Long Digestible Poems
Long Digestible Poems. Below are the most popular long Digestible by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Digestible poems by poem length and keyword.
Poet don’t feel right
Poet struggles sleeping at night
POETS NEVER SLEEP
At least…that’s what other poets keep telling me
But this lackluster slumbering just might be
From the unwavering weight of all responsibility
Poet only seems awake while walking through daydreams
Only wants to live life lavished in imagination
Painting alternate universes in which the stars guide me
An alternate universe in which i am happy
The moon and its tides constantly aligned
An alternate universe in which my artistry arrives unagonized
An alternate universe already constructed by someone else
An alternate universe in which contains an atmosphere in which I can breathe in which should be the one I’m in now
But my nervous system glitches,
Spine tinges spitting gibberish
Jittering shaky legs racing while staying stationary
Amazed at the way
A stage shakes me
In vibrations
At least its safe to say I said something today
Shared a story shoved, cornered in a junk drawer
At least I keep poetry in motion
only productive when my mind’s flowing
But I know my audience
I know they’re only hearing my poet voice
They only see my tragedies rehashed in romantics
There's only so many ways to manipulate the pain staked
in my chest in my throat in my head
So I choke on my raw truth
so it’s more digestible
for everybody else in the room
If not on the page,
Where is a tortured artists’ pain safe?
Paper scrapes
Psalms
Poems
Cutting deep enough
For me to bleed enough
For you to envision the misery
I’m in
Some alternate universe in which I am not a poet
Instead,
I am illiterate at the expense of my own pen and tongue
Instead, I await the unarriving;
Bleeding out without any sign of rescue
Instead, I plagiarize my inhabitance to a world
constructed by everyone except myself
Instead,
I am here
Earth rotates
Everything else still
I am still
Here.
In late on a late night from a long journey,
Barely in the door
She's telling funny stories of her own misfortunes.
A comedy of errors that harried her homewards.
The young woman who will always be our child
Has the lot of us laughing
When we should be asleep
At things that would've driven others
To fury or despair
But those have no hold on her,
Because bulldogs don't give up -
They just hold on.
So now she's holding on again -
A new grownup
In a too grownup world.
Schooltime over;
Lessons now born from living.
- But that's all right,
Because biting down, holding fast
Is what she does -
She's gonna chew this bone too,
The tough white bone of adulthood,
Down to a pile of fine, digestible dust
She'll make it all her own
The while she works it.
Poetry is the push behind
the wave – the brilliance
sparking light –
the poet, a wonder-er
and wanderer...drawing
illumination from wells
of glistening shadows –
never pondering
the where and when,
his focus always toward,
the Almighty How...
Never seeking the there and then,
making of complex mysteries
bite-size, digestible pieces --
compositions of an omnipotent God's,
ever illusive, Eternal Now...
no work of mere description
will do...
each ensuing articulation, an evolution –
as Darwin observed his Galapagos,
like so, all creation evolves by man's
conscious and unconscious sensing –
The poet, no predetermined
puppet; but, in fact, a Literary Diviner –
believing his practice – man's personal
enunciation through his ever
greater
revelation
of words –
dipping his fanciful
quill into the ink of a
publishing universe – dripping
reams of infinite pages – poetry,
our intimate voice of never-ending
possibilities...
After much consideration
I have decided that, Time
is both longest and shortest
word in the dictionary...
so long, it can only be measured
in digestible fragments
so short, it takes only a careless moment
to end two lives –
My thoughts go back to your accident:
How a second can sever like a scalpel,
terminating the lifeline connecting two hearts
with one fatal slice...
(two lives with one stroke of the clock – Tick Tock)
(Time, the infinite multiplier of joy and grief)
I know – Suck it up! Breathe the loss in and out
like Brahma! We are spiritual beings at our core;
someday to meet again on a plane of restored
bliss – where Time and Space give way to
eternal contentment and happiness –
But, “Have Faith” at the moment, seems hopelessly
entangled with my hourglass of other cliches: Just in
time. Out of time. In the nick of time. Time – all pasts
and the future of all presents, to be managed by
many, like myself, through their recurring lapses into
heartfelt Limbo.
I start off being optimistic
With my big saucepan
Only as a last resort will I ever
Eat soup from a can.
