Long Featureless Poems
Long Featureless Poems. Below are the most popular long Featureless by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Featureless poems by poem length and keyword.
fascinated by the things
hovering in the punishing
sky. both the wicked and winged,
or the bare and featureless. pulled
along in a conveyor belt parade,
a silent march in the stratosphere.
floating forward to the place called
Limbo.
jagged horns pop the
clouds like balloons, withering skin
grazes the twilight. the softest
sky being cut into ribbons as
if it was a present that was
meant to be ripped open all along.
those foggy phantoms following
along. reaping the seeds they
sowed when they were more than
souls.
what a wonderful gift it must be
to hover over this hollow place.
At the break of Dawn, she poses in place,
as a rising sun stains the night sky pink.
And my artistic hand begins to race;
sketching her features with charcoal and ink.
Ebony, outlines, mesmerizing eyes,
as if she stepped from a fantasy dream.
And as cotton-candy clouds tint the skies,
gilded shafts of light make her aura gleam.
With her white face as featureless as smoke:
colored silks adorn this porcelain doll.
And as my muse guides my every brush stroke:
I'm inspired to try and capture it all.
A Japanese Geisha touts perfection;
nothing about her, invites correction.
One day I will leave,
quietly slipping away
from here where I have been
held up, nameless, all winter.
You will not notice my going.
Where once a presence
existed there will be a small,
rounded absence tucked
in some corner of your mind
and even this will soon
fill to a flat, featureless glaze.
Perhaps years hence, there will be
a day when the sound of rain
softly cushions an afternoon
and what has been forgotten
slowly revives to float pass
a drowsy eye,
momentarily catching the light
to flare somewhere on the edge
of a vague recognition,
though I am not sure whether
it will be me.
They did not build it around him; they built him inside of it.
Poured like liquid consciousness into a mold of absolute geometry,
he hardened in a silence that drank his screams before they could form.
First came the decay: fear shivering in the marrow,
then the long drought of loneliness where memories thinned into ghosts.
Rage returned—a magma-flare against unseen planes—until the fire
settled into the grey dust of despair. He became a statue in a museum of one.
Time lost meaning until a primal itch moved his hands.
Cartographers of a featureless world, they felt for a flaw, a joint, a lie.
Finding none, a single brittle fingernail dragged a nerve-jangle
across the dark. And with it—a wound.
A pinprick of light pierced the void, a shard of an impossible star.
His heart sputtered and roared. Fingers became talons,
tearing at the wall until an imperfect mouth of light revealed the truth.
Not earth, but an architecture of spun starlight and frozen mist.
Towers floated over luminous clouds, traversed by beings of pure light.
And there sat his cube: a mote of dust on a crystalline shelf,
one among a million black cells in a honeycomb of suspended souls.
The air in his lungs turned to glass. This was no escape,
but the unveiling of the true prison. He was a specimen on display.
The darkness had been a mercy; this unattainable heaven was the torture.
He launched his body—a ram of bone against eternity—but the wall
was a god that did not listen. Slumped against the scratch marks,
he watched the uncaring city drift by. Finally, he understood
the difference between being trapped in the dark and being trapped by the light.
The grand, half-ruined Parthenon,
once a sublime, Doric grace,
Even now, in broken, stone blocks,
always takes my breath away.
The rich, classical detail,
fluted columns without plinths,
to imagine what it once was,
the mind can’t even begin…
That towering Coliseum,
the great masterpiece of Rome,
even half gone it’s staggering,
to be so tall, but made in stone.
Go down to the domed Pantheon,
still so perfect to this day,
these are not just random buildings,
they stand with something to say.
And those long, Gothic cathedrals,
so ornate and yet so light,
stained glass alone is enough
to make these churches a sight!
But all of that fine tracery,
those magnificent cravings,
the rows of flying buttresses,
inspire the soul to sing.
The Byzantines and their tiles,
Tudor masonry and wood,
Romanesque with its arches,
Art Decco looks oh-so-good,
Baroque with all its fussiness,
Victorians with their quirks,
Renaissance sports Italian flare,
Palladian’s subtle pleasures…
And yet in Albany, New York,
there stands the featureless ‘egg,’
That’s its name and its resemblance,
I am not pulling your leg.
No decoration, no windows,
as it stands there in the sun,
people call it ‘modernist,’
I call it ‘concrete abortion.’
