Long Coiling Poems
Long Coiling Poems. Below are the most popular long Coiling by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Coiling poems by poem length and keyword.
Heartthrob in damsel drag
Belief of human bile
Completely instilling cascading dregs of mechanical flesh, bones and spit
64th avenue
And coiling deft doom
Winged balls of bulging blood and speckled steel
Merry wails and flutters of moths unsealed
Fitted upon falling kneel
And reckoned release of rotten roadkill-
Rats and babes and brats
Congealed candy and sickeningly sweet brandy
And hailed light of epiphany to choke, swallow and spit
And strangle without a hand nor handle but grit
Of groil and crevices of menaces heralding honed notes
And a lone liver in fathered infirmary
Black backed in breachers
Potted a bulge to indulge the fickle maggots of dissociation
Emulsification and hearty sniff of
Whitened slice and slithers of snow
Dregs to drag and hone and throw
Up upon bedded saline laden road
Of rows and rows and pounds
That drag rotten flesh afresh from the hound
Sutured from spine to fluttered wing
The hide
Plucked apart from rat to brat
And collared collier stepped afresh with new hide and throw
And stubborn stubbled child with a new mind in tow
5//5//2025
OF WE AND THEY/EVEN US AND THEM! *
In the beginning
We were the architects
Of God’s designed world;
Then came them—
The devastating forces
Of its Garden Of Eden
Decline:-
We were the flowers
And fruits of the Garden;
Then they became
The slithering and coiling
Slime of disobedience
And disrespect:-
We were chosen
To teach cross bearing
With the Bearer thereof;
Then they—save Mark—
Tried to leave out
Our Simon Of Cyrene hue:-
As you read, my children,
Listen to these 83+ years
Old screaming words:
We must know that ourstory here,
Did not begin with their slavery!
They’re just lyingly implicated this,
In their fecal canvassing
Of their diuretic history:-
While we remain
The crucified oppressed,
And they, the crucifiers,
Realize our Ancestors
Ensured that we would be
Today’s resurrected ones;
Overcoming and ascending,
Memorial total liberation:-
Thus, it be between them
And us, in waning oppression
And waxing liberation;
We ascending the mountaintop,
Not as children of Sisyphus,
But, the ebony-hued of the Liberator:-
I never saw the coiling snake,
The suddenness of its striking,
But I quickly felt my mistake,
Stung with terror while hiking.
That quickly turned to burning rage,
A response uncalculated-
A sudden and angry rampage,
And the snake was annihilated.
Then swarming bees sent me running,
Through a swarm of thorns and briers.
The number of stings was stunning,
Like a hundred little fires.
Then hellish lava began to spew,
In the form of threats and curses,
Of all the vengeance I would do,
Which a tortured mind rehearses.
Afterwards, my wrath subsided,
And a settled policy arose-
Any "stingers" would be blighted,
Before they could oppose.
How do you explain things that sting,
When you planned to do them no harm?
After suffering the pain they bring,
Man, and Nature, both lose their charm.
Then there's the greatest sting of all,
That follows our dying breath.
Forever in that captive thrall,
Is the sting of sin and death.
How do I blight death's sin-sting,
And avoid death's Sheol-swallow,
Find purpose in my suffering,
And an example in which to follow?
He swallows the sting for all of them,
Once your eyes are opened to see.
Salvation was secured by Him,
Read Isaiah fifty-three.
"The Unhidden"
courage winks
and grins
Spring is in his step
harsh courage wins
unhidden
staring down
the barrel of a lens
there’s a mad man
losing marbles
sitting all alone
cornered
without friends
a bully bringing in his
paid assassins
courage winks
and grins
he knows
cowards
without friends
always lose
in the end
courage winks
and grins
he's centre stage
the world debates
watches and waits
for a bipartisan
saviour
to march in
truth
always wins
out in the open now
courage
winks and grins
with the whole
world watching
the end
or
the beginning
to
begin
Z swastika
not on his watch
Storm trooper
Russian Rouble roulette
coiling scales an oily blini
downing nuclear pancake,
deep fake coward
alone end of the table
hell bitten, no friends
sits Vlad the Impaler
courage winks
and grins
Spring is in his step
harsh courage wins
unhidden
staring down
the barrel of a lens
Holocaust
nyet
not on his watch
never again
"Slava Ukraini!"
