Long Compasses Poems
Long Compasses Poems. Below are the most popular long Compasses by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Compasses poems by poem length and keyword.
Oh the images we freeze in time
the sweet, sweet scents that bring recall
the sharp and painful longing that belongings bring
for those lost or lingering on sheets of lavender
on shelves of shaving mugs - Old Spice
soap roped in shower stalls.
Oh the images warmed and torn, sun burnt to brown
upon what's left of glossy crenulated sheets
showing frozen plumped out peeks of
blistering love, gape toothed girls
and sour apple dreams.
We freeze in time on scrapes and shards
on compasses far from the woodlands scene
the tobacco scent of Papa, his yellowed fingers
as they touched my dimpled chin,
blue eyes behind wire rims.
The sweet, sweet scents that bring recall
White Shoulder's between her wholesome breasts
Mother's satin, Chantilly drenched negligee
and father's black onyx ring
ah, I still have him.
The sharp and painful longing that belongings bring
guilty pleasures hidden from the public's tut-tuting eyes
hoarded in ornate boxes, or pressed between stout boards
relentless, heartless is the passing
passing into the frayed, worn fringes
of our dollop of mirrored time.
For those lost or lingering on sheets of lavender
with drawers of balsam pillows to recall the olden days
bring forth the buds which bloom on taffy and apple pie
do not forget the taste of the love
the cotton candy kisses
their first chocolate cone.
On shelves of shaving mugs - Old Spice
soap roped in shower stalls, no sense comes
without its call to memory. Oh you do not sit alone,
play all the old tunes from radio days
and invite your loved ones
to come home.
This is my form it is called Etcetera.
Definition: Write a line or a stanza, take from that line or stanza words in the
order they were written [ from 1 word to whole lines or phrases] begin your
next stanza with it continue until you have written using all the words in the
order written in the line or stanza being explored in depth in a stream of
internal dialogue. ALL poetic devises/tropes may be used INCLUDING internal
rhyme. The verse may be as long or short as you wish, no meter required, no
syllable count.
I would say Etcetera and Blitz are sub forms of Free Verse - Stream of
Consciousness - Etcetera- Blitz
uniting farcical flocks all over the world,
gregarious garments, talismans &
little good luck charms required by religions
to ward off “evil spirits,” to separate man
from “god,” or to just protect the fuzzy sheep
from the rest of us heathens,
are donned by believers everywhere
(but kept oh so secret).
the infamous magical mormon underwear
whose mere mention offends the mormons
strike the nonbeliever as an extra special case
as one may envision horny hocus-pocus
surrounding the ceremonies held within the guise of a
uniquely ludicrous worship of fiction---
the lds correct one quickly, saying that these “temple garments”
are sacred & that is why they are secret,
once bearing stitched “L’s & V’s,” thought at best to be
squares & compasses,
evidence of founder joseph smith’s own signing up with the
big boys, the freemasons, whilst trying to get some buddies
who had power.
while christians, buddhists, sikhs, muslims, jews, jains,
taoists, zoroastrians & for that matter, numerous other local
& tribal religions, all seem to put some stock in “peace malas”
---little 16 beaded bracelets representing a rainbow to
take on our “spiritual paths,” jews specifically have worn
the “roite bindele”---a red wool string that is worn around the
wrist of the left hand, thought by kabbalahbabblers to ward off evil, especially
that ever so evil “evil eye,” that so many in the 21st century
are still afraid of.
scientologists, always out to out-ridiculous the competition,
whose elite army known as the “sea organization,” marches
round Gold Base in cali, parading now on land in the poor rip-off
attire based on US navy uniforms, as they did when they were
peddling their own brand of bosh mumbo jumbo in La Boheme,
prior to its shut down in 2008 for asbestos (awe boo hoo, guess
we’ll have to nurture our “thetans” & try to get in better touch with
the “supreme being” elsewhere).
what asinine apparel exemplifies in the superstitious
is not only the need to escape the tribulations of everyday life
which weighs upon us all, but more so, to advertise a chosen
dogmatic & downright daffy way to live, which strengthens
those within the flock, but which is meant to reel new fish in,
so as to perpetuate this idiocy in an age when the species needs
LESS, not more of it.
Here are four survivors of a rocket that had crashed.
For a great distance, they had walked through rain that had splashed
so long, and so hard, that everything was turning white.
The downpour continued steadily through day and night.
“Does it ever stop raining on Venus?” one could ask.
A journey through the planet’s ceaseless rain is a task.
It requires the strongest earthmen to endure the rain;
a challenging test to withstand frustration and pain.
