Long Congeal Poems
Long Congeal Poems. Below are the most popular long Congeal by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Congeal poems by poem length and keyword.
A day comes with a
morning dew,
For the words, less
to cope all few,
The breezy wave and
tweeting eyes,
Of rising sun, view
the Himalaya highs,
The trancing
eclipses and
faltering trees,
Held me there,
caught me freeze,
And the prevailing
dusky downy haze,
To falling cascade
of ivory rays,
Where I hied to let
it chase,
This beautiful
bounty widespread
haze,
I look & look, with
a glance and gaze,
With winking eyes
with hot cap,
I observed their
silent nap,
And whence the sun
rise and set,
Sparrow and humming
beak to get,
Food to survive and
maintain life,
And live on sharp
edgy curvy stemy
knife,
Above the grove and
in dense forest,
Where harmonious
peace dwells in the
nest,
Where leaves
levitate and birds
hove,
And oscillate with
desire, solidarity
in love,
A bird in this
hustle bustle,
Jingle jangle and
trilling rustle,
Are not base
generations, it’s
true so,
They rise through
reincarnation, and
grow,
Up to our believe
and reckon,
They are alive and
born,
I ask my conscience
where to hike,
Stood here and there
or by riding bike,
To feel the scent of
this rainy December,
Over my worries and
lethargy to
remember,
His never-ending
silence to end
daylight,
Made one statue,
stunned one bright,
And I put my towel
to have a shower,
This congeal water
pierces me by power,
Oh ablution is
enough for adequacy,
Count on, fend off
with sufficiency,
And when I walk on
flossy meadow,
The emerald tint
fell a shadow,
Upon my eyes to
sensory nerves,
Where the earth,
laid with several
curves,
The invigoration of
spirit rises up
more,
On rambling off and
on, this grassy
floor,
Over this belt with
buoying ways,
No alternate of this
land, O nays,
Where I felt about
flying upon,
Falling, right left,
up and down,
Then I move here and
there, up-to sun
height,
To meet buoyantly
this sunny light,
The sun with
magnetic warm and
beguile,
This morning with
candelabra wile,
Cause a man to wake
and woke,
Sing a flute while
sitting under an
oak,
How this mean, a
life less of
leisure,
Won’t you thrill
this grudgingly by
measure,
A world, an
embarrassment of
riches,
And a life with
plenty of beach’s.
Shahid Hussain
Chouhdry
Here i sit
In the Country of my Scots
We are Albannach
Celts, we are taught
For many, many years
Our clans have fought and fought
Races have invaded our shores
But our freedom can not be bought
Our Clans are segmented throughout my lands,
in times of good we are in clannish dispute, and in
times of hardship, we congeal and unite as one
My questions and words, if you are there
You are obliged to listen, as i am here
If you are a teller, your words should be strong
Do you speak like Semaj, like his words do belong
I see these scrolls, from many years in worlds past
Written by elders, hidden to last
Their words of wisdom, powerful they may be
Come with me to the future, to the land of thee
These indigenous lands, spirits so free
In natures portfolio, they are the decree
For over two thousand years, religion has ruled.
Have we been taken in, and now in blinkered rule.
Do we look back to the Heathens, the Pagans the Mayans
where we look to our leaders, and their suppression
we rely on
Scriptures, books and scrolls, the writers of wisdom.
The elders of nations, in current living kingdoms
Without a book, there is no story, no paragraphs,
no believable glory.
In the modern days before 2012, in the world of Semaj
words can be heard. Tittle tattle about this and that,
once our worlds gone, that's that
A word in your ear
From father to son
Hear the word that I say
I fought with you
Fought on your side
Long before you were born
Joyful the sound
The word goes around
From father to son to son.
( Lyrics by Queen of Queen II )
My entry into Matt Caliri contest " If i Could Talk to God "
http://www.thehighlanderspoems.com/life-6.php
Overwhelmed by his love,
My lover set out to weave a tent for me
A house, with me in which it would delight him to dwell
A grand mansion over which He spared no expense
Consumed with loving concern for my security,
My maker set about it two formidable lines of defense
To the first He said 'wage war against any and every invader'
And the second He trained in precision and memory
To every command issued, they attacked and grew in number
Knowing His Lady well,
My creek in the rock set forth to install the plumbing
To some vessels He said 'supply', and 'drain' He said to others
And if there be a leakage
He commands the waters 'congeal!'