(LadyLabyrinth / 2022)
"Ukraine President Zelensky welcomes Spring in Kyiv"
https://youtu.be/M-x-ujiB-oE
"Storms" / Wolf Alice
https://youtu.be/g_QOmSaZySI
Slava Ukraini
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Glory_to_Ukraine
Z - Russian Symbol, Ukraine War, 2022
https://fortune.com/2022/03/07/russia-z-tank-marking-how-letter-became-symbol-pro-ukraine-war-invasion/
https://edition.cnn.com/2022/03/07/europe/russia-z-symbol-ukraine-war-cmd-intl/index.html
https://www.msn.com/en-au/news/newslondon/why-has-z-become-a-symbol-of-russian-aggression-and-what-does-it-mean/ar-AAUJzwW
The Holocaust
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Holocaust
The Holocaust in Ukraine
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Holocaust_in_Ukraine
Reichskommissariat Ukraine
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Reichskommissariat_Ukraine
LYRICS/ "Storm", Wolf Alice
https://genius.com/Wolf-alice-storms-lyrics
Old and Alone Through the City
Old and alone, autumn wanders bare through the city,
A smoke of memories coiling around the streetlamps,
The woman dissolved into the arms of another mirage,
And the dog grew old begging for the warmth of days.
The child who was never born wanders through the fog,
A bodyless shadow knocking at autumn's gates,
And the wind and the sun, old brothers of a lifetime,
Lean on each other on the steps of forgetting.
The old organ-grinder, with his leg of wood and dream,
Cranks out a melody rusted like a wound,
The old prostitute sells her shadow, the unclosed
Coffin of her longing under a pagan moon.
Someone in a graveyard whispers a song of wax,
An old head trembles, hollow as a scorched bell tower,
The tree shakes its leaves like a final summer,
The idiot from the commercial smiles, a wounded mask.
The whole city trembles, full of loneliness,
Crowds of old young people flow like a river of wax,
All of them, everything, old and alone, carrying in their chests a fortress
Of silences fallen to their knees, under the same bitter snowfall.
"That Place"
In that place where you were abandoned,
that place, they never thought, you’d come back from,
in that place where it is believed nothing grows
in the long night’s tortured darkness, deep down, well,
a spark lit something quite quiet, far removed and forgotten,
and now it grows rapidly, coiling inside,
snaking sharp-edged like mother’s tongue root
it transmits something alive, something like love,
its veins drawing back in again a loquacious life,
the moisture from tears, a necessary nourishment
from the lake of disbelief, betrayal, trauma and grief,
a bless'ed blooming in disguise,
the succulent luscious life those all important tears gift;
what spreads from the darkness and its erratic reach,
calling into it all embers of ethereal light? Now ultra-lit,
some revolutionary reincarnation arrives back from the dead,
it soaks the unseen light up greedily, for it is extraordinarily hungry,
to taste if but just a drop of sunshine in the glory of forever and ever,
this is what it dreams when it sleeps;
after the amen, hibernation,
it grows and it spreads robust, rigorous (not necessarily), yet,
like a beautiful irregular disease, there is no turning back
once the light kisses it and it has a taste for life,
it goes looking for some kinder heaven;
yes, this is accurate, I do believe -
from nothing something blooms
from nothing, the arrival, awake,
life lessons learned,
what is poor, and what is rich,
what is true and untrue
Candide Diderot. '24
Gradually the crystalizing dawn -- more hardened
Than folded steel --- more sharper than
The blade that cuts!
Wisps of thin vapour, once loitering insidiously
At the steps of each staunch door,
Swirling away -- seemingly almost alive!
Coiling and uncoiling. Has all the litheness of a
Dancing girls weightless silken ribbon.
Until, retreating back, high, into some lofty,
Inaccessible mountain...
Dissipates as if just abandoned dragons breath.
The trees and streams are no longer so solemn.
Circling over the temple, above the brittle lands
Frosted chill, red-beaked choughs noisily engaged
In agitated clattering...
But now the temple bells are commanding those
Monks to prayer.
