Long Distill Poems
Long Distill Poems. Below are the most popular long Distill by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Distill poems by poem length and keyword.
Children of Guernica
Children of Guernica .
In deserts of no mans land
children play among the dead
killer themes from killer kings
what is the song they sing
comes raining down in
shrews of blood
Bombs burst though silent
air beyond the red glare
where mothers and children lie bare
In scripted carcasses of crumbling bricks
amidst the city streets
broken bodies limbs screaming
wombs of agonizing cries of despair
dropping down death from above
in the safety of the night
rivers of blood and angels of death
circle from high above
Sleep of sleepless dreams lie amidst the decaying corpses
children dressed in delicate dressings
starch white linen in ghostly silence
the lambs laid out to rest
Once so shocking citizen casualties
now so common collateral damage
distill the horrors of war
deadly games on computer screens
without touch or smell
Rage distorting the outline of shadow
horse’s teeth open wide to the sun
and necrophilia battle cries of death
stand still like ghosts amongst the dying flames
Wounded Pegasus gaping
requiems for generations yet to come
hypnotized to drum beats of war
where monsters of the id come alive
in the cradles of scorched earth lit destruction
Children born to such things
wander through the deserted streets
where there is no home to rest
sleep the dream of children
Lower at dawn their veils
through broken clocks time stands still
And tides rise over setting moons
amidst the lambs spheres of love vanishes
in landscapes of pain
Minotauromachy rises amidst the dead
monatours of death die slow
when swords turn to plowshares
iron bombs to gates that open
the hearts of wounded men
hush a by don’t you cry
go to sleep my little babies
In the meadows lie the little lambs
friends of the western winds
leave tortures on the bleeding grass
in lust for blood and shadows of fears
Moons of serpents awake before the dawn
crucible of blood cast bare amidst
the trembling wheat
street symphonies of stripped flesh
hanging from the poplar trees
Instruct us of our internal natures
inner conflicts and battlegrounds of distress
death instincts and dark knights of the soul
of tragedies and waste doorways through hell
and roots of indignant screams
In the whisper of twilight, where shadows meet the edge of dreams,
Lies the truth of our times, a somber murmur carried by the wind of mediocrity.
Once, the soul soared with the ambition of stars; now, the commonplace mind,
Knowing itself to be mediocre, proclaims its right to mediocrity,
And imposes its dullness wherever it can.
Life, in its raw essence, is insipid—a mere act of "being there. "
Thus, for man, existence transforms into a poetic endeavor,
A task akin to that of the playwright or novelist:
To invent a narrative thread for his existence, to give it character,
Making it both suggestive and beguiling.
In the stillness of midnight, under the quilt of countless stars,
The mediocre soul may contemplate its right to mediocrity,
Spreading its mundane essence across the tapestry of time.
And yet, in this silent rebellion, a melancholic magic awakens, weaving truths into metaphors.
Man, that being wrapped in thoughts and desires,
Finds the fabric of mere existence distasteful,
Turning to diversions as an essential art, a salvation from the void of simply being.
Thus, in the corridors of the mind, he creates unseen worlds,
Where every heartbeat whispers a symphony of purpose.
The commonplace mind may seek to impose its dull hue upon the vibrant canvas of life,
But the heart, in its secret chambers, remains an alchemist,
Turning leaden moments into golden narratives,
Inventing threads that shine with unseen light, characters that dance in the shadow of the mundane.
Serious examination reveals the existential melancholy,
The distaste for the unembellished universe, the thirst for something more.
Here, in the crucible of thoughts, we distill our dreams,
Creating a life both poetic and profound, beyond the mere act of "being there. "
For man, existence must transcend the assertion of the mediocre,
Must rise like a phoenix from the ashes of the ordinary,
Towards a realm where every breath is a verse, each moment a chapter,
In the endless novella of a soul's journey.
Thus, in the flux of consciousness, thoughts flow like rivers,
Carving new paths through the wilderness of the mind,
Where even the mediocre soul, in its quiet rebellion,
Might find a spark of the extraordinary,
Transforming existence from insipid to inspired,
From mere being to profound becoming.
Dearest Amelie Beth Harris-Mcgeehan
If royalty moost likely
spotlight ye would dodge
nonetheless anointed, deemed, granted...
within humble abode
of your lodge
most righteous, magnanimous, gracious...
among confrère noblesse oblige.
Methinks twas foolhardy of me
when joost a mere young man
(more'n half agoo me lifespan)
ye always acknowledging me birthdate,
(although tomorrow a day early,
and dollar long)
regarding thirteenth of Jan.
