Long Damping Poems
Long Damping Poems. Below are the most popular long Damping by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Damping poems by poem length and keyword.
Cheph111ChapterThree:
Cheph111ChapterThree:
IN the desert with Stokker.
We stayed five days with no food at all or water mabe some eye scrounged along
the roadside there is almost no containers this far out on the reservation. The
stokker almost lost it but he made it. It is very hard to kick the habit of a 5o year
old lifetime. ALCHOL is insidious and hard to maintain a sober to hang on to but
FIVE days of cold turkey can be happy to a man who wants to work and fly a
galaxy in a gorgeous spaceship with an android and a lady. Marylin was happy
to see a sober stokker and this is how it happened.
The first day he lay on his belly and cried for want. Eye carefully unloaded his
back pack but all he had was two tins of food and he could only eat the halve of
one it was a chore even at this point for all he ever wanted on the world of
NEWTONIA was to go into the city of BOSTONIA and get some more of his
refuel. A Drink is hard to kick. A man enjoys the brew and gulps it down just like
a hound of hell with demons chasing him to heaven. The antidote to drinking is
just want. Never will this damping man ever need to want another drink on the
third day out he was seeing things, Giant bison Giant Moose with horns bigger
than a house Giant dinosaurs OH part of him it knoe that the visions was not real
but it was OH so real rally real LOOKING see but the absence of the noises was
comforting to him. NO ROARS, no stompings of the thundering of hoofs. This
poet now a writer wants to add it was the hooves not hoofs. For there was man
herd that day or is it herds of meese and dinomeese. The last day out eye went
to the Indians on the edge of the wetnesses where they gave me food for the
stokker. At first so horrified at the new mee the android the CHARLAX one. What
are you they asked in abject horror and eye answered them in android fashion
eye have a sober.
And he needs some human food to continue on his program. Though they are
from a different tribe than ewe they met my needs that day with bread and beans
and soup and coffee too. OH lamb oh ewe. The now sober stokker ate just like a
king and then he ate again it was a gift from Indians.
You made me feel trapped with every kiss you planted on my lips,
It felt like heaven, the sun held nothing to your burning passion,
Electricity graced my tingling hands with every time we touched,
Somehow I fell into deep and stumbled over the edge,
And like a bad omen being awaken from a deep coma,
The clouds gathered and the rain started, its rhythmic patter damping my will to hold on,
I tried calling out to you but only echoes of silence returned my waning cries
You were nowhere to be found, alone I wondered through the downpour,
The thunder echoes across the sky, each lightening strike, casting darting shadows across these deserted walls
A silhouette dashes across the empty path and my mind tricks me into thinking its you
I entertain this notion and pursue it but as soon as I grasp it, the fictitious assailant disappears into thin air
I fall to the ground defeated, I'm left spent and tired.
Breathless, I'm left gasping for air but no amount of air is strong, enough to clear my senses, calm my nerves
Soon the rain stops and the wind picks up,
My bodies fire quivers with each strong push and pull from the wind,
My spirit is insidiously dissipating, these chills aren't doing anything to subside the cold,
My heart gives in to the bludgeoning grips of cold.....
The colors all start to fade, the sounds all simmers down,
And I finally ........
But then at the eleventh hour I find you by my side,
You grab my hand,
Don't let go, I hear you say,
But its to late, the little breathe i have left within me,
Escape my lips, formulating three words, a final cry from my cracking heart
I expire and succumb to the blinding light,
With your cries of despair scratching the roaring wind wide open.
Geniuskin
The huddled elite of Europe were in an unprepossessing state
as pouring rain was damping their hopes for their future reign.
These were the best: brilliant, beautiful and young that we oldies
can attest. Their see through plastic macs reprising our youth on
a visit to the not groovy Leningrad where to the Russian young our
cheap copies of this attire were what the youth we met wanted to
acquire now it is St. Petersburg so rich and so chic that makes us want to tweet in awe.
In the bus shelter it was all helter-skelter, the EU's young elite showed
off their confidence in several ways: laughing and giggling, animatedly
talking amongst themselves, then they and we encouraged no Tower
of Babel because they all spoke uber English and damn it seemed so able too.
Some of us quipped the best with them showing that if they can speak our lingo
we would gently tease them in (mock?) envy: they retaliated by taking photos of
us together doing a Mexican wave (surely - well before their time) so history in both
the Yankee and Brit sense of the term learned by them and re-remembered by us.
We left them to catch our coach - leaving them their unknown futures that events will not
turn them into cynics even if grow a healthy scepticism of all isms - including this one -
that comes with age. We sighs - that their positive ideals will not be confounded and their
their hypnotic energy will not lead to a too leathery lethargy as they begin their voyage as
trainee advisers to the government of one of Europe's most tolerant and richest states.
>Most of the countryside you know.
Was forests of tall trees you know.
Then when men made a town.
They cut all those tall trees down.
Men did not then, plant any more.
Used all those trees, now ignored.
To build a house, still some you'll see,
Painted black that wood do be.
Unless, it is inside you know.
Then its true colour it might show.
Not as green leafed, would it show.
If still alive, in forests, you know.
As it is now inside town.
The mantle you'll see, is surely brown.
But not as brown as it would be.
If still alive and called a tree.
Now those forests are so bare.
No longer filter dirty air.
This is a fact it's everywhere.