The blind and withered monk, who sits alone
In his unassuming corner, reminds us:-
"An emperor who abuses his power unsettles the
Equilibrium of the whole nation, the workings of
Nature,
And the livelihood of all people;
His responsibility is to maintain harmony in
Himself and the empire...
By acting in accordance with Confucian principles".
It is for them to contemplate what we cannot
Comprehend:-
We are peasants and it is not expected of us
To understand such wise things; nor should we.
We understand the fish and their ways, and the
Ways of the Blue River...
Just as monks understand our gracious lord Buddha.
Rouses the sun. Slowly lifts an enormous sky.
Glistening hoarfrost spun from bramble to
Bush -- strung from bough to branch like
Giant spider web;
Stiffened grasses that so pleasingly crunch
Underfoot;
And from these grasses, droplets of moisture
Ready to be released like slow weeping tears;
They will join with and sweeten the vibrant
Spring waters -- clearer than quartz --
That stream in tripping rivulets over yellow rocks
To splash from shallow cup to pouring pool...
Once you have tasted these waters you would
Have little more need of wine.
Wine is for idle men, or for our warring masters
To drink when celebrating great victory;
What use have we of intoxicating wine?
It is better kept as an offering...
Lest the river Gods grow angry and
Spoil our catch.
Come visit us under pink tinged twilight skies..
among boughs borne under a song laden tree.
In fair view of land, meadows green coiling rise,
one hundred twenty counted souls, and me.
The older children play, running in sun washed petticoats,
hair pulled back in pigtails & ribbons, an untied shoelace floats.
Their errant hoops gone tumbling over a dew covered hill,
wonder if sun refused to shine, and not mourning them still.
How resplendent a vessel, White Star's ship of dreams,
carried their passion as coal fed fired boiler steams.
Only to sink 'neath the waves, irony in iron age..
On maiden voyage Ides of April, warned her last writ page.
To the new world go mother, father, sisters and brothers,
prayers spent all would reach safety of harbor's bustling dock.
America's shores promised in the letters of others...
went as sheep to the shearer in Reaper's growing flock.
To third class cabin dimlit, down three flights of stairs,
their mortal passage payed so high a forlorned cost.
Waiting their turn for grace, their last supper's prayers,
scrape of ice., gaping ocean roared, in darkness lost.
God bore them one and all 'way from the tortured deep,
to cold windswept mount where saints and survivors weep.
"Nothing in my hands I bring, simply to Thy cross I cling"
In the labyrinth of my thoughts, an endless waltz of shadows,
I step on the edges of my soul, where angels shed feathers of memories,
their wings, birds of light, beating a rhythm locked in the vault of my chest,
struggling to fly, yet never freeing themselves from the cage of bones.
Thoughts writhe, eyeless serpents, cold as forgotten dreams,
coiling at the root of my mind, whispering riddles in dead tongues,
which only my nightmares can decipher, a dialect of the deep night,
words that slip like sand through the hourglass of time, lost in silence.
Every word I might speak is a thorny crucifix on my tongue,
neither holy nor sharp enough to cry out through the dense silence surrounding me,
just present, a relic of silence, inert and impossible to transform into sound,
a burden weighing down the soul, a mute song on the strings of an old harp.
I dream of speaking in rivers of fire, in torrents that could melt the silence,
to burst into a dance of flames, to burn away the fog enveloping my thoughts,
but instead, I drown in the depths of a cup of still, transparent water,
a mirror reflecting infinity, deeper than I have ever been.
I am not mute. I am a vessel filled to the brim, an ocean of glass and sparks,
and everything inside is a symphony of shards and gunpowder,
an explosion waiting to be unleashed, to release the burden of silence,
yet I remain a sealed reliquary, a universe keeping its secrets locked away.
I flow like a river that moves around rocks,
Molding like water splashed into cup or box;
Like tides conforming to the force of the moon,
A stream twisting through a bending valley's tune.
A soft air slipping through the narrowest cracks,
A wind that changes paths with no stops and tracks;
Like a smoke coiling around every corner,
A kite adjusting to swift gusts or blower.
I am a clay designed by God's unseen hands,
Being adaptable, my mind understands;
I am a master key that suits any lock,
As the Lord Jesus opens the gate of His flock.
The Holy Spirit reminds me of seasons,
For I am leaves that turn with climes in reasons.