Long Dilates Poems
Long Dilates Poems. Below are the most popular long Dilates by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Dilates poems by poem length and keyword.
MEMORY OF NOTHING
Listen:
Drag branches comeback
Across the forest floor:
Knowledge of the rough¡
At water’s edge
I gather some things up:
“Happy Ending Story”.
We’ve the time to give the Babel Tower
A close reading.
Awful good, Tú
As Roy A. Rappaport’s
Ritual... as Communication and as State.
Our preferences might be
Toward more emphasis
On species places:
Smooth textures of dead wood
Knowledge of our hands on arms
The body-art of ********
Drinking cocoa
And tend to the faith
With a Vampire’s short stick
That smells of infinite urine
As Madonna.
History reveals itself to us
In this way:
Poetry, Tales, Essays are pamphlets
Of impossible interest
Multiplying voices-human, voices-animal
Voices-plant
Voice-life of Earth
As Dan O’Neill’s
Holiday for Cynics.
Look, little one
Courtney Love
We live this close to disaster
There is no turning back
From the tops of the trees
Which are so dense
Almost no sky is visible
Only the odor dilates the nostril
And quickens the heart
On a marijuana tortilla.
The buddhists have been tellig us
That the Self (Ego)
As we conceive of it
Is an illusion.
A good tip
Thinking about Gurney Norman’s
Jack and His Ego.
Is it?
It is that we are of a Time-Sexual
Wherein all species has been joined
To the Wo/Man
Of *****Sapiens
And Life is a single exercise of Cannibals
In constantly elevating towers
Of Bureaucracy.
Nothing in Somethingg
Something in our Nothingness.
I run barefoot along the shore where the water glistens under the midnight sky like a whisper,
I don't know why or from whom I'm fleeing, and the answer will be lost in unbroken eternity,
The moon weaves its silver path in the virgin sand, a road that seems to call me,
And I follow it hypnotized, as if in a dance of destiny spinning its final drama.
A drop touches my cheek, I wipe it with the back of my hand that turns red with blood,
I look up and see a celestial battlefield where time seems to break,
It rains blood from heavy clouds, but who cares why the sky weeps crimson?
While my wounded feet leave scarlet traces on this marine shore.
Suddenly, time dilates like a liquid illusion and I slip into the void,
I fall and keep falling in an infinite spiral, while the sand becomes a lover
That swallows me inch by inch into its hungry and cold belly,
My lungs fill with coarse granules as life ebbs away from me.
I hear a million bones shatter in a macabre symphony beneath the ground,
Perhaps they are mine, but the greatest pain does not come from the body, but from the mind:
That it all might be just an illusion, a dream, a drifting hallucination,
As the sand swallows me deeper, deeper, into a tardy eternity.
Under the heavy layers of Earth, I become a fossil of my own fear,
And the blood continues to rain above, washing away the traces of this drama,
Time has stopped to contemplate how I slowly disappear into the nameless abyss,
Forever forgotten beneath the sand that whispers tales of another world.
Written for “Autumn’s Breath” — Regina Mcintosh
18 August 2026
—Autumn Reverses the World—
The streams, insurgent against gravity, ascend
The hills, as though the sea reclaimed the blue it lent;
The roots, abjuring their chthonic covenant, climb
Through loam towards empyrean immensities beyond time;
The leaves, renouncing their ordained descent, return
To boughs, as though departure were a wound the trees unlearn;
The orchard, having spent its aureate inheritance, distils
From severance a green no summer’s plenitude fulfils;
At dusk, the firmament dilates beyond the visible sphere,
Whilst shadows, severed from their bodies, migrate where
No geography survives the sovereignty of light;
And frost, beneath the rose, engenders a subterranean night;
A seed, still unborn, remembers what birth has yet to know,
And thrusts its darkness skyward, making earth overflow;
Then Time, divested of its forward-moving throne,
recoils through every fallen leaf towards the future it disowned;
I breathe—and autumn enters not my lungs, but the place
Where being precedes its name, and becoming outlives its trace;
For Autumn does not breathe the dying year into its end—
It breathes the unborn through all we call the dead.
Unending lines, vast voids, shapes
meddle with my mind
and ghost an odd geometry,
the same that sometimes
twitch when a sudden waking
decapitates a dream.