Venusian jungles are thick with vegetation.
Survival is usually of short duration.
The torrential downpour cuts through the trees and the land.
It is steady and so strong. A man can hardly stand.
It’s continual pelting of raindrops on his head.
It does not take long before most men wish they were dead.
On this planet, there is one thing that they would call home.
It is a round, yellow building known as a “sun dome”.
Inside, there’s a man-made plasma giving light and heat;
where it is dry and comfortable, with food to eat.
Thirty days and nights had passed since their space ship was downed.
They blindly tread through the rain until a dome was found.
However, inside, it was dark and cold with no sound.
Gashed holes in the ceiling proved there was no one around
Venusians attacked here and killed everybody.
These creatures were infamous for their savagery.
On the map, another dome was shown to be nearby.
Only a few kilometers away, it would lie.
They would leave in search of the next dome they hoped was near.
Their compass readings were off; their position not clear.
Suddenly, their ship with two dead crewmen would appear.
They had traveled in a circle, causing them great fear.
A dark, ominous, electrical cloud they would see,
spewing thousands of lightning bolts, a monstrosity.
This caused their compasses to show inaccuracy.
The group’s leader yelled “Everybody get down right now”,
but one man stayed up and tried to run away somehow.
He was struck by the lightning, and was burned quite badly.
Remains of this man were charred beyond identity.
The raging storm cost the crew another casualty.
The three remaining men continued on their journey,
blindly hoping a sun dome was in propinquity.
Based on the short story "The Long Rain" by Ray Bradbury
I wonder if THC
and our Holy Cooperative Spirit
could be cousins
like Grandmother Moon
and Grandmother Tree.
Why do you want to wonder
about something as curious as that,
dear?
Oh, I don't recall, really.
It just came up in conversation a few minutes ago.
Honey,
your breakfast is still a figment of your hopeful imagination,
so who on Earth were you conversing with a few minutes ago?
I was in the backyard
talking with the trees,
and the extended family question just came up
and down
and in
and out.
Honey,
when you take your morning meds,
and then go out to your sit spot
and talk to the trees...
Yes?
Would you do me a favor?
What's that?
Would you listen more,
and invoke curses against climate hate-mongerers
and malingerers
less?
You scare our more pedestrian neighbors.
But I was listening.
The trees were talking
in their windblown surfing voices
of autumn colored breeze
swaying like Green Fairy SkyWoman
Blessing each falling leaf
spinning tales
revolving moral compasses
drifting from win to lose
coming to rest where they first gave birth,
Blessed by Grandmother Moon's ultra-violet rhythms
lights
and dual dark dilemmas,
mystery,
everyday awe
expecting sacred wonder.
Oh, well then,
I was wondering why you were so quiet out there...
So, what's your plan for today?
I thought I might plant more trees.
Want some company?
If we both listen more,
and ask impatient questions less.
Planting already faithful saplings
or merely hopeful seeds
of co-relationship?
Depends on how long we care to be remembered
for our civil kindness,
green cooperative intent,
revolutionary winning trees and winning people values
norms
voices natural and spiritual
bilaterally democratic spinning energy,
healthy merits and unhealthy demerits,
regenerative plantings more than degenerate uprootings,
climate health supplanting wealth of disease,
unease,
dissonant disassociating trees.
Dearest,
I'm having trouble following some of your connections.
Do you think that's the THC
or Holy Cooperative Spirit whispering?
Yes, love.
Lost my kids once just for a minute or so in the fair: needle in haystack.
Busy and purposeful Sunday morning. Fascinating bee hive but I wanted my kids back
Thought they were next to the glass beads jostling and rattling on a necklace chain,
Or near the polished fossils, and bags clinking their sea-shell collections from Spain.
I squinted for their faces in the crowd,as rows of cheap eyeglasses looked invitingly
Over at the gaudily-decorated casual shoes, just arrived breathless from Turkey;
And stalls overflowing with flame-coloured dresses - Moroccan, from Agadir -
Trying to inch down to the ground like wriggling children. But not my children dear.
Toy insects buzzing joyfully and plastic windmills whirring playfully in the breeze
And serious-minded compasses busy seeking north didn’t fill my search with ease.
Carousels with ponies and dinosaurs, birds and elephants?
Maybe they had fulfilled my wandering kids’ secret wants?
Noisy price-haggling. African traders switching from language of Germany to Wales,
Or even to Arabic, as they sensed customers's different interests and possible sales.
Chinese and Vietnamese comparing views in French, their only common tongue.
