Long Compresses Poems
Long Compresses Poems. Below are the most popular long Compresses by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Compresses poems by poem length and keyword.
SPLINTERS
an
overwhelming
image
wraps itself
around
the tension
compresses
space
with ambiguity
of perspective
splintering
the
idea of
being
the
actuality
of seeing
the
metaphysical
the&
emotional
distinction
unconfined
&
inexpressible
engaged
in the
physical
appreciation
&
connection
of
the collective.
significance
NOTE:THIS IS AN OPEN(organic) FORM VERSE using spaces&breaks without grammatical symbols ,the ' open' relies upon 'the one breath limitation' & so inherently requires the 'reader' (reciter) to input and responds thus making this enigmatic form a two way interplay & interpretatIon unique to the moment& changing according to mood is inherently variable.
Copyright © Brian Strand
Plentiful clover carpet compresses
Set up, sat on, months of manuals
Scripted mouth emits, put to practical test
Three leaf varieties finally defeated
Select among smutty monotonous menu
Virtuous entry through untainted eyes
Coveting customer jumps at his chance
Increased green providence giving
In response to her simplistic pitch
From a patch of debauchery, needing more
While desperate to escape, proposal hatched
Parched plucked stem becomes framed image
Portrait four concedes its feature
Velour wrapped, museum artefact
Standing on verbal agreement alone
From her newborn forty year old soul
Sighs, exclamations, ancient albums emerge
Butterfly Marilyn Munroe emolument ascends
Nectar injector helicopter hopeful clover hoverers
Pick three leaved generic green challenges -
Platter of arrangement layers sensation
Sweets tweased by fingers allergic to trauma
Avoiding at all cost chaos of civil gambles
Defence of dollars steps boldly, saves them
Delivers love instant pizza piping pineapple
Peppers boundaries between enamour and business
Eaten with gusto of negotiations fixed
Good luck grabs devoid of caution
Displays desired quatro leaf, ego inflation
Sprite ties his Tinkerbell in tacit consent
20th August
Renting Return Lust
Upon the barren tree, the last leaf clings tight,
Between the branches, it holds on with might,
Unable to escape, able to see,
It waits for the wind to set it free.
I've witnessed the blossoms of spring in bloom,
The whispers of leaves in summer's perfume,
Roses kissed by dew, love in the sun's rays,
Sunflowers chasing the sun's golden blaze.
As seasons change, like the passage of years,
The leaves on trees quiver, their end draws near,
The wind blows, dust devils dance in the air,
Leaves fall to the ground without a care.
As the last leaf, I gaze upon the view,
The valley, hills, adorned with vibrant hue,
A painting that changes, day by day,
Though colors fade, its beauty won't betray.
The nights grow colder, filled with ghostly cheer,
Halloween approaches, drawing near,
Children in the streets, seeking sweet delight,
Jack-o'-lanterns glow, casting eerie light.
As the last leaf, my days are not endless,
I cherish my view, as time soon compresses,
Eventually, I will join the earth’s embrace,
But please keep me safe, as a bookmark’s grace.
Consolation prizes are always small and devastatingly adequate.
We've all taken tests - if you haven't - I want your secret.
We (my study group) spent two weeks at my place (6th Ave).
prepping for finals - which are now only half complete.
These tests take everything we've learned this year in separate modules, like anatomy, physiology, pharmacology - and compresses them, like doppio - questioning not just the fact, but where it
belongs, and how it fits the whole. Eeeeek!
Working in a group makes studying feel less like punishment,
and more like prep for a game we might win.
There are four of us - Emma, Léah, Chloé and me.
Emma’s all sharp synthesis - capable of organizing any chaos,
Léah spots the strange detail, the hidden thread, that no one else saw,
Chloé brings speed - she has near total-recall,
and I'm good at naming patterns and tying up loose-threads
- Said slightly more poetically..
We’re optimized girls
who score higher than everyone else
high-yield, low-maintenance types
hydrated by iced coffee and espressos.
