Long Collage Poems
Long Collage Poems. Below are the most popular long Collage by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Collage poems by poem length and keyword.
(This time I've quoted my own poem titles. Everything in quotes is a title.)
"Dear reader," again, this monolog persists.
We're no longer "sparring" with figurative fists.
"The blood of an Englishman" is my last token,
"cursive curtsies" for "love unspoken."
"The magic of your arms" is now "unattainable,"
"man glitter"'s sloughing unexplainable.
"Footprints in time" lead to your "home garden,"
now overgrown with common weeds to pardon.
"This is the place" where "pruning" is "timeless,"
and "ballroom backgrounds" are forever rhymeless.
Briars pull me close with roaming stickers.
"The stars in the sky" "wake me" with sharp "flickers."
Doves' worn "coos" sound more like "snoring."
"The shape of water" is a tsunami pouring.
"The balcony bows" like "uncommon courtesy,"
"bolstered" hardwood buckling to be free.
"A safe place to hide" is looking vastly glum.
I cling to the shadows like "coffee table gum."
"Winter contemplations" are an everyday thing,
like "blackout poetry---detached," a missing ring.
"Forsaken" "spiderwebs" hold your "signature scent,"
though they are as broken as bent.
"Winter twigs wither" like a limp "paper boat"
immersed in a "defenseless," old moat.
"All that remains" "for the headstrong and wrong"
is a broken cassette withholding our song.
"I will care for you" like a "scarecrow in still life."
"The widow's pew" has gained a haggard wife.
"Birds through obscurity" perceptively lag.
"Goodbye, love..." I impart to you "freedom's flag."
Don't "call back the curtain" to yesterday.
"Installments of lost time" are impossible to pay.
I'll be as strong and "brave" as the mighty ant.
Then came the "thought thief..." "Will I if I can't?"
"No proper goodbye" would satisfy my "appetite."
A morsel on the path to "winter's endless night."
"Maybe" the "earth meets firmament" on the brink.
A "snow globe refreshment" will be my last drink.
The "typewriter" points "westward," and there it shines,
"clinging to (these last) undulating lines."
9-25-2023
Recumbant redundancy
Came t'coil and careen 'round the rails of goosen flesh heels
Strained the frame of my mortal fallibility
And estranged mine name from the cankering collage of mine colleagues in arms
'ggressively agrieved mine mantled place and mounting crown
That hath e'er now oxidise down the stairs of mine life
Racked mine train and affronted frame of thought
For one was reticent in their regiment
Now, e'er dulled thee t'the dole,
O dewy-doe eye'd,
Such shall surely swallow thee whole
Haunted to pleasantries, t'the gaunt face before thee
None graver than the ashen grave 'fore I
Ghoulishly reposed, to enclose and envelope,
My writing hand loosen'd in a lousy attempt,
To evade, to prolificate, and feed the face of the market rate.
And with a bow, I shall forsake my latent escape
And one shall take their monthly crown, without rebate.
21//12//25
Salvation in an App Store?
By Mark D. Stucky
Google Maps won’t work
for the way I feel lost.
Is there a salvation app
I can install on my phone
to download redemption today
and upload my soul when I die?
Since there are apps
for everything in life,
why not also an app
to access the afterlife?
Is there a spiritual map to the Pearly Gates in Heaven
that also includes a free ticket for effortless admission?
Can an app act as replacement
for tear-permeated repentance?
Can I install a cheap-grace app
without costly discipleship?
I don’t want to pick up a cross and follow Jesus.
I just want to pick up my phone and stream salvation.
I want Jesus joyous in my app.
I don’t want him hungry and thirsty.
I don’t want him sick and in prison.
I don’t want him naked and a stranger.
I don’t want hillside sermons on social justice.
I just want smiling faces and shining crosses.
I haven’t found salvation
in any app store so far.
If you find that elusive app,
will you please send me the link?
(First published in Soul-Lit, Summer 2023. See also my poems “Missing: God Incarnate,” “The Ascension (with Rewrites),” and “God’s on Mute.”)
(The image is a collage created by the author from multiple images.)
so this is the way the night tastes...
looking back I couldn't tell,
in pencil at the beginning
worn flights of steps, from before the war
smaller, until they were gone
but in the mirror, my hands
gold rims, bare here and there
out of an echo, knowing
not long after
flecked with red, blue in the depths, and polished...
I see clearly all the pieces of the flower
it was late when we started
plates stacked on shelves
next to the questions
one at a time
once there was a horizon
no color except for gray
at a perfect distance from each other
almost a thousand years later
almost in plain sight
in the summer fields waiting
it would climb up as a shadow
we planned to wait
and to whatever is still standing
the eggshell of light before dark
what was there before
remained closed on its own
along the ridge of the barn roof
only she had forgotten her name
a dried branch of bittersweet
lace on drop-leaf tables
I could not remember
part memory, part distance
leading me to the lake shore
invisible under the hood
_______________________________________________________
Inspired By Charlotte's Contest: "Cut-up/Collage Poems"
and randomly "snipped" from a book by W.S. Merwin
2/27/14
Who am I?
I am a drummer, a poet,
a good man, or so I'm told.
I'm a sweet one, a dreamer,
a hopeless romantic,
yet doomed to loneliness.
I am a reader, a carpenter,
a funny man, or so I'm told.
I'm a smart one, an intellectual,
a book-smart sort,
yet doomed to foolishness.
I am a geek, a patriot,
a well-mannered man, or so I'm told.
I'm a deserving one, an honest guy,
one, I hope, of character,
yet doomed to self-doubt.
