Long Documenting Poems
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The Philosopher is a single long poem, I apologize for the inconvenience of splitting it
into 2 parts.
He pushes aside the weathered curtain
The colourless tub, the bland tiles, his grey glazed sight
He looks over his shoulder and invites her into his mental fortress
The King philosopher’s decreed writer
Her sole existence is to write his thoughts and greatness as the ideas arise from the
ashes in
the furnace of his mind
Invisible revolutionary phoenixes, a wonder never seen
The writer is a woman, beautiful, his fantasies rule with an iron hammer
He feels nothing for the imaginary woman
His dreams told of respect, of falling in love in its truest form:
The caesarean of his mind, and she would fall in love with the thought burning society
within
So she sat there, somewhere, laptop in hand
The philosopher closes the curtain, undresses, the water is warm
It caresses him like no lover ever has
Unlocks the rusting, fading Iron Gate within, this water that stirs the slumbering giant
within
his flesh
He closes his fragmented eyes
The distorted images disappear and his mind kisses his wounds better
He sighs
In his mind she waits behind the curtain, it must be awkward
He does not smile, but his lips part, and he sighs the heat away
The water cools
The philosopher sits
The small tub is a tight fit, he looks down
The flaws of man so bare before him
He sees them in many a light, riddled with the protruding edges of perception
He tucks his fragmented eyes away
The philosopher looks down on the folds of his flesh again
The hair, the child of nature and god, an unholy affair
His hand runs over his thigh, the meaningless hair, the soft fat
His fragmented eyes see the flaws of society
A misguided shamble of enterprises, the idea of destiny a delusion
His misty eyes see a cripple
He dictates his poem
She writes
He looks up at the curtain, the veil separating him from humility
And he sees its transparency
He sees the inadequacy of definition, of documenting his emotion and the ideas of his
furnace
He realizes the chaos of his being
He looks down again
He sees a handsome man
Thin, fit, comfortable sitting in the tub
Society in acceptance of itself and the reality of its situation, a philosophical utopia
And behind that lie, he still sees a cripple
© Samir Georges 2009
It's 3:30AM, and I am not up because I planned to be.
I have been up now for about half an hour, and
I am indeed an early bird, but this is not my early.
My early is somewhere between 5 and 6:30AM.
I am up because as I prepared to go back to sleep,
she caught my eye from my bedroom window. I must
add that there is nothing scientific about anything I am
saying, doing, or documenting. I am simply moon musing.
Anyway, I struggled for a few minutes with whether or not
I would rise for a better view. I tossed and turned until I could
take it no more, for I confess that I am weak for the moon and
everything skyward. She stared in my direction as I stared back,
and I am reminded that she is presently seen in the western horizon
where the sun will be setting in some 15 hours or so. She was not quite
full but bright and beautiful.
I have taken several stares at her from both my bedroom and bathroom
windows as she slowly descended from view. I just took a look at 347, and she had disappeared from view. Amazing moon-the things she does when we are sleeping. In my case, she caught my eye and compelled me to rise; and after a short while, she was gone.
I suppose that I could have gotten in my car and drove around to spot
her from a different position, but there really was nothing unusual about
her behavior tonight/today to merit my wife raising questions about
my behavior. So I'll content myself by thanking the moon for getting
me out of bed this early Sunday morn. But this really is not my early.
4:27AMPT101721PS
You can only see me
in colors that you can handle
in colors that you choose yourself,
colors that you put me in,
and force me to wear,
every time you look at me with your piercing eyes.
And it makes no difference
what I wear,
how I paint my nails,
what shoes I put on,
or what color I dye my hair.
All you see is
Black and White.
Because that's all you choose to put me in.
No matter how vibrant
the colors I sport,
it's still
Black and White.
the easy-to-read, easy-to-control colors
that really aren't so easy at all.
I'm complicated.
And your
Black and White
is simple,
easy for you to see,
easy for you to understand,
easy for you to make me be.
easy for you to stuff me in your choice of clothing,
make me into your "perfect" girl,
your little Barbie doll.
you say that it's "your right"
and that you have "earned" it
with what?
certainly not respect.
you say that it's "fair"
for you to be
this controlling,
this demanding,
this emotionally abusive.
but when I say something about it,
you counter-act.
"If life is so fair,
why do roses have thorns?"
you ask me
as you are mentally counting, measuring, calculating, and documenting
everything wrong with me.
as you are mentally molding me,
shaping me,
and dressing me
into your favorite
Black and White.
it's easy to pretend
that you're not looking at the girl next to me,
wishing that I were her,
when you put me in
Black and White.
You can take your habits
and selfish, demeaning ways,
and stuff some other girl
into your chosen
Black and White.
because no girl, it seems, is quite good enough for you,
and your double standards,
and your controlling fingertips
that know just how to press in on a girl's heart, mind, and soul.