Time dilates or shrinks
to a tiny dot pulling all
into its orbit then ruptures
into a rainbow, each strand
of color winding tighter
and tighter around my head.
It's the sense
of not being able to fit back
into the space where I belong,
when I become either too small
or too big or somehow
utterly change in shape.
Such disorientation lingers,
never quite forming into a coherent
thought but floats the boundaries
like a mist clouding
the fevered brain of a child who,
emerging from hallucination,
cannot give form to the terror.
A part of me remains there
held in the thick webs of a dream,
at times breaking through the surface
of sleep into where my waking mind
holds me, fearful,
frothed in the real.
Note.
This poem takes “geometric nightmares
and/or dreams” as its subject. I have had
these most of my life and what I once thought to be rare are apparently experienced by many.
The poem probably won't make much sense without having a little knowledge
of the phenomenon. Almost impossible to
describe the dream experience in words
and the residual distortions that linger
after waking.
Under the vault of memory, where silences are dressed in echoes,
I beg you, let your memory dance among us, unbounded.
When I open your book, a collection of fragments,
My hand navigates through pages, and time dilates
Until an insignificant moment bends me,
And I find myself embraced by a fleeting vision,
A spark of longing decades old, in a shadowed room.
"Who shall deliver me from this body of death?",
I ask, while you float above your own existence,
With words that breathe life into everything they touch.
You adored releasing the absurd, wrapping it in phrases,
Like when you placed the star wars
In "the Marseille of the galaxy" within us.
Diminishing, in your letters from the twilight days,
"Simplify," you wrote, "seems to be the way
Through the uncertainties of my health,"
Showing us how to arrange the house of our soul
In preparation for the last journey.
Why can't you find rest? You have become so much a part of me,
That every cell of yours is now woven into the tapestry of my life,
Spilling into our descendants, into the reality of my second half.
You could live with us, an invisible, cherished presence,
You would have passed the age threshold, with your own pains,
Smiling at the absurdities of our common decline.
Is it worth much, this diligent revival
Of the body's story? Why do I immerse
In describing the passions of youth, the midlife hardships,
The old age's need to touch
The dark witnesses of history?
Is forgetfulness the price of peace?
In my late dreams, we are together again,
Wrapped in the house whose roof watches over our rooms,
A bright sanctuary, open, a sacred refuge.
The walls and roof, timeless, keep time at bay,
Serving as a screen for our love,
An illusion of words where we hoped to keep the greedy world away.
In this poem of existence, where love and memory intertwine,
We transform every moment into a verse of the cosmic song,
A divine fire burning quietly, lighting the paths to self,
In a harmony that transcends the confines of time,
An ode of the heart that sings ceaselessly about the love that elevates us
To the highest octaves of being.
Before the origin of the time-space region
God particles contained in the singularity
defined the core of the nascent creation
in timeless realms of nothingness nonentity.
Cosmogony unveils mystery of cosmic architecture
Big Bang in the singularity created the universe.
History of time going back circa 13 billion years
records how light and matter formed stellar mass.
Super-stars brighter than thousand suns of ours
in the limitless galaxies of the expanding universe,
at the end of their life time they all collapse,
black holes originate with high gravity mass.
Whatever falls in the hole on the event horizon
Can’t come out and escape, not even light.
Black hole becomes bigger by stellar accretion,
gravity waves travel from merged mass out of sight.
Time would run slow or even stop at event horizon
for in the black hole gravity dilates time by force.
All cosmic information would be lost or forgotten
in singularity core, replica of pre-universe cosmos.
If God, the creator, is the singularity invisible
everything created has the God particle within.
At the end of the life time the soul invincible
gravitates in the black hole, resides there unseen.
October 10, 2017.
Light ribbons in one eye we fear
Precede headache pain that's severe
Drug firms clearly bribe
Physicians to prescribe
Migraine meds but I'll imbibe beer
Authors Note: If you are in a safe place (not driving or operating machinery), this home remedy could be better than what the doctor ordered. I keep a few medicinal bottles ready in the fridge for just such an emergency. Lime is optional.
The clinical trial: An authentic "migraine" headache is accompanied by blood vessel constriction. There can be 15 to 30 minutes of shimmering lights in one eye followed by a headache from hell. Having learned that alcohol dilates blood vessels, one day I tried chugging a beer just after the shimmering started. The lights subsided and there was no headache. Beer just may be the second best medicine ever created.
