Long Disintegrates Poems
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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.
The moon casts its silver vault over the ruins of modernity,
Where the souls of conservatives and progressives meet in an endless dance,
Of mistakes and traditions, I find myself carried on the wings of a stream of consciousness,
Contemplating the contradictions that define our ephemeral existence.
The progressive, with his heart of fire, steps forward, without looking back,
Embracing error as an old friend, inventing new paths,
Delving into unexplored abysses, in his eyes each mistake
Is a step towards a bright future, a candle burning in the night of ignorance.
Yet, in his frantic flight, he does not see the ruins left behind,
He does not feel the pain of those who fall in the shadow of his steps.
The conservative, with his heart of stone, stands guard at the gates of the past,
Fiercely defending what once was, in the pale moonlight.
The ruins become sanctuaries, and the mistakes of yore
Are transformed into sacred legends, he looks with reverence
At the remains of a bygone era, seeing in them an eternal beauty,
Untouched by the passage of time, in his eyes any change is a threat.
Thus, a tragic dance is born, in which each new mistake
Of the progressive immediately becomes a relic venerated by the conservative,
It's a symphony of contradictions, a fragile balance
Between momentum and stagnation, between dream and reality.
In this play of shadows and light, each soul
Is trapped in a snare of its own consciousness,
Trying to find meaning in the chaos of the modern world.
And I, a mere observer of this melancholic spectacle,
Let myself be carried by the wave of thoughts, seeking answers
In the silence of the night, perhaps the truth is hidden somewhere
Between the ruins of the past and the promises of the future,
In the heart of each mistake and in the beauty of each tradition.
Perhaps balance is nothing but a dream, an illusion
That disintegrates under the cold light of the moon,
In this divided world, we remain prisoners
Of our own beliefs, navigating among ruins and hopes.
Seeking meaning in the endless flow of consciousness,
And, in the end, perhaps our only solace
Is to admire the ruins under the moonlight,
To find beauty in imperfections and to learn to live with the contradictions that define us.
The heat soaked day drags on: each daisy sweltering
every buttercup melting into the dry ground,
a golden oozing of petals. I watch them through the window knowing
that I could not be ready, this I that’s still unknown
plucked before the first blossom. The hum of the sun
repeats like an assembly line, robotic, in essence,
clawing its way into the conscience
and residing in the mind like a panther. I, too,
am reclaimed by the ground.
It seems to pulse, reaching and breathing me in
dragging my limbs into its dark depths.
I let it go on from the white bed, sterile- so I’m told.
Even the sky dulls me with its aqua face staring vacant and shallow,
its vague features too-sea-blue for me. The seed that’s cracked inside disintegrates,
the doctors say, “it is no threat”.
But I feel the leaking egg rise in the heat
trying to engorge itself like a cat eating its tail.
I want to grasp a handful of the straw-grass
covering the ground like a yellow wound, to watch it
infect the air and bleed into the wind.
My hand reaches for the stomach,
cupping the heat that steams from my skin, unstretched- as far as I can tell.
I know when it happens, I knew when it fell,
feeling the red spots, all the blotches of myself
costume my insides like a cracked cauldron, the unhatching complete.
A sea of suicides, as the dark lump rises to the throat.
If water is life, I gargle and spit its corpse from my mouth
like a cactus. I imagine the tumour deflowering,
its thorns still jagged like teeth or as black as a squatting toad.
Before the window, out of captivity, the flowers’ faces all resemble death,
each seed trembling with my pulse, afraid to look into the eyes
of the lifeless that forsakes being. Dead trees with ringless bones,
boughs bent into unnatural contortions
like deformed ballerinas performing offensive dances
I watch with blindness. I rise and leave withered shell remains,
the parasite shrivelled and discarded like old skin.
In the window view, the snow rises once more as the sun turns to bone
whilst the wind passes through me. I am a mine, full of black on black
atrocities, that has dead birthed the unknown.
Basing opinions on exceptions to the rule
then turning it into a fist pumping mantra
is for architects of anarchy and dangerous fools-
mostly white precincts aren't the devil's brigade
as the media would lead you to believe
the media want us to kiss their two-sided face
because mayhem and disharmony
bring in the highest of ratings.
Harmony between the races
is a disaster for ratings and ad revenue
and this is what they obsess over
nothing more and nothing less
they could care less about any of us.....
That is why white cop killing black man
is played over and over and over again...
(though police brutality is never to be accepted
it is the exception to the rule)...
