Long Convolutions Poems
Long Convolutions Poems. Below are the most popular long Convolutions by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Convolutions poems by poem length and keyword.
"Some places are pitch black"
Deserted by other children
The darkened playroom confronts The Kid
"I must be supervised"
By which he means
Protected from the powers of darkness
The would-be supervisor
In turn is confronted
With tight tunnels and tiny staircases
And an accumulated coating
Of kiddy grime
Which doesn't bother the Kid.
He is unamused by pulling of scary faces
From within the labyrinth's cramped atrium
But instead requires illumination for his explorings
From a torch he has handy.
Disappointed that he must proceed alone
For reasons of size and stature
Exhorting "Try! Try!"
Yet he goes bravely forward.
Crawling through intestinal convolutions
Lit up as much as possible by the torchlight
Up into the high reaches of the system
Sliding finally down a long tube and out
Through a slippery exit passage
This is a prototype
Of a non-living carnivore
With which we can peacefully coexist
Relatively unscathed
No Luck For The Masses
Reversed into a corner where there is no way out
Rehearsed by a performer who likes to scream and shout
Inverses like a reformer who doesn’t know what he’s talking about
A curse that comes from former earnings not to go without
Multinational corporations that occupy the economic terrain
Unilateral conflagrations that teach you best of all to abstain
Collateral in the conversations that leave you grimacing in pain
Bilateral renunciations that leave the desert drenched in rain
Devastations that demand solutions in order to comply to convention
Remonstrations of absolution that deny the condescension
Aberrations of convolution that are a bone of mass contention
Admirations of the communions of the divine Ressurection
Profoundly seeking absolution from a person bound by grief
Resounding personal solutions that require the blessing of a chief
Confounding immolations that imply the working of a thief
Impounding the convolutions that you want to remain brief
Stupefaction of the masses staring at their screens
Abstraction comes in flashes of animations, adverts and memes
Extraction of the molasses as they’re diluting your dreams
Retraction of the colossus that invokes a high pitched scream
No luck for the poor the broken the tired the vulnerable or maimed
A truck of sure defiance that protesting will remain
The stuck realm of more reliance is a place of unhealthy terrain
While the crux that bore all of this violence leaves you back out in that desert rain.
Copyright The End Elizabeth Moroz
I wonder if my eyes have the strength to carry the dusk of my dearth.
They say eyes are the window to your soul.
But could the silhouette amplify the accosts of my void you claim with tangibility?
Could you name the poverty of my shadow within the dilation of my pupils, as they expand with a willingness unseen beneath anything but the weaves of your labyrinth?
Could you caress the convolutions of my heart, so twisted by the absent twinkle that determines the lifespan of my irises?
They speak a language so extraneous to the snarl of desperation; a hope clinging onto a surfeiting glut of insomnia.
They speak in syllables of a pitiful, pathetic articulation; a fleet of a cascading deluge.
They speak in a dialect so degrading to the ponder of my wondrous conclusions.
Not the ones you see in classrooms.
Not the ones you see in lectures.
But the ones you wish to lapse into; something as condescending as the melancholy of my amber.
And something as demoralising as the delinquency of my destiny;
The windows to my soul.
My eyes though open, stay closed to limiting
views
while I'm being moved by the unseen to any
level I choose
Knowing this life in which we live is one hell
of a muse,
I've master the art of evolution staying blind to
convolutions of truth
I'm not concerned by the ruse, for this is how
I have learned,
that baptism by fire is a blessing, producing
the coolest of burns
Being scorned is a hot gift if viewed with eyes
from the shade,
for from this perspective, you're able to see
all mistakes that were made
The jaded will hurl their stones with hopes
it's your will that will break, but
all that's needed is a sidestep with a glance
to let them skip on a lake
We were born destined to awaken, but pay attention
to spinning of plates,
as they're being spun for your demise disregarding
your taste
We transcend with our faith, overcoming what was
meant for a fall,
while they watch us elevate to the top doing
opposite of leaves in the fall
Winter is coming so grab your coats & hats
along with your boots,
because the inevitable storm that's coming will be
uncovering truth
The world is being led to a chute that's colored
greener than pastures,
with more lies than leaves in a forest in order
to slaughter it faster
I wonder how much life am I forgetting
Which parts wandered and got lost in the fog
For each and every time my eyes start wetting
I ponder if I’m just remembering it wrong
I wonder how much of life is in a vacuum
Failing to break away from flat routine
Spent years in suffocation in a classroom
Dulled down to be a cog in the machine
The wispy sun sighs through my curtains
I’m not particularly prideful of my job
Don’t do great work like scientists or surgeons
I just create and close my eyes when it feels wrong
I doubt how much of life I’m living forwards
The weeks and ends get jumbled in my head
I try to feel it out and sketch the borders
But all my convolutions turn to lead
My thoughts are friction turning into vapor
Collecting it is in my adenine
Give birth each time I put my pen to paper
And when I die they’ll put my sh*t in a museum
Carpal tunnel twinges
punctuate a torpid afternoon,
as row on row we line the aisles
and stare at nothing
with the guarded anonymity
of urinating men.
