Long Circling Poems
Long Circling Poems. Below are the most popular long Circling by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Circling poems by poem length and keyword.
I’ll tie my metal
thimble of Minnie
on the metal chain
next to the bronze
scissor charm
the two charms
can share the space
on my costume jewelry
we didn’t share
our bed last night
you slept on the couch
instead
my friend gave me $20
yesterday
I cried with gratitude
I love you
but I came home
and yelled at you
instead
not every night
ends with a kiss,
a shared bed,
and an exchange
of equal
“I love you’s”
and I won’t
force a rhyme
when there isn’t one
I actually slept well
but I dreamed
that I was lost
and broke
and wandering through
a city slum
full of dirty water
dangerous strangers
offering me beds
getting sick
when they sip
the reflecting water
crowded hotels
of lost people
and beautiful books
for sale
a brown city
surrounded by boats
leaving this muddy
circling nightmare
and heading out
to a cleaner sea
no directions
for little girl; me
I never found
my bald-headed husband
in the angry, greedy
crowd
we are not
Walt Disney
we are not
Mickey and Minnie
their love is
an epic fiction
you and I
are not cartoons
and sometimes
it isn’t funny,
cute, colorful,
or clean
Losing it... things don't mean .
Can't just make it fit.
Take a knife and make a slit... no... won't do it.
Time to get lit.
Trust it. Don't know yet.
it. Not literally, ...
don't know yet...
gotta stand my ground, unstable,
it's gone, can't be found,
my mind isn't able, not alone...
A storms coming, clouds inbound,
find the cable, tie down, no sound...
take a number, sit down,
it's too late, too soon?
The alarms went off but clouds were already circling... this storm turned into a hurricane
don't want to feel anything ...
get rid of it all just to numb the pain,
Can't fix my heart or my brain..
too late, already ingrained.
Make me feel insane
scream it silently
it's all in vain...
time to let go
and let the others take control before i fumble...
sitting backseat watching the waters rise and buildings crumble...
the game plan was botched who dropped the ball?
I'm giving in before I fall.
I'm becoming locked inside my head but maybe it's for the best...
let the others take a turn while I try to get some rest.
Can they tell it's not me?
I guess we will see... set them free...
so mote it be.
In Gaza, the mothers don’t sleep, waiting in darkness, listening to the sky that’s been raining death -- nothing to inspire a fairy-tale to lull their children to sleep, their ears sharpened to the slightest noise, attuned to the whir of Israeli drones, incessantly circling above.
Every day they are ambushed by grief.
They sleep close to their traumatized children, comforting them like an iron shield, turning their bodies into pillars of safety, however fragile,
not knowing if they’ll wake up in heaven or bomb craters.
Allah is great, we shall survive another day.
There are days when they hope for a respite, and then suddenly,
without a warning, bang their child is ripped from their arms, the gloom of death rope around them.
Their grief exceeds all troubles.
Their faith thrives in their misery.
We cannot be in more extremities than them, mortifying the Earth.
Great mothers of Palestine. Death cannot do what you would not submit to.
What noble discourse these heroines afford.
Their spirit so strongly moves me.
The veil of moonless night is ashamed of what tears they shed.
Drought from tears they know not,
nor the arid air of disbelief in their cause,
to live free, a great refusal of the bondages, no matter how their numbers
add to cluster of dead and disappeared every day,
homage to the majesty of a collective will.
FIREFLIES
Will they look like fireflies?
**********
i capture one
***********
and to my surprise
i see, one lit prayer, beneath the glass *
and i examine the crystal jar
from all sides
as tears torrent and splash
and glorious plants grow in its soil
what’s this, my eyes open wide
*****other fireflies fill up the space
the spectacular jar explodes and the room fills
**************************** with so many stars
dancing, twinkling, halo circling
all at once they disappear
a solitary angel glows in front of me
says nothing, holds my chin
looks deep into my eyes
“What did you expect to find”
wings open wide
“Miracle light”
eyes sparkle
“Did you see which prayer this was?”
snow white gown rustles
“Have fun knowing”
holds lovely candle
blows the flame
its passion doesn’t hurt
the light is playful
i’m not afraid
8/1/2017
The mad wind passed swiftly through the city showing mankind no pity, it captivate everything in its path, ripping up the cornfields, throwing down utility poles and opening up closed door. It circles around the creeks scaling sunlit mountains, mixing earth with stones and dressing the heavens with the gowns flying over the throne. It roots up the landfills, and settles beneath the foot of the hill circling, and twirling around for the eye that is set on the throne. It spews out a terrible sound reminding the people that destiny is around. It hisses and lashes, sending wooden planks over the bend and carrying the concrete a hundred meter down the lane.
The people run around the bend, looking for shelter underneath the altar but the mad wind drag them out and cause the entire town to jump and shout. It move ferociously around the pig pen and dances around the chicken coop, and drive the roosters from the roof, the ducks began to run too , wagging their bumpy tails and saying how do you do.
Zinc and pans, bucket and lamps crowd the street and debris flying in the air, landing in the bushes, and the middle of the streets, slowly erupting the town’s heart beat.The mad wind is moving towards the east, and I can finally get some peace. The sun is burning in the west, and I don’t have to fret, the fire is down to the wire and the vision is moving closer and some people are still looking for an answer.
I stand there breathlessly looking at the damages it left behind, overturned house fallen trees dug out road and overturned boats stalled cars in the middle of the street, and a temperature that lit up the street .Dead bodies floating in the rivers and screaming voices are heard from all places .People trapped onto of the roof and widow suck into the chimney with foot shaking up side down and head buried in the ground. The mad wind keeps moving leaving nothing unturned and the grey skies trembling in the sun leaving nothing undone and so the mad wind resides in the east.
