Long Extinguishes Poems
Long Extinguishes Poems. Below are the most popular long Extinguishes by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Extinguishes poems by poem length and keyword.
Deep within Earthen bowels
immensely distant from sheltering sky
amidst a thick fog enveloped landscape
with here and there a projected
craggy, derelict chasm
precipitously crooked
rocky claws pointing toward
an infinitely wide yawning abyss
dwelt kindred spirits
comprising soul asylum
where grateful dead (albeit marked,
via weathered tomb stones)
hermetically sealed
once vibrant corporeal mortals
betook their eternal slumber.
One among their number
included a misanthrope
who sported long straggly hair
bushy eyebrows shield
ding cold eyes of steel
straggly bearded clammy chin
in tandem with a hairy body
which when alive (long time ago)
upheld upon unshod feet, a severely
hunchbacked cretin
Within dense pitch-black terrain
(Mother Nature enlisting
a menagerie of life forms
accustomed to hellish environment)
awash with unrecognizable
alien sights and sounds
mollycoddling bewitching warlocks,
mailer daemons, trolling trojan horses
imps of the pervert chieftains, fiery
long and fostered Golems
who called underworld
their private demesne
also alluded to Marcy's playground
holding hostage Alice in Chains
Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles,
The Beastie Boys, Culture Club
The Human League, and
Village People a Crowded House
Emitting wisps of ethereal matter
appearing a small medium at large
chat snap ping, flickr ring
indeed joyus minions
exalting piety good and plenti.
Prone ounce sing proud purgatory
promoting protean phantasmagoria
hideous hulu hoop dancing holograms
highly distorted grotesque
silent 10,000 maniacs screaming
sinister semblance to banshees
slithering across escarpment.
Echoing one end of universe to the other
putting to shame initial big bang
ranking as a mere whimper
that original primordial blast
which cosmological exploits
generated heavenly sphere instantaneously
comparison viz Krakatoa times Googleplex
essentially reduced to insignificance
albeit on the analogous tinker toy
premised conjectures of brilliant minds
could gander feeble educated guesses
asper extraordinary natural phenomena
mortal mankind could never approximate
as belligerent threats punctuated,
via nuclear warfare
merely rates as a flickr
amidst uber kindle snap chat ting
tinder blinks, extinguishes,
snuffs out one lowly
Beatle browed bipedal simian.
Modern science has denuded
The stars and night sky of all myth and magic.
Knowing the facts in awe and wonder are no substitute for stories and legends of ancient cultures
To know that most starts are trillions of miles away,
Too far to ever visit is daunting and defeating.
It is humbling in the extreme, to know that our sun us one of 100 billion, trillion, trillion stars,
Out there in the unimaginable expanse of the Universe
One grain of sand on an endless beach stretching to infinity and beyond
How does knowing this help us?
How does learning the facts from science
That destroys all myths, legends and stories about the stars and night sky
Improve our quality of life, and our enjoyment of stargazing?
The answer is to revive the stories and explanations of ancient cultures
Who revered and respected the night sky.
Learning these stories and legends makes stargazing worthwhile and meaningful.
Here is an example from Australian Aboriginal Culture:
The sun is a woman, and the moon is a man.
The sun woman is a good person.
She arises every morning, decorates herself with ocha.
Then sets fire to the stringy bark tree.
Some of the red ocha drops off and falls on the clouds,
Making a beautiful red sky sunrise.
The sun woman carries the burning stringy bark tree,
Across the sky during the day, giving light and warmth to everyone on earth,
In the evening the woman comes down in the west,
She removes the red ocha and some falls off on the clouds
Creating the red sky at sunset.
She extinguishes the fire in her stingy bark tree.
Then she travels under the ground at night,
Back to her camp in the east, ready for the new day dawning.
The moon is a bad man
He refuses to hunt and provide food for his clan,
He is fat and lazy, and a nasty person
His wife and his son get so annoyed with him,
That they attack him with their axes,
Chopping more and more bits of him,
That is why you get the phases of the moon.
Crescents and half moons through the month
Eventually there is little left, and the moon dies
And stays stays dark for three nights,
Then he comes back to life, a new moon every month.
The bad man moon remains fat, lazy and nasty.
In the tremble of the evening and the rustle of the unfinished letter,
My aged hand, shrouded in the mist of memories, writes the last farewell,
Under the blue cloak of celestial silence, waiting for the silent echo of your pride,
A proud oblivion that dares not gamble with lost words.
Seasons, stepping over us, corseted us in tombs of leaves and thoughts,
They have coiled in the whispers of our souls together and apart, in snowdrifts of indifference.
