Long Entombment Poems
Long Entombment Poems. Below are the most popular long Entombment by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Entombment poems by poem length and keyword.
Faint,
spark,
smothered,
frail flicker,
doused by wanton strafe,
of bogus blitz on firefly swarm,
whose sintered flecks luminous once a mint meadow rash,
fetid stench on sombre marsh morgue deathly plummet in wet woodland, squelching plot interred,
winsome wing glow worm surreal,
larval lantern love, a spring twilight trail flash mate signal in mid-flight flare, haphazard helix of red flame,
lightning mimicry from maiden whose passion quest quenched querulous by nightmarish callous earthling hand clamped coffin dull click, twilight yellow, blue ghost, witching hour green tint spectaclenow grave entombment, mourning planet sheds tears
Scorched
moss
remnant
speck of dust,
dainty dot matchbox
plume ex tiny chaser light chain,
dried out moist field, drought a wretched blight, habitat woe,
as wide sweep venal mindsets purge swathe after swathe of candle fly inbred impish glint,
they feeble bugs, leaf strewn dwellers whose twinkle once power charmed tree tops, lush pastures, putrid logs, harmless to the touch, dodging worldly brass nerve,
warm-hearted watchers for the environment who pose not the remotest threat of even miniscule proportions, now diminishing landscape feature, they atrophy, sag, shrivel, wither, languish, a pointless premature death
Ah! Yes! Yes! You say my poetry
reminds you of a great musician;
the ear to feel and a heart
to impart—so the conductor
motions his vessels to sail:
a pianissimo or great crescendo!
I think that breeze, that wind
that went into us all
should always blow out,
a journey full, an ocean roar
as we are commissioned to assimilate,
translate, define and refine
the creator into something
even more loftily created:
Each cell with its own vibratory sound;
independent while attractive--
repelled by others
be-spelled by sirens,
as the snake its victims
and the saint
its helpless devotees
entwined;
whether toward or away
one flees the entombment--
breaking the shell of fear
we blossom while unfold--
we write a new reality;
The discord!
The harmony!
Volumes that chase
then surround—the ever
splintering light we pursue
a multitude of wands--reconstitute
and tune,--Ah! Such exaltations
can be violent, can be harmony;
Yet they are all divine--beauty
and pain fall and rise
as smoke dissipates leaving
a beaming new sky.
Should we be less
than a symphony of all sorts?
And those players of Shakespeare,
should we not be
players off the stage as well as on?—anything less
would be true hell, transcending those fictitious demons,
powerless were it not for our complicity;
and so possessed the stage itself...and the theater
pillars, and the sky translucent,
a cathedral dome for our blessed cradle,
heaven peering in on its young,
adoring man's perfect, soulful evacuation,
each poem a religious icon of sorts--
No, we should not think ourselves merely children
of the sun and moon—nor those
limited by music of enchanted spheres,
for we are
at our shores
and depths
the effulgence of
all blessed
composing tears.
Woe Betide The Forgetful…
Though the body be weary and tired,
the soul burns with everlasting energy.
To where we have come,
much farther remains to go.
The Moses exodus;
Noah’s unchartered course;
pale the journey ahead.
Crisscrossing Middle Passage streams
put Bermuda Triangle to shame.
To hell and back carries much pain.
In the crosswinds of changing seas’ seasons,
we can no longer ponder where we go;
but to where we must inevitably be.
We can only be where we are to be;
because we were born to be free—
By any means necessary.
From sea to shining sea,
we shall be free.
Not like the shorn lamb
or possum player—afraid;
but like the Loin of Judah
and Cobra of Shiva,
we shall strike back.
Free at last begets bitter entombment.
Freedom now begets sweet resurrection.
There was a cloud hung over him
a presence, an impending doom.
He seemed one lightning strike away
from enlightenment - or entombment.
Haunted by the stigma of divine dissatisfaction
a wanderer in a spiritual maelstrom
questioning the questions of the questioners,
thinking on the thoughts of the thinkers,
worshiping at the edges of heresy,
praying for the efficacy of his prayers.
Hidden in the silence of life’s tomb
innocence interred beneath this “cloud”.
The sun never shone, the rain never fell,
on the unrighteousness of the righteous.
4/10/2016
//This turned into a "Free Verse Sonnet". Hope it works.//
submitted to – Sun shines on the righteous – Poetry Contest
sponsor – Seren Roberts
Faint,
spark,
smothered,
frail flicker,
doused by wanton strafe,
of bogus blitz on firefly swarm,
whose sintered flecks luminous once a mint meadow rash,
fetid stench on sombre marsh morgue deathly plummet in wet woodland, squelching plot interred,
winsome wing glow worm surreal,
larval lantern love, a spring twilight trail flash mate signal in mid-flight flare, haphazard helix of red flame,
lightning mimicry from maiden whose passion quest quenched querulous by nightmarish callous earthling hand clamped coffin dull click, twilight yellow, blue ghost, witching hour green tint spectaclenow grave entombment, mourning planet sheds tears
Planet of the Grapes
and so the grapes
conspired
met in secret bunches
eavesdropped
on the vintners
during their
wine sipping lunches.
too win we must
subvert their minds
causing loss of focus
torturously tenderize
rendering it “mocus”.
we must accept
our crushing fate
entombment in the
vintners cellar
convince them
their dreams absurd
are absolutely stellar.
we’ll infiltrate
the highest realms
of the intelligentsia
cripple them
in brain cell death
of alcohols dementia.
they will tend
the very vines
that nurture revolution
unknowingly
complicit in
our forty proof solution.