Your sisterly affection doth buoy
inside mine heart and soul
first born of three offspring
begat courtesy Boyce
and Harriet Harris handed lead role
par exemplar to officiate (figuratively)
filial obeisance, particularly
when older analogous to foal
abiding maternal horse sense, thus I extol.
As your brother, rhetorical question I ask
how often did thee deserve to bask
within metaphorical sunshine to exceed
regarding care and concern emotional task
tenderly "mothering" kith and kin,
ye divinely didst shew,
especially yours truly
now he dost rue
he rarely did communicate -
hermetically within his
hermetically sealed queue
detached, isolated, outsourced,
I may as well lived in Peru
(think Machu Picchu)
courtesy schizoid personality disorder
leavened, prepared, and sprinkled with
obsessive compulsiveness
for good measure ooh
and aah barely registered
consciousness, and knew
not what blessedness constituted hew
as tremendous precious jewel few
chore birthdays promise with clear clue
how ye go above and beyond
call of sisterly duty aware remaining life
(mine) would be far inadequate to accrue
equitable devotional, emotional,
and financial recompense.
Hence feeble attempt
to distill some essence
with words that appear
incomprehensible and dense,
cuz writing more comfortable
verses talking, which
often jabbering (more like a wookie)
(think fictional hirsute humanoids
in Star Wars universe)
often makes no cents.
Tempus fugit fleets at light speed
quasi immortality conferred as generations rebreed
all the while unwittingly transmitting indeed
idiosyncrasies, mutations, quarks... such as greed
myopia, selfishness... at death sorrow doth bleed.
English onomatopoeic words tick tock does punctuate...
audiological "second" associated with ordinary soundlessness
Second of time not decided arbitrarily, but...
Under International System of Units,
the second currently defined as
duration of 9,192,631,770 periods
of radiation corresponding to transition
between two hyperfine
levels of ground
state of caesium-133
atom at temperature
of 0 degrees Kelvin.
Even if deaf and/or
blind Impossible Mission
to escape incessant
atomic elementary coalition
my dear Watson,
through rigorous erudition
pursuant, predicated,
postulated, plotted, pinpointed...,
whereby basic interval
of time engineered fruition
jarring inquisitiveness regarding
yours truly intuition
one body moving thru space
and time till manumision.
Upon mortality liberation comprising me
molecular constituent parts will thus free
repurposing (reincarnation higglety pigglety)
without preserving jammed consciousness, ye
might beg to differ,
yet that precept re:
guarding retaining awareness
previous life thee
less prominent poetic
intent to squander ably
(slight bias, I aver)
precious minutes agree
gated intuiting the
invisibility of ethereal me:
deem (or quantification
thereof) measuring je
nais sais quois (extent
of French words known
to yours truly), whose
lofty ambition key
ying focus, how
every moment allocated
into base unit to run
of the mill by the floss see
George Eliot (Mary
Ann Evans) garden variety,
generic *****sapien,
(no matter differentiation sets E
shove us apart).
Inescapable maddening
march to maximize
potential choice to exercise
fulfillment, or nurse regret
case in point I surmise
extensive disappointment,
though Matthew Scott tries
to separate the figurative
wheat from the chaff and vies
to distill some semblance
of value, cuz he doth realize,
how tempus fugit defies
longing to go back
to the future as he espies
countless reasons that qualifies
as his life left unlived no surprise
since aforementioned sentiment
mentioned, in tandem with
self destructive behavior I despise.
The Quirkes of Success
Film Featuring stars
Fictional and enformative
Feature film Proposal
Exploits of Business
filmed in Cerro Gordo
a dipiction of business
and the exploits of capitalism.
---------------------------------------------------------------------
The story is that she got pregnant in the back of a cigerrette delivery truck. The driver is a vendor and deliver. His name is Paydraa, she named her daughter pavon, after the truck and father. Pavon is a fish.
We told her if she'd wish to change the name she could. She just smiled and said,'Oh the dreid tomatoes, the onion powder, garlic powder, I guess the lemon zest, yeah dried lemon zest.
some ground fritos and cheetos in mi flour mixture.aratio: ratio, change mi mixture! I so silly mi fish is mi fish! Instead she explored the option of naming him after the Ventana de Piedra in Argentina. The legend is told that a colony of farting ants ate the green and blue stems of these veggies, and since the saltine nature of the soil effected there waste it would turn the whole section of salinate matrail the color of the leaves that the ants had eaten. Over a million years the area had become crustilezed from the coloration of the ant turds. She named the Son, Ventuia Del Greeco. Who's nick name is "Red" or "Red Snapper".
