Long Constructions Poems
Long Constructions Poems. Below are the most popular long Constructions by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Constructions poems by poem length and keyword.
Let, the finest senses be flown in to the hearts of 'The World'
Let, the dirty, from every stairs, angles and spheres, be clean
Let, the Children be grown up with such mentallity for better future
Let, the politics of selfishness be closed forever to pave all the ways of good Constructions
Let, the peace, prosperity and happiness live in every one's home
Let, me be there with all again in this World with all generations
Being an utmost beggar, Oh! GOD, I pray you, give me begs as I pray for
Contest: Premiere Contest number 9
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Thoughts
Thoughts of – conceived within the womb of my mind.
Reality of – it is her desire to terminate before birth – so unkind !
Thoughts of – built upon this old man’s illusions.
Reality – dreams and desires of – constructions of delusions.
With you – I have felt, I feel not but confusion.
Love, respect, consideration- from you, I‘d love to find.
Passion known – making love with you – would be so sublime.
Oh !, how I would love to reach, and touch the end of my time
in the arms, the glory, the thoughts of you – beyond this rhyme.
It appears – from your words, your actions – there will be no fusion
of minds, bodies, souls or spirits as I real in the throes of confusion.
Confusion that comes on the heels of a reality – it is one and not two.
Lone on this journey – there will be I – elsewhere, it will be only you.
As I contemplate, us to be as one, I have to wonder ?, nothing I can do !
B. J. “A ” 2
January 23rd 2007
Written: November 23, 2025,
**************
Verse rises beyond the leisure emblem
It helps to guide the spirit—
A murmuring wind snakes across the heavens
Where yearning and honesty meet
Under the confines of a single line, twist and whirl.
We do not reign over the subtle craft of words
Still bright vessels carrying a load of melancholy facts
Rich with the tight grief of living—
Scripture is useless to tackle the pandemic
Avoid using contrasts to hide your feelings
A way to cope with it—the ink shuddering
That discrete burial.
A poet is beyond being a word nerd.
Neither a rash historian of the art of poetry.
We shatter the ordinary—
aspiring to the nirvana of heaven.
Unwavering in the face of the smell
We explore the remnants of society
Discern the divine from the false—
Cast also aside the sustenance fed to our tired souls
With soaring constructions of meditation.
Our words are beyond typical
They are agony palimpsests—
Gold imbued with the spirit of creativity
Every revelation is a beat in nothingness.
Every sign we remold is a critical web of intention
We write not to impress—
We liberate the spirit by sharing concepts
We aim to elucidate our true convictions
Against prejudices we crave to combat—
Being different helps us to combat stigma and create unity.
Poetry challenges the mundane—
It is a flight with avid sensitivity and bravery
Verse stretches beyond what makes sense
It captures the morning beyond words—
which rises from our innermost soul.
When the world cries for a solution
We present a riddle.
When it pursues joy—
We provide a gloomy glance
When it craves order—
That is an aspect of reality.
Our aim is not comfort
We come as one, set to rise from our slumber
To turn the sorrow into something aesthetic
We show the complex quilt of ties.
To be the Nereid, static against a tempest
The heron, draped in the dawn misty veil—
Soars a calm bird at the core of the turmoil.
In the sky of silent answers, stars weep with tears of light,
I ask why the thread that ties the heart to infinity has unraveled.
Your absence is a melancholic dance, a rhythm of pain in the night,
Your memory, a hymn of forgiveness, embracing the silences within us.
I build bridges from echoes over chasms of longing and forgetfulness,
Truth trembles between loss and the love that does not die.
I yearn for the pain that binds me to dreams extinguished in time,
For what was and never can be, an eternal paradox.
At the edge of memories, a thread of light weaves with shadow,
Like an alchemist, I transform darkness into wishes of light.
I seek my soul in the mirror of the sky, a labyrinth of stars,
Where you, mother, are a lost constellation, an unfulfilled dream.
Under the moonlight, constructions of thoughts rise from ashes,
Floating on wings of memory, searching for a shore of understanding.