We know the names of things
we know you inside out
We've learned to perform concern
in a medically appropriate register,
because we know what's theoretically possible.
We abbreviate, speaking in acronyms like Navajo code-talkers,
because our frank opinions are socially discouraged.
We've learned to speak clearly about bodies,
while getting less time to enjoy our own.
Our tests are half-way done. I think If we stopped - just stopped doing the work - the silence would be enormous, like stepping out of a machine, that was louder than we knew
- but no one’s stopping.
.
.
Songs for this:
Smash by Born At Midnite
Paraiso by Pearl & The Oysters
.
.
Doppio = double espresso
.
.
It's a week-long series of tests in: Anatomy, physiology, pharmacology, cell biology, genetics, biochemistry, clinical basics, drug basics, Semiology, Cardiovascular & Respiratory Systems, and Cell & Tissue Biopathology.
I stand in the raging river in flood,
brown water flushes the sand grains
that seem like the cells of dry blood.
I feel the pangs of your hidden pains
when your broken heart bleeds pale,
hear the moan of the wounded bird
the nest ravaged by the summer gale.
Vaporized sorrow makes eyes blurred,
I see in the distant niche of your face
the frozen eyes melt uncontrolled
like snow crystals under the sun’s rays.
The eyes strained red and anguished
liquefy in tear as a river in flood brown
for me to swim away or to drown.
I stand in the raging river in flood,
the water compresses my chest a lot,
doesn’t touch my heart of cold blood.
The gloomy water throttles my throat,
I don’t stretch my hands to reach you
for I live my own life, I needed to float.
Have I let my inflated mind to brew
an ego nesting hollow negligence in rot
or weave motive of conscious rejection?
Have you sunk your mind in the thought
of groundless and fragile expectation?
Hope doesn’t float on a flooded river
sympathy doesn’t know how to swim,
you don’t grasp the idea called life ever.
I step out of the river, your melted dream,
I wait in patience for the right time to start
to make the river flow back to your eyes.
Let it gather shards of your broken heart,
let pieces of sunk dream from depth rise,
let the river lay fertile silt on the wasteland
spread the seeds of green hope all over.
Saplings would sprout in the desert sand
your mind would turn into a valley of flower.
Love would again blossom in your heart
I would leave my dream with you and depart.
November 12, 2017.
Contest : Choose a Topic.
Topic : Hope.
Your chase!
Reminiscing on the oceans I had to dry up
and the volcanos I had to ice up
just to capture the epicenter of your heart
well protected by strong canines
of your carnivorous standards.
Hanging with the clouds of the highest heights
and combating with the dragons
of the Amazon Forest
was worth all the efforts.
Your Love!
shines in vitality
attracting even the goddess of sexuality
as it preserves the indwelling desires of two hearts.
We stayed isolated in the entire world
at midnight, siting on the mountain top
the moon directly above us
showcasing our shadows
melted together with no space in between.
The stars, singing hymns of love
while the trees danced to the romantic melody.
Just the two of us
and the entire universe
bridged by space full of your praise as I behold my Queen.
Whose beauty compresses the wealth of Europe
and gentleness makes
the Dove and the River team up in envy.
Your absence!
Life endeavours have fixed
putting us in an equilibrium of distance
as I perish in a state; psychiatry has no definition.
In the midst of Adult Buffalos
you leave an unprotected Cub.
You aren't gone, just far away
yet I feel like a member of a loser's club
as love has converted me to a scrub.
Thinking I'd be as worse as
a depression endemic atmophere
with loneliness and plutonic cold its major contents,
unfortunately, my heart is its suburb
completely eaten up and infected.
What can make me lay for days
in the bathub;
rejecting everything beautiful and lovely,
and the ointment of darkness I rub?
To all these my Love!
Your absence is the nub.
But I need to stay strong
as I await the purification of your presence once again.
I wade into the water that is my aquatic sun,
suited to perform miracles, refusing reprieve until work is done.
I exist as a modern day Hercules, striving to discover my strength,
seeking beneath the surface, striving to greater lengths.
