Long Disintegrates Poems
Long Disintegrates Poems. Below are the most popular long Disintegrates by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Disintegrates poems by poem length and keyword.
freedom lies with a shattered grace
stumbling toward atomic mythology
where answers have their sins washed
brilliantly bright as suns dyeing skin off-
colors of rumors circulating planets
of the universe pulled headlong into a night
-mare riding tattooed and complaining
about recollections of severed ghosts
(hiding in a ball of fear minds cry)
out of season the earth radiates melting
enraged stupidity the penultimate prize
(summer sunday christmas chimes)
on the edge of sleep falling awake...
ring the festival of blood into session
the birth-fangs grapple with truth no longer will
recessions bring harvests the moon is full
...and the eye is a clogged vessel full of truth
(in relative position the evening twists elaborate
dances like guitars bending the last strings...)
a painting of a brain chips and disintegrates
like words of a schizophrenic seeking the last
wisdom hidden in the bottom of a noise
only tasted...with the throat closing vision narrows...
the fading archetype is the last opiate of inspiration
the last leader is a shill of the lord of matter dissipating
(two raindrops collide) the core of her heart is hot
like earth it is revised toward oblivion...
...follow it it is
...night brighter than calm
...lipids sinking into servitude
...no one will digest this but all
choking dry paranoia on the fringe of town
(a different verb writes in the sky a new eternity)
...we witness the madness of a faceless doctor
scratching scripts illegible to the naked lie...
conscripted as a rat before a snake fighting its shadow
diving into the blind dream we call created angels
to save our skin from weeping generations of blood...
Bubble
by Michael R. Burch
Love—
fragile, elusive—
if held too closely
cannot withstand
the inter ruption
of its bright,
unmalleable tension
and breaks, disintegrates,
at the touch of
an undiscerning
hand.
Originally published by Neovictorian/Cochlea. I believe this is my only "shape" or "shaped" poem. Keywords/Tags: Love, fragile, delicate, bubble, tension, held, breaks, break up, pops, disintegrates, explodes, implodes, hand, touch, harsh, ungentle, violence, stress, relationship, abuse, anxiety
Louise Myers
1896-1917
They shot the Archduke,
And my eyes closed in disbelief;
They sank the Lusitania,
And my heart palpitated.
My friend, this world reels and tumbles and faints,
Lost in endless crises and disasters;
Aghast at the senseless violence and mayhem.
The War To End War commenced,
As I terminated this futile existence,
With a loud curse and a silent prayer;
This leaping lunge into the death ditch!
Once, I secretly applied lipstick,
Unbeknownst to my firm-minded father,
And joyously kissed myself in the mirror.
Oh Narcissus,
Be my lover now!
For the world reels and stumbles and disintegrates,
And I have made this last leaping lunge,
This hysterical thoughtless leaping lunge,
Down, down into the deep death ditch!
It starts gently—like a setting sun,
a tingling drift uncoiling in my abdomen,
tracing meticulous pathways through my frame.
It slithers into my mind, a weight both foreign and familiar,
a harbinger of past collapses,
whispering peril in the language of ghosts.
A whisper becomes a tremor, becomes a howl.
The cold vacuum yawns wide, swallowing every lucid thought.
The world outside disintegrates into shadow.
Fear is no longer a possibility—it is law.
Rational thought fractures,
splintering beneath its weight.
I am hunted—
by echoes, by specters,
by the certainty of failure.
A thousand past mistakes resurface,
each one carved into my skin.
My heart pounds, hammering dread into my ribs,
a steady cadence of self-inflicted peril.
I drift—untethered, lost in a space with no end,
caught in a current I cannot fight,
dragged by a tide I cannot name.
I have strayed from the path.
My only armor is retreat,
a desperate crawl into the deepest alcoves of my mind.
I search for anchors, for proof of the real,
but terror clings to me, thick as tar—
a parasitic thing feeding on certainty,
swallowing past and present whole.
