Long Dissembled Poems
Long Dissembled Poems. Below are the most popular long Dissembled by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Dissembled poems by poem length and keyword.
The gentle buzzing sound echoed memories of a fading childhood
When she and her cousin had whispered secrets at the mosque
About undying love and first kisses before being stung by a bee
‘Honey, don’t worry they make nectar and ambrosia is sweet’
She had just begun to wear a veil to protect her from luring eyes
But passion and adventure were stronger than foreclosing fabric
Fatima widened her crimson lips to a smile larger than persimmon
Teased dimples on olive skin into a conspicuous feast of desire
Almond eyes shone like candle light signals in flickering delight
Mustafa was mesmerized and knelt down to show his respect
Then held out his hands and touched the hem of her garment
‘Nothing will keep us apart as long as hummingbirds chirp and
The eagle in my heart pumps around life meaning and peace’
The two children took a piece of metal and made a blood pact
‘Now we are bound in promise for eternity and infinite joy
Maybe our parents will arrange our marriage sealed by a dove’
Now the fizzing in the sky turned into a shadow of fore-bearing
Grew loud and too uncomfortable for their young souls to neglect
‘Let it be a falcon with his talons bringing pride stealth and vigour
His beak will seal our connection with a pick of mellow salvation’
Impermanence beckoned however when the minaret collapsed
Their young lives dissembled into a surreal mirage of illusion
The hawk was a steel groomed assassin and bore a serial number
Doomed she lay in the rubble catching the dome of the masjid
And she was not prostrated in prayer but slain by the drone
Mustafa gathered her dissected remains and vowed retribution
Mopped up her blood with the veil of lost innocence and revenge
Today he drives a Toyota Land Cruiser through the streets of Aleppo
Gun barrel on top next to a black flag with white prophecy inscribed
The seal of misguided religion will not bring Fatima back into live
But he is a victim and dreams that one of the virgins in waiting is her
14th October 2019
Writing Challenge, October, 2019 -Bird-
Sponsor, Dear Heart - Wiishkobi Ode
____________________________
Through the glistening sunshine, he rode, the masked man,
His face dissembled, but held high in pride.
No one would dare ask what his name or history was,
Neither did someone know what beneath the mask, lied.
For what they knew he was the greatest warrior of the king,
Presumed humility and kindness to the people,
A true fighter in defending the truth,
Instances to prove his courage were inestimable.
He got down aside a patch of plenteous roses to pluck one,
The one which appeared special, with a fragrance to invigorate,
As he was on a quest, to find his soul mate.
This town he was going to was the last in the kingdom, Rubek.
Though the maidens in the kingdom were beautiful, no doubt.
His search in the previous towns had went in vein.
Though he was honored and renowned,
Scared of how his face might be they did refrain.
While he was on his way, Rubek had got the news
Maidens gathered-“What if he looks like a devil’s son.”
“His face would’ve been burnt, scraped during war.”
“I can’t marry him”, they cried in unison.
The masked man arrived, stopped right in front of them,
But when he asked for marriage they all had their heads bent low.
He discerned their answer for silence prolonged,
Sadness concealed under his mask, he rose to go.
Then one of them came forth from the crowd,
Observing her beauty and grace for a second he froze,
She said-“I’d consider myself fortunate to have a companion like you.”
Within no time he knelt, gave her the rose,
And then he threw up his mask for all to see.
Some maidens fainted, others cried in distress,
The masked man turned out to be the charming prince
Who took her hand and declared, “She will be my princess.”
Translation
So something has happened and you are not quite sure
What it is your woman is thinking
Don’t be confused or fret overlong
You only need a translation.
Just look at the words without the distraction
The emotion of the moment
The words stripped bare of the soothing tones
The dress up of dissimulation
This isn’t working ... (you guessed it) You’re Dumped
I wasn’t ready for this ... I was only playing
I’ve got too much on ... You’re not worth the time
I’m so busy ... Won’t/can’t share my life with you
It’s not you it’s me ... You’re not ‘enough’ for me
I’m sorting my priorities ... And you are not there (does she have a pet?)
