Long Filings Poems
Long Filings Poems. Below are the most popular long Filings by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Filings poems by poem length and keyword.
South Of The (United States) Border...
(Reigns A Welter Of Disorder)
Caravans comprising multitudinous
peoples plodded a steady course
analogous to iron filings drawn by
strong magnetic force
gravitational pull generated
by North America
an irresistible source,
which tug felt
nearly all the way round
webbed wide world beckoning
for waves of humanity
figuratively donned as spawning fish,
toward which currently dimming
beacon of democracy flickr
Trump might extinguish
though tis quite heart
breaking to experience
vicariously as one collective soul,
these desperate folks
ambitious to seek asylum,
(and eventual citizenship),
while this "FAKE" president
invents many a...holy SMOKES
outrageous, nefarious, and malicious
dagger o type cruel barbed wire
accusing, condemning, and emasculating,
(I could continue),
but ye dear reader would tire
unless individuals
affected by xenophobia
countenance same stance
as Commander in Chief,
or contrariwise some
like minded
thinkers, rack coon sitter
the migrant situation dire,
would effectively serve me
as preaching to
the Unitarian choir,
yet any sensate
person must admit
tis quite upsetting, lamenting,
and agonizing to witness
hordes of persons treated like
some pestilential
eyesore dagnabbit,
yes this chap can
endlessly spout flibbertigibbet,
though thee crux of my opinion,
inspires a poem express
sing supportive emotions
particularly acknowledging,
how these masses (thousands)
of vulnerable individuals
show true grit,
nonetheless yours truly,
would be hard pressed
for an immediate
humane solution to corral
this extensive kit
and caboodle, though this generic guy
with a poetic knack
shakes his noggin
watching armed flack
delivered from border patrol agents/
United States military, lack
restraint, and who outright attack
trespassers at point
blank range that pack,
a deadly (Judge Judy ish
huss) punch smack
king young ones
upside the head forcing
everyone to backtrack
to their homeland of
persecution by crack
headed gang members, which thugs
violently land a deadly whack!
Beyond myself my sea sleeps, strange.
It will howl and will call with palms of wind, almost tender.
Sad, forgotten, blue of child, still bleeding.
The days pass, the hands dry like seashells.
The body yields, alive like a wood that burns with cold.
Life grinds me down, hours fall like iron filings.
And yet I find the sea within me, light that sings.
Its beauty, salt of honey, binds itself to eyelids.
It sings me waves that I have never turned back.
Its silence howls, like a wolf of glass in wet desert.
I am the blind lighthouse, illuminating the shiny darkness from blood.
I grow anchors of air, binding the ribs to the empty sky.
The sea within me is liquid sand, a clock burned by frost.
I anoint my longing with the white rust of remembrance.
As I pass, I become sea: the emptiness embraces me.
Paradox: I am the water that burns and the fire that flows.
LAVENDER LADY
She was my lavender lady;
Standing by the lake,
Gazing across the sky-blue water
At who-knows what in the distance.
She was the very essence of elegance.
Spurning the mini-skirted fashion of the age,
Her flowing summer dress
Modestly reached mid-calf.
I was not given to approaching perfect strangers
(And I use the word ‘perfect’ advisedly)
But I was drawn to her.
Like a moth to a flame?
Iron filings to a magnet?
Choose your own simile.
“Lovely day,” I ventured,
“For gazing across lakes.”
“Very pleasant,” she responded, coolly.
“Do you come here often?”
I heard myself say, with horror
And caught a glimpse of amusement
In those pale blue eyes
At the outrageous cliché.
“Did you really say that,” she asked,
“Or I did I imagine it?”
“Sorry,” I said. “I always get tongue-tied
At moments like these.”
“I see. And what sort of moment is this then?”
“!t could be a moment of destiny.
“Hmm,” she said, “and, then again, it could be
An insignificant moment in time”
She turned to walk away.
“Lavender really suits you,” I tried.
But she kept on walking.
I called after her.
“You didn’t answer my question,”
“What question was that?”
She asked, over her shoulder.
“Do you come here often?”
She laughed
“Come again tomorrow and find out.”
19th September 2020
Clutching at Straws contest
Sponsor Kai Michael Neuman
When lyrics that you haven't heard
For maybe forty years
Come pouring out from deep inside
There might just be some tears.
For hearing Graham Nash last night,
Nostalgia reigned supreme
And I was back in college
(Like we all were, it did seem).
I mouthed the words to "Bus Stop,"
But when "Our House" came around,
I sang along, as asked to,
With a joy that did abound.
Like filings, we, the audience,
Were drawn into the pull
Of Nash, the band and venue,*
Where the sound was rich and full.
There's magic to be made, for sure,
When past and present meld
And release some secrets we forgot
That we had tightly held.
*Chautauqua Auditorium - Boulder, Colorado
When a metal tool as simple as a hoe is sharpened, there are several ways to do it but all involve a process that leaves fragments of metal behind.
