Long Crumple Poems
Long Crumple Poems. Below are the most popular long Crumple by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Crumple poems by poem length and keyword.
I Planned of
throwing away
the eld
machine
of writing,
crumple
the papers
accomplices
of mine
fetish...
until stop
writing...!
but how :?
the words
pass by
my head
as models
on the catwalks...
demanding attention!
I had conceived over blinding myself
completely...
(I sight poorly!),
not to sight anymore
colors, paintings...!
but my mind
have files
secrets with
all beauties
of the world !
I stopped eating,
never
I was hungry...
I stopped drinking,
I found myself free
from headquarters...
I am further health than
before...
my hunger
literary has increased...!
not further devouring
mountain ranges of ideas
pass my hunger
of verses...
thus drinking
an Amazon
of words,
I never killed my
thirst for poetry...!
The verdant forest uniquely so mystique
spreads the shroud of surreal stillness.
When you enter floating on rippling breeze,
its essence enthralls your suffused soul
with the sense of surrender absolute
to the crafty creator of serenading solitude
who builds in you an esoteric acumen
to gauge the depth of the dense solitude,
to compose music with the sound of silence,
who gives you the magical power inherent
to instill in mind the motif of light and shadow,
the flushing foliage creates on the canopy
with the rhythmic rays of the morning sun
for you to weave the spectral tapestry of bliss.
As you walk on the forest path meandering
around the tilted roots of the ancient trees,
the clumps of amber leaves that fell desiccated
from the stem at the end of the destined time,
your footsteps crumple to make the melody
for your enchanted journey unfinished within.
From the forest you walk on the emerald meadow,
rolling on the jade waves to the hued horizon.
Soaking the drizzling colors of the setting sun,
you traverse the remaining mile on time-track of life
as a lonesome traveler to the sanctum of serenity.
Written : January 11, 2019
Contest : Completely Your Choice (13)
Sponsor : Brian Strand
If man has become the measure of all
Our world anon will crumple and shrivel
Without a moral compass to keep us in thrall
Failure and success,the deadly ploys of the devil,
Or the cold ugliness of hideous revenge
Could inflict defeat on the Prime Mover's mission
That, discipleless, He can no longer challenge.
And so to Satan leaves us in submission
Man exists in a festering and noxious swamp
Where reason plays handmaiden to naked power
And shameless words service man's pride and pomp
A Voltaire is most sorely needed at this hour
To bring us back into the pure light of the sun.
If ,alas, there is no God,man must invent one.
On a morning stilled
an oak shadows the yard
as leaves wait to fall
but summer lingers
another day.
I write a love poem
to someone once met
at a blues bar
one summer during
college days,
but crumple it
put it in my pocket.
It was getting late
that night,
but when talking
with each other
we lost track
of time when we danced
and when in each others’
arms, the music played.
The skylight over the dance floor
captured the soft glow of the moon
as we got to know each other.
Her two-year old son
was at her mother’s house
where she was staying
when getting a divorce,
and I was looking
for my time and place.
But we were living
that moment
as if there was no tomorrow.
Her eyes glistened—
and in that moment of silence
I could feel her pain.
After the music played
I had to go home,
and she had to go back to her son—
the blues always said
dues must be paid.
But we dated
until jobs and distance
tore us apart.
Now I look
outside to see
shadows spread across the lawn.
The side street is broken—
all streets are broken
as I move place to place
and rain drops streak tears
down a clouded windowpane.
(Inspired by "The Persistence Of Time" by Salvador Dali
The bare bough and the brown bench
hold the warped watches like wet satin
with the metal losing its toughness,
the tree forgetting its foliage.
The sunset sky stretches into fluid stillness
where time dissolves into the cyan sea.
The golden cliff rises behind the reverie,
at peace with the quiet crumple of time.
The sleeping creature on the sands
sprawls as a pale brutal form
with the burden of collapsed time.
Memory endures the design of ductile recollection
as the mirage of elastic time
slips through the sands of perpetuity,
losing its rigidity, its mechanical domination.
Surreal vision turns time into absurdity,
yet morphing into fascinating mirror of illusive fluidity,
a metaphor for the triumph of memory over time.
The thing about killing Angels
you have to remember is always go for the kill shot
Most of them can easily take a grenade to the face
Those arch ones usually stay put and watch
Basically on tap with God
Seldomly they will make an appearance
Demons are tricky
Disguise themself basically animal vegetable mineral
One time my electric razor tried to bite a clump from my cheek, huh still makes me smile
He turned towards the boy
His crumple of a face
grimacing
The book boy learn it well
He turned hunched over
Bent and snatched the head from
the prone child at his feet
The sack boy open it
Without the head
We won’t be fed….
The boy pulling a single golden strand from his pocket
the strand warping reality around it
air forming the sack
Please
Just once
Not a three point shot…
Another 3 seconds he chide only infinity to go
At this rate we will be working long after the end
Celebration of Las Animas
The shadows know
When I shout into the void
Of obsession’s chaos that swallows even darkness,
Fractured light in jaundiced eyes,
Where withering blasts of winter hibernate in masquerades,
Promises lay in crumpled thoughts of raging anxieties
To crumple wings stilled by grief’s passages
Of flawed conscience.