I assemble all the ingredients
From a list I’ve not written down
Caremelise the onions.
Until they’re nice and brown.
Slice up some items
Dice all the rest
Cut the mushroom small
I think that’s best.
I slow cooked a Ham to
Provide a liquid base
Carefully and slowly
I stir this into place.
I crumble in a cube, flavour
Depending on what I’ve got
Bring it slowly to the boil and
Keep it simmer hot.
I use a hand held blender
To get rid of all the lumps
Get it smooth and even
Get rid of all the clumps.
I taste it in anticipation.
Always a potential waste
It’s hot smooth and digestible
But has such a bland taste.
indeterminate and indefinable
And no matter how I’ve tried
The supposed soup’s variety
Just can’t be identified
So it’s down to my reviver
I alway need to use to fix it
Worcester, Soy, and Balsamic,
And then I liberally mic it.
Sling in some lazy garlic
Just for good measure
Amazingly these Ingredients
Just add to the palate’s pleasure
It’s a hotchpotch of flavours
With a lot of spicy heat
Not the sort of thing a gourmet
Would willingly choose to eat
But we consume every last drop
We just can’t stand any waste
And hope springs eternal one day
It will conform to conventional taste.
Below the craters of a sullen city
I burrow lightly, cautiously, hands on
Guardrails, one foot after the other,
Into the underpart of the earth,
Through a spiralling, syncope-fomenting
Stairwell, old and broken, but grandly ancient.
The light thereunder is dim and shallow,
And the rest of the matter with it was a
Basket of fusty smell.
It was by the loose side of noontime,
When mustiness gathers sweltering details.
Little rain from last night, falling from a
Sobbing, laconic south,
Made issues graver.
But I don’t mind.
With cracked, besieged walls, the grounds
Welcomed me well.
I stood and gazed at the books on staffed shelves,
Aged and worn,
Graced by times’ capsule of relief by way of
Primitive reckoning.
Tablets and scrolls rave with the lustre of fading
Yellowness.
Tomes (leather-bound) attested to the pregnancy
Of departed eras.
Encyclopaedia Britannica eyed me warmly.
A tall, bespectacled man, the age of Wilde,
With apricot skin and second-hand suit,
Thin and wobbling stick,
And shoes from Lennard’s
Buried his face on a Chaucer
Material, reading silently to the tune of
His twerking soul, his full lower lip
Mocking the higher.
Men and women clutter about, searching
And peeking from shelves of immortality,
On whose dusty surfaces elderly pages stuck
Out their tired, resting tongue-tips —like
Stray, hungry dogs on battered pavements.
The books and volumes sell for a farthing each —
Coins betrayed by roaming verdigris.
The quill feather pens for a few dashing shillings,
The scrolls, some teeth-showing cowries . . .
Above us (the reading congregation of this temple
Of books and time),
A coven of reading witches and winking wizards,
The city throng manages itself with the due process of law
According to traffic —above—
And several feet below — underground —
The hidden treasure of
Digestible info,
Divergent views.
An', as [music] blowed an' blowed,
I often looked up at the sky
an' assed meself the question--
what is the stars,
what is the stars?
Juno and the Paycock
Sean O'Casey
Our sacred choir
prepares a new anthem
which, in summary, goes:
I have the deep soul blues today,
so Give Me Music.
This troubles me
because Music erupts from within,
more primal than a commodity
to be delivered on command.
What is wrapped and presented from outside
we may hear only as voices with rhythm
and harmony
and unresolved dissonance--
but all these together
are not yet our enchanting music muse
fully investing
infesting
musing through us.
Choral inside resounded music,
resonate through all four voices,
sharing our deep-rooted muse,
blues soul longing to speak and dance
music of the stars,
To come home again
where we have always shared soul belonged
inducing peace.
Sacred choirs
do not usually demand of matriarchal Earth,
Give Me Music!
More likely we invite experience
of more resilient inside dancing muses
healing like anciently redundant starlight.
I feel angst in soulful mourning
that cannot be healed through commanding
Give Me Music
or anything else, for that matter.
But, loss does invite deeper experience of resonance
and small bits of creatively digestible resolving dissonance
to feel better
about absence of remembering
What is our starlight soul
but well-sung dance
enlightening solidarity?