My thumb is on the lever,
moving almost imperceptibly,
as marbles rocket into space
and filter down
through obstacles designed
to keep the management in business.
The captive of a chain reaction
freed from craving by acceptance
of the preordained,
I decompose, am compromised,
incorporated by the convolutions
of this artificial universe.
But something breaks
the moment I let go.
The single thread
that holds the world in place is cut,
and once again I fall away
with all my individual needs exposed.
Japan, 1968
Previous version published in Outposts, England
He stands in the middle of this year's crop;
a body of straw, stuffed into the clothes
of a beggar-man.
In the field's center, arms stretched wide,
with the implied discipline
of deterring robber birds; birds that mocked the wires,
strung with strips of cloth.
He has no conspiracy with winds; just stares
into the distance, seeing in lucid moments
the changing skyline; scaffolding around the church spire,
the lovely patch of green in the center of town
Involved in the convolutions of clouds, anything
that can bouy his spirits
Brian's Choice G, any form, any theme Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Brian Strand
Third Place
(For MTG, LB and their ilk)
Give a koala
A fistful of eucalyptus leaves; their only food,
They won't know what to do with it.
Gotta pick it themselves, or starve.
That's because their brains are smooth,
Like chicken breasts.
No convolutions, small surface area, few connections.
What you see is what you get;
Pretty damned dumb for a mammal.
It seems to me, my dears,
You bear a striking resemblance
To these creatures.
Hand you a concept outside of your bubble -
You know, the food of higher thoughts - You just stare at it,
Reject it as undigestible.
This renders your very thoughts smooth,
No convolutions, small surface area, few connections.
What you see is what you get;
Pretty damned dumb for mammals.
The Accidental Poet
I have come to terms with language,
dyslexia jailed then freed me
a framed sky for instance,
or the open nature of oceans for instance,
one denies the other.
He had a brain injury
a perfectly constructed man
until the fatal blow of his Muse.
Now he speaks only in poetry,
a language unbounded.
Some thought him touched
by a language that had no beginning nor end.
The man spoke direct from the Fountain,
the Wellspring.
Out God poured,
out poured the bedeviled and the saintly,
the lost and found,
seers so blinded by love
they must vocalize each sound.
An idiom that passed all understanding
yet could be grasped on the wing
an ephemeral thing, a single Mayfly
in an endless array of May blossoming.
It was a beautiful seamless moving hem
of apperception, a cloth made whole.
It was beautiful even when it was ugly.
It was the poetry of words set free.
I wondered if my own trivial dyslexic mind
could ever hope to match his artistry
and knew it never would.
You would have to take out the brain
find that breach in its convolutions
through which God speaks.
I knew this, the way a child knows
the uncharted face of its birth mother,
yet I still try to drive a wildness
through a picket fence.
Old words won’t do anymore,
the scaffolding is too overworked, it won’t hold,
the used-up must go the way of all dead things,
to the soil
where roots know the birth-pains of green.
The man talks on, the therapists shrug,
try to force his tongue into neat, prepackaged boxes
but it will not fit,
he smiles as they wipe spit from his lips,
keeps explaining God to them
but they have no understanding of poetry;
they keep begging him too slow down
but he is way ahead of them
and always will be.
Homer Brunett
1879-1912
You didn’t think it would be easy? Did you?
Life squirms incessantly,
As with the molting snake,
Turning and squeezing into mortal convolutions,
With myriad forgotten episodes
Of human triumph and tragedy,
Of endless drama in the slatted houses;
Life is constantly lurching and lunging, ever forward,
Under those silent indifferent clouds, up there!
But time is the ultimate mind master,
He knows where the switches to the stop gates are.
He knows when to open the field sluices awash!
We foolish human beings inevitably
Get taken by the rushing flood waters,
Get completely swept away by the undertow,
Helpless against the madding confluence,
Ending up as tears on the faces of the bereaved.
This is my final testament and statement!
That of an intelligent dead man!