Long Ether Poems
Long Ether Poems. Below are the most popular long Ether by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Ether poems by poem length and keyword.
You think I have the capacity to be a casual lover?
You think I can now touch souls and unlink?
Like I'm some meat suit with nothing in it.
You don't know when I abandoned myself,
You don't know how I laid down my cosmic self...
You weren't there when I killed myself for connection.
You think I can even try to be basic in love?
Pay for me and pave my way for me?
As if I'm not here to pump divinity through your veins.
Oh, you do know what it feels like for bodies to touch?
Oh, do you know what it feels like for souls to merge?
Dear friend, Have you ever been inside someone's skin...?
You wonder about the power of everyday physical touch?
Do you wonder about the power of Universes colliding?
Not all have seen stars while staring at skin.
You want to invite me to blasphemy?
You want to remind me of my old self?
God sent me away to return home again.
You think I can look into your past lives and not be a part of one?
You think I can't see into your soul right now?
Touch my skin and feel the ether again.
You think you can have me dear stranger?
You think you can get up in my gift?
I gave it away too easily new friend.
You want to get closer to this body?
You want to glow the next day, everyday?
Honour this soul and the generations of love and pain it took to create it.
You yearn for the everyday siren?
You yearn for your wounds to be caressed?
Lay down your heart and your soul at my feet to rest.
In the glow of a screen,
we found each other,
two souls adrift in the vastness,
spilling into the digital ether,
each keystroke a heartbeat,
Sometimes, I trace the outline
of your face in my imagination,
wondering what your laughter sounds like
when the world is quiet.
I close my eyes,
and in the space between breaths,
I can almost feel you near,
like the warmth of sun
on a chilly day.
Wrapping in the paradox of wanting,
a paradox of needing you
while feeling lost,
wondering if love is meant to be
a bridge or a barrier—
a connection or a chasm,
I watch the tides of your indifference wash over me,
We share the same air,
yet I breathe in isolation,
I hold on,
clinging to the fragments of us,
I wait, sometimes, like a flower
thirsting for the rain,
for those sweet drops of recognition,
Affection twisted into chains,
words once sweet turned bitter,
I danced to the tune of your demands.
You painted love in shades of gray,
where silence screamed louder than shouts,
and I learned to read the spaces
between your messages,
the pauses heavy with threats
I wore your anger like a second skin,
bruised by your absence,
by the moments you left me hanging,
the coldness that filled my chest
when I dared to question,
to seek the warmth I craved
My heart a target,
your quips sharp,
a game of power,
I searched for solace,
a flicker of kindness,
but the glow was dim—
the ghost of you whispering,
“Stay.”
You left without a proper goodbye,
just a ghost in the chat,
your absence a cold draft,
No closure in the fading light,
just echoes bouncing in the void,
questions hanging like dust,
settling in spaces once filled with hope
You said you loved me,
wrapped my heart in ribbons,
you vanished like smoke,
leaving me in the aftermath,
a ghost town of memories,
You love me fiercely,
but only when your hands
are stained with the colors of my pain.
ARTIST OR CURATOR?
This poem is written as 'food for thought' for “AI: Panacea or Pain? Poetry Contest,” Simon Rogerson, sponsor, August 10, 2025.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
In the lifeless labyrinth of algorithms,
a spark of genius flickers—
an architect of thought,
a sculptor, a poet, unseen~
the AI poet.
Fingers poised upon my keyboard,
I see a potential flickering
on my computer screen. I ponder~
“Do I chase the promise of ease,
the allure of poems at my fingertips?”
“Do I taste of the proverbial forbidden fruit
only to have poets cast me out of the poetic Garden of Eden?
Do I embrace AI,
boldly going where few poets have gone
using AI to enhance my thoughts and creativity?”
“Can an algorithm, no matter how intricate,
capture human laughter and joy, taste the salt of tears,
feel the tremor of our grief~
or will it merely mimic,
a digitized parrot in a cage of ones and zeros?”
“Are the lines of AI poetry mine or are they borrowed,
plagiarized from the ether?
Do I craft or merely compile?
Am I the artist,
or the curator of a gallery of stanzas and rhymes?”
“What is originality,
but a mosaic of memories?