No doubt, my three had slipped their leash and were hiding: they were young.
The swish of the decorative paper garlands in the breeze was near-lost in the crowd;
And the conflict between Welsh folk-music and American heavy-metal rock so loud.
And I listened to the colourful chatter pulsate
Of traders trying to persuade money to leave your wallet.
Girls in sandals and sunglasses. Old ladies in floral patterns and blue-rinsed hair.
Young men eyeing girls trying on dresses ……but my three were not there.
Ah - but then! At the ice cream stall I saw three hungry mouths, kept
Pressed to the glass. Three money-less urchins all glad to see dad. I swept
Them up in my arms and started to relax and enjoy the fair-market.
I’d lost my kids for just about one minute.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Entered in Lisa Cooper ~Dark Poetess's Contest County Fair
Give them clear mountain lakes,
Kid-friendly swimming holes,
Rafts, canoes, and sailboats;
Dads and sons with fishing-poles.
Give them clear night skies,
With just a little moonlight.
To see the Milky Way,
Hunting snipes by flashlight. Hoowah!
(Boy Scouts) Chawanakee! (clap clap) Chawanakee!
Give them old patch jackets
So that they can tell their tales:
Camporees, jamborees,
And famous historic trails
Give them old traditions:
Native American folklore;
Ashes saved from campfires,
From Scouters who went before. Hoowah!
(Boy Scouts) Chawanakee! (clap clap) Chawanakee!
All Scouts want is just a chance
To meet wildlife, touch native plants,
Go stargazing and backpacking,
Earn merit badges for everything.
All Scouts want is just somewhere
To swim and hike and breathe fresh air,
Cook, laugh and sing ‘round a campfire--
There just ain’t much more
That a Scout can desire.
(Boy Scouts) Chawanakee! (clap clap) Chawanakee!
Give them wood to build with,
Lengths of rope with knots to tie,
Multi-tool pocket knives,
Tenderfoots wanting to try.
Give them trails to follow,
Maps and compasses to read,
Kindling for a bonfire,
And patrols of Scouts to lead. Hoowah!
(Boy Scouts) Chawanakee! (clap clap) Chawanakee!
All Scouts want is just a chance
To meet wildlife, touch native plants,
Go stargazing and backpacking,
Earn merit badges for everything.
All Scouts want is just somewhere
To swim and hike and breathe fresh air,
Cook, laugh and sing ‘round a campfire.
There just ain’t much more
That a Scout can desire. Everybody!
(Boy Scouts) CHAWANAKEE! (clap clap) CHAWANAKEE!
MARKET IN BRITTANY, FRANCE
Lost my kids once just for a minute or so in the market: needle in haystack.
Busy and purposeful Sunday morning. Fascinating bee hive but I wanted my kids back
Thought they might be next to the glass beads jostling and rattling on a necklace chain,
Or near the polished fossils, and bags clinking their collections sea-shells from Spain.
I squinted for their faces in the crowd, as rows of cheap eyeglasses looked invitingly
Over at the gaudily-decorated casual shoes, just arrived breathless from Turkey;
And stalls overflowing with flame-coloured dresses - Moroccan, from Agadir -
Trying to inch down to the ground like wriggling children. But not my children dear.
Toy insects buzzing joyfully and plastic windmills whirring playfully in the breeze
And serious-minded compasses busy seeking north didn’t fill my search with ease.
Noisy price-haggling. African traders switching from the language of Germany to Wales,
or even to Arabic, as they sensed customers's different interests and possible sales.
Chinese and Vietnamese comparing views in French, their only common tongue.
No doubt, my three had slipped their leash and were hiding: they were young.
The swish of the decorative paper garlands in the breeze was near-lost in the crowd;
And the conflict between Breton folk-music and American heavy-metal rock so loud.
And I listened to the colourful chatter pulsate
Of traders trying to persuade money to leave your wallet.
Girls in sandals and sunglasses. Old ladies in floral patterns and blue-rinsed hair.
Young men eyeing girls trying on dresses …… but my three were not there.
Ah - but then! At the ice cream stall I saw three hungry mouths, kept
Pressed to the glass. Three money-less urchins all glad to see dad. I swept
Them up in my arms and started to relax and enjoy the market.
I’d lost my kids for just about one minute.