And yet,
you manage to make every girl ask herself
if she's good enough for you.
But the real question still stands.
Are you
good enough
for any girl?
Spiraling sensations of heightened instability cascade through an unsuspecting conscience, a chaotic whirlpool engulfs the psyche in seas of self inflicted torment and despair, illogically intertwined with fleeting moments of delusions, escape and grandeur, torn between everything that is and is not, what once was, what never was, what once was elsewhere, and what lies in the distance unknown.
Desires to vacate this epoch of mundane existence without immediate destination permeate through every pore, confined by the all encompassing wet suit of societal boundaries, perilously trapped, craving comforts of previous experience like a stranded sailor anxiously await sight of land, and the utopian vision an uncertain future, devoid of realistic premise.
Disparate from islands and coastlines imprinted upon atlas, the past is a destination left unvisited save for flickering images, memories sewn into the fabric of the psyche. The vessel of the mind gives way to leaks, the images trickle into the recesses of one's inner thoughts, a barely perceptible drip, progressing into an uncontrollable flood of psychosis, the struggling vessel begins to capsize, obsession establishes itself as the dominant state of mind.
One‘s future, an unwritten infinite epilogue to the present, reminiscent of the empty pages in a captain's log documenting this doomed voyage, once expected to be filled with tales of riches and feats of exploration but now submerged in a cold and murky existence awaiting to be pulled from the abyss.
Expectations and desires succumb to the realities of circumstance as the mind concedes certain defeat, a casualty of pre entitlement and wishful thinking, a drowning sailor whose final thoughts establish the realization that the ambitions of the soul often exceed the limitations of the body.
Slaves to media hype
Feeding your numb minds
With news tripe
Celebrity Correspondence
Filled glossy pretence
Lost all feeling of common sense
In there defence, they are paid
To believe in their own self importance
Documenting lives of no consequence
Details scrutinized, laying in wait
With prying eyes, having to go out in disguise
When actually this brings more attention
Did I forget to mention? That was their intention!
Staples and tucks, staple to the diet
Eating thin air, to keep them quiet
Ten pounds gained would cause a riot
Paid to kiss and tell, myths to dispel
And expose the jezebel, cut her to size
Sent to the press gutter hell
Snapped in precarious places
With powder nose faces
Or solicited embraces
Lawyers with sharks fin
Ready to lure in
Unsuspectin’
Paid lucrative deals
Ensuring nobody squeals
Eating into royalties
Big bucks and bigger fees
This addiction, this disease
Once tasted, hard to leave
Brainwashed to believe
This is the only way
Yes, it’s naïve
But when you’re stuck in L.A. L.A. Land
With the good, ugly and the tanned
And your face is your brand
What else are you going to do?
You’re sold out and see through
Left exposed, battered, black and blue
Become reclusive behind 12 foot walls
You don’t go out and nobody calls
Washed up, wasted, worthless
No one left to impress
In your final distress
You consume pills
For imagined ills
Locked up in Hollywood hills
Drugs to wake, drugs to sleep
One to many and in to deep
Found by a maid in a heep
But at least A listers attended
And your send off was splendid
And they cried, even if they pretended
No, not like you intended
But you’re a star in the street
Forever remembered in concrete…
I'm so upset. What's happening to me?
Sis took me out to eat today. She said,
"Is something wrong? You just don't seem yourself."
I told her off--I don't know WHY!--and fled.
*****************
I'm floating on my own fat cloud right now.
I've laughed all day. So many said to me,
"Hey, Linda, what's so funny?" I replied,
"What's not?" and kept on giggling, wild and free.
****************
I'll NEVER take those meds. Take them away.
My moods are my concern. I'll handle them.
Soon I'll be out of jail. Then I won't be
incarcerated on somebody's whim.
***************
I'm told I'll be much safer here inside
this institution than out on the streets.
I'm wise to you. Don't try to give me pills.
Don't grind them up and put them in my sweets!
***************
My sister tried to take control of me
for MY good--SURE! Nobody has that right!
I'm free, no more the pawn of anyone.
Because I stood my ground, I won the fight.
**************
It's cold in this abandoned house, but I'll
survive on apples from the trees nearby.
I'll read these dusty books while sipping on
cool nectar that keeps falling from the sky.
**************
I dare not leave this sanctuary. Though
I'm growing weaker daily, I won't be
the helpless quarry of my enemies,
who'd apprehend me. No! I will be free.
Linda’s body was found in an abandoned New Hampshire farmhouse.
