Long Demarcation Poems
Long Demarcation Poems. Below are the most popular long Demarcation by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Demarcation poems by poem length and keyword.
At one time,
(a time-scape so broad
that it knew no ownership),
the world was wide,
there were no nations, no distinctions,
just humans in a well clothed landscape.
Progress found a way to be prosperous,
agriculture could feed not just families
but many others
they built walled cities
to keep their prosperity safe,
and every wall was a demarcation.
The clothes they wore
became status symbols,
and so, not to starve,
the poor had to clothe the wealthy.
The world began to fracture,
the wide open
became the over-populated narrows.
until one side of a street
could wage war against the other side.
Free people still existed,
but they lived on the margins
surviving only at the tacit consent
of the crushed hordes
crowded into the narrows.
If a person really tried to be free
the people of the narrows
would make TV shows about them,
pretty soon
the free became curiosities,
trapped in ever narrowing images,
forced to be viewed
inside an edited picture frame,
in a landscape that was once frameless.
A picture postcard of narrowness
can now be purchased
in any city, while the few
who still live outside such walls,
with handmade knives, they whittle for pennies
the wooden effigies
of warring narrowminded gods
suspecting they are no longer free,
but only carving out
just another form of narrowing.
I am not a violent person
in any physical way,
but if love were a fight
I would fight you this day.
If love were a fight,
I would fight you all night
under twinkling stars
by the full moon light.
If love were a fight
I would fight you near the Ocean,
where the rolling weaves
are poetry in motion.
I would fight you in the depths
of the deep blue sea.
As your lover,
I would fight you
for every moment
you spend with me.
If love were a fight
I would fight you in the desert,
as twilight sets fire
to the sun baked sands,
I would fight you
across the mountain tops,
I hope you understand.
That I will never tire in my desire,
nor will I seek any rest.
Fore I will give it my all,
and fight you
with my last breath.
If love were a fight
I would show no mercy,
give no quarter,
respect no time line
demarcation or border.
I would kick Godzilla in the knees.
Call Goliath a punk.
Resurrect Houdini
and leave him
trapped in a trunk.
If love were a fight,
there is no limit
to what I would do.
But I would thank God,
I'm fighting with you.
Nature of Life
Are you able to discriminate
between living and inanimate?
Can you draw definite line of demarcation
displaying ‘Life’ and ‘No-Life’ distinction?
Is there any boundary which
non- living can never reach?
Beyond that can life originate,
spread, flourish and terminate?
Earth, Air, Water, Sun: so-called non-livings
are responsible to initiate living beings.
Senses are hidden in inanimate more or less
to be shown by life in continuous process.
Microbes show little sense; plants show better sense.
Animals in full sense and humans in conscience.
In Nature, eternal chain of life cycle continuous flowing
through inanimate, microbes, plant, animal, human being.
05/15/16
SPRING STANDARD CONTEST by Brian Strand
Last call for alcohol, embargo
on the cargo headed for Fargo?
Bootlegging articles of?
"ConfederationNow",
Boot logger, droned Over all? Foggered... Froggers, sprawled. Farms attacked by competing vows. ++
Blood drained Cows.
Imagine, Gaia hype- our brainwashing, a
sacrifice to a Paul Bunyan Nephilim type, "Savior" moonshining wormwood tea in exchange for Sheep. Believing them to be. Stoned blind in Texas, right wing.
Liquid Media medicinals, points for eveyone West of, Diagonal the Allegheny, best of show, suggestion,
allegiant, allegory. (Oh...allegedly.)
As The King of the North fights zombies that believe the Game of Thrones just fantasy. Conspiracy_ Storytellers of propagandolf, minds of Sauron to keep
eyes Wide-Shut. By Aristocracy.
To "pass" on the proof of those stoned blind in Texas, shekeled, bought, brought a Rose, of Sharon,
from Ticked Karen's, in their own Eden.
Those non-Citizens,
"Christians of the un-Enlightened" l"unacy of Old',
thoughts? NoahmadicHeathens!
Of the tide turning; going South.
The dark side of the moon,
a journey scape of wet dreams in swoon.
To partake the half empty side of drink.
Salt of thirsts.
Cup of wrath of the Directional Winds.
A piracy bloodbath of Nationhood in martyred demarcation zones.
Cusp of swilling blood of the swill,
Apocalyptic feel, fills,
notes of the unveiling of the Whore who Rides the Beast on the Seven Seas. Leviathan is leavened,
rising, ready to eat.
Now, there is censorship on speech on the internet,
then is, when, is then en-Tyrely.
The Gatekeepers at Fallens keep,
keeping freedom, voices "Crying in the Wilderness"',
Peeps out of reach.
Accept for Government (entities) with algorithms, keyloggers, identity id thieves, imagers of the Beast.
Spell binders binding
their articles-of-New-World-Sourcery-Cheaping-Rumpelstiltskin-Seamstitchery-Tailoring-Truth- blinding-digital-mining-slaves for the Wolves,
Kings of the East, Trading Company.
Trading souls for an hour with the Beast.
The doves arrive, gentle creatures
heads bobbing as they walk,
plucking stray seeds blown free across the ground.
Paired matches, clutching together
in the softly shadowed rays
of early morning sun to welcome the day.
Peerless counterparts, solitary and alone
scanning the demarcation zones
marked and policed by energetic squirrels.
Boundaries are set, locked in place
periphery margins of time and space
held orderly by the season.
Winter, spring, majestic intertwined interludes
painted purple, black, blue, creamy orange
by intermittent cold and warmth rising and falling.
Signs of the time, forewarning harbingers
of time cycled in conscientious discreteness
dandle acclimation to greet the age of change.
The doves come, peering through the gleam
of light and its reflected mirrored surfaces
long methodic glances at the systematic march of time.
