Long Disengage Poems
Long Disengage Poems. Below are the most popular long Disengage by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Disengage poems by poem length and keyword.
She did not recall those nightly forages
Those midnight snacks had packed on the pounds
From her eating habits she couldn't disengage
She needs to solve the mystery of those midnight rounds
Her husband was suspicious too
And he wondered what he should do
For someone was putting miles on his car!
It was really quite bizarre
So he installed cameras, both inside and out
To see what this mystery was all about
They reviewed the tapes after a couple days
They were both shocked and dismayed
There was his wife having a midnight snack
Sleepwalking to the kitchen and back!
The couple knew this was no dream
For there he was, driving down the road with high beams!
This sleepwalking couple knew just what to do
They'd kill two birds with one stone and go to the drive-thru!
--
7-20-18
Sleepwalking Contest
Sponsored by: John Hamilton
The still, early morning crawl
The minutes tick, the hours tock
Hands of Time, marching on
Past the fences, past the farms
Put the mists before my eyes
Put the cobwebs in my mind
Climb the hill at glacial speed
Move with me – deceptively
Reel the line in steadily
So I think it’s you, not me –
Don’t look back, as I am wont
Upon the tapestry you’ve wrought
Painted on vermillion skies
Slowly, slowly passing by
Leaving but a parting trace
Lost in lines upon my face
---
Oh, Hands of Time! Marching on
Your masterpiece is but a con
Disengage – impassively
Even disingenuously
Let the light and landscape fade
As fade they will at close of day
Come for me before the dawn
Before I wake to find you gone
Taking from the blue sky blue
The breath I once had held for you
the fear
The fear that has no name, it is there, churning away
for no reason, until today when awake
with peace in my heart
I used to be angry with myself, which made me disengage
With life around me, I became morose and bored
to serous, no fun to be around
I used to wake up early, sit by the bed for hours, not
getting anything done, getting up, drinking coffee
Shall I eat a cake or not
I had seen that day at the local supermarket
to elderly gents on holiday, they had bought beer and
looked at ease in their elderliness
That was what I had to do, not pretend to be a pretending youth
But embrace myself, sagging stomach, muscular arm
turned into chopsticks
What the , you silly man, you can write and
express yourself and be fearless of your opinions
With my sanity restored, I slept until eight
Fractals.
Spawn of iterating quadratic functions.
Choreographers of cosmic conjunctions.
Impervious to human dysfunctions.
Makers of multiverses. Encoders of creations.
Limited only by imaginations.
Recursive. Coercive. Immensely immersive.
Purveyors of poetic creative cursive.
With formative fractals you’ll melt your mind’s shackles
and be anywhere that you may want to be.
You can form fractals to your own reality,
and make anything in the sky or the sea.
You can even repurpose them to poetry …
Yes, if
fractals were dactyls they’d flow off the page,
whirling and twirling, sublime.
Freeing us, being us, thoughts disengage,
teasing and pleasing with rhyme,
reaping the rhythms of time.
From mundane equations that yet yield complex
repetitive patterns that please and perplex,
come fractals so beautiful in all respects.
Constructors of coastlines and snowflake concerns,
foundries for forests, and feathers, and ferns,
the deeper you dive they have more twists and turns.
Generators of patterns, like veins in a leaf,
and the branches of trees, shapes of every motif.
Look around, everywhere, there are fractals, good grief!
From the large to the small and still smaller they flow,
simple patterns repeating, yet different, you'll know
that there’s just no escaping the great fractal show.
So, let’s face them, embrace them, we’ll host history.
Let us master them, plaster them, I guarantee:
merge your mind into fractals, you’ll set your soul free.
Reconstructed 3/22/2021, for the FRAGMENTS OF VERSE Poetry Contest, sponsored by John Lawless
It’s like solving a puzzle
Figuring out by introspection or divine providence
Which word goes where and how it goes there
, I’d trade a runner’s high for a punner’s high any day
It’s better that way, at least for me
An emotional dump and stress levels fall like Humpty Dumpty
This is my eighth poem in two days and I’m not even losing sleep
At least not any I can’t afford to lose
And what’s more prison’s no excuse
They can’t take this away from me
Not as long as I have pen and paper
Hell, even if they took that I could still compose
Just a bit more ephemeral in general I suppose
But it keeps me on my toes when the words I chose come together in the end
I won’t pretend it’s all about being brilliant
It takes happy accidents and coincidental turns of phrase
like “turn of phrase” and “happy accident” that have something poetical to em
I don’t create anything I just find the rhythm that occurs naturally,
And actually, if I over-think,
it stinks, it’s ruined and wrecked,
I move on to the next part and come back when I lack brain and have heart
I’d rather relieve my mind than my bladder
Splatter my troubles onto the page and watch the rage disengage
The hardest part for me is knowing when to stop
Take your fill of my time
Does it thrill you?
Do I play every right chord in you,
Or do I dethrone your frustrations
Into raw rage?
Take your fill of my time
Does it pleasure you?
Have I breastfed your ego
With my warm, mindful nip?
I can hear my efforts drip, drip, drip
Take your fill of my time
Will it please you?
Or will it rot and dissuade you?
I feel you disengage,
Until it is I in that raw, raw rage
Take your fill of my time
Will it fail you?
The drips turn into spurts
Till it is my tears you feed on
And it hurts…
Take your fill of my time
Will I miss you?