Also found was a diary documenting her journey of starvation and the
loss of sanity
Date: November 2, 2020
Poetry Contest Title: Hello, Darkness My Old Friend Placed 4th
Sponsor: Anthony Biaanco
On the rainy days I wind gently through the streets
Trying desperately to greet every new person I should meet
My demeanor screams of defeat
Just not the best person in this world to meet
But if you have the time my voice shall chime in your ears
I’ll bring hope to your greatest fears
You will talk and I shall chalk my theories in to your mind
At the end of the day I stray to my favorite dinner
Where the conversation gets finer
The waitress cracks a smile for every one liner I throw her
I pay my check in order to get on my way
The waitress always tells me I hope you find a better day
And I answer baby don’t you worry if I get through another winter
Spring will come carried on the back of May
Then things might start going my way
On long nights I fill up a lonely ash tray
I tap my foot that’s all it ever took and I’m on my way
Documenting the event of each and every day
Paying close attention to mention each and every piece
Like greased-lightening my pondering’s are biting down to leave a scar
Not so straight like bars
More like lines on a map we use to find our way in cars
Sorry folks I wish I could choke up a hoax
But reality always pokes its ugly head out
In all fairness what better thing to write about
A sprinkle of doubt
A small amount of longing carefully measured out
Finally a dash of hope
My personal recipe to cope with this thing we call life
Let us speak in generalities they come with much lower fees
If you should look you shall find the devil seems inclined to hide in the details
And the fine print never fails to ruin our beloved fairytales
Form:
Wings cut, flesh torn, eyes burned and blind
Heart so weary borne upon a life, some say, unkind.
Time will come and go, knowledge gained or lost;
Rivers change their flow; summers die in frost
All that’s proud and full of fury in each person’s story
Sunk beneath the fathoms of depressions veil.
We humans sought to reawaken, but did fail.
I will write a word or two about a pear that clings
Frosty morning air anew, as summer wanes.
When autumn sings I shall turn the other cheek,
Jot some mental notes and such then turn to sneak a peek,
Were it not for noise, I would not glance back
Nor halt to hear the frantic fray; to enter then this play.
Character cast, twice remove; something by each side to prove.
Lyrically lay with lantern lit, composing each and all of it
In metaphoric style; lost of wit, but never wile;
I fracture to repeat, upturned sockets sweet.
Sumptuous undertaking of loved and all beloved;
Splendor in the Eye for taking all whom I may meet.
Hoping to move and by them all be moved.
No trouble here, noble poets burning.
Turn back to the fires you're tending.
And all that you’re unlearning.
Pass up the gauntlet to those returning
No more yearning; no more ending.
Satisfied to write the wilting flowers praise;
Documenting endlessly, natures endless days.
Casual observer thus inclined
To take up simple pen - of simple mind;
Talk of flowers and butterflies flying
Then maybe the flutter of wings
Will drown the sound of dying
Each voice sings..
I am deeply honored to have been visited by more than three million people.
For more than one hundred years I have stood on Liberty Island facing the Atlantic. With glee and gladness, I have welcomed the poor and the tired, the homeless and the hopefuls.
With my left hand I have graced the tablet documenting the date of your independence. With my right hand, I am privileged to faithfully hold that coveted torch above my head. At my feet as you can see, there is no fancy foot wear, but broken chains. Liberty from oppression is my prayer for those who come to this great land.
It's understandable that by necessity, times and laws of immigration have changed. Moreover, with these eyes I see that not everyone passing me is looking to do good things. I am the lady robed in freedom with a heart of gold and standing more than one hundred and fifty feet tall. Beneath my feet I see waterways and ships from afar; but presently, I see no walls.
It is my hope that all will understand that I do not symbolize the highway to greed and riches, but a pathway forward to new and noble opportunities.
08142017PSContest, Artwork, Lewis Raynes
Chosen 'artwork', The Statue Of Liberty; Source, Wikipedia
Culminations of Beauty
Culminations of beauty cascading down from a twighlight sky
Ruminations worth refuting while I’m always asking why
Communications leave me fuming as the point is lost and denied
Calculations that are looming while my economic apprehension is justified
Impressionistic teenagers looking for the next influencer streaming
Chauvinistic infiltrators preying on the innocence of those still dreaming
Pessimistic stenographers documenting the planet screaming
Unrealistic photographers trying to capture all the underlying meaning
Pedantically populating another conspiracy theory for the masses
Semantically stipulating violence as their dopamine level crashes
Sycophantically stimulating silence as I take my hundred lashes
Romantically emulating nonsense as the nightmare returns in backward flashes
Insidious indictment for one who seems above the law
Hideous excitement showing as the twisted watch you get up from the floor
Envious confinement knowing that I am one of the working poor
Fastidious refinement lowering me out of the back of this metaphor
Refusal to participate in my own life story
Per usual I’ll invigorate the empty and the boring
Perusal of the pages to investigate as I sleep into the morning
Excusal to proliferate as I heed the sternness of the warnings
The End