Damn, it’s painful.
I question the steps that led me here,
the fractured frame of my own making.
I am reduced to a child—
small, breakable,
locked in combat with invisible horrors
as they claw their way from the abstract
into the marrow of my bones.
Ben Sana Mecburum: “You are indispensable”
by Attila Ilhan
translation by Nurgul Yayman and Michael R. Burch
You are indispensable; how can you not know
that you’re like nails riveting my brain?
I see your eyes as ever-expanding dimensions.
You are indispensable; how can you not know
that I burn within, at the thought of you?
Trees prepare themselves for autumn;
can this city be our lost Istanbul?
Now clouds disintegrate in the darkness
as the street lights flicker
and the streets reek with rain.
You are indispensable, and yet you are absent ...
Love sometimes seems akin to terror:
a man tires suddenly at nightfall,
of living enslaved to the razor at his neck.
Sometimes he wrings his hands,
expunging other lives from his existence.
Sometimes whichever door he knocks
echoes back only heartache.
A screechy phonograph is playing in Fatih ...
a song about some Friday long ago.
I stop to listen from a vacant corner,
longing to bring you an untouched sky,
but time disintegrates in my hands.
Whatever I do, wherever I go,
you are indispensable, and yet you are absent ...
Are you the blue child of June?
Ah, no one knows you—no one knows!
Your deserted eyes are like distant freighters ...
perhaps you are boarding in Yesilköy?
Are you drenched there, shivering with the rain
that leaves you blind, beset, broken,
with wind-disheveled hair?
Whenever I think of life
seated at the wolves’ table,
shameless, yet without soiling our hands ...
Yes, whenever I think of life,
I begin with your name, defying the silence,
and your secret tides surge within me
making this voyage inevitable.
You are indispensable; how can you not know?
Attila Ilhan (1925-2005) was a Turkish poet, translator, novelist, screenwriter, editor, journalist, essayist and reviewer. Keywords/Tags: Turkey, Turkish, Translation, City, International, Leaving, Depression, Absent, Absence, Parting, Separation, Distance, Loss, Break Up, Soulmate, Soulmates, Love, Lovers, Companionship, Passion, Desire, Longing
Helplessly I watch as she fades away
Her personality disintegrates day by day.
Where is the wife I once knew
With her generous smile and love so true?
The incessant question again and again
Her plaintive and oh so painful refrain
She barely remembers me but not her daughter
No more does our home ring with her laughter.
Night she has turned into day
Doors kept locked lest she walks away.
Food rarely passes her lips
Desperate only for ice cream and chips
Some day soon her body only will be there
Her mind having vanished into thin air.
Could I commit her into care?No way.
In her own forgotten home she will stay
Trudging through the torrent of crowd,
the entities inherently disconnected,
a wasted lonely walk not taken before.
When time dilates encompassing the present,
reaches the edge of fading perception,
frail past crumbles as waves on distant shore.
As moonless sky falls with the ebon night
shards of broken heart disperse in stillness
on the wasteland of stark desolation.
Future horizon doesn’t see the sun rise,
dislodged dreams drown in perpetual dark,
still life finds the anchor in island of isolation.
When forlorn distance stretches far,
reaches the fringe of the empty vision,
creeping seclusion permeates porous life.
The endless walk to nowhere of no purpose
takes the soul to the depth of despair
through the tormenting times of strife.
When distraught insight loses the track,
wanders disoriented in the wilderness,
imposed insulation it’ll indubitably get.
Dismayed mind disintegrates to spread
on the waning time’s darkened shadow,
melting in the gloom of bleeding sunset.
Written : July 26, 2019
May 23, 2020
Contest : Brian's Choice R
Sponsor : Brian Strand
In a world of dreams, where hope vanishes into nothingness,
Life is a drunken beggar, holding out its hand towards its own shadow,
phantasms of illusions passing through its troubled mind,
like a sea of shadows crashing over cliffs of old memories,
a grave of unfulfilled desires, crucified on the cross of oblivion.