I see bleeding sunsets where each day concludes its aria, a somber procession
Beneath my eyes frozen forever gazing towards the sunset, in the waiting of a dawn I have lost.
I, remaining immovable as you knew me, just a little more hunched by words unspoken,
The eternal white blizzard has blossomed in my hair, a winter poet with a heart clad in ice armors.
And here's how shades of gray weave their bed in the canvas of the soul's dusk,
Coloring darkness over the love that bleeds, a flame that extinguishes in the horizon that forsakes me.
The star of my eyes is extinguished, and the sky only illuminates me in hues of longing,
It is a portrait, an old and cracked painting, that even time refuses to touch,
Hidden in the sweet kiss of things no longer, I find my solace in the dust on abandoned furniture,
And feel how without your presence, life slowly melts away, like a candle in the wind.
The snow of indifference has buried our whispers, and blizzards of despair blow us towards separate fates,
We will always remain the same figures, like two timeless clocks, the man of the sunset and the woman of the dawn.
Somewhere, in our story, that unravels and falls, we remain two strangers to the world and to ourselves,
Lost, you in the red light of the evening, me, a residue of a star flickering in a forgotten corner of the sky.
And when these lines will fall away, just as the shadow detaches from the body at dusk,
I will navigate in silence among galaxies, an anonymous cartographer of the way with stars and memories,
A mute bard, stripped of the sale of sentiments, severely ill with the euphoria lying in my chest,
A last page, a last verse, woven from longing, of your odyssey, admirably sad, divinely beautiful.
"A Near-Death Experience of A Sweetheart"
Floating through a corridor between two different Worlds
among white fluffy clouds and shimmering stars awhile wind unfurls
racing into darkness: destination to death's door
living in a heavenly kingdom ... forevermore ...
Traveling through deep tunnel as cold fingers touch
walls of blackened essence creating thoughts to clutch
quickly toward a bright white light of peace
my soul and spirit being experienced soft release ...
Rushing to a Paradise, landing on streets of gold
seeing the Face of God so clearly to behold
longing to embrace my dear departed family
loved ones who had gone before to their final destiny ...
Their captivating smiles excited my soul
sharing love once more as was in their earthly roll
but a huge white Angel stood between my track
he spoke mentally "child of God you must go back.
And yet, I was not sad but happy to have seen
my precious treasured relatives cuddled by Supreme Being
why? I questioned must I return to Planet Earth?
Angel responed not your time to stay
your purpose unfulfilled for God to cherish every day ...
Suddenly transported through the tunnel smelling flowers
a jorney taking minutes but feeling like hours
and soon the sights and sounds ignited quiet hospital room
while my loved ones endured possibility of doom ...
My husband was squeezing my hand so tight I felt his love
as my children sobbed so loud praying to above
my eyes opened wide as I inhaled a breath
escaping to my body while I avoided Death ...
This near-death experience was an inspiration
for another realm exists in utter fascination
for now the message lives to enjoy both love and life
have no fear for death is harmless and erases strife ...
Hover close to God and always give Him thankxxx
through trials and tribulations He relieves all angst
Treasure every moment and anticipate the end
a beutiful place is waiting reuniting family and friends ...
Kisses and hugs replaced those solitary tears
knowing what lies ahead extinguishes all fears
please celebrate the gift of life in grateful attitude
Eternity is awesome with unending interlude ...
Mired in muck. Appendageless.
Sinking in shadowy whispers.
Surviving is senseless.
Eternity is a marathon with no bathrooms, no water, no finish.
I pray for light, Satan pulls the shades
No hope, no truth, no tomorrow.
I need a friend to throw me a lifeline
But they are all busy avoiding the muck.
Spinning on their cotton candy bridges.
They spew their words gilded with silk and honey
Dripping from forked tongues.
It's not until the subtle meanings catch the wind and scatter that the honey turns dark,
And thick, and makes their teeth black and their hearts dull.
I wait for the splash as another like me has had her life's bridge eaten by the acid of jealousy and fear.
She screams, "THE TRUTH WILL SET YOU FREE!"
And the muck bubbles and shifts exultant
As it silences her cries and extinguishes her fire.
Laughter falls like shards of glass from above,
Because they know the truth but never speak it.
An unwritten oath that all jail keepers vow.
Lock the truth away like a bird in a cage until its colors fade, its feathers fall, and music is only a memory.
A man dangles from a swinging cord
Halfway between the mockers and the muck.
His white collar hurts our eyes
Smooth words of redemption that almost awaken my sleeping emotions.
But then the cord breaks, and faced with the truth of our existence
The man flees back to the bridge
Our heads his stepping stones as he escapes to the sterility above.
His collar stays white,
His hands clean.
His memory is short -- he doesn't even remember why he came.