In the paradox of silence, words are born and die in a thought,
I remain a prisoner of longing, a traveler between worlds and time.
Between light and shadow, I seek the essence that binds sky to earth,
And in the depths of my heart, you remain an echo that does not fade.
In the eternal waltz of life, we find each other in memories and dreams,
Each step, an unfinished story, a truth that ties me to you.
There are many bones in the lake.
King Fishers and Great Blues
carry the small ones away
to weave them into platforms
high in the wind whisked sky.
They are always looking for more,
so also is the fisherman with his scouring net
trawling these waters.
The cops are out hunting
for the unlicensed and strays,
there are plenty in these lawless times.
The bone-taking fisherman
snags the bones
that the birds cannot carry off.
Back in his shack,
in the low tangled woods,
he is constructing hollow forms
none of them yet complete.
“Loneliness is a terrible burden,”
he tells the half-made
skeletal constructions.
The bones are impatient
to be works of art,
and no longer want to found
murdered or drowned.
The sky seems to be on fire these heavy days,
With questions driving peace from my shoulders.
My gaze flies towards you, fluttering from dreams,
With a strange smile you’ve never worn in our serene skies.
I descend back into memories, a realm woven from blissful flickers,
Shattering into echoes, into constructions of smoke and the tide of forgetting.
Was it a mask, the world's farce teetering on the abyss?
The poison imbibed, was it sweet and yet bitter in the same unstable moment?
May the stars be just in their nocturnal guidance,
And may the peace you sought now be your consort.
I forgot just how deeply shaded life is, stumbling, that some yearn for the evening darkness,
When death refused to carry your last goodbye, the final comfort.
In every corner of my poem, you become sacred space,
The pages with the books you gifted still hold a fragrance of your passing.
You are a part of me until my last breath trembles,
And you will be immortal in every line of my poetry, a speaking effigy.
For me, you shall remain, making chords eternally vibrate,
Like a melody without end, as you vowed under the silver moon.
And in the half-light that surrounds me, I hear you humming the promise of eternity,
Among the shadows weaving their dance, you are the light, melancholic and holy, wearing night's cloak.
Our meadow has always held surprises. After we moved in - that first spring - a myriad of daffodils appeared from dormant bulbs, exactly where I had decided my fairy garden would be. Like a beautiful stage play the seasons transitioned. After summer showers, gigantic fungi grew overnight in perfect symmetry, like shells, layered on the old oak stump. - now, into blazing colors of Autumn against an unreal blue sky, leaves floated like lost butterflies. Finally, bare trees revealed large stick nests that all along, I assumed to be ravens’. Cozy shelters against the winter freeze.
High in winter trees,
Stick nests become visible
who would guess-squirrels.
Leaf Nests – These constructions are found at least 20 feet up in a tree. Leaf nests are usually tucked in the fork of a large tree branch, which adds stability. You can tell them apart from bird nests because they are noticeably larger than a typical bird nest.
Plutonium ensures growth.
More Plutonium, more growths.
Fewer bombs increase the risk of unemployment.
More bombs increase the risk of employment.
Bombs for peace.
More bombs, more pieces.
Bombs to profit this nation.
More bombs, more profits.
Bombs bring potential enemies to the table.
More bombs, more potential enemies, more tables.
Bombs deter enemies from using bombs against us.
More bombs deter more enemies from using more bombs against us.
Bombs aid the construction industry.
More bombs, more constructions.
Funny, when I was a little boy, I thought
All bombs could do was explode.
How Far We’ve Come
Back in the Dark Ages with their lack of drains,
hygiene, refuse disposal and community dustmen,
Ignorance and superstition reigned rats and hogs.
Spreading from the Black Sea, the Black Death
Brought half of Europe to its grave. After the fall
Of Constantinople, a century on, came the New Learning
and the Renaissance, when Man was proud of being Man.
New worlds were discovered; science was born.
For Francis Bacon science was the source of power:
“Nature obey if you would be her lord.”
Later it was realized, utopias with clean streets
Must be defended, and that by science.