I need time for family ... There is none left over for you
I want you to be a friend ... We’ll never be really close
I’ll understand if ‘friendship’ is too hard ... I don’t really care, just being polite
It’s not fair to you ... Wish you’d choose to go away
I’m confused ... There is someone else
No matter how it is dressed or dissembled
The results are clear to see.
See them sooner boys and perhaps retain
A semblance of dignity,
Remember men, (a word of caution)
there is no real difference between
romantic persistence and stalking .
For the women who read this,
Embarrassed, outraged!
Your mood is prompted by memories.
A reason please, men can take honesty,
But can you admit your mistakes?
© T. Arnold
There was a time with raging blaze
when suspension lost track
in bad faith and delusion
and bridges burnt ahead
Cold it was despite my soul engulfed in fire
which left its raging spirits
in restless stagnant apathy
called Self and void oblivion
Smoulder and ember blocked the way
forward and lava froze over
a hell bent on endless dead ends
from fake comfort and corrupt deceit
An angel dressed in blue cotton picked up trapped remains
Little did I known of red Princess lace and her thoughtful mind
Not that violet lips would blow upon me kisses and embrace
That walking dead on ashes could invigorate our tender path
Then came a time when shadows realigned
quivers trembled in heated passion
abeyance lit a joyful path of no return
abandonment became abundance
Left behind remained false horizons and ruins
a fading chill forsook frozen memories
retrieved our long forgotten souls
and shone a torch of loving peace
With nothing left to leave behind but dissembled disillusion
Skin touched upon moist fragrant skin and journeys merged
Seduced reclusion into sizzling fingertips searching the source
Blissfully naked we vowed to only burn bridges which we crossed
Straw Men (for Patrick and others)
There are scant few of them now, standing
In the rows of my memorably failed crop.
They came dressed as they were.
I always complimented them.
Counting on them to dispel
The crows, the starlings, black eyes
That have circled since before my days
At a miserable piano, black keys
Black notes, black words, scorched screams
From the nest, mothered with a smoking tongue.
My straw men would shoo those winged
Sooty moments, with their stuffed smiles.
But a lost girl, losing time, mind gone
And more birds lined up on the sagging staves
I trusted my straw men to silence my blank-eyed
Arias of despair, as straw men should, yes?
But fickle winds and wounding skies
Dissembled the men. Sometimes they climbed
Down and walked away, trailing their stuff
As the caws and cackles mocked their shuffled exit.
So many years, and my fields are picked over
One last man barely held his own stiff spine.
His straw swept and scattered by a tantrum storm, a terrible
Fugue of quick black notes, bird song and magpie laughing,
Left me again in my fallow place, face down
Tears feeding the aging soil and spoiled seed.
Goddamn them all! Damn all the straw men.
Let the black wings come and do their best.
I will sing some semblance of a single bright
Melody, my own, soaring as a scratchy drone
Over a black chorus that is now mine to direct.
We used to share dreams;
thoughts, my sister and me.
I occupied the top bunk, she the lower
in the cold, dank bedroom
we once inhabited from dusk to dawn.
Not prophetic dreams, the future;
we had no perception, illusions.
No exchanging, dissembled violent nightmares,
or nightly voyages traveled solitarily.
But joint adventures that filled the time
between awakening and permission to arise.
An alternative to staring quietly
at a half a dozen lazy flies
performing elaborate cotillion
around a solitary bare lightbulb.
The game was simple; A subject was agreed,
then tiny imaginary books pressed tightly
into blinkered eyes would lightly lead us
to places, we could simultaneously inhabit.
Seamless journeys to picture-postcard lands,
often hand in hand with much-loved authors.
Young Spanish kings, wise Arab princes,
Pink fairy queens and fiery golden dragons.
Flying, swimming, never falling, never drowning.
No words spoken; vividly shared visions;
two young minds together, escaping;
to places far less painful than reality.
Secret sacred memories;
each one I can still recall, relive, enjoy.