John G. Lawless
10/18/2014
For the “Words – The Heart of Imagination?” – Poetry Contest
Sponsor – Brian Johnston
With macabre-like fear, I fret as Death glides near,
all too near! And in my ears, buried deep,
ticks a ghostly tick-tock—it's all I hear
(so deep, deep in my ears I cannot sleep)!
I'm manic; and with every breath I panic
and hyperventilate, as my lungs scream
for air—as from a nightmare truly horrific,
a dream unlike any phantasmic dream
I've ever dreamt of! With unavailing breath,
I wane—wane morbidly as though on death's bier,
embalmed for entombment in a grave beneath
(as I agonize, because the end feels so near).
In paralyzing fear of these panic attacks,
I'll soon die in their death throes and climax!?
And the cemetery was littered with debris
While I paced the graveyards in crushed marble,
That seraphic figures draped the woeful air
Enshrining those long gone…names forgotten
By time’s entombment of a shrunken past
As black roses moved with the cold, cold wind.
From this moment, a heavy silence tugs me;
I kneel down and cry, sighing they find peace
As broken wings perch on my shoulders
That my hands fold in deepened appeal,
Requesting the guardians of life
To teach me stillness when the last twilight
Comes, till the gasp of arriving and leaving
Lays me to rest , tranquil and sweet
With burst of petals along my cemetery;
Knowing not if I have ever lived
In the fullness of love…or fallen from grace.
.................
For the Contest:Any Poem You Ever Penned
Sponsored by Broken Wings
Posted 5/20/2016 ... Not entered in any contest
That first lone leaf twirling slowly to the ground
The first casualty in the war of this season.
One swallow does not a summer make
That one leaf shows what is to come.
Soon it will joined by so many of its comrades
Victims of the insidious sniper of the fall.
The scalpel of the East wind cuts through
The softness summer supplied.
Flowers fading, the absence of bird song
Both signalling the entombment on the way.
Hills cleanly etched against a pale blue sky
Coldly carved in the brittle brightness
Sunlight with all the warmth of a stepmother's smile
Draining the goodness of the moment
The chill of decay portends death
In that illusory cheating glint
Skeletal trees, bare fields, lowering skies
Icy frost and thick blankets of snow.
Some will not live to witness
The ritual of resurrection
But come it will
The earth shaking off its shroud
Then there will peep out
The shy green shoots
Prelude to the glories and glamour of summer
With its heady scents, rich colours and bright song.
This yearly drama plays out its four acts
To let all know everything has its season.
Depending upon where you start
It can be comedy, tragedy or farce
Stacks of Aloneness
by Odin Roark
He wandered here among the longings
And the forgotten,
Not many remaining properly covered,
Their dust jackets of protection
Long gone.
Worn and torn,
The many leaned fatigued in their shoulder to shoulder exile,
With an occasional entombment in plastic wrap
Sweltering in the heat of its many paged passion.
He saw there was something for every kind of aloneness,
Requiring only to be read,
Not bought and placed on another shelf,
But made companion,
A redemptive power for continuing,
often singular journey of aloneness.
A sudden draft from the entrance door
Fluttered the pages of an ancient pyramid travel guide,
The open page 86 sent miniscule sand afloat,
Including its stowaway squashed flea,
Having once bitten the privates of the book’s looting bandit,
Now reduced to but another powdery remnant of history
He gazed upon the shaft of light spotlighting the settling dust.
Such never-ending stacks of tomes, he thought.
A mix of direct and implied philosophy of time,
Some read and pondered,
Others once he knew were but color-matched bindings for
A decorator’s intellectual pandering to
A 5th Avenue looky-loo,
Someone wanting the perfect life,
A delusion her inheritance
Could ever accommodate.
And then…
There was this one opus, ‘til now he knew not of.
Here, the fortune of lovers lying side by side
Beneath the weight of print and paper,
Shared a vial of death, now empty.
A desperate love wanting only to be read,
To be understood as prohibited emotion
Reduced to a finite repose in the darkness of closure,
Like the unopened book now about to have its long awaited embrace.
From his hand he placed the worn book down for ring up.
The clerk opened the cover to reveal its eye-pencil message:
“To my love. May you live long enough to finish this.”
Smiling to the obviously homeless man,
the clerk said, “Just a buck, including tax. Gotta love a bargain, eh?”
“Yes,” he said. “They say the bard knew aloneness needn’t be lonely.
Think he was right?”
She shrugged.
He handed her four quarters.