My gentle shepherd, who walks in the brittle solstice garden,
Whispers to this stubborn lamb of irrepressible forgiveness
With healing that unites a divided soul chasing eulogy
To float upon the flowing tide, the River Agape,
Dewdrops of compassion in solitude’s metamorphosis -
Ebony’s iris nightfall – weave an arras in twilight’s hush
Where scented leaves of solitude and grace
Celebrate in welcomed cleansing wind and fire.
Released from perfectionism’s chains by perfect perfection,
Through radiating renewal on the Samaritan’s road,
Solitude’s incense from ash groves inhales metamorphosis,
Seasoned with the breath of mercy in shadowy first light
As dawn quietly peeks through the pink blush of epiphany,
Leaves behind ominous – footsteps of midnight –
Sweeping away bittersweet thunderheads on stone spires -
Finale of my seclusion.
In preludes to all things bright and wonderful
Rebirth, renewal, tethers me to new psalms
Scrubbing clean overgrown graffiti on my woodland wall
New anima stretches out in one moment of time and space
Navigating unexplored islands in the broiling stream
By argent rainbows in cornucopia’s of charity
To untangle knots of errant threads through life’s keepsake tapestry
Eternal Emmanuel, radiant message, face of amazing grace.
2-24-22
Contest: Form F – Free Verse
Sponsor: Constance La France
Theme: Life
Animas means life – communication of the spirit with the subconscious.
Pumped
Reams of paper sit upon my desk accordioned untidily, dimpled where the cat stood or sat too long. The wastepaper basket was full of crumbled balls, reflecting the topography of the Nepali adventure I am trying to re-count. The heavily grained desk of golden oak supports a range of dictionaries and thesaurus’s, any one of which was heavy enough to use as a doorstop in a windstorm. An old Underwood typewriter sits, holding court, in the midst of all this, enamel black, with chrome edged keys and struts which depress at the tap of a fingertip. The radio blares, God Bless the Child Who’s Got His Own…as I formulate the saga of a heroine seeker, lead by two caramel colored Nepali boys, toward the foothills of the Himalayian Mountains.
The spindles holding the black ribbon snag in the clip-like opening which holds them taunt. Adjusting the tape turns my nails blue-black. I brush the hair from my eyes decorating the tip of my nose. Dirty business this writing. I tear another sheet from the rubber roller and crumple it with a sigh. “Damn, irascible machine don’t you have a soul? Give Mama something! Anything” I whine.
Scared by the abruptness of my outburst, and the carriage's leap left, the scared-y-cat is propelled to the floor, sending a half-stack of unsullied paper to ground, covering my patent-leather pumps.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bKNtP1zOVHw
Enjoy...while you read..Billy Holiday
I thought that's what you meant?
There is so much meaning there.
I get it now.
It's clear as day,
once you understand it.
But, dear reader, once you have the answer,
never question it.
Never ask the author to explain.
Never ask others to explain what the author meant
for the source will often say:
"Believe what you will"
"What I meant is on another Planet"
"Maybe you read in there, something that was truly never there"
"Why should I enlighten your load with my burden"
"You'll read into it :
what you want,
what you need,
what derives from your drive
what keeps you alive and ticking"
Meaning is so demeaning.
I thought that's what you meant?
Number 42, is the answer to everything!
Fate is random decay to dust.
It's a certain curtain to disorder.
The harder you look the less certain is the scene.
Entropy quells and dismantles every
semblance of meaning in structure,
with a long half-life, bound in time.
Order's fate is disorder.
That's the way it's meant to be.
Meaning's fate is dismantled sense.
Enjoy the entanglement!
Meaning is so demeaning.
Dear Reader - please, please, please
crumple and tear
all these words up,
and eat them.
===============
Douglas Adams author of 'Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy' (HG2G)
“It was a joke. It had to be a number, an ordinary, smallish number, and I chose that one. Binary representations, base thirteen, Tibetan monks are all complete nonsense. I sat at my desk, stared into the garden and thought ‘42 will do.’ I typed it out. End of story.”
But it can't be true, surely not! It came from somewhere meaningful! Why that number = 42?
===============
nobody sees you the way I do
in your wheelchair
with your unopenable arms
where everything crashes to a gray twisted landscape
my brother
alpha male
of demon strut clashes
in our shared childhood
once you flipped your hockey stick between my thin legs
to see how many stairs I'd tumble down
your yells to me to "toughen up"
cursing a younger brother
"bookworm sissy"
"vanilla boy"
to expletives that ran like tap water
when proximity was a contact sport
at the care home
to your lips
I spoon in pudding
its dull tranquility
vanilla
into a body that feels itself liquid, limbs pliable and porous
I'd like to re-touch our brotherly photos
to change them to accuracy
or crumple them like a wasp nest knocked to the ground
for nobody sees you the way I do
for nobody knows you the way I do