Long Delineating Poems
Long Delineating Poems. Below are the most popular long Delineating by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Delineating poems by poem length and keyword.
Who am I, anyway?
I wear the mask of many faces.
I speak, read, and understand—
sometimes with words,
sometimes telepathy.
My voice changes with my face.
I just need a witness.
Attuned to me, I become every language you know,
but I do not know the geography of my own soul.
I dare not look at my face.
It is a drama mask—
sometimes surgical, sometimes not.
Nurse. Poet. Mother.
Sinner. Saint.
Underneath: no face.
I mirror what I see.
I am fluid.
Mist.
The breath you forgot to exhale.
I am the diagnosis you didn’t want.
The cure you don’t need.
Everything and nothing—
and still,
I bleed love.
I have walked through Egypt, China,
Italy, Russia—
snow made of glass.
I’ve been to hell and back.
Purgatory is where I live.
A mystery to myself.
So multilayered I must have alters.
I am not a delineating man.
Not a good person.
Just human.
I am lost in Saturn’s rings,
Jupiter’s vastness—
but Earth diminishes me.
I look to the moon for inspiration.
Spiralling players, man after man,
opening up my heart
like I’m on a butcher’s block.
Venom falls like rain—
but dries before it can stain.
Archangels turn away.
Demons cry.
I walk in places others won’t look.
My heart breaks daily
for the pain we scatter like a farmer’s oats—
and we don’t even water our crops.
Five sacred wounds:
wrists, feet, side.
Invisible nails. A spiritual lance.
Bloody scars bloom
where thorns or teeth
cut into my sanity.
I am Boudicca’s daughter—
Iceni rebel.
I am Eve,
before and after the apple.
I am Adam.
I am the snake.
I am Lilias Adie,
Agnes Finnie,
Bridget Cleary.
Witch. Wife. Changeling.
Burned not for crimes,
but for fear.
And yet,
I rise.
I join the uprising of women in philanthropy.
I stand on their shoulders and rise above:
Malala Yousafzai.
Greta Thunberg.
Judith Heumann.
Janet Mock.
Amanda Gorman.
Hannah Cockroft, OBE.
Dolly Parton.
We are many.
We rise in waves,
and they drown in the tide they made.
And still they wonder
why we howl at the moon.
When I thought of the drawing
Suddenly, I heard some painting
I crave the draft, draught de kooning
Still is graining, still is graining
Long I stood there establishing, painting
I took the blank sheet of paper
My mind was racing
Grandeur, thoughts and flashes behind my eyes
My mind guides my hand
I secure the paper
I crave the draft, draught de kooning
Still is graining, still is graining
Suddenly, I heard the auctioneer yelling..
I'll give you 2 thousand dollars for this drawing
Still is graining, still is graining
Long I stood there establishing, painting
I had dreamed of canvases staining
It was pertaining
The developing draw delineating
All my soul within me withdrawing
The designing draftsmanship designing
Remembering many draft, enticing paintings
An echo murmured back the word, 'painting!'
For I the artist drawing, is now a painting that was sold for money
4/20/19
The Imaginative Lad
The blissful boy at the kitchen
table,delineating his Christmas list.
His Pomeranian puppy licking his cold,
growing, beautiful toes.
Hot chocolate ambiances and
wheat toast, zephyrs up his nose.
He is a prodigious child,with a
temperament, so marvelously mild.
Learning from grandmother to
write classic poetry.
"No one-liner poems from you,"
pronounced she.
"Use your heritage, our beautiful
English language!"
On Christmas Day, Grandmother
received a book of sonnets, which
he authored!
In a green velvet notebook with
a red satin ribbon outstanding upon it.
Grandmother had passed on the
glory of English!
For his Christmas,he was given books
of the Poetry Masters.
Wrapped in loving gold under the great
scented, Balsam tree.
He unwrapped them with joy.
Words to live with him.
For decades, ever after.
November 23, 2019
Hierarchical paradigm of the Amish community
After reading the novel titled
Broken English by Paul L Gaus...
accentuating, exhibiting, incorporating...
the Amish, whose long history of farming
with horses and mules, dates back
to when horse-drawn plows
first used to break up the earth.
While some newer Amish farms
use tractor-drawn equipment,
many Amish farmers still prefer
to use horse-drawn implements.
Said sturdy and simple contrivance
sports prominent envious society
regarding yours truly,
who feels tethered to capitalist construct
gagging me with unremitting yoke.