My arms tremor, causing ships to break apart,
during my exhale, all sailors start
to curse…
yet my grunt of thunder remains the worst.
My legs propel me forward, though possessing not one gill,
the underwater highway provides an ongoing thrill.
Mere mortals I glimpse at while stifling tidal waves,
as they struggle against the current, candidates to save.
Their bodies act as limp seaweed, very weak
while others remain bloated buoys, struggling to seek
a sliver of stamina, however slight,
their sun is not yet lit, they remain in a moonless night.
My ears discover the sirens, bursting into song-
they talk of candy sweets my appetite yeans to sail along.
However, my orb of strength is not yet found,
until then, I’m forbidden to go above ground.
Below in the underworld, Hades attempts to send
fingers of flame upon me, yet my armor shall not bend.
My joints ache,
my muscles quake,
yet the ember of faith I shall not forsake.
Eventually, I remain erect, not on bowed knees,
and have resisted pain’s pitiful pleas.
A son of Zeus reaches in to grasp my hand,
his grin stretching wider than the holy land.
His eyes are that of a seaweed sage,
with a chiseled exterior only Aphrodite could have made.
His words light my face with a single shining ray,
“You’ve completed your pool exercises for the day.
Are you ready for the gym?” he asks, hoping I should stay,
and I reply, “I’m in need of hot compresses today.”
I proceed to immerse myself in towels of steam,
while considering my ultimate dream
of strengthening my image, in the future I will see
the bountiful benefits of physical therapy.
It seems, I much prefer my dreams
though times of consequence pass fleetingly.
It seems, I know while in those very dreams
of all that passes in between.
Matching my realities to messages
left within the ‘seems’ of fear and fantasy and light
of the umbilicus cord which snaps when I’m affright.
Yes, I’d say it often seems,
I’m so a home when wrestling with my dreams.
The I sees “I” , and oft compresses screams
Munch-like in hues of blue and green
on bridges to the nowhere and in-betweens,
ear-covering, muffling, silent screams.
Mesmerized, am I, by what can be,
reality dissolves within the ever-after seams.
Clocks melt, trees morph to faces, Dali emotes
tattle-tailing signs that float on reels
in rooms off kilter, windows bricked without.
Can you hear me?
Can I hear me, shout?
I’m right here, I just asleep
Please let me out!
. slow drift
. soft turning
. clockwise hush
. minute spirals
. tighter circles
. pulling inward
. grain by-grain
. second folding
. time compresses
. edges blur
. threads converge
. pressure sings
. almost center
. breath held
. SOLIDARITY
. after echo
. unravelling threads
. loosened seconds
. widening rings
. losing shape
. soft release
. fading orbits
. distant ticking
. time forgets
. thin silence
. bare motion
. drift again
Life put Aunt Beck through many a test
But she believed all that happened was for the best
Her Jewish faith may seem dated
But orthodox did not mean segregated
She edited her Ohio High School magazine
Another world back then, ideals were clean
She had uncles who fought in the Civil War,
When I knew her, that past seemed a distant shore.
Strange how time compresses, it seems so long ago
Ancient history was yesterday, so much I didn't know.
She had ten siblings, that all made their mark
A small town outside Cincinnati, farmland like a park.
Never married, she held her own when life got hard
She coached my mom in Latin for four years at Barnard
She had a sense of humor, laughed gently at life's absurds.
Shortly before she died, she recited her mother's poetic words
Grant unto me to know the wrong and love the right
To live pleasing in your sight
Grant unto me hands that are pure
That I know when sets life's sun
The work that these poor hands have done
May still endure.
Aunt Beck liked the song Shenandoah, voyageurs canoeing on the flow
I heard it on the radio, a song from two centuries ago:
Oh, Shenandoah, I long to see you,
Away you rolling river.
Away, I'm bound away,
Across the wide Missouri.
Odd how it takes a melody—a few notes to start,
to summon up a snapshot of her humor and kind heart.