Or who sent him. He is the lucky one.
Memory haunts me. I long to forget:
How to love
How to hurt
How to breathe.
My cocoon of woe promises no future flight
It's a straight jacket of hate
And my prayers just bounce off the padded walls.
I need a knight; I get only night.
I need a hand; I get a slap.
I need understanding; I get overstepping.
I know three things:
1. Nothing will ever be the same.
2. I will never trust again.
3. You cannot will a heart to stop beating.
Sleep is my only friend, death my only goal.
That is the truth that will set me free.
Delilah is a temptress with the magic of allure,
but special potions or devices aren’t required by her.
Women notice (enviously) her flawless skin so fair
and the unusual style of her lustrous long sleek hair.
She walks into a restaurant, a club, or any place. . . .
Silence falls as everybody’s gaze rests on her face.
The eyes of men are quickly drawn to a rosebud mouth
before they ever let their lustful eyes start traveling south.
That perfect mouth is painted pink. She lays one fingertip
seductively upon her pouty luscious bottom lip.
She wears a look “come hither” with the freshness of a girl,
and violets adorn her silky chestnut locks that swirl.
But merely entering the room is all she needs to do
for everyone to notice her most beautiful tattoo.
A rosy blossom at her eye the people see begin
to bloom out toward her cheekbone, and then narrow toward her chin.
A mark of beauty like no other they have ever seen:
this flowery tattoo must be the symbol of a queen!
Delilah only looks upon a man; his heart will burn,
and then he will do anything, this woman’s love to earn.
But the poor unfortunate with whom Delilah leaves
will taste forbidden fruit, and afterwards, he grieves.
That’s because Delilah cannot be with just one man.
This was the condition of another’s vengeful plan.
Because she spurned a powerful ancient god above,
he ruled that she would come to earth to never taste true love.
To keep her beauty, she must feel a mortal man’s desire,
but having one man more than once extinguishes the fire.
Should she stay with just one man, the tattoo near her eye
will fade away and like that flower, withering, she’ll die.
So the temptress - never staying in one place - moves on.
A night of passion, then her victim wakes to find her gone.
Having spent one night with her, his joy stays in the past,
and she, that lovely goddess, is denied a love that lasts.
Written by Andrea Dietrich
Inspired by the contest: "Tell Her Story"
Sponsored by ~ Constance La France ~ A Rambling Poet ~
Why don't we discard the mask, let all the stage props fall?
The answer, whispered through shadows, is found in our sunlight-forgotten guise.
The true color has washed away in the rains of days, so that we no longer recognize who is,
The figure now wearing our face, lost within the deceptive, layered veil.
From the first moment, when innocence played upon our dexterous, nimble fingers,
The mask clung to our skin, grew with us, roots burrowed deep into our veins.
It transformed into a second façade, nearly forgetting the original countenance,
We've identified with the role, into its gentle silver chalice we poured our spirit.
We have wrapped ourselves in the banners of characters, taking on thickly drawn contours,
Elaborate shells that muffle the sound of the sea, the voice of our true self.
Behind this crafted wall, the solitary 'I' incessantly questions, tirelessly grinds:
"What was my former being, where is the chain that linked past, present and forever?"
Thus, we become acclaimed actors in a play we no longer know how to finish,
Where each fault, longing, laughter implies a scene masterfully depicted.
In this perpetual theater we act, sending echoes of applause into void chambers,
On stage, we perish and revive, in the wings we forget the mask that once served as our collateral.
As we lose ourselves behind this façade, the ancient beast of light gradually extinguishes,
Offering only a flash when one gazes into the deep waters of unfocused eyes.
We have become the dwelling of roles which we change as easily as the leaves of days thinned calendar,
We continually wash in the river of forgetfulness, solidifying into steadfast and mute characters.
Behind this zealously painted wall with its numerous layers,
Lurks the enchantment of relinquishing, the chalice of courage to be simple and undefined by realms.
But if we peel away, layer by layer, thought by thought, the mask off the face of eternity,
Perhaps we will glimpse what we once were - a barren soul, yet full of its own essences and sap.
Under the heavy aegis of passing time,
Centuries have become a burden weighing upon the moment,
We are more severed from purity than all the ages,
Corpses of empires, our own decay surrounds us.
History extinguishes under our exhausted breath,
The rasp of nations' deaths becomes a background melody,
The curtain of the universe is torn, moth-eaten,
Through its cracks, we see only masks and sluggish phantoms.
Is there love beyond what you can grasp?
Is there goodness beyond your limits?
Is there a reality broader than all you know?
Is there understanding that far surpasses you?
It would be wise to believe so.
