Long Compulsions Poems
Long Compulsions Poems. Below are the most popular long Compulsions by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Compulsions poems by poem length and keyword.
Fire from tears
The alluring energies in temper clearly not seen,
a stream that keeps the impulse of action keen.
Gifted to our souls inheritance in magic delight,
ocean of love and its fiery desires in all might.
Blinded by the same by leaping into that feisty gesture,
wonderment in force by natures survivor instinct for sure.
Love’s mate senses that heart to touch by compassion,
daring to that bountiful store even beyond the ashes.
Beyond mere infatuation with deeper dreams of fears,
blessed spirits in need of sweetest relief by tears.
The harvested belief with pulsing energy of wonderland perception,
overflowing the fountain of love by direction.
Lusty flames fanned in awe to know love’s mysteries,
silky threads as safety net in self-righteous hysterias.
The worth of our love as ambrosial taste to know,
transcendent capture with love’s wisdom by a blow.
Intimate compulsions weaving actions into relativity,
observations from the spirit fire of eternity.
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Poet’s Note: One of the last strong-holds of joint-family system, India, is breaking up. Old-parents, all-alone in lonely homes, have become a common sight. This poem depicts the fate of one such lonely mother.
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Two sons, one far across the continents,
His visits rarer than of a Blue Moon—
With some gifts to garnish his rustled guilt,
To cover up for time seldom given.
Another next-door close, and too far still,
Cared for money more than his old mother,
Parents he felt a needless burden were,
And incongruent with spirit of time,
He’s keen to sell her memory-filled house,
And place her in care of an old age home.
Both did well know what their mother wanted:
The one— far-off— hoped, she’d appreciate
That he can’t be home more often than now,
Both felt, their compulsions made immense sense.
Their visits dried like a helpless river
Handicapped by dams, much irrigated,
Her own concerns remained confined to her,
And left to fend for her fate long fated,
She aged fast trying to wipe own tears.
Age is no child of time, but faulting years.
Time was, not in a far off horizon
When children piled on mother’s ample bed,
Evening sun sliding through slotted windows,
She a rare focal point of their young life—
Childish cares, complaints, concerns, bed-time tales,
But that seemed like ancient time too far gone,
No use she thought hankering for spent time,
Now reduced to fragile vague memories!
Soon an old age home was lined up for her,
Her neighbours shaking incredulous heads.
It was of little practical use still,
For, no one had the time to intervene.
She was even taken there for a feel,
Perhaps to make the future shock less mean;
An old inmate showed her expensive shawl
Her son had sent, which, as a parcel came,
A telegram-like note and that was all;
Her wrinkled fingers on shawl, but what shame!
As she tried hard her hurt feelings to hide,
Best gift is time, she seemed to say as cried.
Time once was, richer her fabric of life,
Of late if life were rife, it was with strife! ________________________________________
Happenings | 08.03.2017 |
wheel ding utmost pro lix:
scrum compulsions won
despite feeling dog tired, (like a ton
of bricks weighed me down)
while seduced by the sun
solar radiation from the sky didst lightly run
sans, i experienced
a weird wired wider sensation pun
knee sensation otherwise, this sun dry
older puppy nun
the wiser (feeling akin
to an overly sated book worm
to boot) on a Mon
Day, nonetheless, forced
by male incarnation from Lon
don, (via NON FAKE voices
inside my noggin) a potential Hun
these tired eyes, could NOT stop reading
even with figurative gun
at my head, until only
sluggish progress made,
which daunting task not fun
bore witness thru novel
(in this instance plotting thru - dun
know if fie could finish
One Hundred Years Of Solitude -
by Gabriel Garcia Marquez)
pea pulling his story with bun
dulls of Hiss panic
Alpha Numeric characters, -
per printed page punctuated
concluded with a period,
(premature mental dejected ejaculation exclaimed
how ah yee got trounced
by harsh obsessive compulsive task master.
"Nay unto you Matthew Scott"!
Uttered by exactly same grievous rot
while er...mailer daemon (as above, pot
tent shill slave driver subsequently not
quite ditto for identical bon mot
mind wielding damn mask kid ding lot
intonation, now setting me hot
to worry about my thinning hair, the little aye got
as expressed vis a vis A previous poem
of mine titled 'Argh! I suffer the plight of Bad
Hair Year In One Day!'
Your avant-garde home fills a crucial niche
ensures the perpetuation of outrageous kitsch
The painting on the wall entitled 'Insemination'
keeps this admirer on the brink of regurgitation
That chlorophyll-fish oil drink your butler foisted on me
helps me every fifteen minutes or so to pee
As for your 'petrified out-of-water deep sea plants'
Don't look now; they're on fire with carpenter ants
Then there's your 'mahvelous' retro pet rock collection
pinched, no doubt, from the local House of Corrections
I must confess that your house is, indeed, quite impressive
~ considering that your compulsions are beyond obsessive
Sin
Oh, my ...
Desire, divine
What I would give
To nibble your saucy bits
You are a wine-taster's banquet
Each exquisite inch of your integument
Hides a sweet savor all its very delectable own
Poured to pique the primal compulsions
And treat the tongue, its tang
What a journey it could be
Inch-to-sublime-inch
A fiery feast
Of you ...
Skin.