Now a white man being killed by a cop
though much more prevalent
just will not get the playing time
not enough of a train wreck to generate interest
but it happens more often to white folks than you think..
yes the death rate for blacks, by percentage is higher
but blacks have many-many-many more conflicts with police
and black crime rates are astronomically higher than whites.
Now these facts are hard to swallow
and this is where dialogue bogs down in the slop
where the blame game clowns come in
start to spin our heads around...
then send in the
screaming clowns-
burn it down to the ground clowns-
looting clowns
beat a different color into the ground clown
I'm done listening to reason clowns
I hate looking in the mirror clowns
all these clowns skip around
the discomfort of the truth crown.
I believe that harmony in any community
starts with God and family
distancing from faith
disintegrates families
that tend to become fodder
for the beast called
disharmony...
Some cold hard questions for the clowns:
Why is your good book collecting cobwebs
What have you done for your community
Are you an asset or just a snake in the grass
Who have you let into your heart and why
Who have you exiled from your heart and why
Who's dining with you at your table tonight
is there an empty chair or two.. and why
where is your ROCK sleeping tonight and why?
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
It amazes me how much man has evolved
Yet, How little he has learned
All around the globe
Millions die of disease and starvation
While the ever so intelligent creature known as man
Spends millions upon millions of dollars every single day
Killing each other
Instead of finding cures for the ill or feeding starving children
Oh sure, we dabble in those efforts
But we are committed to killing each other
Governments all around the globe
Spend most of their money
On their armies
Either to defend or attack
Their enemies
Supposedly, the most intelligent creature on earth
The intellectual creature known as man
If I may go so far
Mans commitment to war and killing
Goes far beyond any one mans term in office
It goes far beyond any one mans lifetime
It goes far beyond any century or any one era
From beginning to end, top to bottom
East to west, north to south
Red, yellow, brown, black or white
Our commitment to killing each other
Is undeniable
How can a species that is smart enough to split atoms
Creating weapons that will kill millions
Still be stupid enough to do it?
And now I see on the science channel
That man has now devised the Platonic beam
A beam of light that just disintegrates the target in an instant
At what price you ask?
Well I don’t know but I reckon if we diverted that money
To say solar energy projects
They could probably put a solar energy system
On every home in the world for free
Thus solving the energy crisis
Not to mention food in the icebox and medicine in the cabinet
Because of course when you create such an amazing new weapon
You need an entire new type of ship to deploy it from
Thus is born the next generation of war birds
They jettison into space
Then go into super afterburner (A jet engine minus oxygen)
Which they said would reach like 20,000 miles an hour
So you could shoot halfway around the world
Disintegrate your enemy
And be home in time for supper
I believe when speaking of politics
It’s not a National Crisis
It’s a Global Epidemic
Part 1
Summer days turned to winter
wind chilling each who dared to venture
out into the cold days and night
the ones that robbed us of our warm sun and
days of fun.
The vegetables were dying
starving for the light that was once abundantly theirs
They’re hungry
calling out for help in the dead flower beds and
gardens covered in snow
The rot had taken over
consuming every plant within reach of the winter’s
cold
dead
fingers
While the vegetables withered away out in the cold
the people gathered indoors
they sat in front of fires
bundled up with blankets
holding tightly so the cold wouldn’t touch them
One girl really didn’t mind the cold
she felt at home
with the ice and wind
she went for walks
as the others cowered in their homes
The rot’s victims envied her,
her ability to walk in the snow
to leap in the air
never having to worry of what may happen
if she stayed out a little too long
She walked past gardens and trees
asleep for the winter
some never to wake up again
some to come to the next warm day,
playing the waiting game
Some never slept
struggling with their last days of survival
before the cold reaches in and takes
what’s left of the summer days now fades
and disintegrates to nearly nothing
Kale struggled to keep up with the cold
striving to keep warm
jealous of the warmth that the people felt
every time they went inside their homes
forgetting of the plants they tended to all summer
In the summer, the kale thrived
they soaked up the sun
dancing in the warm nights when no one’s out to see
they were loved by the people, if not only temporarily
using their powers for good
But then she had to go and make things terrible
forgetting them in her garden to rot in the winter
taking their brothers and sisters and searing them with the one thing they love
heat
she baked them in a slow and agonizing process
i'm not sure how old i was when i realized the cruelty of men
maybe it was when i was first touched
back when i thought touch equated to love
trust and faith
or maybe it was when i started growing a chest
and all the men would stare and yell
as i held my favorite disney backpack close
a barrier
maybe it was when i believed men held the capabilities of genuine friendship
before i learned they always had to take
friendship never came for free
it cost me my soul
and yet he walked away
untouched
maybe it was when i realized
all the blame i held onto my mother
hatred fueled by her supposed wrong doings of my father
her kindness and patience towards me
towards him
his quickness to bash her
was the doing of my father
the reason behind the pain of no parental guidance in my youth
maybe it was when i got into my first real relationship
quickly realizing the truths of my mothers warnings
when i gave him all my fragile mind and soul had to offer
only for the new and shiny to catch his gaze
and have his love unveil in front of my eyes
letting me crash and flame away
without a single sense of remorse
maybe it was when i still attempted to provide him with all the care one could give
without a single sense of appreciation thrown upon me
maybe it was when i realized i am nothing but a woman
only deserving of their respect when i wear crop tops and lashes
when i look my best and never at my worst
when i offer them my body as a way of thanks for their mere actions
when the benefits no longer exist for them to reap
all sense of respect and admiration disintegrates without a thought
im not sure how old i was when i realized the cruelty of men
5, 13,17,19
21,30,50
infinitely experiencing the cruelty produced
by those produced by me
and my mother
and the infinite circle of the creators of life
The first cut
of roses
are in bloom
and I will
see them soon,
very soon.