Not trees, I mean, just filthy air.
Now organizations as they should.
Are now planting lots of woods.
Not for hunting, as in days of old.
But for fresh air, so I am told.
Now if I can't buy a house by the sea.
One in a wood might do me.
Surrounded by trees, so fair.
And all that lovely fresh, clean air.
The above poem was inspired by recent forest fires, but before the disaster in Canada. Where trees are grown in abundance, they are of course the main building material for properties. I often wonder why such towns and cities do not ring fence themselves by lakes and reservoirs. Not only to make fire breaks but so ample water was closely available for damping down in heat waves. Perhaps, a town planner poet, will read these notes and think, what a good idea. lol (The mad Author)<
Form:
Canopy’s aperture, spilled light’s nuance, tinted,
as my eyes arrested, to attest fall’s saga…
A tree proclivity, had me stalled in Ashland,
watching the leaves succumb, leaving stark limbs barren…
Those with temerity, plunged at high speed, head first
Others spun dizzily, tornado-bewildered…
Few flew in gradients, of sideways-sloped descent:
wishes on air sustained, just a little longer…
Some seemed to ride gentle, invisible, sleep-chutes,
touching down easily, with wizened acceptance…
My marrow slowly chilled, as damping moisture crept
But cheer was soon bubbling, as merry maples fell:
swaying in zigs and zags, frolics of to and fro,
to come to a smooth rest, on the glassy brook’s face
Alighting sans ripples, their fate in water’s hold:
floating on a mirror, reflecting their past life,
ere being swept by currents, to their next journey’s start…
(11/4/18 - Repost of Ashland Autumn for P contest hosted by Constance la France)
What makes the hiking up mountains more striking?
What makes the driving more fun than arriving?
What makes the ocean-ing worth the sun lotioning?
Gear!
Gear makes the biking much more to my liking,
Gear makes the camping way less spirit-damping,
Gear makes the gardening less callous-hardening,
Let's hear it for Gear!
Now softball-leaguing is way more intriguing,
Now boogie boarding is much more rewarding,
Now even jogging feels less like a flogging,
3 cheers for the Gear!
Titanium! Spandex! Aluminum! Latex!
Hi-tech! All-weather! Light as a feather!
No wonder I struggled for many a year -
I had not the wherewithal to buy the gear!
You were a waste of time
Not even deserving of a good rhyme
Fist clenched, sweat damping my face
Anxious to find my place
I take the first step
It takes a hold
Just as if I were driving wearing a blindfold
Grabs me tight
I try so hard to fight
I feel my heart race, I begin to pace
At least it reminds me that I’m part of the human race
I take the first step
First we meet to say our goodbyes
I say must walk alone
I say must fall alone
For I am capable of picking myself up
Embracing the world like a new born pup
I am sorry to say…I can no longer stay
So afraid of failing
That was why I kept on bailing
I am now ready to take the next step
I can no longer hide
I need to realize my own ability buried deep inside
I set myself free
And finally discover the real me
You see my dear…
It is this little thing in life that hinders us
This little thing we call FEAR…
While transient clouds ripple in streaks
Below a heap of perfumed blooms prances ,
While fireflies wheel through evening, mellow…
Just then, rainfall blows
Like a funerary gush of tears
Damping my cheeks, blotting night’s glint,
As I ,in a long sojourn of ambivalence
Writhe again inside--- heart rousing a storm.
~
How in low flicker, time wobbles on…
The jasmines gone before I could hold them-
Ignoring such charm as they brush my skin.
~
Maybe this fault of gloom overcomes me..
I fail to see this life, this timely presence .
I don't know why …
My breath feels the dying and the low:
Till fireflies circle my body with radiance
Awakening a flame to grasp this moment,
To open these eyes and relish
A pure delight of what is unfurling NOW.
1.03.2017 Form C :
Broken Wings Contest/em>
Winter whitewashes Autumn's decay,
and yet, you know that Spring will soon show.
But, as snowflakes bury Fall's array,
depression deepens with each fresh snow.
Snow-laden trees, like sculptures of clay;
stand exposed, chiseled by a sharp breeze.
And stenciled in statuary grey;
like outstretched fingers, bare branches freeze.
A brisk breeze wrestles your breath away,
in the grip of an unyielding cold.
And muting the sound of children's play;
melancholy thoughts start to take hold.
A stormy day causes nerves to fray,
for doldrums brood within shadows cast.
And folks speculate on Spring's delay,
damping hopes that this weather won't last.
Purple and scarlet ink the sun's rays,
and yet, sunset chills you to the bone.
For as twilight dims on dreary days,
you feel depressed, shut in, and alone.
A chick plucked off its wing
Down the tall oak branches it sung
A song sung nigh free of yearning
Down the hazy amber elm til its life hung
Near the shore, a kindred spirit melted its last candle
Melted under the dark night sky, its damping light drew him closer
Resuscitating his clockwork, its hand ticked, he threw himself in the shore, without a single ripple
A short-lived sight of a light that chose to fly away, and away, further, and further
I took a stroll down an old park, visited by a dream ever so distant
With ideals buried asunder, I selfishly blew those old autumn roses, greenheads who lost their vigor
I dare not to turn back, a bent world was left with carvings reduced to a remnant
With time and life that will soon disappear, I yearn that lost feeling of fervor