Long Drifter Poems
Long Drifter Poems. Below are the most popular long Drifter by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Drifter poems by poem length and keyword.
Vivid flashbacks from bloodshed battles
his soul still ravaged by devious dictators,
cries from fallen comrades still echo in his mind,
but he continues to walk upon a path of pandemonium.
Reluctantly he ventures forward with
vengeance portrayed through embers
engulfed within his frenzied eyes -
reflecting his mother's irreversible tears.
He is no mercenary nor a moneymaker,
just a repentant drifter, preparing for bedlam.
His purpose in sight, he closes his eyes,
but struggles to erase his thoughts,
as the sins of his ancestry inflict his mind.
Angels attempt to light his path with harmonic chords,
but demons cause havoc strumming broken strings.
Entering the kingdom of dry fountains,
where God has no influence,
he is afraid to inhale its corrupt pollutant air.
Charcoal clouds rumble,
before horizons shed unwelcome tears.
Before him platinum priests preach,
as court jesters dance with sly grins,
hiding metaphorical daggers behind their backs.
To his right overfull hospitals have no beds,
as penniless patients plead to be cured.
To his left the self proclaimed vain king
sits on his cardboard throne,
throwing dollars into a blazing fire place.
To his side his tyrannical hypocritical queen
hides behind her simulated smile,
oblivious to her narcissistic prince's incest desires
towards her clueless imbecilic princess.
It's an endless loop of greed cultivating corrupt seed,
which continues to breed nefarious creed.
Miserable masses attempt to break free,
but their liberation is dissected by cretinous henchmen.
In the marketplace of Machiavellian thieves,
merchant pawns auction fragmented dreams.
Sold to the biggest idiot!
His eyes full of disbelief, now rage with anarchy!
Intoxicated knights raise their half empty glasses,
as he calmly walks into this man made sand castle.
Gifts the cunning conniving cook some cyanide,
which he empties into his delectable broth.
Both watch as the elevated ones savour it like dogs,
perishing dramatically to their deserved downfall.
Beyond his childhood playground,
now with rusty swings and slides,
he places a crimson rose upon his mother's grave,
kissing her untouched headstone.
Expressionless he walks into the distance,
as storms wash away weak foundations.
Silent One
25 July 2018
Let me ride upon the crest of an aquatic wave, to spin and
Twist within the rippling tides, of the water spheres deepest
Ocean, allow this land creature to become as one, a liquid
Creature of complete fluidity, flowing with the currents under
Tows beneath the Mediterranean sun!
Liquefaction’s child of heaven’s tears, collecting in the ionosphere,
The shards of shattered meteorites, melting amongst the heated
Entry point of the earth burning atmosphere!
I’m just a day dreaming earth being, an inspirational beach
Comber of alternate thought, set adrift within the sails
Of human imagination, this illumined castaway of the
Enlightened, wishing to be part of something larger
Than the total some of my own physical make-up!
Let me be the thundering storm ushering the lightening
Flash to rock the timeless shore, beyond the infinite
Seas of reality, the sounding clash of the everlasting
Light echoing amongst the heavens vast divides,
Nay I’m just a humble mortal, inspired by the powers
Of beauty, a poet captured within the moment of
The rocking swell of a higher master’s masterpiece
Of utter perfection!
Let the rolling rock of the ages slide downwards
From the rocky mountain tops high, ever moving,
Smoothing its sharpened edge until it is perfectly
Rounded at its journey’s end, no moss shall I
Gather, for the rambler of humanities soul’s remains
Always In constant motions wake, this pondering
Drifter of life itself, wandering why I exist!
Let me be reflections after shock shooting at super
Sonic speed, slamming against an orbiting giant of
The universal realm, bouncing in a planetary ricochet,
Hell bound to return from mine own origin point of
Divine intervention, for it is here on earth I’m entrapped!
Let me feel the winds breathe of total freedom against
My bare exposed flesh, to become a spirit being set adrift,
An elemental child without form or shape, just a whispering
Echo blowing upon the breeze of the timeless air.
