Long Cusp Poems
Long Cusp Poems. Below are the most popular long Cusp by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Cusp poems by poem length and keyword.
Her mocking salutation in salute.
Sudsing down your brains drawingboard in a victoriously ill repute.
Nature's pendulum holds you in it's dungeoness pattern of holding, then you go down it's chute.
Hell's guillotine greased, oiled,
sparkling it's grinning teeth bare,
waiting to have you.
At an altar of self sacrifice,
to the taste willing flesh- au pair.
Hands thrown to the four winds, and you down her stares.
Tripping while galking at her balcony.
Every which way you roll in the dis gust.
Whispering sorrow across the Glade.
Comes that silvery voice in alchemy.
Across the fortress, under seige that no longer serves as your own, but betrays in mutiny.
Conscience, erased clean, washed to arrays of vacancy, vagrancy, shift phased,
beamed, deemed, worthily-unworthy.
But chosen just the same.
A frozen mural of the living.
Ignoring perditions telltale signs.
It's propriety flashing in a neon haze.
Emergency.
Lights out.
Divergence.
True colors bleed.
In the ritual that brings a nightcap on the
remains, of the day-
That fell against the dusk-
Beneath the shadows of lights cusp.
The repose that lies unrebuked in between-half lifes and sinew.
Half full of temptations brew.
Whole mind to be punched drunk.
Shenanigans to ensue.
The undeads morphine pushing Angel.
Karma Sutra supernatural instructor
of compromising positions of mortal danger.
Too much for you proofed.
Her nails painted quaint,
and tender while tenderizing you in hellfires tinder;rotisserie spit
the choke, the ribbing in the
private joke;
The masterstroke, of sparkling sway, taking away care, caresses
for play.
Sugar cube down in her fairey gleeming's; melting into the half empty cup of
silver stomached linings, a slivered casket in the red district on display.
With silver bullet pan flash with
no cares handling.
Fondling, her cashed in-massaging in her squeeze;
spits in your eyes, takes what is clear- in front of you unto blackened fade from audacity; a sidewinder
of curvaceous sleaze.
Spellbinder.
My time of promise,
before mistrust of parents
settled into growing fear
and grief into angry disappointment
Began with a visit
from a GreatHorned Owl
dying on our barbed wire fence
Announcing she would go before
but return for my time
to follow heaven's departed promise.
But, my father responds,
Only straight humans sing in white evangelical Heaven,
And this planted my seed of doubt
A cosmic point
in bitter anticipation
of further adult atrocities to follow
in imaged flight
From this brief encounter
with natural and spiritual wings
I gradually developed internal witness:
If not ecologically necessary,
then not yet theologically sufficient.
Now,
still breathing,
singing and dancing,
beyond all reasonable health risks
of my own environmental history
in a new barbed millennium,
on the cusp of 2020 EarthJustice
left and right winged co-revision,
Heaven's great-returned owl
revisits in near nightly dreams
Inviting me, and us,
to set aside anger,
to grab hold of more compassion
ego/eco-therapeutic communion
communication
Inclusion in Heaven's climatic winning
ecologically wise theologies,
long incubating Rapture--
safe flight home.
I believe I fell asleep last year at the cusp of a new agenda.
As a new virus took root, I found myself eradicated from society
in a way I never imagined.
All of a sudden instead of immersing myself in music and dance
and coffee talk chats, I found myself immersed in diluted contact
such as social distancing and Zoom;
mother-in-law dies
so does my bird named, Ringo
we bury them both
The same day we bury our Gloucester canary in the backyard,
we buried my mother in law, as I partook in a family funeral
miles away from home, I realized that the sun non-selectively
continued to shine no matter what . So much has happened
in such a short span, I feel it is out of my hands.
six months later
still waiting for the vaccine,
life can be so mean
At the very cusp of winter dawn,
Before the sun wake from slumber,
The narrow alleys lay bare and silent,
The moon slowly fade from existence.
It is at this hour when feet hit gravel,
Rushed steps race against time.
The winds carry distant heartbeats,
That of a woman barely nineteen.
The youth of her fragile soul,
Thunders against her bosom,
As she nears the clock tower,
Holding testaments across time.
A man barely out of youth,
Slips out of the shadows,
Their fingers barely grazing,
His own heart raging still.
A change of hands for the epistle,
Delicate letters weaving tales,
Of those not to be spoken in daylight,
Finding refuge in the solitude of night.
There was change, an odd pulse,
a new cadence and tone, in the place I grew up
where my mother had been...
