Long Flaking Poems
Long Flaking Poems. Below are the most popular long Flaking by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Flaking poems by poem length and keyword.
as soon as this coming Tuesday eyes aching see in steps physical structure very tiny sleeping animals don’t want wake up I know ill feeling! if wake those animals they’ll come last in the relay team tomorrow! step back back back hear forerunners immediate forefathers foremothers rock & roll rhythm & blues yipping
sighs great sighs of relief excuse myself split by some togged up angular-faced Romans & Greeks disguised hospital ancillary employees all carrying sleeping tents I pretend to catch fishies pretend line pretend hook invisible fish tastes like art paper balustrade looks shatter reel up up up invisible line stuff it
plant pot empty shivering he wants me to drop him overboard me mumble too much in classes & out & about angling anyone’s sympathy
outside one dollar store sniffy big cake dag retailer worker holding up her big bright finger at a flaking string bean customer holes deep in his head put back the bag of musk up against your lengthy & rounds or I’ll call the icky blue will you dig deeper he moans he opens his coat & pants nothing there no bag of musk & no lengthy or rounds she needs to take over all of it
all the way aisle large golden bell reciting prayers beside fake traffic signal cross arms at him start to fill up extreme annoyance/displeasure his pointless “formality” a waste total waste time his prayers! better off using instrument taping wind speed!
passing angles female & male characteristics some talking mobile phones advanced than should be one right angle says with scared wet eyes There’s just very little continuity in my life a reflex angle says in monotone Emphasis on me, no way a straight angle says annoyed only a bit Specify Repetition is my middle name & obtuse angle says proudly Show a Contrast Between Occurrences of Something is mine didn’t share with her take rest on pair of steel stands for aiding logs in a fireplace
next to me a flowering plant not in a pot roots exposed with gem mucus & rat flowers it points out I’m not interesting lively at all to make me both to give life to me I’d have to be electrocuted I go into a rage slap him onto the tile
Billowing taupe clouds, hunker down and hem in the Peninsula,
The morning rips open
A glimpse of sun shone; a lemon curd slivers between slits of of silver illumination
The first hint of light glances up frothing crests of salted foam,
Waves slap mineralized milky encrusted piers,
A place she never goes,
The boats, the ropes, salted misty chalky vapors
All a mockery of thematic proportions,
Unduly deliver a set, a scene,
In which a broken-hearted woman creaks about over well trodden planks
With a mystery in her eyes,
A coat two-sizes too big
And a hint of faded spicy cologne
Envelopes her unconscious, the odor she is unaware of
She perceives a mounted flaking, patinated iron harpoon mere décor
A prop on the set of this distant sea,
An artifact for ancient ways of hunting, the heart of the whale she knew was the size of twenty men.
Old men begin to mill about from the shore they amble toward the beauty and the death of the sea,
The lulling sea
A salve for old men, a balm to quell the roaring mind,
Clapboard sided sea worn boats rise and fall not of their own accord,
But as slaves to the the great sea, slaves to the sea
They carry metal traps, hemp ropes
And the unforgiving memories of the land,
“Landlubbers” she muses. A momentary countenance of mirth gleams in her eye.
Such a funny word. An erstwhile chuckle engages her lips as she knows now the seriousness of life, whereby in bygone times mother warned: “Love will make a mockery of us all”
The highway overpass vibrates.
as traffic and wind careen through.
A good view. Suicide starts to sing;
a wind-dervish rattling aluminum wings.
On the branches of peripheral nerves,
small birds stretch plasma necks,
warble high in the catbird seat
of her wall-eyed mind.
An ugly stream of cacophony,
a vapor of petroleum and rubber
bursting into bombinate blooms
that scour her skin.
She breathes it all in,
watching from a crows-nest
that sways leagues above her head.
A rocking-chair of vertigo tips over,
faraway toes curl a flaking concrete.
Her blood singing of endless roads
and this last dead end
at the edge of hope.
The air fills with familiar tunes eminating from a flaking dusky red piano, it's master's majestic touch of mitten clad fingers are a sight to behold as they dance sprightly upon ebony and ivory with vibrant tonality.
Strangers amass to witness a crescendo of notes rhythmically blended to produce an ear pleasing multitude of genre encompassing numbers, each one with it's own story to tell as smiles are raised by reminiscing onlookers.
A gracious nod acknowledging the sound of assembled coinage thrust into a warped aged saucepan placed alongside a chrome thermoflask filled with aromatic African flavour, applause aplenty greet the ending of the show as the lid closes on another days play.
~
Layers upon layers,
flaking residue...
scraping at the inner walls of my heart,
priming the ruins of my disassembled dreams while
masking off all hope of bleeding out or bleeding on
“Dare I bleed in the color of missing you?”
Scratches filled in with crayon,
vacant hues...
only on or outside of the lines of love
Woeful stick figures dancing to a lonely song,
played by the empty roller lashed to my hand
“Would you dare touch my hand prints....smear them?”
Minutes take hours to pass, but who cares,
Que Sera Sera...
the old Zenith finds Doris Day happy,
nice someone can be
stirring a smile within a gallon of semi-(g)loss
“Why are the sale brands always barren tones?”
I cringe at the thought of another moment in this position,
base boards...
bent over and touching up,
flat lining without an edge,
waiting for your voice, your tinted smile...waiting your approval
“Like watching paint dry...”