Oh I’m a spiritual foundling, seeking the meaning of my own
Existence, a motion of emotion, clinging to the mental framed
Shell to which I’ve been born, but the world is for the inspired
So here I’ve found my small niche in this great big universe,
A writer, a dreamer, and the poet bard of my own inner
Heart!
BY: CHERYL ANNA DUNN
.
I’ve been adrift on the sea, a lost soul of ideal inspiration
Tossed asunder amongst realities harsh waves of the incomplete,
A disembarked being, caught at the mercy of a thundering riptide
Of indecision, floundering, drowning alone, with no life preserver
To cling upon!
Rolling waves crashing against my bare exposed mental flesh,
I’ve know the deeply threshing under currents of the starving mind,
Of the uninspired, the de-mused, without imaginations glory,
An orphaned child without thoughts infusion!
Once I disembarked on a sinking craft, a vessel without sail or wind,
Ideally wondering having no true course, or no dead reckonings landing
Point of reference!
A voiceless refuge unable to scream for help, to and fro so did
I just rock upon the waves of homeless, and helpless,
In this self- inflicted imprisonment so did this castaway dwell,
In this empty ocean, alone mariner aboard a sinking ship!
But than a far off light shown, it burned at my blind eyes,
With such brilliance did it so shine, as if by a magic I
Couldn’t understand or comprehended, my tiny boat
Find its way into a safe sheltering port, many open
Hands reached out to this lost soul and pulled me
Upwards towards inspirations dry land!
Voices spoke gently unto me in the whispering winds
Of imagination, your free here, you’ve come home
At last, soar, fly be at peace now drifter, you are welcome
Here amongst thy kindred!
Standing at the dock of acceptance, I turned and watched
My tiny ship torn apart by the hurling waves of change,
Then I realized that many others were still left on this
Ocean of aloneness, and how lucky I was to find my
Way home at last!
I’ve found my place in this big old world at last,
Here where I can express myself,
Amongst others whom have excepted me for myself,
On this island called the internet,
In a cyber-family, amongst my friends and kindred,
I’ve finally come home at last, in a place
Mixed with diversities beauty,
In this poetry soup of humanity!
Here I’ve tried my anchor, no more a wander,
Just a voyager remembering, looking upwards
At an inspirational sky and finally able to bath
In the guiding wake of my own imagination,
And sharing it with others of my own poetic
Experience, thank you for the welcoming,
I’m home at last!
BY: CHERYL ANNA DUNN
How can I concede on the eve of pain?
When I never saw it coming
And I never felt the rain
Drops my heart beat stops
Down to the soles of my feet
I cannot breathe
And I cannot speak
Trying to find my way
But the dawning of a new pain creeps
They called me “The Wanderer”
So far off the side of love’s hill
That I’d squander even a Hershey’s Kiss
If amidst I could feel…
Numb foot steps to the left…
…I mean …
…on the wrong direction
Stealing an inch closer
and closer to its inception
The perception that I allowed
You to penetrate my heart
Without contraception
Its concepts shunned
To give birth to Heartache
and Heartbreak…
...The twin of my souls, my life long
My heart song…
“Slipping into Darkness”
Am…
I…
The Wanderer?
I can’t face this musical number
Of my tears showering and thunder
Clashes and slashes from the harsh words
That passes your lips…
Those same lips to which I’d submit
To the dance with the woman between my hips
…and thighs
I… am The Wanderer…
Wondering why there are so many people here
With no cause and no desire
No flames but wildfires blazed
Rejection, infection, bleeding to near death seeking resurrection
Cuz my heart’s been removed by C-Section
From the womb, my helpless twins without direction
They ask:
“Who lives at the intersection of Disconnection Lane
And this street called Imperfection?”
I’m guessin my wandering feet have exhausted every transgression
…And possibility
You… called me The Wanderer
I just can’t fathom my loaned existence
While Passion’s grown resistant over yonder
The distance to the South Southwest
This quest to repossess my feminine finesse
Obsessed with purity of hope’s chest
Attest to custody
Of my dear sweet departed
Or just…
…To not be broken hearted.