Now the rockets stand erect, poised to poison,
To spill the obscene beans and bugs to finish off.
Do up those buttons, Adam, or you return to dust
Before your time, lest the last mass turbulence
Reveals too late to what impotence
Our potent forces lead. Who then will ask
Or answer why our best minds, blind only
To the obvious, served to devise the means
Of mass destruction in the hire of governments
Of the people, by the people, for the people
Left dead or dying with no one to erect
Crosses to them in the shade of Adam’s tree?
While the True Vine cries” “Father, why..?,”
And heady Dionysus notes how potent was his drug,
Adam haves one final, futile, groan,
Upon this dark eve.
He exaggerates excessively.
Not loudly—
not in spirals anyone can are able to see—
but in quiet, meticulous constructions
behind the sternum.
He studies tone like scripture.
Pauses like prophecies.
The slight delay before a reply
becomes a thesis
He did not ask to write.
He is fluent
in hypothetical disasters.
What if that sounded wrong?
What if that joke was excessive?
What if honesty
is heavier than intimacy can hold?
He drafts confessions
in the privacy of his mind
and delets them
before they are even spoken.
Because He knows—
too much gravity
can collapse a star.
And He is terrified
of becoming
too much.
Too intense.
Too reflective.
Too emotionally articulate.
Too aware.
He fears that depth,
when poured without caution,
floods instead of nourishes.
So He measures himself.
He trims paragraphs into sentences.
Sentences into fragments.
Fragments into silence.
He withholds questions
that burn at the edge of his tongue—
not because He lacks trust,
but because He fears
interrogation that may feel like accusation.
He thought of to say,
“I overthink too much because I care, and I am afraid that I know to myself that I am replaceable.”
But care.
in excess,
can feel like surveillance.
He felt too much.
He wantd help.
He seek for assurance and updates
to stop this mind from overflowing.
But reassurance,
when requested too often,
can resemble insecurity.
And insecurity—
He believes—
is the first crack
in any architecture of affection.
So he chooses restraint.
Barely breathing,
seeking for assurance,
that he could never ask for,
because—
its too much.
He swallows the urge
to clarify every nuance.
He resists the instinct
to solve problems
that have not yet materialized.
He tells himself:
Not everything requires excavation.
Not every silence is a threat.
Not every pause is departure.
Archetypes flash straight from a pack of Tarot cards
anti-terror Jing Jang synthesis with neuro-spiritual precision
implants explosive animation from the deep unknown
like a taro rootstock growing wings to fly with found suspension
Stereotactic stereotypes archetypes semi-circling soothing storm clouds
thunderbolts and enlightening darkness are my enema of anxious anger critique
of the mono-morph collision of the scalpel shadow ‘Prozacian’ nemesis
neology of ‘animusity’ of ‘newfoundlandel’ comprehension
Dialectical complementation rises higher and higher culminates in
ethereal transcendence where collective personal unconscious
presents my animus in wishful thinking and projections as
soft and gentle revel rebel raising entropy in tender conservation to escape from
Dogma categorically demanding artificial classification replacing with dimension
flow and rivers stagnant pools of stream of consciousness evading
sexist fragmentation disenfranchising marginalisation assigning male
and female emasculated o-variation where seminal origin implantation
Precedes nurture socialised indoctrination assignment of celibate promiscuity
My animus refuses to accept in emotional rejection whether Jung and I read
symbols from the same page or not of masques façades and liberated self
where academic artistry split hairs and personality for the premise of debate
I am a rebel and claim no higher lower ground of superior distension
He or she who animates friendly animosity is right and incorrect whatever
common ground belies the provocation I propose but possibly my
presentation of what others mean in kindness is too neutral neuters psyche
While anima and animus illustrate conclude a symbiotic destination
the starting point of this and that left right up above and side by side
is far too circular an argument when we should start not end in union
Male and female are constructions of disparity of power and repression
Archetypes are not therefore I am
11th June 2016
Animus-Anima Part II—Animus – Poetry Contest
Sponsor Tom Quigley