and prance aglow
upon a pearly pale plateau;
... of tasting cool torrential rains,
beyond the realm of binding reins,
and sipping freedom they exude
in quiet drops of solitude;
... of vanquishing a galley crew
aboard a ship of midnight dew,
beneath the pierce of seagulls' screams
that mock the strands of scarlet streams;
... of sating once an aching craw
with tearing beak, with ripping claw,
and echoed by an eldritch screech
while feasting on abandoned beach;
... of restive thoughts and weary wings
that drift on haze in smoky rings,
obscured within the opal shroud
of her resemblance in the crowd;
... of croaking caws in broken rhyme
in winter woe, in summer clime,
while building nests of sundown sage
beyond outside a barren cage.
(5-21-26 For "Snapshots of a Night Scene" Contest Sponsor - Nette Onclaud)
Dusk slowly approaches, as their energy finally begins to wane. Half flat soccer balls
speedily sent down a grassless, asphalt field by crooked, knobby sticks.
Stubby chunks of chalk - pink, yellow, blue, white. Hopscotch squares already fading
Frayed jump ropes swinging up, around, and down,
their satisfying soft smacks on the ground, keeping rhythm.
Delighted squeals of joy, laughter, calling out of names to friends, classmates, neighbors, siblings...
Somehow, this view left me remembering
my days of young, pondering the timeless satisfactions and yearnings of youth.
Gentle raindrops begin to splat red and orange leaves, partially painted the weed-lined pavement
Small shadows scatter and go wherever it is they go when the night sets in.
Pursuit of Happiness
‘I just want to be happy..’
‘You make me happy….’
‘Are you happy…?’
‘Why can’t you just be happy…?’’
‘Other people are happy…’
‘She’s so happy…’
‘Happy as a day in May….’
We’re promised it at birth
and taught to seek it at all costs
Happiness, happiness,
it’s our right! our due!
why can’t we find it, where is
it hiding?
We chase after it like it is a piece
of gold, an all day sucker,
a triple decker ice cream cone
The reality of it is that happiness comes in
little chunks, little moments, sometimes
lasting a day, sometimes a week, and
if you are very, very lucky, it lasts a few years
The trick is to enjoy the rest of the time, the time
that doesn’t feel so happy, the time when we think
something is missing, the time when life is just okay.
Think of the alternative.
Trisha Sugarek
Moths and Machettes
Eons ago I felt my birth,
as my two parents collided,
and I arrived -crumpled and folded upward
rugged and jagged with a body of ever-changing rock.
Unlike the ordinary human child,
I don’t ever get to reach my final full height.
As I grow, I am assaulted by wind-blown sand
chewing away at me. Streams of water
carry chunks of me beyond the base of me.
I get shorter, but then my parental plates collide again
and I regain my former stature or even get taller
until severe weather assures I will not remain
the tallest I’ve ever been.
They say I am rock, so I am not alive,
but humans do not know of feelings I have.
Do I fear death? Much longer do I live
compared to you.
I live to see generations of you come and go,
come and go, moving about in the valleys
beneath my feet, ever changing my view..
With sharp tools, you clutch me as you climb my cliffs.
Do I cry out in pain? You tread my rocky bones,
creating pathways upward to my head,
where you breathe the freshest of air
and where snow adorns me. I wear many caps of snow
as I stretch for miles across boundless land.
Trees and plants and grass also adorn me,
sweeping across me with wild abandon,
making me a habitat for creatures large and small.
In my cleared spaces, you sometimes build cabins.
Enticed by the fleet-footed deer, you arrive with weapons
whose sound is loud and whose aim is deadly.
I watch with amusement as you speed down my slopes
when snow upon me is powdery and deep.
Yes, you humans come and go, and I,
the mighty mountain - with my many siblings
and baby hills - stand like sentries,
seemingly ever-lasting to you, who look up at us in awe.
You can never know my simple pleasures.
Nor can you fathom the suffering I endure
as so very slowly I crumble away.
