Long Convulsed Poems
Long Convulsed Poems. Below are the most popular long Convulsed by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Convulsed poems by poem length and keyword.
Here's Jack's philosophy in a nutshell
Did you catch that, in a NUTshell?
Got a little bit off the track for a while
But he's chugging along again like hell
Didn't think it would be too too long
He's basically a real jester at heart
Things always seem to strike him funny
Like when someone lets out a big fart
His LOCOmotive's chugging along again
Some sillies will be coming along soon
It's how this guy rolls, the silly old jester
As he attempts to eat spaghetti with a spoon
Seems like I'm trying a wee bit too hard
That spaghetti thing wasn't that funny
How bout a fellow who's had one too many
Balancing a beer on his tummy
Okay I promise to work on this stuff
I'm more than a bit rusty it seems
BARE with me, or fully clothed if you wish
Convulsed with laughter you'll scream
* There is one person I would bring back in a heartbeat, and that's my favorite human being of all-time, Walt Whitman - he literally changed my life with his poetry, and brought true beauty and joy to my life. Never underestimate the power of words. *
__________________________________________________
Oh, My Dear Walter, how your words have slayed,
Humbled me, broken me, molded and remade.
To taste of your world, see above or below it,
Wit of a wordsmith, wry pith of a poet ...
To so construe love without using the phrase,
Scrawl the sinew of war, yet delight in the days.
To yawp of the grass - journeywork of the stars,
Help revivify a nation, attend to its scars.
Find grace among horrors, sift beauty from death,
The soul-pull of tides - briny buss of their breath.
To habit us all ... to the dazzle of light,
Celebrate ourselves, bequeath us the night.
Ask recurring questions of romance and life,
Of presidents, bootsoles, and a moldering strife.
Demons and mockingbirds, Paumanok's dunes ...
The pale, horrid witness of unstinted moons.
'Twas sad-blown, a bugle, convulsed, was a drum,
Yet exquisite, the dirge for a soldier and son.
The sorrow of clouds in a ravening sky,
The weep of a child should the Pleiades die.
Knit airy-fresh words, with uncommon phrases,
Draw Apollo and Neptune in all of their phases.
Be there adoration as hapless as mine?
Yet no soul more ardently leveled, supine ...
No writer has reached deeper into my heart,
Idioms and phrases ... such allurement, impart.
Ah, yes, what I'd give to have just one chat,
With the rare human being who afforded all that.
And maybe I'm biased, if perhaps to a fault,
But the name of MY Captain, O Captain ...
Is WALT.
It must have been made
and rejected
in times grinding gears –
a knobby irregularity,
a leftover of smelt and dross.
This is all there is
a gobbet of oven clinker,
but behind it I sense cracked teeth,
soot seared across burnt eyeglasses,
blackened bones,
for after the gas came the flames.
Here it is,
a fragment long convulsed
from its own incineration,
an irregular rake-off, smithereens
dragged across a blind stone floor.
This tittle of slag once had to fit something
the rough rim of an iron door perhaps
behind which an old furnace
still cools in faraway minds.
A ferrous chip chiseled from a gulag,
or a souvenir from an SS campfire meet.
There is always something left
after the unthinkable,
always some spicule of irregularity,
detritus to explain or confound
as we toss it back into the fire again.
I was in the prime of my life on paper, I had
a lot to live for.
I came from a loving family, that were educated
I myself graduated with honors from Harvard.
I had an amazing fiance that I adored very
much,
However I was a phenomenal actress that
was very sick.
I had bipolar disorder and I hid it from everyone
including my family.
When I was high I was high, but when I was low
I was extremely low.
I thought about death every second and hour
of day.
I couldn't shake it , did I want to die?
Of course not but I felt like I had no choice
It was something that I had to do.
I planned the whole thing, I even picked
out my theme music on that melancholy
day.
I craved death and I was thirsty for it,
I wanted my death to remembered as
something beautiful.
Boy was I in for a rude awakening and a
big dose of reality.