I bought some cubain tobbacco seeds, some champenge grapes from france and
Japenese indigo. He talked to a man in the desert, he begged the man in the desert. He asked the man if he could name his product after the town that had been ghost up. He bought the MINING town and the ghostes, may have been the measurments in feets not metrical.Well they came up with Lolah's Cubain Cigars, Cerro Gordo's Ghost pepper sauce. They distill a dill and junipter seed and cream with bacon and anchoives. They put it in bottles that looked like liquer bottles, this was a distill sauce for cooking. It was yuck as a drink, but great as a marinade.. They grew indigo in the caves as a joke. they harvested it as a joke. Te manufacted it in corousety. They sold it as a joke and prospered joking about there hunch.
I rested my morose attitude and crafted a positive outlook
which I needed to inspire my contemplations ,
I then stepped out turning the page before the next chapter
to help clear my feelings from the shelf full of mundane concepts
and perhaps distill my perceptions to remove some burden clouds.
Near the end of the path to the lake I paused to wonder
Not that I couldn’t wonder while walking but it’s unlikely,
To grasp what my senses focus on I must have full attention
Walking clears the mind and nourishes the heart subtlety
The sun was cracking thru those repulsive clouds
laying out its long glow upon the gentle rippling tides,
Stillness was in the air and I was alone which prospered me
Peace was undisturbed and I was at the center of tranquility
The wind did not whisper, touches of warmth were absent from the falling sun
Nature was drawing its curtains, summoning its young to prepare for bed
As the night drew nigh, sights of birds returning home were not seen
The time standing here had been of no value, other than fresh air.
Stepping out is a must because all that lies outside would not be sighted
To not have been out would be depriving to my curious mind
I would have pondered as to what I may have missed in view
then brood during the evening having choked that opportunity.
About to turn back to the path I took one more glance around the lake
Something appeared to be a rising above the distant tree tops
It was a gull flying and heading towards the water, most likely to land
Just behind him was an exceptional sight of five swans in flight.
It reminded me of the ‘blue angels’ jets ever so evenly airborne
The sounds of flapping wings became louder as they approached
I lost all sense of where I stood and dropped my hapless attitude
Of all moments before at this lake, this was the utmost pleasurable.
This moment of awe took away all my reflections of negativity’s
Inspired from my look back before departing I summarize my thoughts to say
Never underestimate what may be until you change your attitude and step out.
I rested my morose attitude and crafted a positive outlook
which I needed to inspire my contemplations ,
I then stepped out turning the page before the next chapter
to help clear my feelings from the shelf full of mundane concepts
and perhaps distill my perceptions to remove some burden clouds.
Near the end of the path to the lake I paused to wonder
Not that I couldn’t wonder while walking but it’s unlikely,
To grasp what my senses focus on I must have full attention
Walking clears the mind and nourishes the heart subtlety
The sun was cracking thru those repulsive clouds
laying out its long glow upon the gentle rippling tides,
Stillness was in the air and I was alone which prospered me
Peace was undisturbed and I was at the center of tranquility
The wind did not whisper, touches of warmth were absent from the falling sun
Nature was drawing its curtains, summoning its young to prepare for bed
As the night drew nigh, sights of birds returning home were not seen
The time standing here had been of no value, other than fresh air.
Stepping out is a must because all that lies outside would not be sighted
To not have been out would be depriving to my curious mind
I would have pondered as to what I may have missed in view
then brood during the evening having choked that opportunity.
About to turn back to the path I took one more glance around the lake
Something appeared to be a rising above the distant tree tops
It was a gull flying and heading towards the water, most likely to land
Just behind him was an exceptional sight of five swans in flight.
It reminded me of the ‘blue angels’ jets ever so evenly airborne
The sounds of flapping wings became louder as they approached
I lost all sense of where I stood and dropped my hapless attitude
Of all moments before at this lake, this was the utmost pleasurable.
This moment of awe took away all my reflections of negativity’s
Inspired from my look back before departing I summarize my thoughts to say
Never underestimate what may be until you change your attitude and step out.
I smile, deceiving time, but my bewitching heart weeps,
In the evenings when loneliness spreads its canvas with sparse stars.
To love you – means I wish you fields of poppies under the illuminated moon,
Means that your kindness blossoms in my speechless garden.
I love you – and this translates to my breeze no longer caressing your foundation,
Words have become white butterflies, meetings – willowy trees by the river,
No more food is needed for my melancholy,
Nor fuel for the giant clock of restlessness.