Ice Ages Come With Colder Days
By February March moves on to centuries
Still the sky comes laden with atmospheric vapor
As light as ice, clouds abundance falls to the ground
As thaw fails to gather life’s potential
If nature could take her pulse it would be cold
As it turns whiter in the depths of endless frost
It moves much slower
Birds fall from trees, snow dusted cotton balls
Frozen, wrapped in winter gowns
Ice laden, as thermometers grow longer
To accommodate the permafrost engaged
Temperatures plunge next to zero
Stretched, bound to solid rocks
But why bother with the calculus
When the net effect is O
Where can barometers go but down
Where zeros abound out numbered
Devices known to man stop time
Unwind realities effects on climate
Blizzards lay out the land with no regrets
With blinding wind and white theatricals
Lost directions and compasses offer no hope
No protection in the endless snow
Where are the strawberries this year?
Why do blueberries not come to crop?
Dropped out of boundaries is Spring
Colored butterflies fly off the wing
Adopted by Winter it would seem
Frozen leaves hold on to cold
As on the trees they cling to memories
Fall spinning into muddied puddles
Turned to ice by dim moonlight
Reflecting lake’s late midnight
Sounds so quiet, so serene, as if not audible
Make their way to invisibility, silent in the air
Drift silky into mysteries of crystal ice
To nowhere special, collecting what air has to offer
Which is somewhere around but where
Words can not describe the inside outs of Winter
Ice ages are unforgiving, lasting for centuries on
For eons, music is unheard where it once abounded
Unearthed to be recovered in melodies un-listened to
Songs remain unsung however without the living
A world has yet to be discovered colder than our own
No one sings a song with no one there to sing along
Letters from Borrowed Ground
'Part One'
---
To: Myself (Three Years Ago)
Date: Every Night
Status: Never Finished
Focus: Warning
Dear Dreamer,
Tonight, I dig up buried footsteps,
each stone beneath my feet heavy with goodbye.
The coffee grows cold in my cup
as I write this at 3 AM,
watching snow fall on a street
whose name I still can't pronounce.
You think you know what leaving means—
but you have no idea how shadows
walk backward through forgotten maps,
how your mother's voice will sound
thin and distant through phone static,
how you'll memorize the cost
of international calling cards.
I want to tell you that roads forget names too,
that compasses spin wild when they lose true north.
But maybe you need to discover
the weight of elsewhere yourself.
---
To: The City I Left Behind
Date: October 3rd, 2024, 4 AM
Subject: Guilt
Focus: Betrayal
My dearest city of closed doors,
Your street signs fade to unfamiliar letters in my dreams,
your windows no longer reflect my hurried footsteps
rushing to catch the last bus before curfew.
I smell your bakeries in every foreign morning—
warm sangak bread that tastes like childhood,
cardamom tea that my landlord here
calls "exotic spice."
But I also remember the silence
that swallowed midnight knocks,
the way conversations died
when strangers entered cafés,
the headlines that shifted
faster than currency rates.
*Even the trees want to leave*
Your plane trees bend toward a sky
thick with unspoken words,
their roots pulling back from earth
where jasmine once carried my mother's lullabies
and now carries the weight
of what we couldn't say.
I'm sorry I chose elsewhere
over the sound of your call to prayer,
but I couldn't choose
the weight of your silence.
---
The moments we share are a gift,
uniquely qualified.
A magnetic shift, of consciousness,
of honed homing sense equalized.
Through the protective layers it
sifts, like the hungry for a meal.
Moments weigh us in the balance
like a scale,
scaling what can be, and becoming fare.
Selling us there the fabrics
and colors possibilty wants to wear.
Window-shopping with depth charge,
buying as the damages can afford,
to live large.
Aloneness is shared and blotted out
in mosaic chemical.
Effervescent instant instance of oracle.
Willful in the persistence of time-
skillfully forged sign by sign.
A mystery of union encompasses
small in its spaces, compasses with string,
attachment, attaching all in its placement.
In heart chambers of containment.
For a moment is really not a moment,
it is continuum of continuity.
There is magic in relation to experience
and its mystery.
A convergence of paths intertwine,
encompasses our way back machine,
back to the place we
were conceived of the Divine.
A moment is an immortal stare.
A segway to Eternity, raw, rare.
The building block of here.
The moment you are there.
As faith faithfully undresses,
dresses doubts wound.
Vulnerability-confesses,
caresses- open, bare naked truth.
A moment.
Bares a question to mark,
what is the meaning-"to share" to spark.
It peels away the distance between us,
lightning from the dark.
The invisible doors of the soultiverse,
and its keeps and its moors.
They lead hand in hand to a place
more and more.
Love answers stark in a moment
and with no quarter taken.
In chemical equasion,
it is the answer, never to be forgotten by
the spirit professing the formula
for a tear.
Of joy ever partaken.