Long Discards Poems
Long Discards Poems. Below are the most popular long Discards by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Discards poems by poem length and keyword.
Immortal Belovéd, if in despair
we grow listless with Love's unmet desire,
and high emotion oft' marks our affair,
we fail to love; and begin to expire.
'Ere long, lest our unexpressed Love's well fed
(often), it'll thus take another lover;
for man loves woman, and woman loves man:
but Love discards them both when it's over.
But, with hope, Love can over-run fore'er
(for us), remain, and survive misfortune;
to quit now would be our only error:
therefore, let us thus make our bond immune?
If Love can o'erflow and be ne'er-ending,
Beloved, then we, too, are worth defending.
Fireflies flicker like falling stars
that hover in a garden thick
with memories of times we spent
beneath a smiling moon.
Oak leaves gently ride the breeze
that softly blows its tender breath
and quickly dries the tears that fall
from sad and misty eyes.
Ghostly sounds of whistles blast
from ships now far away from shore,
their clearly outlined silhouettes
dark against the moonlit sky.
Thoughts congeal, a cold, hard mass
obstructs sweet memories of the past,
replacing them with vivid visions
of our last goodbye.
Eerie calls from gulls above
now echo cries within my heart,
its shallow beating reminiscent
of the pulse of time.
All too soon our love affair
became a part of fate's discards,
forgotten vows now languishing
beneath a distant moon.
In God’s own world so humane once
Blood flows thick as incensed streams
Bullets rip through the buds of dream
The homeless drift as alien discards
Terror flares up in the fanatic hearths
Lives mutilated by despicable instincts
People plunge in cesspool of vice and sin
Dislodged empathy finds its way astray
Morality defaced by harsh intolerance
Kinship disintegrates in abhorrence.
In God’s own world so beautiful ever
The sun rises in multi-color grandeur
The ocean embraces the golden shores
The sky sparkles with moon and stars
The rains shower the music of clouds
The forest makes scenic emerald lattice
The river takes land’s essence to the sea.
The children born to inhabit the world
Still smile and play merrily in the field
God is not tired of the humankind yet
He will make the world humane again.
__________________
May 29, 2022
For A Brian Strand Premiere Contest
spirit free and unbound
caged in form discontent
yearning for fulfilment beyond
discards ego borne feral sediment
senses five looking to the external
at myriad of illusions swirling
fleeting forms too nimble
we shift to connecting
for no reason at all
we find our heart singing
as a divine radiant bliss squall
teleports us to rapture heightening
abiding in a tranquil calm spacial
essence of our presence a mist
unfolds within Gods miracle
joyfulness that persists
For: Pick-A-Title, Vol 25 - Rhyme 2 Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Edward Ibeh
Title: Eleutheromania
13-November-2020
Her spirit was made of pastel colours, glitter, tears and light
Her heart was made of smiles, strength and dynamite
She wore courage on her sleeve and bravery on her face
She welcomed resilience with a warm embrace
A part of her was the moon who rose above drama in the sky
A part of her was a shining star who refused to die
Leaning on the other stars in her milkyway
Her friends were her support structure and there to stay
Do not judge her assertiveness as it creates protective walls
Not only from a crazy narcissist, but from any other great fall
Do not judge her walls as they kept her alive
It was all part of her process... shatter and then rise
She had worn many titles in her life
Such as daughter, friend, counsellor and wife...
She had been the provider, a teacher, and one who strives
But most of all, she wore the title of one who survives
Yes! A survivor who many times did not need to tell...
The world of the numerous times she fell
Because she used her energy to get back on her feet
And go once more on life's rollercoaster's seat
To the narcissist who dared to come close to my domain
And attempt to inflict her misery and pain
Come closer once more and play with my chaos...
Prove to me what I already know - (her sanity was always lost!)
Her bruised soul starts to heal and slowly discards the pain
As she dances to resilience in the summer's rain
She takes her scars as a souvenir and token
That her soul was once bruised, but will never be broken
It’s caught up, always, in those little things:
street corners, half-familiar: shop facades:
it’s not so much expansive boulevards
as rain-worn roofs which pluck the silvery strings
of sorrow. Part of my subconscious clings
to remnants – ruined fragments, broken sherds.
They say the brain’s an organ which discards,
not hoards. Why, then, these cruel rememberings?
A tranquil helmsman, plotting perfect vectors,
is how I see myself. Wretched delusion!
We’re buffeted by failure and exclusion,
divided into Hectors or defectors.
The only shred of dignity it brings
is when we learn to love our sunderings.
Beneath the piano,
a dust ball rehearses eternity.
It gathers what time discards~
the wool of vanished winters,
pollen from orchards no longer blooming,
one white hair from the head
of a woman who has forgotten
the song she once sang
while washing dishes.
Thread by thread,
it constructs its small republic
of neglect.
The blue fiber from a child's mitten
lies beside ash from a birthday candle.
A fragment of feather
touches the husk of a seed
carried indoors on a boot sole
years ago.
Nothing enters by design.
The dust ball accepts all arrivals,
offering citizenship equally
to the celebrated and the overlooked.
A scrap of ribbon.
A grain of soil.
The curled filament
from a lamp long shattered.
Under magnification,
its tangled construction
resembles aerial photographs
of rivers branching through continents,
or the dark filaments
between galaxies.