They float
in a bowl
of Arctic ice-flow;
regarded highly
by the local Wal-Mart
feng shui
masters.
Made to hang and share
the air
with antebellum
paintings
of imagination mansions;
holding common court,
side by side,
with ancient saints
of former papal dynasties.
The sweet scent
of first bloom perfume,
exaggerated
in all three,
becomes, too soon,
disguised, sour, funerary
aromas of terminus musk.
Can these murdered
roses face rage
from the pastel haze
of entryway
Nirvana?
When contradiction
changes or disintegrates
thought,
immutable miracles might
be imbued beyond the common wrought.
You attained an interdiction
of proportional catastrophes
which indirectly praises
all the phases
of old Rome's historic papacies.
The dead red roses float
in symbiotic sacrifice
to long dead religions
and a joyous old South.
The new South seduced
by orgiastic myth,
reproduced,
to promote fevered pleasure
in sycophant seekers
of false history.
I found displayed
all the rages
of the ages
on the pages
in their own time -
placed by decision
of revisionist mind.
Integrity of lust,
indisputably pure
until sated
by objectified cure.
Then lost again
in retrieval of memory.
Now contaminated, fully,
by casual indoctrination
causing idiosyncratic
immolation of synaptic integration.
A self-destructive, cultural,
(*****sapiens specific)
neurotic guilt is causal.
Is there somewhere,
hidden in forbidden,
abandoned land,
a gated, grisly city
sealed and shut
by rusted nails?
Standing there
where citrus fruit rots,
in the sultry dusk of time -
Eden -
forsaken ruination of a city;
the failed garden of God.
rudiments of the day progress like every other
matches burning 1 by 1 so quick
one can lose count &
if the practice is to tally up the path to death
step by step by step
(as if the physical attributes of age will not knock on the
door daily), then by all means,
kudos---
even so, the pain grows within,
as the human disintegrates
so comes the disease
so comes the long term side-effects of
short term, uncalculated
risk &
the suffering can show its ugly face in little coughs
little headaches that go away with tylenol (at first),
miniscule aches, gurgling in the stomach, itching
seemingly everywhere, hotness bridging on fever,
darkening or reddening of the skin, painful pissing,
an unkind throbbing in the genitals, general fatigue
mixed up in a cocktail of an escalation in sweating,
diarrhea & chills that cause one to
shake like a tambourine at a brazilian folk rock
concert.
when it comes, it hits like tyson’s uppercut
sending the innocent reeling
trying to identify the place of inner destruction
falling to one’s knees out of necessity to
keep the spasm at bay as best as one can &
that is when one who says that they hold beliefs in
something outside themselves
cries out---
said individuals will exclaim the names of the numerous
deities, ghosts, illusions &
really anything else that the mind can be willed to
conjure up---
but the fit continues as
the body envelopes the storm
crashing with lightening & thunder,
waves rising & lowering,
chaos fluctuating at a rapid pace &
still,
no one comes to the aid of the individual &
the room so empty,
offers no solace.
reaching for anything that might cease the terror
reaching for something that might stop it all
ready to forsake it all or
sign up to any new ideal that would simply claim to
correct in full
what is presently
pressing
upon
them.