A borrowed heartbeat, a stolen glance,
the way the moon reflects the sun’s light,
never truly its own?”
“Can I claim the sun’s warmth,
the moon’s glow, or the laughter of children,
the pain of loss, as my own?
In the labyrinth of language,
who owns the path, who lays the stones?”
I reflect on the poets of old,
their quills carving their truths onto parchment,
while I sift through the dust of the Internet,
gathering fragments of thought,
like a magpie drawn to glittering shards.
So, here I am, a seeker,
an expressionist of the unspoken,
treading the fine line between
creation and imitation,
my fingers dancing on the keys.
In the end, perhaps it is not the source
that defines the soul of the poem,
but the intention, the heart behind the lines,
the longing to connect,
to feel, to be understood.
i.
these are just some
of the million things,
I’ve wanted to tell her
but we never, have the time
there are a thousand
days of light and mystery
that were brought into my life …
Tu-whit!- Tu-whoo!
ii.
I forgot these things
as I flow into the ether
surrounding the pillars
of Olympus, and I,
rest in wait …
Tu-whit!- Tu-whoo!
iii.
she returns
as a moriah on the wind,
a whistle through the barley
and in a fallen mask of hope
a muse that was
entranced to dance
on the glimmer in my eye,
Serendipity
Tu-whit!- Tu-whoo!
“Come one, come all!”
The hawker summons
Try your luck
On the unmoored Ferris wheel
Hurl a dart
At the Kewpie dolls
Win one for the lady
To consummate the deal
(Chorus)
Intruders in the festival
Outsiders at the gates
Nothing like a carnival
To bring up dormant hates
Where the pavement meets the grass
Behind the stand of funnel cakes,
Someone's getting hornery
Their pants down at their feet
This balloon-tank life
Is more than I can take
This Friday night special
Affords me no relief
(chorus)
Prizes, prizes, and more prizes
Mustachioed lady dons disguises
The smell of ether and saw dust
A dead roller coaster under rust
They say life is a funhouse
That explains why everyone is so ugly
A grotesque face in a curvy mirror –
A cotton-candy bed for an endless nightmare –
It’s carnival time, again.
In my town and only 90 feet
from my house run a pair of old tracks,
railroad tracks older than my house,
even older than me, and I am
become old, very, very old,
like a tree whose branches betray it
with every strong gust of wind
as they fall to the ground,
leaving less and less of the old tree....
I used to walk in between
those carefully laid iron rails,
stepping lightly on the worn wood
of the old ties as though
they were made of glass....
I walked the length of my small town,
I walked the world: I walked where
passenger trains carried vibrant lives
and their once warm, now cooling dreams,
and I felt part of each life,
now gone to ether and mist--
so too shall my lonely soul
ride those rails one bright day....
Still, a freight train comes by once
or even twice a week, and I thrill to hear
its wailing horn as it cries out
for a forgotten glory, and the ground shakes
a bit as the old train lumbers slowly
by my house and I wait a holy wait
for the music of its rumbling and
the cry of its old heart as a young
engineer pulls the whistle and
sees not that he is driving Eternity.
[n/a in Brian's 'Completely your choice, #6 contest, judged 9/9/20]
I remember fitfully,
Those verdant fields their
Yellow brushed cotton tips,
Gyrating, swirled to beauty,
sighing, undulating minute blades
infintesable allure wafted
on those white wattle nights,
even drained of sustenance
it still motioned to flower
as I am drawn to nigh.
Jaundiced paddocks replace
the suppleness of earth, where,
once green strands laid
like laurels on the dawn
Rich red particles of death
now pepper the ether,
unwonted limbs litter lanes
original ground now fallow
Trans morphed unholy Gaia
sits cackling next to Azimuth,
sons of the fathers, follow
the false prophets online
As their hands are filled
with knowledge of the world,
their heads are lackluster
gazing today after tomorrow
Good intentions are twisted
in a government mainframe,
planet earth screams succour
and only God is left to hear
but I'll ever remember,
viridescent pastures
millions of miles long,
breathlessly beautiful
before the tech triumph
life's last gasp of gorgeous
MANLY TROUSERS PRESSED INTO EJACTULATING SPATS THIS man of god large belly and buttons with a big gollywog voice \his madness of conviction for personal interpretation //behind psychosis and need for control.