I suspect
the universe favors this method~
gathering,
combining,
keeping.
Meanwhile the piano above it
waits in silence.
No hand touches the keys.
Yet the dust ball continues
its patient composition,
assembling notes of absence,
measures of departure,
a symphony written
in particles.
Perhaps every house
creates one secret historian.
Not in attics.
Not in albums.
But beneath chairs,
under beds,
behind bookcases,
where unnoticed years
settle into a sphere.
When sunlight finds it,
the dust ball briefly kindles.
Each mote shines
with borrowed radiance.
Then the light shifts,
returning to is quiet labor,
collecting the shed signatures
of ordinary existence,
rehearsing eternity
one particle at a time.
Waking, she inspects the color under her sweater
and sighs that vague orange is still wearing her.
Orange can’t be her friend until it reveals its core.
While white is already a friend, the floating ones
aloofly speak of odd concerns she cannot pattern.
At times, float-whites hear, but never do they listen
or cease insisting that she has dreams, NOT visions.
Blue, green, pink and white all bring truths to her:
if she finds the correct umbrella, she could fly thru
blue-white skies adorned with smeared pink pops
over green’s velvet-thick and lush laid blankets.
When she gains the doors other side, freedom
will lead her to the right, flight-ready umbrella.
Sorting and storing colors keeps her busy all day.
Her favorites - blue, green, pink and white shades,
she tenderly places in see thru plastic jars, all
other colors she discards as too bland hearted.
Daily relief is happily seized by determining
not even a kernel of purple is in her world.
Purple startles, it is pain’s chosen dispersal
that circles and circles until she curls up,
prone atop piles of her own broken pieces.
Occupied with her color heaps, she spies a white-
float fluttering in her doorway at a time too early
for the syringe of colorless assistance
that simplifies her organizational tasks.
She hears white make words but disappears
inside of all pink things with soft plumes.
“Both your parents came to visit with you.
They are waiting inside the purple room.”
Old magazines, pictures that pose;
Junk cluttering, ready-to-throw;
Stray offerings for scrapbook close;
I'm selecting new collage flow.
Flip each page here, tear picture pacts;
A nice neat stack, stray page with poise;
Beauty that steers, pieces of tact;
Sift pile and slack, find image choice.
With easy pace, seek treasures lost;
Start to address new storyboard;
Assign new space, at zero cost;
Begin to press, cut-and-paste hoard.
Cut, trim and gum, pieces of art;
Ideas run wild in collage grain;
Here and there lump, unusual parts;
Just like a child: magic laid plain!
And pictures grow, images lift;
Collage art sings new melodies;
New chance to glow, warm purpose sifts;
Junk page now spring, clear textures see.
Thus one by one, I shape new stuff;
Discarded print, pictures galore;
Artwork frees fun, prime zest enough;
Colours and tints, avant garde core.
I feel my soul, at ease with this;
Paper cuttings, sharp cutter blade;
Trim to make whole, relax with gist;
Patchwork trimmings, pictures re-made!
This strange crusade to re-use print;
I come to know heals more and more;
Art left unsaid, re-lives new mint;
Collage that shows new life galore!
Art goes to show that discards can
Be of good use if I can see
A brand new flow in whimsy's plan:
Heart sparks a fuse to free beauty.
Leon Enriquez
24 February 2014
Singapore
The morning paper is everywhere, the breakfast dishes, are here and there
Her feet up in the easy chair, the old man in his underwear
The phone starts ringing loud and clear, so hubby quickly disappears
When he returns, she sees a frown,…, He calmly says, “Guess who’s in town?”
“The corporate boss, not far away….I've asked them here to spend the day!”
“A little lunch would be no trouble. He’s with his wife…her name is Mable”
“You did what???? she screams. (The neighbors hear!)
"Company?? ... You say they're near?”
“Help me quick. Get off your rear!!”
"Oh dear,.... oh dear, ......oh dear) !!
"Get off your rear, you lazy man! And if you don't .....I SWEAR!"
She frets and stews and carries on….her hubby simply mutters
She runs around the messy room and stashes all the clutter
She’s acting like a headless chicken, her partner in a quandary
He watches as she runs around, hiding dirty laundry
Oh dear, they’ll need some lunch to nibble, whatever could she fix?
She finds some fruit, some crackers, cheese, a bag of party mix
Running to the bedroom, she’s gasping raves and rants
“You’ve got to get your shirt on!…For Pete’s sake, dear! Find your pants!”
“Heaven’s, we must hurry! We’ve got to make the bed!”
"Whatever you say, dear" he grumbles, and shakes his bewildered head
She discards her frumpy nightgown, powders her frantic frown
She quickly brushes hair, a dab of lipstick too
Tosses sloppy slippers, dons her pretty shoes
A knocking on the door, she pastes a cheery smile
Her unexpected company has come to stay awhile!
Breathing deep, she goes to greet them “So good of you to call!”
“What’s that.....a bother?” “ Now don’t be silly, you aren’t bothering us at all!”
She shoots a glance, a daggered lance, into her husband’s mug
He has no clue, ignores what brews…a deep, dark hole he's dug
For, once again, he’s lost his head…and says
….”Stay the night, it's quite all right, we have an extra bed!!”
She fakes a smile, and says "OF course!!".........
(but tomorrow he’ll be DEAD!!!)
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