When I have nothing left to give you
When I turn the other way
And you disregard the sweet, sweet sway
You and I will hear the drips no more
The rage will empty into the desolation
That truth can only replenish
I must unfasten myself from your tirade
To find a rant of my own, and a way
Will I regret every second of my efforts?
Can I dare breathe without my soul being drained?
Will you never learn
That all that I have lost from you
Cannot the same be gained?
So take your last sip of my time
Will it redeem my worth?
Shall I bite again into the joy I seek?
Or shall I dwindle away
Into solitude’s deep?
When every act is sacrilege
And every word is blasphemy,
And the shroud of your suffrage
Is just a veil for your vanity --
I choose to disengage from it all
I choose the option of sanity
When the voices on the fringe
Crowd the cries of free dissent,
And the door to thought becomes unhinged
In a room of one's own argument --
I choose to disengage from them
I choose the option of sanity
I didn't know --
I didn't know I had a choice
I never realized
I could choose silence over my own voice
When the shoulders that bear the sky
Shrug at last and let it fall,
And it all collapses before our eyes
Like a jet plane striking towers tall --
I choose to disengage from you
I choose the option of sanity.
will this matter in one year?
the backdrop of a full life
i watch the movements of the conductor
as he weaves between the instruments
and the house lights struggle to follow him
he knocks into a french horn
and there is a moment of giddiness
a moment of anger
there is an exchange of words, beyond banter
and luckily, they are not overheard
over the optimal acoustics and architectural splendor
the jacket needs to be readjusted
and a handkerchief is revealed from the inside pocket
as he wipes his brow and continues
continues to stare at the horn player
and the battle ends with the conductor
finding his way to the podium
the bloke playing the triangle whispers to the horn bloke,
"simply disengage, don't make eye contact,
and remove yourself from the situation."
the conductor turns, under the stage overhang
and mouths to the horn, "let's dance."
he smiles, then returns and his bow is made
put 'that's all folks' on his gravestone
One sign points east, and the horror arises.
I thrash and cry out.
As the rupture in the wall of my cerebral cortex grows bulkier and broader
Not a soul comes to salvage me
And no one comes to pull the plug on the feeling of my intestines spilling out of my body
Not one soul kills the gruesome vermin
That's facilitating the tower of sickening, horrific thoughts
Growing in the kingdom that is the film in front of my retinas, and the things that I see.
One sign points west, but there’s nowhere to look
God, the things that I apprehend as I scream a long, loud, piercing frequency
And I perceive the horrid voice pounding on my pulse points as it screams with me
I’m incredibly aware I'm going directly into a head-on collision, but I don't shift my calves
Then…I hear them faintly, the torn and jailed uplifting thoughts saying I can do anything
Although, as I imagine what I can do, it's a dark, empty void that gives me a sense of fatigue and dread for what's to come
As I wave my bloodied, bleached white, and tampered-with flag
I succumb to the misery that is my darkest understanding of the word “Hate.”
One sign points north, and I already despise it.
I see the road leading down to the dusty, dark, pothole of my depths and despair
I ask myself if I knew this would happen
If I saw the palpable signs and if I knew how to keep them under control now
I see a structure in the distance, a building I used to spend countless hours in
I see a broken, worn-down, rotten, abused palace of emotion
It may be a house, but this was never once a home
As I insufflate the fibers of this disintegrated life I call my own
The air feels like snow, like I'll freeze at any given moment
I permit myself a millisecond to imagine the tranquil blizzard on my bare forearms
The scars on those arms and hands, a remembrance of what I was before my vestigial wings seized, the ones that used to hoist me into places where oxygen is sparse
Before everything went south.
And I respire in the stench of forgiveness
It feels uncomfortably serene, but I don't dare bother letting it into my heart
Letting it graze my organ of skin
Letting it patch up my wrongdoings
Letting it make me see something of my past that I could never truly disengage from
At no point will I ever let it in.
The nightlight's pointed fingers graze the ceiling. My phone lies silent on the pillow beside me. The 'Do Not Disturb' won't turn off until 6 AM. I'll hear the local birds tweet outside the bedside window before my alarm. I close my eyes and try to sleep after a long day…
Sleep won't knock me out. All I can do is stare at the darkness above. The dark writhes under my gaze and tendrils flick at my eyelids. It urges me to sleep. Drowsiness presses on the corners of my eyes. I'm tired. My shoulder throbs. I shift my weight. Alertness pierces me awake, and I groan at the memory.
I shouldn't have argued with Matthew. He loves playing Schrödinger's ******* when it comes to AI art being legitimate. He smirks and boasts how much he enjoys art now that he can do it with a half-assed prompt. I bruised my shoulder on the doorway when I tried to walk around him.
Matthew slapped my sore shoulder when he laughed at the face I pulled when he showed me his 'art'. I asked him if he'd remember his slop a year from now. He was confused. "Who remembers the art they make?" I should've thrown up my ham-and-swiss cheese sandwich on his white button-up shirt. My performance art would've livened up the afternoon.
I disengage with the memory and turn over to ease the pressure on my shoulder. The darkness scratches out Matthew's ignorant face. It's a shame I can't take a picture and show it to him. Sleep drags my eyelids close. I'll figure out a better response to Schrödinger's ******* with my morning's bitter coffee. My shoulder is lighter.