Hence, I experienced being woke
at mine incompatibility
inured my entire life
to the abstract codas, credo, dogma,
ethos, karma, mores, precepts...
constituting western civilization.
How quaint to bare witness, where townsfolk
congregate to resolve community conflicts
suspicious should an hyperconscious,
and pugnacious "English" poke
their figurative noses
where they don't belong kinsfolk
of sect who sell dried tobacco
foodstuffs, crafts evoke
hankering (regarding yours truly,
a run of the mill doubting Thomas)
to become linkedin
with a voluntary community
less restrive than
the so called "plain" people,
unencumbered with materialistic trappings
whereby assignments delineated
governed jump-started
by age and gender at birth
men assigned physical tasks,
while women linkedin to domestic role,
members of the sect
know their role from cradle to grave.
Aside from delineating
responsibilities predicated
on whether an individual
child, teen, or adult,
their culture allows,
enables and provides
self reliant lifelong skill sets
whipping a proud member into
topnotch shape of body, mind and spirit.
Listen quietly to the dripping water.
Hear it slow down drip by drip.
When it stops it means that the ground is in settled order. An overflow of water does not exist.
Now listen to the trees and the wind passing through them.
Hear their sounds like a choir of varied tones.
Concentrate to hear the birds all around us singing their songs of rejoice and delineating warning zones.
Now, come back here this time next year.
You’ll hear the water drip and the sounds of the trees.
But, the chorus of the bird song will be fainter just like the flowers that miss the bees.
Year on year we stare into nature. Year on year we promise what we will not give.
Soon the bird song will be sounded into history and life will be colder and duller to live.
A flamboyant love with a beloved muse,
Transcendent and captivating, the spirit destined to confuse.
As time currents flow, the hearts ignite and swell with amour,
Unveiling words of enchantment leaf by leaf in a tome like an author.
Every encounter with your visage makes me run wild,
To a degree of delineating all the giddiness like I'm a child.
Behind the intense fervor lies heartache and profound scars,
A trapped soul desperately yearning to grasp with distant stars.
The unbearable ache of healing and moving on,
Flashbacks and memories haunting silent intervals from dusk till dawn.
Mixed feelings of confusion and regret,
With a shattered heart that forgives but never forgets.
A heart laid bare awaiting to be loved and healed,
Yet never allowing entry even if they appealed.
From the ruins of love emerge bittersweet endings,
Unlurking shadows of love that bring fleeting winnings.
Touching the soul to its bottomless core,
Leaving the heart in pieces, sore.
the bittersweet silent story of my life age
fifty and nine automatically rebroadcast
in indelible (yet never washed out) beige
indistinguishably linkedin, when counting
the last three of seventy somber orbitz,
signify torturous custom made cage
whose darkening shades of gray
housed a weakened Harriet Harris,
an ashen corpse lay
no doubt a grown changeling dust play
a cruel trick, and soul of me mum didst slay,
so...tis with great difficulty aye write this poem today
cathartic to brush off self denunciation,
an albatross that dust way
heavily incriminating, ostracizing this mind of mine,
recurring every year comb May fourth a line
codifying, delineating, earmarking,
and doth likened
to elementary school Boyer
as in Henry Kline
no less painful reflection plus unavoidable,
hence this middle aged man lets feelings incline
toward self expression this anniversary
revisiting re: deign
upon memorializing general up beat
defiance at death of thine late mother,
where disease rabidly did eat
ting her til she expired,
this singular married heir
set himself a writing fete
wordlessly mouths never expressed greet
unbeknownst reeders gleaning my sentiments heat
ting recollected adieu bid prior,
whence she angrily wanted to meet
that accursed nemesis
against healthiness and repeat
cherished apothegm,
that existence offers no second act
as she relinquished slipping tenuous weak bract
leave ving ever fainter grip upon cracked
pommel of mortality, an immutable fact
thence black knight denounced, pounced, hijacked
trounced unannounced, vanquished, lacked
motive to rival nixed, extinguished sputtering pact
fast fading joie de vivre unspoken,
where death rattle racked
personal def tone accentuation tracked
subsequent self castigation,
excoriation nearly whacked
me to Timbuktu rebuking extolling bless
sing experienced from
this sole son for thirteen years, aye confess
when the inimitable Harriet Harris
To define is to articulate what lies within
a concept,
a population,
a word,
a paradigm.
To delineate is to articulate what lies beyond
boundaries of a concept,
a population,
a word,
a gestalt.