And they clot in obedience
Despising darkness
The Father of celestial lights set up incomparable wiring
To the Brain He said 'you're the master' and a cord He made its Deputy
And as they coursed down miles and miles of nerves,
To some neurotransmitters He said 'charge' and 'relax' He said to others
And they carried His commands in obeisance
Anticipating my needs
My All-sufficient one set up a beautiful storehouse
To the inlet He said ' curve and dazzle me with her smile'
And He stretched out convoluted tunnels to reap of all I ate
He placed command on the Liver to preserve and replenish
And it said, 'gladly, even if I must grow again'
What house is without ventilation?!
The Breath of life decided; not his bride's!
So He breathed in me and my lungs inflated
And with each time I exhaled
He commanded that I be purified
So afraid of His holy presence, the waste escapes
Paying attention to fine detail
The matchless artist set forth to decorate me
To pheromones He said 'give her fragrance'
And to my gonads He commanded 'keep her soft and supple'
And in delight, they linked with others to keep my house gorgeous
Jealously possessive, this touch is especially His
My Lover set up His secret Chambers
To my Heart He gave a song
And as it sings relentlessly
I hear the echo of his name...
I am, I am, I am.
-laulindah
#the hundredth
I wrote a great book, part memoir, part novel
Shopped it around, I ain’t too proud to grovel
Got kicked upstairs to a big publishing head
He invited me in, and here's what was said:
This screed you call Crack House of the 13 Gables
Is one long rant mixed with recycled fables
It wanders aimlessly, but never resolves
Characters pop out of nowhere, then simply dissolve
But the symbolism, sir, allow me to explain
The Victorian parlor represents pathos and pain
In the attic are mothballed broken dreams and betrayals
It's gonna shift your paradigm right off its rails
It’s a thousand-page odyssey into the surreal
The hedge maze is where all 14 sub-plots congeal
Enough! The only reason I called you in, punk
Is to meet the lunatic who scribbled this junk
So I slunk away, not a little dejected
Ain’t much fun being literarily rejected
Trudged back to my grueling, stale coffee grind
Working 15-hour days, going out of my mind
Then one day I met an old pal for some beers
Hadn't seen him in quite a few years
I told him about my rejection slip wrangle
He said buck up, you just need the right angle
I like reading novels, now don’t get me wrong
But writin' 'em, man, that just takes too damn long
And what a huge risk, 16 years you devoted
For no payday at all, just your ego imploded
There's no need to pen the next Moby Dick
Try something short, now that is the trick!
So, I thanked my friend for his most sage advice
And took it to heart without thinkin' thrice
And now I am back as a voice for the ages
Except I'm makin' my mark in far fewer pages
I write sound bites and maxims and pithy remarks
T-shirt slogans and jokes, I just do on a lark
I bang out poems and lyrics at the drop of a hat
Dash off 17 syllables in ten seconds flat
Haikus by the bunch
Cook up a batch before lunch
Put that in your pipe
____________________________
For Humor Contest
Sponsored by: Carol Eastman
Love - what is love? A generous heart pierced by a longing like a cry,
Clasped hands in the prayer of silence; and a deaf, endless, and unjust despair.
Life - what is life? A sequence of steps towards infinite horizons,
On a path without a map, where the winds of fate often become temptations.
Where love appears unexpectedly and then disperses like smoke.
Love, oh sweet phantom, shadows of mystery ascending towards the horizons,
A raw saga pulsating in the veins of time, dispelling even the darkest memories.
A whisper of angel wings in the night, a wave that sweeps the shore of frozen emotions,
A divine flash that reaches from the cosmos into the chest, ineffable and misunderstood, sacrificed.
Life is a stage with ever-changing scenery, beneath the dazzling celestial vault,
Fading at dusk, a face of love, beneath the descending mask of evening.
Gazing at hidden suffering in moonlit rays, losing itself in the tapestry of the encompassing ether,
Life is the theater where we, the actors of blood and dreams, rehearse love, torn and bearers.
And love, that flame unaware of death, warms us in the depths of dreams,
Life and death congeal around it, pearls shining in the aurora of sadness, unbridled in the search for illumination.
It is that eternal search, the soul that dreams towards the stars,
A fairy tale that dances on the edges of our days, a symphony in which love perpetually resonates and settles in our souls.