Where white fences stretched out to cradle our home
but where zones, unfamiliar, were on now on the cusp
On a make-shift bed, I was lying awake
Windows cracked open,
a wind coming in, ....
Intangible nights, in the familiar old room,
alone with my thoughts, while sorting out things...
There was a strange, jaundice glow, from the porch light, left on,
and my pillow felt cold, where the moon used to go
The sound of a moth, batting wings against glass,
was begging for warmth, while seeking to ask, a place that made sense
And a place to fit in
My father was sleeping, with his newlywed bride
in the same maple bed, where my mother had died
And a new child was dreaming in the soft yellow room
where I spent all those nights, ... just me and the moon
I was happy for him, and for the child that he gained.
I was there at his side,
when the changes became.. a part of his life, ...... a part of mine too
but was lost in the amber, like a moth batting wings
Eventually, I would grow with a fresh point of view,
but the child that I was, still waits for the moon
I'm older and wiser, maybe stronger than then
but, the moth will look in, escaping the moon
ramming the screen
seeking the flame...
batting its wings,
while resisting the change, ...again, and again
11/3/14
I thirst for you but without proper size cup, what justifies reason.
Beginning to turn the faucet to a slow drip.
Little beads of water subsiding in memory.
Beginning to fill the cusp of hands.
Overflowing
Cascading into the true desire of drenched hands.
Holding near the thought of you.
Splashing down into the climax of euphoria.
The beads of water that explode on impact in the palms of open hands.
Drops that cover everything in sight, feeling without thought.
This urge predicted with each turn under the faucet of pure bliss.
Unknowingly knowing the feel of your cheeks.
The press of your smile. Tattooed against skin.
The very throb of your soul pulsating against the wrinkles of my hand.
The ripples that occur with each and every thought.
I long for your empathy.
To quench such thirst
If you find this verse slightly apocalyptic, don't despair. We are not there yet. But the trend has started
Mankind, on the brink of change
We're at the cusp, robotics age
Lives, work and love be re-arranged
The world stares down a yet blank page
No, nothing will be as we used to
Computer brains solving all
Insert itself our minds into
Not like a breeze but as a squall
This automation will be scary
When fix your car and buy the food
The changeover rather hairy
"It will be for your own good"
A.I. knows all of your demeanor
More than you're knowing of yourself
To act as guard, assistant, screener
But also master in itself
The jobs be lost. Don't need as many
Good working skills - A.I. is king
They will be gone like U.S. penny
The change is what new age shall bring
Controlled by phones and computers
No longer conscious what we see
Hey, women, men're no longer suitors
As if all guys are swept to sea
Robotics ends the "loving troubles"
Those wanting sex will find it cheap
While marriage heads to utter rubbles
Girls shall be left alone, to weep
The feminism shall be finished
Good wives, be clinging to thy men!
Deranged dames be diminished
Caprice, delusion equals ban
"The intellect grows kids in vitro"
Oh, ladies, time to change your mind
Be meek and loyal, as in retro
Or find yourselves be left behind
Men opt for freedom, solace, money
Them choosing peace is way to go
Build fewer families, unfunny
And populations shrink, not grow
A pension doled to all the living
No jobs be left in one's old field
Expect no longer earn a living
Perhaps a fate to be unsealed
Computers write software and verses
The actors dead to play again
Gene mods avail age reverses
And there will be no more pain
My verse describes the thinnest sliver
Of what is coming down the pike
The Earth beneath our feet shall quiver
Choose to accept it or dislike
January 18, 2026
As par and parcel of being
alive wire impossible aye
to maintain totally tubularly
literarily celibate by and bye
with parochial restraint antiseptic dry
as dust poetic refrains
asper this healthy older guy
devoid of physical whim zee
unlike a inscrutable eunuch...so hi
there dear reader experienced
by this self contrived Zen
minded nonestablishmentarian outlier,
whose nonconformist yen
tries to steer clear of controversy,
heresy, prurient wen
unless one happened
to be eunuchized,
i.e. sexless as a cold oven,
but similar to generic men
this writerly hen
pecked husband dully
drumming, droning, and
dribbling as a lix spittle
aged chap housed within
Schwenksville, Pennsylvania bailiwick
though far less inclined
to whet ma lil atrophied dipstick
than some young buck
at the peak of his sexual prowess
every now and again viz,
aye feel a much slighter sensation
drubbing, crackling, and
buckling mine body electric
and attempt to record
re: font ten blue type
boldface and/or Italic
such infrequently occurring
fleeting Johnson magic
speculating why the
hoo ha regarding mystic
spell binding codas,
dogmas, and enigmas,
an integral component naturalistic
within the calculus of life,
when human species
(parenthetically), naturally, inherently,
and biologically opportunistic
akin to other organisms whose quixotic
antics allow NON GMO,
MSG, and gluten free,
and uncensored discussion
asper reproductive habits rhapsodic
with floral and/or faunal symphonic
emanations donning each their own
"NON FAKE" trumpeting
spectacular humbly modest
rubric, yet...universalistic
as being linkedin
within the cosmic whirled wide web.