I digressed…
Uncharted my course
To die within remorse…
I looked, and beheld a pale horse
Divorced my heart
Beat
Stopped
Down to the soles of my feet
I cannot breathe
And I cannot speak
Trying to find my way
But the dawning of a new pain creeps
Thru a drifter torn asunder…
Bereaved be The Wanderer
Form:
Deep at heart Tim is a dreamer and longs for 'that' dream
And still and in certain arrest he is a child of gone times
His parents Hans and Ida had told him in misleading terms
‘You can do anything you want. . .’
They meant he’s bright and energetic even perfect and
While they had been kind and full of encouragement
The died long before he would abandon that prison
‘We fought the war and you must be free’
A pragmatist full of rational shackles dead to the core
He ponders for meaning caught up in emotional files
Sits under a canopy of figs and waits for the Buddha
‘I see a forest but where is the tree’
‘They’ say that the path is destination its very own aim
The road arduous and tricky and full of obstacle’s way
Sisyphus’ boulder could encroach the slope of the cliff face
‘Let it go but the harvest needs tilling’
Contradictions keep contravening mindful anticipation
Opposites obscure the harmony of synthesized bliss
Subconscious shadows loom in archetypal struggles
‘The conquest fights the lonely survivor’
Tim forfeits his axes to grind and carves his own shell
Forges gun into ploughshares and picks up a flower
Confuses meditation with mediation and forces the mould
‘Leviathan did not levitate he fell on his sword’
Every now and then he can feel the wind of his change
It might carry him to a rainbow and the Source of it all
Yet while knowledge bodes well it is futile without action
‘His fugue eludes the flute of sweet fruit’
He cannot sit still for he is a doer constrained by performance
But the dog on his shoulders resembles a poodle in a circus
A puppet on strings of comical drama a Pavlovian canine
‘Grin and bear it but do not stay idle’
Unleashed by the fangs of Odysseus Tim travels his underworld
Face down belly up he reaches for breath in a bubble of light
Tears at smears and disguise of a mask larger than Venice
‘All water reaches the ocean’
There are bridges and channels and at long last a pier onto
Which he drags his weatherworn body his mind and his soul
Someone left a message draped in simplicity on the pontoon
‘The sole purpose is living one step at a time’
12th February 2019
Her and (Between) the Two Men Part 1
She had just met them, the two men.
And of course at first she would appear an innocent child;
With an innocent face but caught between the two men.
Her smile could make a bachelor’s taste by the night;
Like dreams over shadows of a teenager’s eye.
Her thighs could drag a man’s feet to a jury. Her eyes;
Could provoke a blind man’s sight to the chest of a juvenile.
But at times she would appear a crazy child, a lazy child.
And she would pride between the two men. She would cry;
A silent tear and she would choose to die inside.
She gave it a try at once and a dozen times thereafter. Her life;
Was a talk of the town, she’d frown;
She’d frown—but ignore. She was the gem of African beauty.
And the voice in her told her to be calm but she would ignore.
She would act as though she did not know.
She had brutal eyes of the beholder. She was still younger;
Than her first daughter when she met her sudden lover,
He was a little older than her but kind to be a brother.
He was a man. A fighter. A warrior, but a drifter.
He had become an intruder, an abuser,
And their friendship could not sustain its vulnerable matter;
But her and between the two men.
She had just met the other, and on way to the other.
She had escaped from the other, O what a saga!
Her and between the two men.
She could not bend to mend a broken heart;
But decided to desert the inner self to a fallen kind.
She submitted herself to the civilized kind. The broken kind.
The material kind. And she was a teenager. She was enticed;
By fairy tales of the working class. And she would miss a class,
To quench an old friend’s thirsty days. But the two men retained theirs.
They kept a secret. And the secret between the two men became a little curious.
And curiosity is relative. It is never absolute. You’d rather be a coward;
But curious for rhetorical matters to unfold beneath the mountain of lovers.