Worse is the post-modern trash,
theaters shaped like hunks of cheese,
painted pink, spattered with portholes,
a mad-man’s monstrosity.
That is the product of our skills?
That is how we would inspire?
By building things that look like they
have been melted in a fire?!
They bulldoze down our heritage
to throw up more of these things?
And the big-wigs who approved this,
what the hell are you thinking?!
If these buildings of the future
are to have no beauty or class,
then you can keep ‘modernity,’
I’ll gladly live in the past.
Alone in the wood featureless and stark
a little beastie out its hollow leapt,
for countless years behind the hidden bark
its lost soul among the undead crept.
In the House of the Garden of Hollies
beckoned a bright light through asylum gate,
and led him from those dark satanic trees
to be with her in a late tryst of fate.
In the long night of its fiery scorch
roared a breathing dragon fire,
and in its smoke and flame and torch
burned a beastie desire!
Caught in its horns and razor long claws
he rode its bare back on wings of flight -
to its waiting cave and locked chamber doors
and temptations of her burn and bite.
Into the bed of a wood dragon's lair
fell the little wee beastie into her snare,
but in her trap that cunning little prey
clipped her wings before she got away.
In the long night of its fiery scorch
roared a breathing dragon fire,
and in its smoke and flame and torch
burned a beastie desire!
Written: December 1997
A rock salted field hard-by a thwacking sea,
a shore of time-crushed boulders
that form the twisted shadow-shapes
of long-forgotten histories,
margins where the scored etchings
of red raw faiths and wind carved countenances
are submerged signs only visible
through the long-eroded lens of doom.
Here were once groups and troops
that have died around their young bones
while laying exhausted in open camps.
At low-tide, among such eroded liniments,
a time-crushed human landscape is revealed.
We see the swift rise and fall of the long buried,
and recognize a towering significance: -
that it is we that will leave watermarks
for others to discover. A featureless ocean
will whittle new features upon our own
barbaric innocence.
Coarse, featureless shards stagnating
Fodder for a discerning hand's mending
Putty strands their potential value bleating
For a potter's touch; new life entreating
Gentle hands rough surface massaging
Rubbery texture patting and preening
Carefully each lump, fold kneading
Instinctively more clay into mixture feeding
Pressing the mass around the wheel now speeding
Softly caressing, while each corner buttressing
Holpen hands new shape, form deeding
A spherical chalice deftly molding
Each cascading side symetrically scaling
Delicate fingers each crenelation each groove formulating
Peeling off excessive fragments, proportions receding
Moisture from the master's hand now bleeding
Patiently, a primitive, tidy colander forging
With rythmic, patterned movements shearing
An artistically, woven pot from the wheel emerging
A magestic artifact the maestroes skill divulging
If I could but feel!
I would feel the warmth
of the sun upon my old,
cold, featureless face....
If I could but touch,
I'd touch the grass I lay on
and revel in its texture like
a little happy king....
If I could but smell,
all the flowers of the world
would be mine: roses and
daisies and even orchids
would be endless delight....
If I could but hear,
then all nature would be
my own symphony--
the birds rejoicing,
the bees buzzing,
dogs barking, even
rolling thunder, all
a continuous music
to my soul....
If I could but see-- ah,
what would a stone see?
The ever breathing beauty
of a world of color and life?
Or would I see its slow and
merciless unraveling by that
other sentient being, burning
its forests and dumping what
cannot be dissolved in eons
into proud, awesome oceans?
But I would treasure my
newfound mind and seek
to thank the Being that
could make even a stone
see and feel and hear and
think and even, in time,
perhaps love....
O, how then I would pity those
born with eyes and ears yet
unable to see Life or hear God,
living their lives scurrying about
like blind, deaf and dumb rats
while the eternal Light bathes all.
[posted February, 2020]
I can’t get the moors
out of my skin -
me the wild bog asphodel
now planted
in a pot in tame Ohio.
The moors grind you
into peat and gritstone,
they keep walking you around
while the open spaces sweep you dry,
even in the downpouring sky,
even under the bitter grasp
of banshee winds.
Who would lament
the bone hammering miles
trudged between hags and toughs,
the flat featureless,
slog over those high acres
of heather and mist?
Yet I find myself to be this longing,
to be this itch to find my own wilderness
here in suburbia.
You may find me now
strolling along the grassy edges
of Mall parking lots,
spot my shadow climbing a sunny day;
my head bent into an imaginary horizon,
eyes following paths that only
shaggy sheep can trace.