Long Discharges Poems
Long Discharges Poems. Below are the most popular long Discharges by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Discharges poems by poem length and keyword.
Blustery sky I have read your blotted scroll
Your balmy reams with angry portents roll
A bleary tempest o'er your tranquil plains doth roil
Blackened tenants perch on your billowy shoal
With shutters as dark as night as black as coal
Shading your gilded beams; with menacing shadows troll
From foaming mouths their brackish discharges dole
Stirring your seething pot; bleaching your blithe soul
O'er burnished strand their angry tides stroll
Spewing drops of misery; their boisterous nature to extoll
In thunderous chorus they sound their deafening drumroll
They sear your azure canvas and scorch every silky atoll
Stoke breezes with haunting whispers droll
Oh, blustery sky enfilading torrents seep through every porous hole
At night
a shot or two
rings out.
Vartan turns over
and looks at his wife
safely on the side of the bed
away from the window.
He senses
the difference between
sounds of alcohol fueled rounds,
and those from long ago, booted
hate filled men.
Sunland-Tujunga.
The late night discharges
of aimless despair.
Most early Saturdays,
he leans on the same white wall,
black grilled windows, no signs,
no numbers.
The corner of his street and
Foothill Boulevard.
He and his friend, Marhar,
smoke in the morning sun.
They are disturbed only by
an occasional car with an emboldened exhaust.
They know from passed down stories
the deep chill of Zeitoun,
the snow,
the shooting,
the running.
The hiding in caves.
The red lines in the snow.
They know in their veins
who they are,
even against this warm,
white, unblemished, smooth wall.
They are all the lost brothers.
Boys.
They shiver.
They weren’t there.
It was too long ago.
They were there.
Instead, one tells a story
of last night’s
Knuckle-Bones game
and what they won
or lost.
It is a better
to laugh,
shake the head.
Not bury one
on top of the other.
The stage is set, the stage is full…
Now occupied by clowns and fools
By amateurs who think that the rules
Exist for someone else to use
Against all those "like us who choose
To bend the world to suit our will.
Just look at us, we're dressed to kill."
It's an amateur production so what'd you expect?
You get what you pay for and when we elect
What would be Tony-worthy it helps us connect
A night at the opera to a script of neglect
Singing Soprano in matters of state
And Mob mentality casting our fate
To the winds of war that always blow ill
From a yawning maw that time cannot fill
The worst thing about this is what's come before
It's a book and a movie we've all seen and more
Commedia dell'arte? More commedia dell'boor
Theatre of the absurd without ceiling or floor
The rigging, the fly, and the catwalk all float
Suspense of reality in one leaky boat
Orchestrating it all from the pit and the podium
Conducting enthroned on a golden commode he, um...
Discharges his dispatches into the night
Where they flitter and twitter and X out the light
There truth is a joke and the race is a fight
To the bottom, whose bottom? his bottom, that's right
Where the output is put out there in the dark
A step up would be needed to even be snark
So lowly it's solely fit for the bin
Heaven forfend it should twist in the wind
For the stench left behind is beneath us, but still
It will take all our disinfectant and will
To clean up the mess that's been left behind
In this darkening theater under the mind
So lower the curtain and bring up the lights
And clean up around your own seat 'fore your flight
Into brighter horizons and rational thought
And consider this all as a battle you've fought
In a test of the limits of our democracy
That brought to the world a model that we
Could be proud of and lend to those yearning to be
In pursuit of the fruit of their own liberty
No matter the subject, poetry,
somehow, is all about love --
Love, a poet's bread and butter.
Staple stapled to the writing
tip of his forever pen, and the backside
of his often used pencil. Falling in and out of.
Were it not for Love's addictive nature,
a poet's heart's habitual affliction...there would be no poetry.
No poet. Period.
Hallmark rhymes are far from my
heart's loses and finds, no paper beaters
in said repertoire -- torrid bliss, or totally disappointed,
pissed!~ has always been my hotly repeated refrain! --
Poetry oscillates, lively. A charged, bare wire!
Makes for hyper passionality (made that word up).
Rises, a Sky-rocket -- bottoms~ a clogged bowel!
Too much overeating of non-tenderized fowl
reflects and epitomizes, self induced, masochistic
relationships, that lead to, autogenous, butchered,
my own mental scalpel, seeming lobotomies. A medical wonder I can yet write.
The poet consumes drama~ discharges incessantly!
Both sustenance and waste, same confounded paste
he spreads on toast and his own body roast --
Adds and subtracts vociferously, voluminously, deeply,
depth-fully~ each work, in some way, an extension
of presupposed, paramount, though egoistic, core matters. His many
Pointillism, mixed with mere, random, ill conceived
uninspiring hackneyed splatters.
Feels so deeply,
that what he cannot create for himself, from emotional
others he will beg, steal and borrow -- absence of
love, for the poet~ there is no
yesterday! Nor today...nor future desire though potentially a richly composite
tomorrow.
Ensure you allude to all that has been recorded.
Every creature that has lived inside the rocks.
A long-forgotten former planet has appeared.
Awareness arises as we break the padlocks.
Electric fan blades are humming in a hot place.
When you're alone, and there's no oxygen.
Loneliness looms overall aped a pitiful prince.
Bedlam rises when commotion inside deepens.
Reveal if that's innocuous, or it may injure people.
Are words yet another excavation experience?
Is it feasible to resurrect a moribund principle?
Did you find it bothersome or maybe mysterious?
There is a hole where the hamster once paddled.
Since the snake hissed at it but didn't even eat it
As the animal lays on the floor, its insides splayed.
Earth has morphed into the fabric under the seat.
Besides birds, giant excavators lay on their palms.
Underneath, you may view mind-boggling and tangled traffic.
Yet, excavating a gigantic hole in the center of homes.
Let Earth deal with melting lakes or roving nomadic.
From the tenth balcony, the building site is visible.
A goliath, dead pit discharges light, fire, and vitality.
Quietness loaded up with facts yelled in din risible.
Coated with glass, gaze at a flying towel on a gallery.
Written: June 19, 2021
This or That, Vol 4 Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Edward Ibeh
Wild exploits of hunting food
Other indications of self-survival
Light moves the wolf on the terrain
Few observations as the vultures fly
Inner thoughts of hunger and survival
Nnumerous observation still as vultures snack their beaks
Solid rushes the wolf ponders running
Hostilely he moves towards his prey
Earliest observations vultures circling praying hurry-up
External evidences seems to favor the wolf looks like a dog
Physiological drives still the birds of prey wild, when you going to kill
Critical reflections birds of prey yet still circling
Latter rushes the dog, barking and sniffing…ruff-ruff-bark
Observed visage views wolf still looks like a German Shepard
Total reception now sounds of barking and sniffing…ruff-ruff-bark
Hardly visible now as the cat, the mountain lion leaps into the air
Innermost thoughts from bow-wow, to roar and a meow…
Nervous discharges wolf-dog no longer barks at…
Gloomy thoughts you see for the Vultures were wolfs in Sheep clothing?
8/6/19
Written by James Edward Lee Sr. 2019©