Exodus
From a distant hill far away
Shadowed off by a monstrous cloud stormy
Lay signs and sighs
From an alley tucked away
Sheltered off by ghostly shades of moaning moon
Flogs chorus a hollow song in a fog
The twinkling mirage of sand dunes beyond the blues spells
Or lay germs of elusive hope
There is a staged dirge replay in chorus
Whose devotees retain a moody gear?
For there lay labyrinths in the highway of heaven
The steaming streaming parties part ways
In laughter and confusion
In a land beyond x-roads
Lay a mused king,
Whose utter satisfaction is a maze
Like a stone cast into dead waters
So are the rumbling and mumbling and bubbling of parties
It is a night of distress for the king in haven
Whose subjects burrow and wallow in dirt like swine
In attempts dire dare the life that slides
In such a land infested with giants like Canaan
Whose firely tongues cast chunks of jargons to the agitated-
masses
Here they dismiss great talk for amusements
For they have no time unearth play art
A selfish motif fed
In such a country
The king waylay his subjects in slumbered mind
Dozing off drowsily in a world free of cares
As they wander and wonder
Of what a tamed and learned friend and king
The king’s haven is heaven
And here hell below lay no mercy for masses
Lost in a woody distant hilly yonder
Are subjects scattered like ants in a stormy rainy night
The king long lives in heaven
The exodus to Canaan!
Spaces like Life
Your death is no spectacle. It will unfold itself ceremoniously
like a soft-sweater worn and discarded because of a snag
I walk in a ghetto in the black of night, chunks of asphalt heaved up in more spots than smooth,
Makes me think of you,
57 murders of the kind I like
with his first touch, you’ve been archived,
dust collecting on your gilded frame,
curating feelings long dormant,
with the first exchange of flesh—no market bizarre bartering,
the store room caught fire, and you are naught but cindered-ash.
The body both fleshy life and a tomb.
How does paradox exist?
Think on it, scissors join to dissever!
It's one absurdity I cannot resist.
Such conundrums mere escapist thoughts
Bring a chuckle to my lips and a smile on a dog.
As I pass cars jacked
Up on bricks, weeds burst through their rusted out floors,
And brick buildings fenestrated with busted out windows,
once strong practical housing for those “less fortunate”
I cultivate a fondness for demise.
I grow a kinship with discarded things; another era
Eased into obsolescence by sheer neglect.
Daylight is greeted with the horrific stench of food chunks
swimming in stomach acid, dribbling onto bed sheets.
Accompanied with the embarrassment of
brown syrup puddle stains.
Head is pounding
like a hammer - hammering nails into the skull.
Cumbersome movements drag drowsy flesh to the mirror,
as bloodshot eyes with yellow hue, glare in reflection.
Exhausted hands rub dense stubble,
as heavy eye lids struggle to stay open.
A cocktail of coffee and a cold shower
comfort this somber slumber.
Mouthwash and mints help disguise
the fragrance of yesterday's session with Bourbon.
Continuous sips of water, attempt to quench sultry thirst,
but the blandness cannot douse untamed flames.
Especially as days consist of sitting
surrounded by monotonous blank walls,
and staring at cracks on a vase -
silently watching wilted flowers crumble.
Struggling to defeat temptation from fermented demons,
summoned by cravings for that burning sensation,
the tongue cries for mercy.
Infiltrates the mind luring it to
lust for sour liquid passion
that infuses the bloodstreams.
Hands trembling, parched lips quivering -
only golden nectar can ease the pain.
No need for a glass, as bottle is devoured,
with momentary pauses of 'aaahhhhh.'
So begins the daily quest,
to suffocate every sorrow.
To feel numb upon request,
with no care for tomorrow.
Favouring fantasy over reality,
each drop kills the pain.
The bitter sweet taste is a lethal injection,
but the numbness helps to feel perfection.
In a place where nobody notices -
alcoholic symphonies lead to intoxicated sympathy.