A Tender Moment From Childhood Poetry Contest: Placed 2nd
Sponsored by: Malabika Ray Choudhury
Date wrote: 05-June-2021
It’s fall of 1888, the south of France,
In the verdant fields of Arles,
Two artists shared a single dream,
And so began their quarrel.
Vincent paved the way for Paul
With bold sunflower sprays.
Paul dissembled, stating plain,
“More practiced effort pays.”
“Don't smile before December,”
Said the mentor to his charge.
And the student pegged his better
As a bon vivant at large.
So, their tenure at the Yellow House
Grew troublesome and dark.
Their artists’ shared collective
Strayed a long way off its mark.
Dry and cold, the Mistral winds
Spread madness like a plague,
To infiltrate poor Vincent’s mind,
Whose memories grew vague.
Mania, delirium, anxiety, and fear,
Climaxed when the voices told him,
“You don’t need that ear!”
He’d heard no praise, regardless.
Dr. Rey used his sorry portrait
To fix his chicken coop.
Then Theo got engaged,
And Paul sailed away to Tahiti.
Now time’s become history,
And that paint smeared canvas,
Nailed to a chicken coop
Means to claim a hefty sum.
And Le Fou Roux lies cold in his grave,
Unmindful of the legend he’s become.
THIS SPACE RESERVED FOR
STARRY NIGHTS AT SAINT REMY
Where's my soul?
Come, show me myself.
But just as I looked into my own reflection,
Behold, it was another person staring back at me; my identity is gone.
Not knowing my own self but in a shadow, in a maze,
I've drifted to where the wind blew.
Dissembled by the little white lies of the Harbinger,
Who brought news of a place with deep affection,
A glorious lagoon; filled with lust and despair.
Pleasures that last only momentarily and then back again in anguish,
Found in a place of remorse; in a cave of woes.
Fill me with wine and keep my heart filled with the lies of my youth,
Tickle my ears with soft soapy words,
Words that will nourish my ego and stretch my wings far from reason.
But like a vanished light, my soul has departed from me,
And as I searched for it, I find only a silhouette staring back at me.
Like a fading rainbow, it is no where to be found.
No where back to myself, but just a shell of a man.
Like a tenant who has long abandoned his house.
For I have threaded anomalously far away from myself,
And has forgotten who I used to be.
As she laid their, withering,
Her mind in a fog,
She stared at the dissembled body, of the one she once loved,
The blaring sounds of bombs, shouts in the distance, and thundering gun shots
The woman screams at the man to wake up, shakes at the broad man
as she cries uncontrollably
But all he hears is the deafening sound of a grenade blowup,
At the break point of dieing his last thoughts, memories were of a woman and child.
Men come over to take the woman away, as she fights to see him,
She looks at the man, tears in her brown eyes, to see him being
taken to a hospital wing, tear stains on his sunburned cheeks
She comes to see the man,
the smells of Latex and death
As she walks over to his bed,
She falls to her knees
Her heart in retching pain
She closes her delicate eyes
and opens them to see a sheet over a body, not breathing nor stirring
and a round object, glittering in the sunlight
She picks it up, in rough, muddy hands
It's an uneven medal, shaped like a heart, material of purple
of a remember solider
By Sarah
Stay now with me , and listen to my sighs,
Bidding me to drain the curse and know it all.
Feigned that I spake ill of thee,
As to who beholds two currents thwart amid
the fluctous profound.
Pass , pass upon your way , for
I grow never old...and townward take to their
whirring flight. That o'er the green
cornfield did pass as I trembled.
Remarking how ill we are ; all
dissembled.
Hands, that the rod of empire might have
swayed, in one long yelllow string wound.
Tell how they lived and died
not heeding to the blight.
Dying in distant music, even as it came...
upon the fated night , gloomy encompassing
thee around.
And in the green underwood and cover, up ,
from the mystic play of shadows twining
and twisting as if they were alive...
Mindful the while that thus time flies for you,
That I myself was not more whimsical. Burning
more truely as it dwells, than
where the lights scatter amid two voices.
And all else is silent & perfect
with my choices.