When I was a little child growing up on a farm, I observed a man assigned the task of filing(sharpening) the hoes for workers in the cotton fields.
Mr. Sam would apply a small but long tool of metal called a file against the hoes with a 'back and forth' motion until the hoe was sufficiently
sharpened. After the filings, there was always residues of metal particles left from the sharpening. The filing process made the hoes very useful and
productive but not without 'taking something away' from the hoe. If the hoes were animate, they would certainly feel the pain from the continued pressure.
I observed that over the useful lifespan of the hoes, they became smaller primarily due to the constant need to be sharpened, and as their productivity increased, they literally decreased in size. There is a process in being made useful and productive for God. We delight in being used by God but must also be willing to let the particles fall in the process.
04132019PoSoup
I open the jar of poems like a bottle of whiskey on a long night,
where the poet's whispers are raw and direct, a course of love in four acts,
obsessions and (un)blamable loves writhe like cigarette smoke in the room,
and we laugh blue, like ink spilled on a dirty table.
I swallow the silence like a bitter shot,
place spring in my steps, like a season crucified on the pyre of colors,
we find ourselves in the sea of rediscovery,
where weeping brushes shed their tears on leaves,
and frowning clouds mock the horoscope of coming days.
You propose a love-test to me, like a diagnosis of a weary heart,
a surgeon of emotions searching through the darkness of the soul,
and a concert in two begins softly,
a symphony of love with rebellious strands and stellar amalgams,
when you smell of stars and drawings come to life on the dusty sidewalk.
We invent seasons, my breath becomes freckles in the rhythm of love,
a tangram of mad silences, a puzzle of existence,
each piece of tranquility fitting into the chaos of the everyday, like a lost day.
The spiriverse carries us into a world of psychospirituality in verses,
a universe breathing and living through each harsh rhyme,
lessons flow like venom sold at life's corners,
thoughts like iron filings sneaking into the night,
a radio suspending its melody at the corner of silence's mouth,
lights struggling to break free, words parked at destiny's traffic light,
where is the congruence in a world where death is the color of chestnuts?
Dreaming becomes a refuge in the realm of revelation,
Nefertiti chases us through the desert with helium thoughts,
the galaxy sleeps in an octave of love,
let me love you to the depths,
let's step out of our comfort zone,
running through subtleties and handicaps,
seeking our place in a universe for just us two,
a universe waiting to be discovered in every verse of brutal reality.
Betwixt two thoughts there is a gap
No illusions therein entrap
In the time-stretched pause we then see
Ego craving is a mousetrap
The world holds its breath
between north and not-north,
a compass needle trembling
like a truth afraid to choose a side.
Ice forgets which way to fall.
Migratory birds stall mid-sky,
their wings writing question marks
across a stunned horizon.
Even the oceans hesitate
tides half-remembering old promises,
currents loosening their grip
on the maps we trusted.
In this pause,
history unbuttons itself.
Wars reconsider their reasons.
Lovers reexamine the words
they flung like stones.
What if attraction is only habit?
What if repulsion learned its name from fear?
The poles soften,
not erased, but listening.
Iron filings drift, confused,
forming unfamiliar constellations.
The earth hums a lower note,
a lullaby for spinning things.
I stand barefoot on unsure ground,
feeling gravity renegotiate its terms.
Up becomes a suggestion.
Down, a rumor.
In the silence between forces,
where no illusion tightens its grip,
we glimpse the trap for what it is
desire baited with self.
Here, in the gap between thoughts,
nothing pulls.
Nothing pushes.
And for a moment,
we are free
to choose again
what deserves our devotion,
and what we finally release.
Unrealities and realities
grind together in mortar’s mouth,
spilling, pulverizing, volatile perfumes—
succumbing scents of citrus, crushed copper,
musks of bruised lightning,
threshing thunderous throbs.
Instability incarnate sings her reveling wails,
fragrances of something
Beyond Name.
I guide existences into black curve,
severing them against sharp, obsidian walls,
letting them rupture—letting them bleed
—syrups and statics—
messy marrows of forgotten equations.
Their shapelessness mutable,
pliant pages to pulp in the plunge
of the merciless pestle.
How many combinations will one
blend and crucify—
to crush, to coax, into coherence?
Rasps of bone bend against sanguine salts,
sheens of opulent oil merge with ember embryo—
iron filings licked into life by tempests reigned.
Anything of matter becomes
moisture—mass—mold—
hunger pooling at my basin’s heart,
seething for impending strike,
for sudden and unforgiving
birth.
Trainer must be a powerful magnet
For inducing dipole moment.
Guiding star for orientation
Orientation leads to self realisation.
Realization leads to field creation
A potential to a give proper direction.
I could see now clinging filings
All now set up to reflect their feelings
MSDEED team at North and South pole
MSFDA has kept its all energy in store.
With their strengths they work as magnetometer
Strongly holding and controlling the filling together.
A cascade will eventually build up
Your efforts will keep us pushing up
Master trainer will definitely evolve
Problems in higher education will resolve.