It fills the emptiness that life wears like a counselor, with hope that love does not flee, does not abandon us,
Animating every atom that holds us, every thought captured in the chamber of our hearts.
When love rushes from our arms, leaving traces of light in the pristine distance,
Life, a suite of moments within a frame, where each dream is a promise of love that has not yet ended, but is only now becoming true.
'Tasting' the Lips of Heaven!
Do we 'taste' our 'creator(s)?' when loving night skies?
For we gather now all that we 'see,' must be stars
Or detritus they leave (what's cast-off when they die).
More poetic, perhaps - metaphorical 'offspring?'
Are we bastards, our parentage lost in childbearing?
Man's progenitors merge in a dark womb of 'matter,'
Just born elements gravitate, 'Nature' grows fatter,
Is there 'Purpose' revealed (are we accident's sigh)?
Watch as planets congeal (one called Earth, one called Mars),
And stars' chemistry births nascent Love (AND Love's sighs)!
Is it 'privilege?' 'curse?' to be born? 'In the pink'
When 'inanimate' local stars animate' you?
'Life' exploding from stars' 'death star' not give you pause?
We are 'born' AND we 'know' it; is that not ironic?
"So entitled?" to grok God's existence! Damn! Comic!
Might our whole universe be one street light in 'Glory,'
Is to take in "His Presence?" just end of ONE story?
A vast universe stretches before us, has 'Laws'
The whole governs and 'Truth' (that we die and exist too),
It's stars 'sand on a beach' where 'TRUE' GOD 'suns,' you think?
Has a man died in war who deserved what he got,
Or a woman who married not pined for release
From her husband, her children, the dawn of each day?
Does the laughter of children seem far too revealing?
When you feel, are there limits (like glass walls and ceiling),
You dare only look through and know others do too?
Do you hope to find safety at home in a zoo?
Friend, is freedom your vision or bondage your way?
Would you love to ask questions, whose answer bring peace? (1)
Ask "Who caused the Big Bang?" like a child's afterthought!
Brian Johnston
23rd of August in 2019
Poet's Note:
(1) Let me humbly suggest (in faith) that God is the answer to every
child's question!
Continued from Part 1
The Beggars ’neath the balustrades,
and broken Children, Chambermaids,
are running wild from wraiths, afraid
of dreams where death redoubles.
They fritter time with tattered threads
(from ragged clothes they’ve left in shreds),
crocheting hoods to hide their heads
and faces, full of rubble.
But many things will not remain
the Morning of the Hurricanes,
when goblets filled with cool champagne
evaporate in bubbles.
The White-Robed Maid adorns the trash
with charnel urns awash in ash,
then fumbles with an untied sash
while pacing in the Palace.
Her hopes congeal in coffee spoons
with memories adrift in dunes;
yet, still she smiles with teeth like prunes
and lips of painted callus.
And long before the midnight drains,
the Saviour wakes, the Loser gains,
the waters of the Hurricanes
will fill her empty chalice.
The storm (behind the clarinets,
the silver flutes, the castanets,
the foghorns belching in quartets,
the bagpipes, puffed and swollen)
is keeping time to tambourines
while Tom Thumb and the Four-Inch Queen,
pick up the shards and smithereens
of moments lost or stolen.
They’re trekking through the Dim Domains
(where fountains weep, the mountain wanes),
yet can’t escape the Hurricanes
with trundling eyes patrollin’.
The Crowds (arrayed in jewels) in jails,
stoop, peering through a fence of nails
while light behind their eyeballs pales
with plastic flame that sputters.
They huddle there because they must
(with eyelids hung like peeling rust,
their tears, palled pellets in the dust),
behind the bolted shutters.
They’ll reawake without their pains
the Morning of the Hurricanes,
without their sores, without their stains,
their agonies will fill the drains
and overflow the gutters.
