Long Devolves Poems
Long Devolves Poems. Below are the most popular long Devolves by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Devolves poems by poem length and keyword.
“Let silence teach”, the master said
“that soul may be by God’s hand fed,
whence graced by His touch, we ascend,
on choosing to be by love led.”
Inertia cajoles us to blend
with the crowd that we may defend,
attachments to which our heart clings,
though all that begins will soon end.
Time holds its breath when our heart sings
and it is in these little things,
moments when our ego dissolves,
from our very core, soul’s light springs.
When head to heart power devolves,
the scent of love conflicts resolves,
whence thus doing nothing at all,
our true Self as God’s spark evolves.
When we see, we know and recall,
our luminous Self standing tall
and breathless beholding this sight,
we’re blown away in a bliss squall.
Wonderstruck beholding God’s light,
the flame that banishes the night,
we are at peace, feeling complete,
heart dancing with unbound delight.
"We appreciate the popular democratic intention,"
began the Drag Queen Ball proclamation,
'Equity for All'
We would even more appreciate
a more specific lack of pretention:
'Equity for All Victims'
of Straight
White
Patriarchal Privileged
Trauma.
The masculine hotness we admire,
and gladly serve,
is a renewed ecofeminist face
to replace past Patriarchal
Capitalist
unfortunate RightWing embrace.
Ecocide,
like Transgender Matricide,
devolves from Patriarchal-Capitalist
self-fulfilling dark prophecies
win/lose zero-sum survivalist economies
fueled by hellish
anthro-privileged
dis-rapturous
anti-health for all
anti-living Earth becoming All
monotheistically desperate
demonic despair
Of a Straight White FatherGod
incapable of ecocidal repair
while continuing to invest
in punishing deviance
from Straight White Male
cosmic monotheistic glare.
Democracy devolves into tyranny, Plato cautioned.
Flooded by the frigid torrent of factionalism,
will we certify his prediction?
Blinded by the prevarication of public discourse.
Numbed by the inundation of disinformation.
Crippled by the conspiracy of doubt.
The real deep state festers in our cortex,
a place where the charlatans of fallacy
invade,
a dwelling where terrorists of mind
take control.
But the terrain before us is vast.
The dense forest and effulgent meadows ahead are unmapped,
musky, fructuous forest floor perfumes the breeze,
The scarlet skyline of the dewy untrodden beckons us.
Abundant life is our rehearsal.
Can we honestly say we know for what?
Yet, such rapture is eloquent in our dreams.
Such reverie will arrest the parsing of our quintessence.
Our distortions are lifted when we are united
in communitarian struggle.
Published Online 4/2021: The Opiate Magazine
Also scheduled for print publication: summer, 2021
Dark Days Are Coming
Dark days are coming
Loping over the far horizon
Distant still, a little,
They approach, all the same.
The familiar disappears
Note by note
The past piles up behind
Pushing our mutual lives ahead
Towards Who Can Say;
The windows close;
The doors are shut,
We cannot say what remains
We cannot see
The distant shore:
We cannot grasp the shape
Of the ruin approaching
But we know
Its consummation will be complete,
So we grieve
As grieve we must
As the completion of our memories
Devolves to dust,
As the shadows of our minds
Establish trust
In what is now and what will be
In what we think and what we see
No - This is not Illusion.
No - Nor neither is it confusion.
This is how it all plays out,
This the end of desperate doubt:
The Dark days come,
There is no escape.
Will you not accept
Their gentle rape?
A deep pit with a crumbling edge.
Far below,
is a muddy pool swarming with crocodilians.
There is someone with me, a boy.
I shouldn't have taken the child here.
I am slipping, taking him with me,
he won't let go of my hand.
We are sliding on pebbly scree.
A gun drags at my hip,
its weight pulls us down
to where green-scaled
and armored reptiles
thrash in a melee.
One mindscape devolves into another.
I’m a visitor to strange
and as yet unmapped streets.
I've lost my parked car
somewhere between many unfamiliar
city blocks.
Home is a door in the back of my mind,
I suspect that behind it
is a child who knows the way back.
A small boy appears,
he is holding a tin wind-up crocodile,
one his dad once bought him.
At his side a long-barreled revolver,
the same type of weapon
I purchased in Florida
in the event of an alligator attack.
A shadow walks through open doors,
A storm that shakes the wooden floors.
With sharp-edged words and arrogant pride,
She pushes every hand aside.
No counsel takes, no wisdom hears,
She turns to rage and fuels our fears,
One moment high, the next in spite,
A shifting wind that blocks the light.
She yells until the rafters strain,
And leaves a trail of quiet pain.
A simple word, a calm address,
Devolves to anger and distress.
And when the truth is drawing near,
She turns away and will not hear;
She packs her grievance, walks the floor,
And slams behind another door.
With heavy drinks to numb the day,
She smokes the drifting hours away,
Lost in a haze of smoke and glass,
She lets the warnings blindly pass.
No cap or gown, no turned degree,
She walked away from what could be.
Yet demands the purse by hook or crook,
To take whatever comfort took.
She cannot stand or live alone,
Or build a kingdom of her own,
But leans upon the hands she breaks,
And counts the silver that she takes.
Three tender souls she brought to life,
Amidst the chaos and the strife,
Whose rooms were kept, whose bread was won,
By fading hands, from sun to sun.
While she pursued a passing night,
And chased the fleeting, false delight,
Forgetting vows and breaking trust,
To leave her home in settling dust.
The door remains, the kitchen cold,
The stories tragic and untold.
A daughter shaped of storm and stone,
Who leaves her savers all alone.