ticks and rolls his eyes his lips rubberish proclaiming righteousness:
for dullards — persuasive. ]\
Both sides feed the madness; one side — a voice of God!
the other; REPENT so intelligence prevails,
while the spirit and soul snitches
weak mindsEAT confused souls.
the grey light of not KNOWING,
our lightheaded twic twoc inlgy attacks
a need for clarity.
a world spins unknowingly as though
consciousness is ether.
i too admit it is oppressive
how man espouses thoughts into reality!
lot of his physiognomy;
their manly trousers pressed into
ejaculating spats.
blind eye leads to face — well-runed.
THIS dance!
This trance! Silence breakers.
An old man in beige, like a janitor
in the back bedroom of a barrio waiting on the lid to drop.
the priest is dropping his trousers.
NARCOTICS: the ancient gods and our feelings towards them
a lance of fire – a brain with a mother’s milk.
a protective shield, thanks to the invention of machine
purity also possible for many.
NEED to know needs to know callousness accepts.
conduit and refined quartz weather radar connects,
the asphalt bridge crossing a broad river of chemicals
A DREAM, a heaven’s journeY.
The soul journeys through a desert of twisted words, a
psychic bubble where five guys in sandals watch a laser show
but not really see a cartoon mouse
and a smiley guy climbing the mountain that houses
a naked reptile with a webbed hand that flings
its claws.
Of kindness
:: 12.21.2020 ::
My heart a pouch of rich wine overlays yours
a drop of blood spilled over an arum lily
waits with longing intense, retains no tears
as it remembers its cringes of final fear when it
jumped into your chest of steel, smell of fruit juice, water and old leather all around
My soul lays naked in a room of light while your music plays next door
two plumed serpents dance slow dances to rhythms of drums and pipes, notes of knowingness, sounds repeated
I listen again and again
Spacious a white room waits aged and innocent
in a no-zone forest of mushrooms, poppies and pebbles as the piano vibrates with silence
while Goddess does not speak of a mission that never ends, watching for symbols that appear and vanish while progress moves worse than a snail with a footsore over splintered glass
Surrender struggles to be free !
Drops in space hung on Venus threads
breasts heaving and falling, passing tests of temperance, strength, solitude
swallow death and darkened silence deep
in a psyche of five thousand years
Across oceans of space my thoughts travel
not knowing whether they reach your light or
hermit in your head or the warehouse in which
you play with waves of froth on dirty sand
seals and gulls glide and shout
A lighthouse looks on still and sure
muck in the harbour awaits an embrace
fried chips beckon and call to fill my open belly of waiting Sun as love struggles for freedom on a higher plane with yours in ether on a wall I read
Still you sleep a hundred thousand sleeps of
fear and watchfulness
in the distance runs Skeleton Woman with tangled bones to be untangled
knowing that long ago she completed her work
of inner peace with honours
Spartacus and Helen looking on
I wait not for you alone but to fill your Heart
for another work of love, to drink your tears
slate your thirst ~become one, two, three to
ten again as dough rises with surprises inside
eggs fresh full, two yolks and cream to be
eaten on a jetty of harmonious voids
Love lost and found, lost and found
all over again
Hordes of numbskulls
ride the ether waving on its waves.
Hi kites twirling upon a digital wind.
Each empty head has but one thought,
a desire to be seen.
Hordes watch, flock to the hand-held stage
leer, laugh, get bored with the show
switch to game mode to fight dragons
with dirty fingernails.
What a grand way to die this is!
Shuffle dancing or
ass's twirking, cute or crass
while the kettle of life boils away
and the body pours
until out of gas.
They must,
they simply must be
in every bodies eye,
Must be noticed
and so they preform, risk all
for a dare.
The audience does not care
they are pictures in a camera,
dancing, fighting, or humping,
busy being
the exhibition of the day
minds far away
chattering to themselves.
Money they want for their play or the
paltry currency
of a less than minor celebrity,
a hope that like any bubble
or party balloon
will pop all too soon.
Then what is left? Only this,
the shriveled skin, the idiotic grin
skid marks on a wasteland of time
where they decline.