Long Corded Poems
Long Corded Poems. Below are the most popular long Corded by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Corded poems by poem length and keyword.
It's much too close in here
for loneliness,
or companionship.
Either way,
I grow too small
non-existent
non-essential
undervalued domesticity with insufficient commodity,
just another over-populating parasite
underneath Earth's glamorous backside;
Suppressed incubator within a more integrating place
of nonverbal language
and full-octaned relationship toward outside
somewhere, marginally surfing
flowing symbiotic omni-nutritional fluid
umbilical corded string
for receiving ever more formative function
energetic unction
massive combustion
rebirthing my new Elder synergetic IdEntity
through Ego-recession,
contracting unrhymed rhythm
of fear of fear of fear...
Double-Binding negative threshold
toward appositional Eco-Love prehension;
echoing across echo-developing hemispheres,
inter-wombed regenetic too slow and tight economy
creating EarthTribe's Beloved Ecology
of paradise boundaried with pain
Longing reconnected within universal agency,
being primally related through
RNA's coincidental Hollow Womb Presence,
Earth's self-optimizing cornucopian abundance
revolutioning joyful grace,
redemptive polycoloring place,
regenerate revolving Memory time
as love-drenched EarthMother's space.
Ambidextrous-ionic amniotic fluid,
Janus-faced dual destined
to internally bring forth new life
by purge erupting each metamorphic fertile sac,
draining past generations
into future's new-born hope,
to emerge a womb with sufficient empathic communication
to compassion Earth's warm-wombed community;
reconnecting humane nature's transactional economics
with sacred nature's transcendent ecologics--
Great Transition deducing permacultured functions
inducing biological forms of regenetic polyculture.
We're much too close for racing loneliness,
at loooong sloooow last,
our time to become Beloved CoElational together.
Written September 28, 2013
On a winter's day
On a chilly morn'
I'll be mourning
The loss of a love once lost
The loss of a love once buried in the frost
At the behest of an angel
She'll come around at last
When the dinner bell rings
We'll walk along and sing
Songs of ancient writings
Found written on the walls
Of spiritual surroundings
Dancing in my mind
Swinging to the pendulum of time
To make her what was mine
Before the sound came crashing down
Like chandeliers of persistence
Glistening brightly in reflections
Of crystal on the table
Clinging glasses to a toast
For lovers entangled evermore
On majestic misty mountains
Where snow cascades down the countryside
Until it's reached the ocean floor
Where salmon swim upstream
To the tune of our dreams
While embryonic journeys
Pass through the corded ever after
To dream of light and day
While the children beat their drums
To the tambourine in time
While the father's watch unwinds
And the son is in the closet
Strumming songs with Jane
While the mother presses cotton
The daughter recites her magnum opus
To animals in repose
Upon her bedroom floor
She speaks in tongues long gone
Like a kiss from a rose
And then she's gone
To dream with the ancients until dawn
Amidst a cacophony of sounds, discordant they're not
Through progressive ears we're internally sought
We, well we await, we await black drapes
Lights are our signal, to enjoy their create
Strobes through mists, signal our time
Silhouetted shadows appear, it's now just after nine
In Ballerina stance, proud like she poses
Arms outstretched like petals of roses
She, Kim, of Touchstone effect
Through their music her voice, such melodic select
Prelude now generates as we await corded streams
Receivers we are, appreciating their musical dreams
Spotlights in sporodic dance, like silent sirens in the dark
In seconds they soon touch, we the Blacktide no longer stark
On this night in concert, we became one and all
Strobe lights show their appreciation, bowing when shadows fall
http://www.thehighlanderspoems.com/touchstone.php
Scream burn in the corded bridge
take me as I am or not at all.
I am sick, demented
what is, insane?
Super nova burst and created monsters
I am only one.
This world vomits pain and in it I find the
best feelings.
my chest is throbbing because the black
monster i keep there doesn't know
how to do anything but beat against its cage
and pretend to be okay.
I'm going straight to hell,
where I'll be free to be as unwell as i
please.
Please me, please you.
In a bedroom we are all just black
shadows and silent moans.
In the morning light i am a goddess
without emotion and you are pitiful
this is all I have ever learned.
Goddess, in Hell
Form:
A massive, arch-shaped hearth of stone,
old shiplap walls of weathered oak,
warm, woolen rugs of corded make,
ancient rocker, it creaks a lot.
Fire consumes thick maple logs,
perched low on a wrought iron gate,
cast shadows flicker on the wall,
on the dog snoozing by the chair.