When my loving man found my lifeless
body he wailed and convulsed,
He caused me to see that love does
not die.
But I didn't plan what he did next
He went and got the gun we had for
protection and took his own life.
I replay that scene over and over in my
head.
For I am stuck in between life and death,
It is pure hell and it is torture and far
worse than it was when I was alive.
Inspired by the “Death” contest
5-17-18
Oh, My Dear Walter, how your words have slayed
Humbled me, broken me, molded, remade
To taste of your world, see above or below it
Wit of a wordsmith, wry pith of a poet
To so construe love without using the phrase
Scrawl the sinew of war, yet delight in the days
To yawp of the grass - journeywork of the stars
Help heal a nation, attend to its scars
Find grace among horrors, sift beauty from death
The soul-pull of tides - briny kiss of their breath
To habit us all ... to the dazzle of light
Celebrate ourselves, bequeath us the night
Ask recurring questions of romance and life
Of presidents, boot soles, and moldering strife
Demons and mockingbirds, Paumanok's dunes
The pale, horrid witness of unstinted moons
'Twas sad-blown, a bugle, convulsed, was a drum
Yet exquisite, the dirge for a soldier and son
The sorrow of clouds in a ravening sky
The weep of a child should the Pleiades die
Knit airy-fresh words, with uncommon phrases
Draw Apollo and Neptune in all of their phases
Be there adoration as hapless as mine
Yet no soul more ardently leveled, supine
No writer has reached deeper into my heart
Idioms and phrases ... such allurement, impart
Ah, yes, what I'd give to have just one chat
With the rare human being who afforded all that
And maybe I'm biased, if perhaps to a fault
But the name of MY Captain, O Captain ...
Is WALT.
So when the lake reached for me,
I did not kneel.
I did not sink.
I did not become what they expected of me
Instead, I opened my mouth
and screamed.
The sound split across the water like lightning.
The lake convulsed.
The shoreline cracked apart.
Churchbells howled beneath the depths like wounded animals
For one terrible moment,
all the drowned brides rose.
Veils dripping black water.
Pearls spilling from their mouths.
Eyes bright as stormglass.
Not victims now.
Witnesses.
The village sank before sunrise.
Every house.
Every stone.
Every man who called that sacrifice tradition.
The lake swallowed them whole.
Don’t call me a Hero.
You weren’t even there
When I got the wound
That put me in this chair.
I was doing my duty
Patrolling disputed ground
It was just random chance
That I took a sniper’s round.
You didn’t see me
Moaning and crying
Totally convince I was
Bleeding out and dying.
No, the Hero was my mate
Who applied dressings that day
And stayed there with me until
The medics could take me away.
Heroes don’t wake up screaming
In the middle of the night
Because the bloody flashbacks
Have them convulsed with fright.
It would be wonderful, if,
Just for one special day,
I was there as myself,
Not as the Hero on display.
Please don’t call me a Hero
It’s such a status to live up to
And when l let you down
As I so often do
I feel in despair
At your so obvious surprise
And the disappointment
Reflected in your eyes
Just once when they tell me
How lucky I was not to die
I wish I had the nerve
To openly ask them why.
So, don’t call me a Hero.
All I did was survive,
And I’m not quite so sure
You can call this being alive.
A while ago I was chatting with a friend about treatment of Forces Veterans. He said he could be a little more sympathetic if they weren’t always referred to as Heroes. I pointed out generally Veterans don’t refer to themselves like that - just people doing their jobs - but it’s third parties, many of which weren’t Veterans, out to raise funds for whatever reason.
I met many fellow Veterans over the last 7 years working as a volunteer with a Veteran Support Organisation, quite a few of which I thought were Heroes, but none of them did.
The invective one chooses
razor sharp words that harm
with their sound and bite.
Lashing with tongue until
ears and hearts bleed.
Never has the power of the tongue
been so effective in
this invective onslaught.
The roots lie deep within the emitter,
raging torrents of ill feeling
within the invective one's being.