Sleep is the shadow of death, but not only that, it is a breeze of sweet forgetfulness,
a balm for the soul wounded by existence, a fold of tranquility,
where I will completely lose myself, dissolved into nothingness, healed from the pain of being,
like a leaf carried by the autumn wind, detached from its branch,
falling gently, without noise, into the silence of eternity.
Dreams blend with reality, a labyrinth of thoughts and feelings,
a river of images flowing ceaselessly, washing the shores of the soul,
where the drunken beggar continues to wander, seeking a lost light,
a hope that disintegrates in his trembling palms, like sand in an hourglass,
and the night, with its black mantle, envelops everything in a sweet forgetfulness.
When I depart, completely lost and gone, a faded echo in the vastness of time,
I will melt into the silence of infinity, a point of light in the ocean of darkness,
leaving behind the pain of being, like a shadow disappearing in the morning light,
and life, that drunken beggar, will continue to wander in search of the lost dream,
in a world of phantasms, where hope vanishes into nothingness.
The province of delayed gratification
Poetry is dead.
There is now no appetite for deep reflection
In this far from limpid pool.
Abhorrent is meditation
To the present lords of all misrule.
Carpe diem once was for the nonce
Its writ now runs for aye.
Omnivorous science depredates
The very bones of our being.
Gradgrindery completely disintegrates
The very heart of our seeing.
Dawkins' dogma aims to destroy the spirit
And we are not the better for it.
Thus shrivels the soul and all that resides there,
Are we but creatures of accident,totally threadbare?
Until economic Armageddon strips us of cultural shame
Our choice is but to shroud the flame.
Depredation must needs be followed by reparation.
And then that rara avis,the phoenix anew
Will rise from the ashes,bright feathers in view.
We will illumine our world once more
When the bright flame of poetry will once again soar.
Under the heavy and ash-gray wing of the evening,
In the melancholic waltz of memories awakened in rains,
Through the night stretching its hand like an old bell-ringer,
Ringing the bell of departure and appearing desolate in the mirror.
A veil of sadness weaves the starry vault above,
Where the moon, in silence, watches over mortal frailties,
On this fertile earth, yes, once it was fertile,
The echo of steps disintegrates the soil in strangers and wanderers, fatefully.
Oh, sister in destiny, proud land of heroes and poets,
Now you are the stage of a tragic act divided into many separations,
The brotherhood that was said to unite us, quietly dissipates,
Oh, mother, my homeland, how we sold our hopes for silver!
The air is laden with a heavy burden of heavenly pallor,
From the fields where wheat grain by grain whispered songs to the sun,
No longer pours gold, but only regrets, thoughts that fade,
In all we try to have, the shadow of the nameless ones lingers, who.
We live, simple people, with broken nature and torn souls,
Under the sign of signatures on forgotten and voiceless papers,
We struggle between walls of indifference, singing only in the boundless,
While life drains from us, vomiting the poison of bitterness.
Peacemakers of sweet whispers, now hoarse in pain,
Apologize for an unjust curse that can no longer be washed away,
A nation born from dreams and fierce struggle, slowly fades under humiliation,
As if the ancestors were only ghosts in the heavy history.
Mad poet, who dares to write in verses an elegy,
When our house is a game, a bet lost in our own room,
Now, even the dead in stones bow in a silent prayer,
For Romania that wears the gray coat of helplessness and payment.
But do you hear the bell that separates time from immortality?
A prelude to what is to come, over everything that once crackled,
It's the evening of the last ball, where our steps are counted in stars,
From dawn, we will be only Romanians from everywhere, in an endless song of regret.
Perhaps, tomorrow – it will be desolate here, silence will speak more clearly,
And we, with hearts in chains, will start a bittersweet exile,
Farewell, lost brothers in the relentless wheel's motion,
Goodbye, motherland, I throw you a last kiss, in the wind, a farewell.