Each and every single one of us
is a multifaceted arrangement;
within us burns the light,
not of a single candle,
flickering feebly, alone, against the darkness;
but instead that of the chandelier,
a collage of disjointed pieces
cobbled together to form this union
of elements, of emotions,
that we call a soul.
We try to identify ourselves by these
characteristics, these parts of us,
some certainly more than others.
And yet, we're all
doomed to question them.
I'm so many things, so many pieces.
I like most of them, but I don't know
what to do, who to be.
And nothing I am puts me any closer
to what I truly desire - love.
What does that make me?
A simple toy mother gave me
on my sixth birthday,
the best gift I ever got.
Its gentle turn creating changing color design,
and shifting patterns, mesmerized me,
filled my transfixed childhood vision.
I can’t resist looking through it even today.
The turning wheel of my time
rotated the rhapsodic living scenario.
The patterns performed persistently
with languid life’s mélange of motifs.
The chameleon colors transformed
the visage of the mind’s topography
into the ashes of burnt barrenness,
or to the elegance of emerald valley.
The diffused dreams on the drift,
floated on the cascade of shifting sight,
meandering on the mesmeric tapestry,
weaved with the strands of ebullience,
replicated the wings of butterflies,
flittering on the ripples of rapturous air,
and before they all flew away,
formed for me a fountain of fulfillment.
In my listless lonesome travel
across the wanton wasteland,
or along the glittering garden path,
lined with spring saplings
with buds of bursting colors,
it opens the shutter of my mind.
The receptive film of sensuality
captures in the fascinating fresco
the sublime snapshots of beauty.
In the mist of my journey’s last mile,
at the edge of the fading future,
the sunset swansong resonates
in the realm of the twilight time
for the forlorn essence of being,
silhouetted like defoliated tranquil tree
against the blazing skyline
of transient chromatic brilliance,
witnessing the last flicker of the dying day.
The shards of the splintered sky’s spectrum
in the swirling squall of torment
roll on the dismal waves
of the curled up clouds of discontent.
The remnant rays of sanguinity,
flickering on the ebb of time
with the departing flashes of the sinking sun,
fabricate the latent lattice
of the unframed dreams
in the petrified life’s captivating collage
of my childhood kaleidoscope.
SUPERFINE SUNRISE
An amazing Sunrise!
A spectacular surprise.
We enjoyed from top of Tiger hill at Darjeeling,
as watched with my siblings.
We were overwhelmed
When color formation started on firmament
initiating simmering tone
as shown in specific aero-zone
gradually attaining medium strength
turning denser deeper multiple hues
of high density
on ecstatic eccentricity.
Bright brilliant shiny dazzling rays
dispersed, reflected, refracted
flashing on environ
displayed varied sun spectrum
pasted on sky-album.
Sun was still under horizon
but spreading cosmic tapestry
woven with mystery
of enchanting color-combination:
Marvelous manifestation
of Nature’s creation and conformation.
Once I got the scope to visualize kaleidoscope
in collage of splendid gorgeous colors
slowly tending to fade
in lighter shades
gaining soft tincture,
leading vanish of ornate complex picture.
Reddened Golden Sun was up.
08/22/21
First Place
'A Brian Strand Your choice'
Contest by Brian Strand.
Star of Wondering
By Mark D. Stucky
Luminous mystery in the night,
are you supernatural light?
Or a supernova
shining bright?
Or a planetary conjunction
in iconic constellations?
Or a comet with radiant tail,
leading Western a procession?
Or only an ancient tall tale
spun from myth and legend?
Two millennia passed since your visit,
yet still we’re wondering
about your physics.
Astronomical anomaly?
Mere mist of myth?
Or dawn of divinity?
First Christmas star,
we’re still wondering what you are.
(First published in Small Town Anthology IV: Entries from the Fourth Annual Tournament of Writers, Schoolcraft Community Library, 2018, pp. 108-109. See also my related poems "Consider the (Dreaming) Birds," “Journey of a Contemporary Joseph,” and “Quantum Theology.”)
(Image collage by the author.)
Harvest of Mind
by Odin Roark
Acres of mirrors
Reflecting yesterdays upon today
Refracting wisdom’s tundra of experience
Into regret's abstract lessons.
How flexible
This mind of bendable energy,
Linking limbotic senses
Into a synaptic playground
Where one’s child-like recess plays perpetual.
Discovery beckons,
Hoeing brain’s porous marl
Bearing not the sweat of work,
Rather seedling’s preparation,
The cultivation of pain and sorrow’s rich compost,
The irrigation of past years’ yield,
That foundation of trial and error’s natural reward.
As each day's light finds horizon’s solace,
We slumber into mind’s picturesque growth,
Participating in collage-dreams,
Challenging synaptic connections
Smiling or crying,
Winning or losing,
We either concede as spectator
Or become a player,
A harvester of continuance,
The perpetuation of cognition’s daily bread.
Yes
‘Tis wondrous property we carry about.
Respected, it thrives.
Neglected, it weeds.
Rejected…
But a fossil-in-the-making.
A torch carried on forever, indeed,
for the aggressive rhymer in me,
is alive again, unshackled and freed,
rising to challenge another day, I see.
As I found myself lost deep in Tolkien,
with epic Star Wars, never ending,
surrounded in a geek paradise, serene,
optical illusions before me, suspending.
Life's songs on guitar strings strummed,
an epiphany unlike they've ever heard,
euphoric dreams in my visions hummed,
as I pen archaic word after archaic word.
Artistry is born only to be my brother,
encircled this star, a pentagram made,
my day is done, I have conquered another,
as the sun slowly brings down the shade.
A Word Collage For Chan Hurst
(Cyndi MacMillan's contest)