For yes, chaos extends beyond the horizons,
But this chaos is a foundation only for those who do not venture,
On the invisible steps of the eternal mystery,
In the teachings of the past lies deep evidence.
The eternal clock pendulates in a heavy silence,
Each stroke, an open gravestone in the night,
Ghosts of old empires, caught in a macabre dance,
In the spectrum of our ruins murmur to one another.
In the mantle of the evening, we wear living masks of twilight,
Trying to cover the decay of our souls,
But through the holes in the curtain, absolute truths penetrate,
Specters arrayed divinely, like banners of being.
Our saga is written in the ash of a bygone universe,
In endless universes, we explore deeply hidden secrets,
In the fissures of reality, whispered answers trickle,
In unknown questions, a network of dreams intertwined.
In the eternal vastness, a sense reveals its wings,
Perfectly interwoven chaos, in its form of wonder,
But at its core, a hope shines with living light,
Beyond all we know, eternal purity is born.
Beyond our limited echoes,
Lies an absolute love, a cosmic goodness,
An unbounded reality and supreme understanding,
Awaiting us, beyond the springs of knowledge.
Thus, in the midst of shadows and hollow suffering,
Hope weaves its thread of eternal silver,
For in the mysterious depths of infinity,
Chaos emerges, but so does the fundamental order of being.
the children wait on the shore
eyes fastened to the horizon
behind them stand the women
with a gaze far more serious
all impervious to rain and wind
the hurricane had turned inland
last night it was moving north to Baja
the fishermen left with ease
it would soon be gone
yet, early in the morning, it moved east to Nayarit
chaotic nature, in the end reigns supreme, it always has
in the distance dots appear, fishermen driven home
as the storm rages over them
children and women frantically search
the returning pongas for any familiarity
as the fishermen struggle valiantly in the waves
tonight some prayers are bearing fruition
while others were lost to an angry sea
a storm none could predict
nor ever will with certainty
the candles burn at the feet of the dead
now plaster saints, imploring continues
long into the night, a chance of perchance
that bird that sings in the worst gale
morning brings the tolling of church bells
amidst the devastation
faces who will never forget that chaos
has no favorites
only illusions, as matter, may well be, Berkeley rocks
the luck of the draw, despite Darwins' wishful design
the ensuing fluctuating schemes of pandemonium
desultory forces who at best are deficit in reason
or are they, who knows the breadth of creation
a constant reminder, the precarious hold life has
how delicate the day we the biota share
how precious life is
i learned that long ago from a little tippler
leaning on a dying sun
toasting with manzanilla the heavens above
cursing some matelot beneath her labored breath
now the nobody we all are when the light extinguishes
receding within into singularity
and whatever wormhole we exit will never matter
nor the dimensions therein
gone, as the smoke from an extinguished candle
escaping forever into the entropy
where matter never perishes
Fergus Falls 96 The Patient Stones
how often in my writing i see Emily Dickinson appear....i have often fantasized about pursuing her heart
(William Hammer, Thomas Alva Edison's assistant,
has reached the end of his tolerance. His boss is
planning to electrocute an elephant for a publicity
stunt.)
If he goes through with this, the dam has burst.
I'm done with him. Of all the tricks he's pulled,
this is the lowest, cheapest, cruellest. Worst.
Yes, Edison. He can't be serious,
can he? To execute an elephant?
He's out there, grinning like a Barbary ape.
Where two or more newspapermen are gathered,
Alva loses all his self-control.
He'll be there now, perspiring, shouting, lathered,
excited to his flinty, vulgar soul.
I'm William Joseph Hammer. Who are you?
A quarter-century I've spent with him,
but now the scales have fallen from my eyes.
The man's a pirate and a charlatan.
Inventor? Him?
Well, since I'm stranded here
in shabby Coney Island in the rain,
ignored and slighted, spited yet again,
I'll tell you. Edison did not invent
the light bulb - that's what he employed me for.
Besides, I'll name a dozen scientists
who'd made a working lamp some years before.
What is he good at? He's a patent-mill!
He takes out patents like a dentist, teeth
(except that dentists never put their name
on what they've pulled). The man has got no shame.
The team has all the talent, he the grin:
we think the thoughts, and Alva cashes in.
I think he's met his match in Westinghouse.
The so-called war of currents. Who will win?
America will buy one set of goods,
and where this country leads, the others go.
To get his system in American homes,
He'd kill his grandma.
Hence this all-time low.
He's worse than Czolgosz. At the very least,
the latter had nobility, although
misguided. Alva has no other cause
beyond himself. Those motion picture-things
are here for Alva's glory. When the blow
extinguishes that poor beast's life, you'll know
whose self-promoting hand was on the tiller.
Saint Thomas Alva Edison's a killer.