Within my own axis,
It did not slant
It did not drizzle.
The void shunned the grey clouds.
Lightning was rare.
Thunder turned mute.
Leaf-tops shook with the sleepiness of
Shameless drunks, casting ghoulish shades,
Causing affrays among wild species.
Rivulets rippled in hunger and in thirst,
Circling firths with methodical anger and protests.
The grass blades lost their verdancy and cringed.
Within this place,
The air was proud and still, unfeeling —
Thus blocking the nostrils of weaverbirds, so that
Their breath choked with the intensity of seasonal hate.
Our soils were burnt and frazzled.
Hoe-teeth were dull-edged, producing clangs of
Stony noise while only reflecting the rays of the
Killing sun.
Woe was upon us and upon the anus of the earth.
The corrugated roofs rattled loudly at noon,
Protesting the agony of torture, and like the air,
Sent down particles of aging thirst at night.
On the grounds of this zone
Came the trace of waste and powdered perdition.
Vultures constantly were late for repasts,
For the sandy ground was greedier.
Earth, pall of misery, exhumed Death
Among the dead, and exuded worms in the
Warmth of lost sempervirence.
Apoplexy on living matters reigned.
Consider the lives of old calabashes
Laid waste in the core of the desert;
The exhumed bones interred in prelapsarian order.
Imagine the still existence of the blacksmith’s forge,
The ground of the phoenix in her laboratory of rebirth —the
End product of its old life . . .
That was for us the twelfthmonth of horror.
I am blurred
lines circling
in spirals
into the
deadly depths
of darkness
taste of
my remorse
is flavored
with seasoned
cream cocktails
of regrets
I've been
caught on a
honed knife edge
as cobwebs
of fading
onyx Dreams
savor burnt
poisoned thirst
to let go
of every
smoke and ash
that blinded
my senses
from seeing
the dirt you've
fed my soul
in the name
of bloodlines
that never
existed
as all your
recipes
I've learnt through
the menu
of decayed
white lies served
in sweet disguise
staining faith
within a
heart shaped void
where demons
devour me
through midnight
now I'm my
own savior
concocting
an essence
to relish
and revive
without
iron schemes
to shackle me
After the Occupational Therapist told me I’d never walk again (see my poem “What She Said”); I was in shock, but my being turned to my ballet days to recall when my legs were strong and I immediately wrote this, while listening to The Butterfly Concerto. It is a poem of my courage.
“THE DANCE OF THE BUTTERFLY”
Oh! How she sparkles through her dance!
Tchaikovsky himself gazes from the stage’s wings
Applauding the height and instants of hesitation
Of her punctuating arabesques. He applauds
With his hands in his pockets, tapping the sides
Of his thighs and a tear of appreciation rises
In his eyes. There can be no doubt she has caught
The audience in her fluttering net, in her crossings
Of the stage so carried by the violin’s sweeps
Of the scales and the flute’s endearing notes
Of imitating a breeze-buoying flight.
But it is the ballerina herself who sets the gold
To crown his composed inspiration as she
Performs a pas de deux with his concerto!
The violin marks each pointe set to her chines.
The orchestra is a narrative riding her eclipses
Of beauty. The timpani exclaims her leaps.
With port de bras, from bow to extending reach,
Her arms become marigold wings...and
Her elan lifts her heart to address the stars.
The young girl, with her head above, yet sunken into,
The soft, cloud-like folds of her pillow, listens
To the riveting Butterfly Concerto sound up
Through the foam of her pillow
(Where her radio will not bother her parents)
...And her shoulders
Slightly rise with each crescendo. She inhales
At the peak of every releve, and, with a lifting of
Arms to barely cross above her head —
In elegant elan — before a rapid circling of the stage.
The music’s tempo mounts to conclusion. She
Takes an instant to feel she is performing her
Best...Surely, oh, surely,
Tchaikovsky, stands rapt
Aside the curtain wings, applauding.
**********************************
by sally Young eslinger 8/25/2020
Thanks be to God!
One slow motion jagged tear
found me after you left me here.
Its wetness sits still upon my face
as I stare at absolutely no place.
What I do live and what I dream
and all sundries fitting in between,
now struggle in a frenzied dance
passing thru, in and out, this circumstance.
My brain is mush circling a clueless groove.
Surely, I need an enlightened next move.
Calm failed to enter when you shut the door,
and life as I knew it quit being anymore.
I simply cannot find my identity.
Maybe it left with you and my clarity.
I seek to ease a primal urge to shout
at frenzied thoughts dashing about.
Perhaps I knew years had grown weeds
while I prayed for fertilized love seeds.
Perhaps I knew time long held this bleed
while I prayed true love would succeed.
Perhaps my heart just died in your stampede.
They tease people
and undermine relationships
they thinks it's cute
always at odds
making things difficult for the people
it aint cute
-------------------------------------------------------
The Savants shall warn the people
of the wierds of many
they shall sppeak salvation
and will couple to be unioned
we shall not recognize there togetherness
and there unions shall be frowned upon.
Exactio Malo and Femalo's
spoke the feathered Savant
as all clapped and cheered.
_____________________________________________________
Then the day came when the aspiring People wished to marry
and the Savants laughed at there desire to
do so.
It was aparent that they were
to tease these people.
And the members of the resistance began cursing and circling
calling the elders needless and useless
they throw nuts and fruits
at them and lored them into the caves
tthere they put up a fence around the cave.
___________________________________________________________
Article from WayWard National
A Natures Magizine
"I Lived 10 Months with Savages"
By Calli Comeanie
South Dakota Cattle Publishing Co.
New Jersey, Oklahoma, Lake Erie
Offices across the World
Contact: The Mallard Mimick
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