If we are asking Earth
to heal us with the Muse of starlight mystery,
then, indeed,
Give Us Music's full harvest
blowed an' blowed.
Dear future self,
Right now I do not care what they think of me.
It feels like standing in the middle of a room and not flinching.
It feels like shedding a skin I was never meant to wear.
I hope you never put it back on.
I hope you never start performing again just to be digestible.
I already know the world can be cruel. I see it in the tiny betrayals,
in the softness people pretend to have, in the way love can disappear without a warning.
I don't romanticize it. I don't expect it to be fair, but I want something better for us anyways.
I want a life that feels chosen. I want depth without despair. I want love that doesn't feel like survival.
I want success that doesn't cost my soul.
As my friends and I drift into separate futures I hope I let them go with open hands.
I hope I never confuse outgrowing with abandonment.
I hope I wish them well without wishing I had stayed smaller to keep them close.
I wonder if you still see the world the way I do now -- darker, deeper, layered with meanings
people tend to walk past.
Do you still notice the silence between words?
Do you still sense when something is going to fall apart before it does?
I hope you've kept your depth.
I just hope it no longer feels like loneliness.
If the wold is still sharp, I hope you became sharper -- not in cruelty, but in clarity.
Stay deep, but don't drown.
Love yours truly,
Me
1000 miles per hour scientists have calculated the Earth’s rotation
And 25000 miles in 24 hours according to their quotation
They say it is the distance from the sun qualifies their concession
But it is the facts that they failed to mention
The fact in the matter is, it is not gravity, the sun or the moon
So I thought I will break it down so you can see the big picture soon
And those scientific theories are fallible and can be popped like a balloon
Then you can stop watching the Discovery channel and watch a Disney cartoon
In order to deliver the facts I will change from monorhyme
This will give you the information in digestible nuggets in time
Here we go:
Fact: we know that love makes the world go round
Just enough to stop you flying off the ground
According to my calculations, there are 380000 people making love every second
Wait a minute, just in case I am beckoned
22800000 in a minute, 1368000000 in an hour and 32832000000 in a day.
That’s a lot of people indulging in naughty play
Therefore each person generates 3045808967 gigawatts of negative energy
Calculate it yourself and if I’m wrong I’ll change my name to Cenergy.
The negative energy is what repels us from the sun
This is not generated from the up and down of underwear of everyone
If we quit the Earth will stop spinning
And this may mean we’ll come out winning
For we won’t die or age in years
We’ll never be made redundant due to someone younger taking our careers
You can borrow money and go in debt
And never pay it off if you take it over a year I guarantee the bet.
For if we stop love, time will stand still
And to get it moving again would need the love pill
So from me and Captain Morgan, we say good night
Tomorrow how the earth got it’s crust we will write.
So say good night to this drunken plumber
And by the way, if we stop the sun will suck us in and that’s a bummer
Good night
They told me to be smaller.
Fold myself into neat little boxes,
tuck my voice into the back of my throat
where it wouldn’t disturb anyone,
make myself digestible,
palatable, easy to swallow.
But I am not a pill.
I am the whole medicine cabinet,
the cure they didn’t know they needed,
the antidote to their comfort.
I come from a long line of survivors—
people who turned scars into roadmaps,
who planted gardens in graveyards,
who looked at closed doors and said,
“Watch me build my own entrance.”
I was never meant to whisper in a world that’s screaming.
I am every ancestor who fought so I could breathe freely,
every dream deferred that’s now catching fire,
every no that I alchemized into fuel.
My voice is not a privilege—it’s a birthright.
My presence is not an apology—it’s an announcement.
I walk into rooms and change the oxygen.
And yes, I’ve been broken.
I’ve tasted rock bottom and called it home for a while.
But even shattered glass catches light,
and I learned to make stained-glass windows out of my wreckage,
to turn my pain into something beautiful that people can see themselves in.
I am not waiting for permission anymore.
Not waiting to be ready, to be perfect, to be chosen.
I am choosing myself—
every morning, every setback, every small victory.
I am the question and the answer,
the match and the wildfire.
And I am done shrinking.
Watch me expand.????????????????