And on the path, where our steps were meant to drip the dawn of silk,
Now, spills only a froth of darkness and a murmur of pearls.
From the banks, old age, like a lighthouse in the fog, sends its silent signals,
And it’s time to walk towards oblivion, with peonies on shoulders, with stars caught in hair.
My love – means I want to filter out every mist, to only distill grace upon you.
How to pluck the memory, a vase adorned with night crystals in the soul?
How to leave in the cold your blue giving, bruised by wind, smeared by the storm?
How not to bear your burden in hands, a sacred altar of this earthly pilgrimage?
But whispers are lost in the echo of the wilderness – who will answer, my comfort?
Who will speak of what is possibility, what is a dream, in this realm-kingdom?
No one will sing in chorus for us, no one will illuminate the city of addresses,
Nobody will unravel the enigma – who will say love isn’t a struggle in the unseen?
We are lost in the story, where love does not wear a light cloak,
Nowhere is it written how to give up on love, how to remove entwined stars from the heart,
Nowhere is there a map, nor compass that shows the path to the simple,
And the knots of the heart, in this tangled labyrinth, not even a Merlin can undo,
Who has uttered, in the whisper of the century, that to love is like to fly without wings to beseech?
Belated condolences extolling fateful tragedy...
befalling beloved Khurana's
https://www.nbcphiladelphia.com/news/local/
Montgomery-County-Small-Plane-Crash-527480941.html
Published Aug 8, 2019 at 7:03 AM |
Updated at 1:14 AM EDT on Aug 9, 2019
The missus shrieked
with horror watching
and hearing in
disbelief and shock
catastrophe costing
three precious lives,
Macbook Pro laptop
wallpaper agonizing reminder
(though poem previously written
subsequently mailed to
immediate family relations),
I still feel numb
(albeit NOT comfortably)
reconciling inexplicable reality
with recollection to distill
their true value
when yours truly and kin
(sleeping spouse plus,
our two grown daughters)
lived on Greentree Lane
about three doors up
quite some years ago,
yet their untimely deaths
affect me weeks later
thus poetic memoriam
culled out and begged
express impossible mission
attempting to comprehend
profound loss community
of medical professionals
still must experience
stunned with grief
already latter half month
of August 2019 elapsed.
Though only casual acquaintance
husband/ wife doctors
Jasvir Khurana professor of pathology
and laboratory medicine
at Temple University
Lewis Katz School of Medicine
with a focus on bone pathology
and Divya Khurana (respectively)
a professor of pediatrics and neurology
at Drexel University
College of Medicine,
specializing in pediatrics,
sleep medicine and pediatric neurology
earned national recognition
as decades long leader in epilepsy
and mitochondrial disorder.
Nineteen year old daughter,
Kiran Khurana
youngest of two daughters
graduated Harriton High School
two thousand eighteen
in Bryn Mawr, Pennsylvania
sadly also perished
single-engine Beechcraft Bonanza
crashed behind homes
along Minnie Lane near
Morris Road in Upper Moreland.
The pungent aroma of apricot, wafts by on the evening breeze,
from somewhere comes the sweet perfume of honeysuckle in bloom.
The stars hang in the summer sky, spreading forth a canopy,
and I am immersed in nostalgic waves of early childhood memories.
I recall a hillside house wherein first awareness was born,
and double French doors that unfurled unto my outside world.
Sunlight beams through French doors, made the kitchen bright and warm,
a cherry place I seem to recall to eat golden flakes of breakfast corn.
My outside world had a fence roundabout, arrayed in honeysuckle vines,
where was used as a slide and more an old inclined cellar door.
On summer nights it would become a planetarium fine,
where mother and I beneath heavens dome watched celestial jewels shine.
She would delineate constellations, like Scorpio and the Great Bear,
and their myths from days of old to brother and I unfold.
Apricot nectar from next door would drift on the warm night air,
then these happy evenings we would end, each with a little thank you prayer.
Other memories also brought to mind, although I know not why,
are of mother and a morning that a bird began to sing.
“Oh look, there is a bluebird”, I can still here soft reply,
then I turned to look outside, but just in time to see it fly.
These earliest childhood memories, and of the house upon a hill,
memories stirred by déjà vu I have tried to share with you.
Déjà vu and warm memories readily called forth still,
by sweet apricot and honeysuckle that in the evening dew distill.
But of these early things I still recall, and those forgotten not,
the most poignant are of mother and the times I spent with her.
Her loving ways and wisdom and the values that she taught,
also through time have remained with me and a successful life helped wrought.