To extend learning,
and loving,
is to stretch this evolving articulation of boundaries
between what lies within
and without
a concept,
a population,
a tradition,
a still evolving word,
a revolutioning,
multiculturing,
transforming paradigm.
When we become lost in reductive delineations
we can become distracted from expanding
deepening
thickening
capitalizing
heightening polypathic definitions.
For example,
Republicans, and, to a somewhat lesser extent,
Democrats, in the USA,
have begun a new tradition,
and not a healthy one,
of becoming more articulate definers
of what it means to be One
by loudly proclaiming we are not of the Other.
Something similar could be said, unfortunately,
about feminists and patriarchal caste preservationists
as anti-feminists;
which does not really evoke strong hetero family values
in any traditional healthy
wealthy
or wise sense I can think of.
I guess we could call rape a form of intercourse,
but not one that anyone would hope for
in any semblance of sanity,
much less integrity.
Anyway,
when Trumpians try to define the benefits
of their proposed health care legislation,
the first, and often last, phrase I hear is:
It is not ObamaCare.
Perhaps the only difference
will be measured by comparative NonCare,
leaving further delineating boundaries
between Trumpian and Obamian Care
to evolve further at a later excluded time
for continuing to expand healthcare.
But, in today's polarizing environment,
health affordability and sustenance
and pathology prevention issues
are increasingly above our active political leadership's pay scale,
beyond our collective rhetorical mission statements,
now becoming who we are constitutionally not,
because too internally divided by kleptocratic v democratic complexities
of who we might have become
together,
in and among a healthier
wealthier
regenerative space/time
body/mind extending concept
appositional word
liberating religion
transforming paradigm.
.
Hour hands clock back sixty minutes of Autumn
Round about this same of month every year, what a bum
er, and inconvenient truth diverged from this chum
purposelessly manipulating a hold over
sans yesteryear doth drum
a sensation of jet lag (with earth in the balance)
as if flying within time machine at warp speed from
this station, where bumpy ride invariably finds me
feeling a bit ticked off and glum
and in no mood to rhyme, nor be leer re: cull
juiced barely tantamount to gather scattered wits
sin tide, and express mood as hoe hum
fortunate, this chronological seismic shift nada wide, ah assume
nonetheless, mein kempf cerebral hemispheric plate tectonics
comb pluck hated off jangling black keys helplessly boom
fancifully drifting and booring into quick ribald sand trap doom
ming an inducement for emergency convoy, when pitched from
sea to figurative shining sea – gram ma mother earth glum
where live yikyak wired vanguard trulia tried optimism to hum
nonetheless, swallowed down behavioral sink went – me mum
bling bloviation, once worth matchless peerage, now pitched numb
lee into morass of temporary confusion, where plumb
line delineating circadian rhythm offset, when athwart pilot rum
man strait ting and bickering with Lilliputians slum
bring within islets of langerhans defiantly thumb
ming nose, where body, mind & soul weeknd viz a bully did cower
hence mister clock, who got high-jacked 3600 seconds per hour
experienced head, thorax and abdomen diminishing in power
wrought indistinguishable Whitsuntide as sour
grapes imposing ill fitting sea legs, which folded like a faulty tower
crumbling skeletal carapace, resoundingly surrendered,
and back slid vis a vis space/time continuum did devour.
Black hole event horizon indeed kept lock step as das joint mill hoard
Sucker punched the band wagon of father time, whose riffs a silent chord
nsync with atomic fractional second bored
quirky shenanigans toying with chronometers
counter point of view shifted to oppose this minute accord.
"God punishes us for what we can't imagine."
Stephen King
What we can't imagine
is what we won't imagine
for lack of polypathic priority,
for too much fullness of rotting exegetical Promise.
What I won't imagine
becomes what I would never choose to invest in,
to nurture,
both filled with fear
of self-emptying prophecy
and overflowing with love
for Earth's other-fulfilling potentiality;
robust
resilient with or without us
regenerate
opposite of delineating pathology
through superego's anthro-absence.
We evolve healthy wealth becomings
truncated by static nonverbal then verbal ...isms,
unimaginably ebbing and flowing
what we have not yet hypostatically imagined dynamic,
ergodically patterned,
bionically rhythmed
creolically rocked
and matriarchal understory schism-rolled
rewards of and for Earth's echo imagining bicamerality,
sacred nondual ecology.
God's punishment
is for what we won't imagine,
multiculturally polypathic together.