* FIRST PLACE in the "Contest 425 Any Form" Poetry Contest, Brian Strand, Sponsor. *
She was half asleep in the auditorium
Finding this new year’s curriculum
Dreadfully burdensome and cumbersome
So altogether utterly drearisome
When all of a sudden she heard beating of a drum
And started feeling audaciously adventuresome
With an incredible urge to visit an aquarium
Or race a shopping cart through an emporium
Or follow Hansel and Gretel’s every crumb
Either way her head was filled with wild delirium
With compulsions not meant to overcome
And hankerings to live life to the maximum
Elude deplorable feelings grum or glum
By keeping cheerful and upbeat consortium
Dance through gardens of chrysanthemum
Or plant fields brimful of sublime red geranium
My heart and soul seeking invigorating equilibrium
Embrace passion in its premium platinum sensorium
AP: Honorable Mention 2020
“Can you feel the soul of an abandoned house,
can you hear the whispering? "
Quote by _Constance La France
Standing before this old, dilapidated house
Memories leap out from the moss-grown crevices of my mind,
Like snakes uncoiling, rather like bees swarming,
Fragmented, scented and sour!
I remember my old maternal uncle,
Who had turned a widower at forty-one,
The presiding deity of a joint family of fourteen.
Most of the time he sprawled in the armchair,
In the enclosed patio of this massive homestead
In the living room was an old grandfather clock
Ticking away like the faint heartbeats
Of that decadent house with crumbling plaster
He had seen heydays with many a ceremony of great fanfare,
When the house used to board all kith and kin
And the granary was full of paddy and tons of black gold.
But as time slowly weakened his torso,
The house too lost its onetime splendor.
His children got scattered far and wide.
They went to hoard fortunes abroad.
But grand uncle refused to move away.
With a shock, one day we heard of his death.
He left the house orphaning it forever.
Now the house remains fragment of an old memory.
Though once I thought I had escaped,
The compulsions of the past,
Now I discern, I am still pinioned by it!
As I stand before this house, my ears perk up,
To hear what it whispers, its one-time glory,
Or its sad deserted state?
I wonder if I can ever enjoy the love and life,
That once so luxuriously bloomed inside!
~ PLACED FIRST~
May.27.2023
Writing Challenge ‘C’ Quotes Poetry Challenge
Sponsor- Constance La France
No Longer Legion
By Mark D. Stucky
Demons departed
via possessed pigs,
down the dusty slope,
drowning under waves,
descending into the Abyss
from which they came.
Purged of evil spirits,
my new emptiness
echoes with His peace.
I now have so much room
to grow and go and flourish.
I want to praise that Man,
who asked me for my name,
expelled the monstrous hordes,
and calmed my anguished soul.
I’m named Legion no longer.
Now my name is solitary.
My fragmented name,
my forgotten name,
my original name,
my true name,
is one again,
now cleansed,
and healed,
and whole.
(First published in Agape Review, 3 April 2022. This poem is written from the perspective of the previously possessed man in the story of Mark 5:1-20. The accompanying image represents a man pondering the waves--under which the tormenting voices and compulsions disappeared forever--and enjoying his new peaceful solitude and possibilities. See also my poems “Jericho Roads” and “Life Labyrinths.”)
(Image by MariaD42530 on Pixabay.com.)
When your thoughts don't enter into mine
And my thoughts evade yours
Then who put the compulsions that
You and me should face each other in the boxing ring?
Better, I should stare at the clock for ages
Listening to the crumbling minarets of thoughts
All the external dins and bustles flowing past
Better, I am left with my own ancient self
My musings overflowing streams
Against the tides I swim untiringly
So many forms I see myself in
In so many places, even in stages of reverie
I am the sole protagonist, you all revolve
Keeping me in the centre
Lighting my torch of angelic bliss
I watch the rise of dreams at the horizon of grey reality
Despite all these
Must I spell out what I am thinking?
Nothing was ever going to displace my obsession for painting in my mind.
A joyfulness I had never experienced before entered my soul realm when
I finished my first giant canvas, a mere week after my 9-year-old granddaughter
who was obviously a lot more knowledgeable than I about me, had goaded me
into “trying to paint”.
I finished 250 canvases in the first two years, but alas, when you are me, and
things get boring at new jobs within twenty minutes, how could even this compel
me at the rapidly moving pace my mind is craving?
When do you think you will tire of those word games? My husband dares to whisper. I
glare at him from my Lazy-Girl, two dangerously hot I-pads on my lap. I am in the throes
of playing Word Chums and Words with Friends, and I know I will be here, in this stupor,
not in the least bit satisfied for at least two more hours.
I stumbled upon Poetry Soup’s website ten months ago when I was bored. I discovered
All Poetry.com three weeks ago. I have almost three hundred followers if you count both
sites, and real poets, not imaginary ones, not cyber-poets, but real poets who know how to
write poetry are being more than a bit nice to me on both sites.
Since I hate math and biology, and loathe geometry, they will not be my next compulsions.
Whatever is, will have my full attention, much like my demanding husband, who is pouting
like a 4-year-old tonight has had for many, many years. I look up from my I-pads to glare at
He-Who-Used-To-Be-My-Everything-But-Is-Slowing-Me-Down-Taking-Me-Away-From-My-
Obsessions. How dareth he maketh noise? Welcome to the weird, un-wonderful world
of the Obsessive Compulsive Personality.