03102015-2147
Onalethuso Petruss Buyile Ntema
The Voice of a Shadow: Life, Reality and Mental Inspiration Poetry, 2016
This piece explores the elements of lust and vulnerability.
Author of 'SOUL SEEDS' 2014
www.bookstore.xlibris.com/Products/SKU-000725775/SOUL-SEEDS.aspx
FROM THE DESK OF HUGE GRAPPLYN
IS BEING BOUGHT TO YOU BY
the action packed love story...
"SINGLED"
THE FILM STARRING
DRICCER DENNLES AND hEATHER HOLT
cinema-cinema films
in theaters
September 29 2019
hugh grapplin reports.......
HELLO WRESTLING FANS. THEEIRS A LOT OF WRESTLING : HAPPENING
AND WE WANT YOU TO KNOW WHAT'S GOING ON....
WE START WITH SOME EXCITMENT: IT HAPPENED IN CANADA...
IT WAS BOOKED TO BE EXCITING. THE HEADLINE SAID TO LOOK OUT
FOR WHAT YOU ALL WAYS DREAMED OF.
CHAMPION VERSES CHAMPION,
WINNER TAKES ALL
THE PRIDE OF MAN WORLD
CHAMPIONSHIP SERIES...
THE WORLD HEAVY WEIGHT CHAMPION OF
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" THE WORLDS FINEST" LAUN SHARE
VERSES
CANADIAN NATIONAL WRESTLING LEAGUES
WORLD HEAVYWEIGHT CHAMPION
"FIGHT READY" FYSTA CARL IROQUOIS
accompanied by his manager
" the advantage" Dealton Brice
it was what is was said to be. something people the world over would want to see. 58:13 ( fifthy three minutes thriteen seconds) of great wrestling enjoyment.
the " fermoir de paortiers" verses " sasori noyar" ended with
a belly to belly and a pinfal. and a newly crowned united world champion. if the other guy had won it would have been a newly crowned International council of wrestling champion.
Some body in massachuttees is opening a new office. Mr fight Ready is a dually crowned titlist.
We can't show the film due to complications with the new company. details next week!
bassoon bastein and cantre nilton won the
bestever brawl
two ring 18 men
the dual championship
texas roadhouse rules
saw these two end the night as
trophy sharers
they meet in Texas to deside who's the number one contender
rumor has it. Brickton Price will be at ringside
you know Price he's the one
who beat Drifter distance for the world title in 2018
well after a stint in boxing
he's back. and he's looking for some attention.
Jesus Revisited
He was born out of wedlock and some say his father
was God the Divine I am not sure of that immaculate
projection but genes were involved and I believe that
some assisted fertilization may have started his journey
Adultery would be if not blasphemous too judgemental
what is a piece of paper when progeny was needed to
look after his parents no social security system in those days
when persecution and genocide was on the agenda
He was not so keen on drugs other than wine made from water
a hippie with flowers in heart hair mind and beautiful soul
but nevertheless became a free loving roamer a drifter
poet of the oral tradition full of wisdom and compassion
Does it matter whether Magdalene Mary happened to
become his lover when tables were turned at the temple
how the tides parted to walk on the sea bed or whether
the salt of too many tears of depression floated the message
He was a Middle Eastern guy most probably coloured in skin
with all chakras involved from the mix of a rainbow of promise
he counselled and healed with suggestion charisma almost
hypnotic powers used for the purpose of psychic proportions
He might have sported tattoos depicting a snake or a lion
some contact address emergency number engraved on his
forehead a belly ring maybe of a cross to be cast to foreshadow
his inner and outer appearance scarred healing healed
Much like him I am horrified by wars murder hypocrisy crusading terror
napalm orange agents Hiroshima Holocaust and the senseless
slaughter of groups others Peoples and ideas peace humankind
I passionately care for his message and his proposal his resilience
To stand up for injustice for freedom from evil and freedom of
passive resistance rebellion and faith and beliefs for what matters
He would have been a big pal with the Buddha spiritual leaders of
another age time place contingency context hegemony plight
would maybe not mind a panoply of Hindu Gods and Godesses
and have the Koran next to his straw mattress fire and all
I care for Jesus and he cares for me
22nd July 2016
A dull Christmas eve, still it was better than most.