End
we grew up at Home
with a warrior thrust tuning
our souls to sounds of crickets
to rhythms of the soil
to smells of the rivers
knowing large dreams of moonlight joy
we grew up there in an ever rebounding
spirit learning songs of seasons
that dressed our umbilical cords
for the harvest of our dreams—
they were songs fathers sang in the cycle
many rainless seasons ago
many harvest seasons ago we danced away
from loving arms of Home onto the snow sea
opening widely our limbs to invisible lines
that etched new profiteering truths
into our being into our minds into our hearts
when we heard father died this morning
away from Home we were featherless eagles
looking for remnants of our nest among anthills
at a traffic light fragmented by hideous sores
we lost the burial songs made golden by the Sun
and made the Dead sleep like babes at Home
it was here we remembered
the splash of Colors, the smell of Exile
the poverty of dispossession which soaked our souls
froze memories of green Hills of Home
and made us grow resentful to dreams of moonlight joy
we looked into the skies and remembered
when Locusts burst dams and the deep cuts
of Holy Water drowned the glutton voices of our fathers
our blood drank the pus from our wounds
buried deep by the locusts beneath the skin
we lost our dreams of a harvest
to the splash of colors
we drowned the songs of our fathers
in the roar of the holy water
today there are many seas to cross
with deadly triangular calm
they’ll congeal stubborn death breaths
while father’s spirit scream at our tenacious fate
it is only a season ago since we left, yet
we no longer possess the sounds of the crickets
we no longer dance to the rhythms of the soil
what we have is the pus from the wounds
buried deep by the locusts beneath our skin
Oh, Don't Blame Me!
Oh, don't blame me, at times (if I miss better rhymes,)
When my thoughts are like Jell-O that doesn't congeal,
Must we fault 'rush to judgments,' when they're not ideal?
If my poetry fails you, are there far worse crimes?
(When I stoop to free verse at the top of my list!)
Still, I beg understanding, would honor my muse,
Though as readers, of course, you've the 'right' to refuse,
Please grant poems, all poets, the 'space' to exist!
For the truth is, eyewitnesses, see what they see,
And what one is quite sure of another may doubt
When dispersions get cast! Is fish Bass or a Trout?
But this simple conjecture can bring ecstasy
To boy fishing, cane pole, with a bobber and worm
On his hook in the wild! I don’t like my mistakes,
And won't make others wrong, more inclined to give breaks
To one not in my shoes (though sad poetry's germ)
I would still let it live, and by grace then evolve
(If it can) into 'Beauty' that's new on life's stage!
Evolution's the game; man has turned just one page
Of the book, we call ‘Life.’ Does the sun still revolve
‘Round the earth in your world? Do we dream what we feel,
Claim the ground that we stand on is real or persists?
For the 'truth' seems more often the 'truth' man resists!
Safe to doubt Satan's real, but does God man the wheel?
For a prophet to prophesy someone must hear,
A good listener's equally gift in this world.
Can best sex be determined by toes that get curled?
Might true love too, not always be one you hold dear?
A life lived on your feet is one purpose that serves
Both the strong and the weak, their home found where they dwell,
Life, whatever the weather, prepared for 'farewell!'
May all 'poetry' born earn the love it deserves.
Brian Johnston
May 1st of 2019
loving male, natural of pleasure, quintessentially
rendered suitable to us via way ova our darling daughter.
tis the blessing of this average, contemplative damn
ejected flotsam globular human impish jokester kooky lamb
misunderstood nonestablishmentarian outlier praises quality ram
rod sterling stately treasured undergraduate, ventures wielding yawping zeal
asper near perfect synchronized
ventured capitalone bond to me doth appeal
twas thankful to seminal accomplishment
dearest Eden Liat exhibited
when smart as a whip per snapper abilities did congeal
witnessing passing each grade with flying colors -
electrifying mien kempf as if stung from Alaska Bull worm eel
I ask you to - just take in stride wordy way as sigh guide "sea legs" to feel
along murky medium, how to communicate élan which doth heal
this figurative war torn, self strafed, kamikaze buzz-feeding,
eventually fostered grimacing hangdog ilk insensate
blitzkrieg assailed middle aged married male - during his early decades
endured passivity, while peers viciously throve on me with hate
tread - pock marked psychological scars perforated
positive faith in self, only now I feel great,
whence untrammeled passion presumed murmured between themselves
when alone pondering their fate
two vibrant young adults appear especially well suited,
as two peas in a pod
a radiant ionic bond they plainly equate
(one comprising thee "star student" progeny),
supremely mature to date
and thee well groomed Emmanuel
dust blend harmonious with "Ode to Joy" ye create
such an idyllic sight engendering tears of happiness
buffer and shine each alphanumeric byte, NOT phishing for bait
most pleasing sight assuages psychic purposefulness,
Anorexia Nervosa once ate.