“Peace is found amidst seclusion. When zealous zephyrs emanate lilac light for lovers, longing for a poetic paradise” ~ Poet
Close your eyes, lend your ears~
to the Universe…
In silence you will hear
the turquoise seas
call my name
every full moon,
carrying tunes of
teal green breeze,
manipulating my mermaid psyche
to fabricate a mystical island,
from scattered sandbanks
afloat lyrical lagoons.
Tonight, the winds keep
talking about you and I;
truth behind your fate,
an unwritten destiny of a planned
hideaway to a poetic beachside,
where a delicate rose
dressed in thornless moon rays,
awakened my desire to sail away,
but I know when
time comes,
you’ll be gone.
Nothing stays constant
in this inconsistent world
where sleep is the only comfort.
Yet, my heart still
grieves over your death,
as you’re the phantom
in my dreams,
and the balmy
breeze of life
wants you to know,
my soul longs to see you,
reflecting our
enclasped silhouettes,
across silvery ripples,
whilst I allow zealous zephyrs
to read you
these unspoken poems
infused with
suppressed sentiments,
while opium dusts
of stars intoxicate
my mind to embrace us,
to whom, I’ve been weaving
colorful confessions,
in rhythmic notions.
Close your eyes,
lend your thoughts
to the rising sun,
I am not silent anymore,
I am silence,
strong enough to allow you
to take me by the hand;
swim against satanic tides.
For I’ve heard sea birds
sing soothingly;
there’s always
a ribboned ray of rosemary
light at the cusp of loneliness~
to the ones that allow their eyes
to see beyond eclipsed realms.
Remember you’ll find paradise
in dimmed spheres,
evoked from
savage sunbeams,
but aren’t we
the architects
that can cast away
shipwrecked lies?
to welcome sacred nightfalls
savored in infinite saffron streams
of cosmic delight,
navigating forever, as
soulmates meant to be,
reunited within
an everlasting embrace,
where iridescent rain pours~
a planktonic spell upon
edges of sea-glass,
piercing through
this aquatic spirit.
Virility Imperiled Manhood Emasculated (mine)
No sense of accomplishment prevails to date
analogous to kudzu... inadequacy runs rampant
recurring theme extant within poetic endeavors,
and often discussed with assigned therapist (one
among many girls named Stephanie Dodds) do
GOOGLE search and see for yourself – similar
curiosity got the better of me, whose christened
name (Matthew Scott Harris), not unique to yours
truly, a poem, which theme pertaining to aforesaid
first, middle, and last namesake already written by
none other other than this scrivener) impacted self
esteem less so than inchoate nascently, pervasively
rampantly,... thrashing unleashed upon impression
hubble early (perhaps even in utero) formative days
of milne eeyore whinnying pooh wrenching, ruing
jackknifing...unsmiling, lamenting childhood's end
upon cusp debilitating psychological tragedy, where
whatsapp pining within me present mindset lodged
nexus, sans linkedin destructive buzzfeeding apathy
mired potential vitality (crying evinced powerful
lungs) quickly succumbing against brutish, nasty,
yet not short reign of innate oppression, fixation
abnegation with dereliction, asper self preservation
engendering feeble gesticulation harkening incipient
personhood crowdsourcing courtesy condemnation
damning existential insignificance motif possibly
adopted comparing not fancy free and footloose
demeanor toward none other than Boyce Brandon
Harris, thee papa, jack of all trades, (many taught
thru his own quick learning penchant), numberless
abilities + storied vocation - mechanical engineer
equalled one smart polymath strengths constantly
reiterated by mother (dearest long since deceased)
agog how papa excelled at most every endeavor,
i.e. vocational career at General Electric (aerospace
engineer) in conjunction with bajillion avocations,
hence finding his sole son (second of three progeny)
when only yeah high (a scrawny, skinny, spunky...
little boy) internalizing heaping accolades bestowed
strong, not so dark, modestly handsome biological
paternal parent with (rocking) round the clock timely
adulation, which praise papa similarly received soon
after blessed birth April ninth ninety twenty nine.