First blush fountain azimuth of hued rays
wet patio shrub basket in the haze
zealous heartland tower cry as life force
celebrate and savour August rare days
Magenta skylines cluster silken clouds
blue ocean colour eyes that worship shrouds
a fancy surreal canvass so divine
it mesmerises jubilant bright crowds
Summer fun arcades stoke our dream world mind
gasps of red tint bliss a peak season find
earthbound poise dilates refulgent cascade
rocking beach tune fare blurs dark strain purblind
Sapphire plinths that anchor stoic ambit
vision on parade my high rise gambit
traipse amid the dahlia euphoric
seventh heaven rapture’s cloud nine orbit
Oh you know the type—
the orchid woman
a cosmopolitan who cosmo sips
between snips of gist
her charisma a starship —collides
with your star-full eyes
supernova for Casanova
her pouty lips knit a glamour-mag smile
rows of sugar-white pearls
strung shiny straight
behind wet-red slicks of a Revlon stick
—cherry-juice bait dilates your want to taste
orchid woman’s glamorized mouth
for the masses to idolize
for many to fantasize
for her to tantalize
and advertise
there’s no need to compromise
with you
or your penny-candy conversation—
when beauty is legal tender
why invest in a waste of words?
ooh, orchid woman is w-i-l-d
an exotic sun-tanned narcotic
erotic her despotic bloom
quixotic your contemplation;
your entangled-limbs-expectation
that this frilly filly blooms just for you
and oh! just look how the honey makers buzz
watch the money-makers spend their sums—
worker bees blinded by her blonde neon
fall in her wake…
or maybe ‘diamond pro’s’ bling
stings and wrings their eyes
…who cares who falls..
when mere red rose adorations
and sticky sap Hallmark incantations
bear not the fruits of 24-karat donations—
Mmm! Mmm!
her traipse does shake like mango jelly sweet
orchid woman’s long-stemmed catwalk walk
full-rounded bouncy-buoyant racy-lacy-ecstasy
yup.. a thoroughbred— she’ll have you ridin’ high
to your credit and blame
you won’t feel her stiletto tips
when she diva-gold-digs ya
as nothing more than a runway-ramp
all slinky-strut-hips
and stay-the-night-vamp
till fly girl wields her strappy high-heels
in a rhythmical click-clack
all over the next middle-age stage
indeed! orchid woman
a hot-house hottie
fussy stuffy lil hussy—
...too much water?
….not enough water?!
oh no! she’s wilted—
sniffle.. snivel.. “where did I go wrong?!!”
mm-hmm.. high maintenance is s-u-c-h a turn on…
yeah… orchid woman is w-i-l-d (eye roll..)
Some days poetry flows
sometimes it is just words.
In the final spring - a poet
yearned for an immaculate blossom,
for his fingertips to bring a painting into life - to
meticulously cultivate and craft a masterpiece.
I recall an opal oasis full of pearl petals,
glittering with rows of diamond orchids,
citrine marigolds, moonstone lotuses,
and garnet roses surrounded by
amethyst lavender and sapphire bluebells.
craving for his mastery.
In a distant meadow,
consumed with faithless flock
grazing dead leaves -
there you bloomed from bronze roots,
an enchanting flower held by an emerald sepal.
In your flattery,
he became a willing devotee,
seduced by the scent of your paradisiacal petals.
But in your admiration he neglected
his selfless blooms,
unaware of wicked weeds
wandering in eidolic fields.
At sunset he would mirror the stars
and follow you like fireflies at midnight,
Serenade you with mystical lullabies,
evoking a sense of serenity,
but in the deception of dawn
you prioritised the sun,
over his soothing moonlight,
so you wilted, withering,
dripping in dewdrops.
In your servitude,
he placed you in the
greenhouse of his heart,
to protect you from the arrival of autumn,
but gaslighting gardeners,
sliced all of his intimate stems,
allowing satanic rain
to poison your spirit.
In the darkness, which dilates his eyes,
the pain still penetrates like a bitter blade
and he has become a forgotten gardener,
with dead seeds of scepticism
sowed into his soul.