Death—
I’m the silent noisy appellation
I visit once and not twice,
Now load your luggage in a jiffy,
I have given you galore of time,
Continue in merry making!
For tomorrow might past thee not.
Man—
Ah! I trembled at your sight,
Death! For I have heard thy work,
I have just taken in a wife—
And soon to bore me a son!
Can you give me months or a year?
And I dare not to cross,
The demarcation of my promise,
Or confuse you with magniloquent.
Death—
You have spoken well,
But I’m the spirit that never compromise,
I cannot come again, to reparagraph,
And again, what do I tell my master?
You came unclad and unprepared,
Dare I not for tomorrow shall not pass!
Man—
“What shall I tell my lover?”
That death has come or that my time is gone?
The most random serendipity,
The fate of an expectant couple,
Unrealism frowns mildly in this aegis.
What should I carry along my journey?
The commotion of this overwhelmed...
The sincerity of this metaphor!
The paradox of living, and the vanity of wealth.
Should I bribe death with my mansion?
Or with my scars and flashing cars!
Death—
Why do you worry yourself?
I’m the vagrant of nature, the drift dream:
And I need nothing, so keep those mundane,
For when the hour is come,
My fingers will snatch thy bleeding heart.
I’m the unannounced visitor,
That sits comfortably in your dining chair,
And wait to spell life out of you,
Brook your imbroglio—
Man~~
Uwu! So, this just it all?
The life I have planned ends,
And in second I shall be no more,
Sweat has bathed me....
And heavy throbs have almost pulled the life
Out of my being—
Death is wicked, and death is mean,
Why do you botch the plan of my luxury?
I wail to leave you my love...
Life and death are not fair to me;
The peak of my discernment.
Death—
I corroborate with thy soul to end thee
I’m enigmatic, evasive for I’m death...
Visiting houses and lives at will,
So, I ask soothingly......
Are you ready for me? My venomous;
Is about to visitor a home.
Man—
Kpashi! Uma ka kwagh ga cii,
Alas! The love I promised will go in vain,
Thinking about my solitary journey,
And the euphoria of that grain....
The rising anxiety of a quiet kidney.
Truly! My end has come suddenly...
The onomatopoeia of life,
Crashing, zooming and humming silently.
It fell upon
My neighbor’s house
Not mine.
I was dry the sky was soaking
Looking where the rain was falling
A sheet – no a wall of wet and
Me outside of it.
How?
How and why this demarcation,
This sharp exactness?
I put my hand - my left hand
Into the falling rain.
It did not get wet
Yet
The downpour grew stronger
Fell heaver and longer
And I still dry
Watching the falling curtain,
Uncertain
How this could be
Happening?
I called to my dog
To come outside
To look to see.
She looked and stopped
Wagging its tail.
Then thunder clapped its ears,
She ran inside under the
coffee table.
Thunder stuck me also
The rain had fallen upon us
A great ocean of it
Just on us.
Has this happened before?
I had to wonder a lot.
Back indoors
Both damp and drying
I think I overheard God laughing.
After the election,
at least two things will continue without interruption: death and taxation.
After the election,
two kinds of people, the rich and the poor, will remain without interruption.
After the election,
I will continue to pray, to go to church, and keep writing new poems and stories.
After the election,
I'm not going to cry, worry, or fret over bad news or old stories.
After the election,
whether by mail, the internet, or bank drafts, bills will be due without hesitation.
After the election,
Airlines, hotels, and car rentals, will still expect us to make a reservation.
After the election,
College tuition will not be free, but young people will continue their education.
After the election,
Both winners and losers will continue their complaints and frustrations.
After the election, there will be less affection, but it’s unlikely there will be any defection.
After the election,
States will remain united, and none will decide to declare secession.
Although, after the election,
it’s possible there might be some new revelations.
However, after the election,
‘Trust me’, no Politian is likely to face any incarceration.
After the election,
The politicians will continue going in different directions.
After the election,
some will lick their wounds while others will have a celebration.
After the election,
Neither party will be any closer to perfection.
After the election,
No American soil will show lines of demarcation.
After the election,
There’ll be no need for ex-candidates to have better protection.
And finally, after the election, while Politicians will appear to be problem-solving, citizens will continue their own problem-solving without hesitation. 11032018 PS Contest, After The Election, Kim Rodriques
I stroll a silvered landscape
where trees are silhouetted spears,
stabbing memories of days first walked with you . . .
ice traceries, firey strands of longing lace,
wrap the crumbling dream,
like brittle, curling tinsel from childhood holidays.
A burning stream of cold tumbles seaward,
dislodging jagged stones, desire and disgust;
wounding barren feet.
Backward . . .
I trace pink-tinged footprints
along the line of demarcation
where love once gamboled in innocence
before the moon capitulated
and collapsed into the sea.
Lovely she was, but she is no more.
Copyright August 3, 2018
All newborns move from womb to crib;
and toddlers leave the floor to play in yards.
Most youngsters go from home to school,
learning a new milieu some with ease.
Our kids both young and old contend with space.
While teens assemble, needing gangs and groups,
our college students age as they leave home.
The forest’s edge expands with chills and thrills.
Advancing purlieu dawns on us
the outskirts of our lives change over time.
The empty nest can normalize our lives
as we accept each demarcation line.
With marriage, having children need not stunt
our passage if we've learned our lessons well.
We welcome flux and look forward to tomorrow.
Grandkids will start the cycle anew.
Agendas set; when of necessity
we must retreat, forest calls us back,
we think goodbye, adieu slowed our bearings down.
In lieu of serving others, we now dread
being waited-on by younger souls
who'll take their mental notes. An empty nest
just helps pull the curtains on our clock and stage.