They are honed razor sharp and jagged
on the way up, and dabbed with
the venous poison of rattle snakes,
to inflect lasting damage and suffering
and to kill their prey slowly.
As they emit from the tongue
in a spitting action
the emitters face is
raging, flaming ruddy red,
steaming with invectiveness and bile.
Convulsed to blast out the words
with the force of dragon,
and weight or a thousand rhinos charging.
But, the invective ones
are not inventive and lack
the guile and cunning of
the snarky, snide, cynical sarcastic one
the words of which hurts more.
For the pain inflicted by these
emanates deep within the inflicted ones
soul, spirit and being.
Where it's designed to hurt
in a derived way without
leaving an external wound.
The invective one's lance is blatant,
up-front, in your face.
It can be parried away and blocked
with the shield of a thick-skin.
But alas, for the subtle stab of sarcasm
there is not such defense
for the pain arises deep within
the victim's psyche.
Sickness depresses my spirit
And shut down the doors of the sense organs
My soul recoils within the shell of my body
My heart retreats to a solemn feast.
There is within the flesh a great void of vanity
The spirit ruminates on bizarre planes
Seeking the verity of essence and elevation
To life is indifference, death becomes a handy foe.
Life and death are allies to trickery;
For we neither could sleep nor wake
At day overcome by a sleep-in-consciousness
And night, burdened by the waking-in-slumber.
The mind conjures up blurry images
Through grim eyes veers hallucination
The head goes a spiral in nocturnal planetary
As the body on a bed of limbo is confined.
Monotonous drone of air in empty jar whirred
Round and round the head dome
Whose sinew and vigor once thrive but now
Whose nerve and wit have become vain.
In sickness the body and spirit convulsed
And brings heaven and hell to closer horizon:
The body’s nourishments are repulsed by it
The spirit retreats from life’s elevations.
The Supreme comes to the fore of reason
Above all ambitions and abundance,
Which are subject to breath; when it runs afoul,
We shall again ponder its mystery, in sickness!
My sister Annick fixed me, locked me in, with cold, blue eyes as she sat down slowly next to me at the table. “I’m a surgeon,” she said, not quite casually, “a board certified surgeon.”
I give her a questioning look.
“I could take your steak knife,” she says, eyeing it, “plunge it into your neck - and oh, sure, there’d be a question or two but in the end - I’d walk away clean.”
“I don’t think,” I start saying…
Tears well to near overflowing in her turquoise eyes. “I came in - officer” she says, sounding stunned and surreal. “She was having a convulsion, she exhibited severe cyanosis, I couldn’t clear her airway, it was a classic tonic-clonic seizure.” she goes on, her voice rising to near panic with the diagnosis.
“You’d never…” I start to interrupt but she gently covers my mouth with her left hand while gathering the handle of the serrated silver steak knife, expertly, into her right hand.
“I attempted to perform a tracheostomy,” she continues in a traumatized but professional voice. “but as I began a transverse incision above the sternal notch,” *a tear rolls down her cheek*, “Anais suffered a severe generalized-onset seizure and convulsed, forcefully into the knife”
“IT WAS AN ACCIDENT!” I confess suddenly, as if under oath, in court.
There’s a moment of still silence.
“And when,” she asked, wiping away the tear and turning the knife for a downward thrust. “Were you going to mention it?!”
“NOW! - before dinner!” I look around the empty room - for help - for a sympathetic jury. “It was an ACCIDENT! - I’m SORRRRYYYY!” I plead.
My sister slowly sets down the knife and says deliberately, purposefully - like a death sentence: “My Valentino sheer floral-lace top is STAINED.”
”I can Fix it!” I insist in a rush.
“Keep out of my room - and my stuff.” she grumbles, “And REMEMBER what I said,” she adds as she pats the knife before getting up and leaving the room.
“I WILL’” I promise to her back.
A second later, my mom sweeps in from the opposite direction.
“What’s up” she asks.
“Nothing” I almost whisper, head down.