I’d heard of winter and snow in places far away–
Of cold and frozen waters and rains that fall like powder from the sky–
Of words like mist, soft as a whispered kiss
Escaping from lips–red over a pale impression,
Muttering words of things of the faraway place.
I know not the feeling, only the idea of a place
And whatever feeling it evokes in me the most.
Of these foreign notions, I have not one but many an impression
Of wonder and adventure and ways to sail away
On wooden or metal monsters that beckon the sea its cheek to kiss
In the in-between world of salt water, wind and sky.
Not so here, no snow in this dry harmattan sky.
I’d rather for a change of pace, a change of place.
A place of apples and wine grapes and passions that deepen the kiss–
Of hopes and dreams and wishful thinking for most.
Come hopes! Come dreams! Come insane thoughts and take me away!–
Far away; and in my place leave no impression.
Rid it! On her alone, I made some impression
Of two on a low hill beneath a big grey sky.
Her eyes would haunt me screaming: “Why didn’t you take me, with you, away
To the place we had dreamed–the faraway place?”
Truth be told, she would prove really good–better than most.
Even so, rid me of it, with one final kiss.
A flickering flame snuffed out with a kiss;
Its dying breath trailing a wispy impression.
With that, I lost what it was I wanted the most;
Bartered for the image of a different sky.
Alas, a different time in a different place;
Yet to find a place to stay that doesn’t lead away.
Now, a seasoned drifter wandering away
With tales of wonder and adventure and many a departure kiss–
With yarns of many sights, yet yearning for only one place–
For the place I left, leaving no impression–
A place I must go only after I find the perfect sky.
It was a dull Christmas eve, still, it was better than most.
Now, in a place far away, making many an impression,
Oh, how I desire that kiss, under that same grey sky.
Despite the faraway place, it is what I want the most
(sigh)
Early days as a flaneur;
I recall the couple
On the Metro
When I was still innocent
Of its labyrinthine complexities;
Slim pretty white girl,
Clad head to toe
In new blue denim,
Wistfully smiling
While her muscular black beau
Stared straight through me
With fathomless, fulgorous orbs;
And one of them spoke
(Almost in a whisper):
"Qu'est-ce que t'en pense?"
Then it dawned on me...
The slender young Parisienne
With the distant desirous eyes
Was no less male than I.
Being screamed at in Pigalle,
And then howled at again
By some kind of wild-eyed
Drifter who told me to go
To the Bois de Boulogne to seek
What he clearly saw as my destiny;
Getting soused in Les Halles
With Sara
Who'd just seen Dillon as
Rusty James,
And was walking around in a daze;
Sara again with Jade
At the Caveau de la Huchette.
Cash squandered
On a cheap gold-plated toothbrush,
Portrait sketched at the Place du Tertre,
Paperback books
By Symbolist poets,
Second hand volumes
By Trakl and Deleve,
And a leather jacket from
The flea market
At the Porte de Clignancourt.
Metro taken to Montparnasse,
Where I slowly sipped
A demi blonde
In one of those brasseries
(Perhaps)
Immortalised by Brassai;
Bewhiskered old man
In a naval officer's cap,
His table bestrewn
With empty wine bottles
And cigarette butts,
Repeatedly screeched the name
"Phillippe!" until a bartender
With patent leather hair,
Filled his wineglass to the brim,
With a mock-obsequious:
"Voila, mon Captaine!"
I cut into the Rue du Bac,
Traversed the Pont Royal,
Briefly beheld
Saint-Germain-l'Auxerrois,
With its gothic tower,
Constructed only latterly,
In order that
The 6th Century church
Might complement
The style of the remainder
Of the 1er Arrondissement,
Before steering for the
Place du Chatelet,
And onwards...Les Halles!