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.
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
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
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
____________________________
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
Tripping Point: An Opioid Odyssey
There are lines we cannot see, hardly know exist
Until we cross them. Then, as if by trip wire,
The temptress snare catapults us into a world
Of primeval darkness with no guide star.
“Hear my song and have a life of feel good”, she promises;
Her dissembled melody the dirge we can’t stop hearing.
Like a virus embedded in DNA she corrupts the message
Using us to propagate her death traps for more unwitting.
Lust for this mistress, Sans Merci, becomes insatiable,
Devouring all we love or live for - even hope itself!
Oh had I Circe’s warning:
Bind me to the mast, fill my sailors’ ears
With wax and sail alee of the siren’s song.
Copyright © 2018 Paul M Thomson