To deal with being alone, to forget the world,
to forget the name.
Envious eyes can be a crime,
leading to jealous tendencies.
Hiding secrets can lead to becoming a victim
to a self inflicted demise.
An empty bottle leads to remorse.
Bitter sweet tears roll with shameful giggles.
Now the cracked vase looks perfect with flowers blooming.
Inebriant melodies mock the mind.
Attempting to dance, legs stumble and crash to the ground.
Laying there on the floor - laughing.
Then crying hysterically.
The heart has no desire to be sober,
only to remain intoxicated until death.
The Silent One
20 October 2017
Ice cold, bitter in its wake
The last truly cold autumn that touched the world
A precipice of endless promise
For those willing to leap in it
Those words meant nothing, were nothing
Nothing but a flimsy plastic shield
To deflect my flimsier shale knife
From excising the truth from wicked lies
In all rot lies rebirth
Fertility and fecundity from things fetid and festering
Two hedgehogs bled dry through contact
Reaching out for something to make sense of
Tender moments, tender wounds
A broken foot, a fileted cleft
In moments of doubt and distrust
Dutifully caring for the other as we pledged
Sunset, sunlit
Aflame in the orange glow of Sol
The only truths we could accept connected
Clenched, drenched and parted with a kiss
Bitter and desperate
Intent solely on wounding each other
Plaintive mewls for connection were ignored
As actions of espionage and subterfuge
Words meant nothing after all
A cry for peace? For love? To return to what once was?
Or a trojan horse, rupturing within?
Love was war, and all was fair
So I waited for the end and took it when offered
Hooks and claws tearing chunks of flesh from me
Leaving tender wounds I still lick in remembrance
Whenever sad words come surging back
I, too, dislike poems.
I’ve tried runes (and rampikes)
but that’s affected
rather than merely effete.
So I call them
figments.
When people query
What do you write?
at a barbecue or birthday party
I say soliloquies,
fractals,
fragments.
Self-similarities,
singularities,
sculptures (scriptures), geometric shapes and series,
three dimensional triangles, spheres
and differential equations,
fractured fairy tales,
Rocky and Bullwinkle,
rectal impactions.
On the other hand,
bits, bots, bytes
remnants, scrap, earth
gobs of phlegm in grains of sand,
shards of glass in a slice of hell,
hunks and clumps, curds and whey, sleet and pain, slap in the face
sub-atomic particles, cell organelles,
chunks of energy, cookie crumbs,
rusty trucks stuck in mud, dustings for ghosts,
just plain dumb luck, rocks, concrete, but not tweets.
My yard harbors lots of big trees
And in them live squirrels, with ease
In comfy twig nests
They do what is best
To live and survive as they please.
I feed them some nuts every day
And watch how they run 'round and play
They know me so well
And come 'ring my bell'
By tapping the window this way:
They come to the back kitchen door
Jump up on the rail from the floor
On the window sill
They sit very still
With paws against, glass beg for more.
I push up the window with glee
They know I'm their friend, for you see
My hand holds their prize
They watch with bright eyes
And take nut away tenderly.
Now, one day I thought I would try
To give something new, and so I
Supplied day-old bread
With smooth peanut spread
They loved it so much, with a sigh,
I made little sandwiches soon
On bread, spread nut butter by spoon,
A new treat for them
But so surprised when
I saw chunks of bread below- strewn!
They learned how to get at their prize
Nut butter between, and so wise,
With paws, they would pry
The bread part would fly
Enjoyed just the spread- I surmised,
Like kids open cookies to get
The cream that's inside, never fret
To throw rest away
Enjoy them that way-
The squirrels saw their need was met!
Too nutty, these squirrels taught me
They're smarter than I thought they'd be
They do things their way
With we humans play-
Together we live happily!
October 13, 2015
~1st Place~
Contest: "N" New Or Old Poetry Contest Contest
Sponsor: Constance La France
Judged: 09/21/2021
Theme Chosen: Nutty