All his fur must be decorative
since he always hogs the fire,
a brindle-mutt with gray muzzle,
might just lick intruders to death.
Round window reveals falling snow,
and frosted pasture beyond it,
safe within this homely cottage,
hear the sounds of owls at night.
Such a place I will imagine,
sanctuary, my escape,
but deep down know, if I had it
I’d be bored within two hours.
…I guess some aren’t meant for peace.
Escape from thunder and lightning,
Remain or stay in safe shelter;
And if you are out on the street,
Hurry up and run for cover.
Don't get out of the house at least
Half an hour after the last sound;
Stay inside the building until
The risk is nowhere to be found.
Keep away from powerful stuffs
Like computers and corded phones;
Never be in direct contact
With these electricity zones.
Avoid plumbing, including sinks,
As well as the baths and faucets;
Run away from frightening harm,
Evade the nature's wraths and threats.
Stay away from windows and doors,
Remain calm beneath the ceiling;
Stay off veranda or porches,
Escape from thunder and lightning.
He'd glimpse her, the peripheral life of her;
she lived in the corner of his eye.
She passed-by, her face and form - tidal,
a tug on his shore.
Perhaps she was salt for his blood, spice
for nomadic mitochondria
that carried her silks and perfumes,
salts to his earth
when flesh grew dry and dark?
He took a mind journey
within the coiling tendrils
of his pith and fiber.
Capillaries traced her imprints,
neuronal fingers tried to define her.
He'd gladly walk into her marrow,
metabolites clinging to her shifting shapes.
A camel-train of visions travels
his corded spine
bearing incidentals, trappings.
He plants glances among ganglia,
feeds on a returning musk,
until she walks among his thoughts.
She is no longer a fantasy, no longer
a salt lick of moth-threads and rain,
but what she is - he could not say.
It rains cats and dogs on the roof of this quiet building in Noida. The flats are silent, each door a fortress against grief. Mrs. Kapoor, ninety years young and breathing, drops her apple and it rolls toward my feet, red apple against grey concrete. Her hands shake like autumn leaves about to fall, as I return it to her palm. "Thank you, dear," she whispers, and in that moment, I see my own loneliness reflected in her watery eyes.
Days pass and we become friends, I bring newspapers to share and we chat. She shares stories of village farms and morning milk. Her corded phone sits patient, waiting for Sunday calls from her son. But the week is long waiting for the call, she says. So long. Soon I call my grandson, putting him on speaker to whom Mrs. Kapoor sings about a chicken who lost her eggs. Karan giggles for the first time in weeks. Word spreads through mailboxes, ten digits on sticky notes. Story Time Sundays by Mrs. Kapoor. Poetry readings. Shared tears. The building awakens.
Now, Bengali lessons echo in hallways, a multitude of Indian languages. Neighbour's' open doors. Soup appears when fever strikes. The apple keeps rolling, palm to palm to palm, carrying kindness like seeds on the wind.
Apple rolls past doors
thin walls become thick with love,
silence learns to sing.
A curly corded telephone rings in a distant room,
its black Bakelite bulk vibrates behind closed eyes.
An old-time fire-engine parks its flame and brass chassis
inside a cavernous skull, though no conflagration
sets the dark alight.
It is that shallow pit of night when faceless clocks
expose themselves to be landmines.
A far past is calling; disembodied tongues drum loud
above the rattle of a tin ear.
A cumbersome receiver tumbles off its cradle
an accumulated dust of misappropriated yesterday’s
softens its fall.
Nothing has grasped at nothing.
A line is dead and buried; there's no resurrection,
the call however lingers, as a voice dissolve's
deep within the combustible light
of another day.
Amidst a cacophony of sounds, discordant they're not
Through progressive ears we're internally sought
We, well we await, we await black drapes
Lights are our signal, to enjoy their create
Strobes through mists, signal our time
Silhouetted shadows appear, it's now just after nine
In Ballerina stance, proud like she poses
Arms outstretched like petals of roses
She, Kim, of Touchstone effect
Through their music her voice, such melodic select
Prelude now generates as we await corded streams
Receivers we are, appreciating their musical dreams
Spotlights in sporadic dance, like silent sirens in the dark
In seconds they soon touch, we the Blacktide no longer stark
On this night in concert, we became one and all
Strobe lights show their appreciation, bowing when shadows fall
.
Sadly Kim has had to take a break from the band due to illness, hence re-post.