Sexy Love
Some say that love is when our rivers join on cotton sheets in mounting passion
when you and I share days and nights with Venus’ delta freely flowing
advance our bodies candlelit caress desires fit and fitting in all the latest fashion
when mingling waters splash the rocks and roll on tidal beaches growing
position musky gushes’ swelling delights’ passages in carefree physical obsession
when springs let loose in coasting caves change blushes into glowing
and we fulfil crescendo’s rhythmic interludes but do mistake loving for possession
Hard truths await when rivers dry turn flaccid stagnant trickle’s scorch our beds
when climate change in our hearts and mating souls abandoned lie exposed
our union built on quick sand crumbling walls fancy contortions immaturely spread
when flaking righteousness only amounts to shallow promises disposed
reveals the hidden secret of why rainy storm clouds erode the lover’s mindless head
when then and how and where the thirsty moonless plights are loathed
that reckoning deserves some thought when all else has been done and said
Sometimes our rivers flow below the earthy needs and wants flown in the wind
when fire’s pleasures kindled spirits need to join beyond sexual application
and thus all sensual heartfelt feelings have to be twined and twinned
when kindness compassion consideration might super-cede awesome copulation
the biggest phallus shapely **** augmented egos and shapely waistlines trimmed
when thinking conversations holding each firmly outweighs the grandest fornication
and then the river riders circle to sheet and intercourse in true love never dimmed
09th October 2016
It's again the soothing pale sunlight, with bright morning mist,
The cooling dew on the green grass, touching the feet with ease.
Above, the azure sky and the soft cloud,
Like white, fluffy cotton scattered all around.
Ponds turn clear like scintillating crystals,
Hidden under the pink flowers’ petals,
As if new brides wearing lotus-veils.
The unchanged riverbanks bear tall Kash,
White plumes dance with the flute of air,
They shimmer with joy as sunlight's gentle clap draws near!
It's again the field of golden paddy.
The hands hold sickle, scythe and spade,
It's already time to harvest.
The granaries are smiling, preparing for grains' homecoming.
The field and the furrows left forlorn,
Bidding their friends farewell,
‘Goodbye, dear friends! When the year returns, we will meet you once again.’
The eyes glitter at the sight of long-awaited fruits,
Hunger cries, ‘I am losing my roots’.
It's again the same moon; silver and pale.
In the night sky like an oyster’s pearl,
It shimmers carrying thousands of untold memories.
In the sleeping night, it sings, consoling the harvested field,
In the silent air, it hears the furrows’ muffled murmur.
On the rooftop, it casts its silver threads,
Children chant ‘Chand Mama, Chand Mama,’ lifting their heads.
And to the draped window
It appears like a fleeting shadow.
It's again the day's tired sun setting,
Coloring the West with its crimson hue.
Night jasmine blooming, releasing its sweet perfume.
The flaking old house standing still and tall,
A beautiful patina of time.
In the corner of the large courtyard,
An old woman, quiet and wrinkled through the years,
sitting with her wooden cane and a blunt betel nut cutter.
The tired young souls return and gather,
With curious yet loving eyes,
Asking their old grandmother,
To tell them old stories.
Grandma lovingly scares them with her croaking voice,
All run scared; Grandma deeply sighs,
'It's always the season that leaves and returns.
We, its leaves, are left to fall and burn.'
"I have been a stranger in a strange land." Bible, Exodus 2:22
The compass whirrs.
North toward rock, south toward sand.
East toward ice, and west toward river.
Like a game of spin the bottle I take a chance on north,
run my hands over stone and pebble,
the spine of life a twisting snakeskin, shedding.
The compass whirrs
as words and winds uproot me to the south. Dust ridden,
arid. Earth sizzles, a roast overdone. My flaking skin
drenched in sweated drought.
The compass whirrs
as those years of crinkling sand dune heat melt
somehow into eastern snow. You don’t understand
how or why or when those summers became leaves that
fall, became sleet upon which you slip, recklessly, helplessly, toward time’s
splash. The final plunge pool.
Now, western waters offer a mirror,
sometimes murky, sometimes crystal,
and still, the compass whirrs, as you realise
that strange land - your body.
The stranger - you.
Vanishing varnish kindly stood the test of
time in sweet and salty impermanence
A boat shed overgrown and faded into
significance of messages and meaning
of rays and days going by and moving on
And nights of course with moon and
stars abiding wheels of life’s abundance
The window graced with murky shades
of innocence where a young man had written
‘I love you’ into a heartfelt arrowed heart
The frame of recollection held the pane
in fading colours like a rainbow on the wane
Distressed wood weather beaten yet
many layers of green and red and yellow
sing the blues of long forgotten journeys
Flaking pealing retreating and still appealing
to nostalgia and loving longing contemplation
What once was stark from mighty strokes
brushing over knots where branches twisted
have retreated to embrace a new beginning
Holes in the door reveal a vessel still with oars
one holds a violet rose in innocence and love
The seasons have moved the man-made paint
towards new adventures where winds of change
have waited on the surfaces caressed by storms
How much I’m deeply touched by ageing shine only
the boat house knows as I speak to it in sandy whispers
It answers ‘Please don’t cover up my codes of beauty
Do not coat another overlay of glossy lamination
Let the elements take over because they know for sure'
05th October 2018
in the way that your lips shimmer and your eyes flash simile-smiles making many reflections
with the irregular undulations rhythm'ng off your tongue,
with words flying out lyrically, kissing everyone
we are touched and easily forgotten in this age of impermanent ink,
with our ears perched high on a mystery, we're overlooked
for speaking in clouds expectant of thunder,
for rustling leaves in a tree,
for threadbare jeans flaking mud from long walks by the river,
for taking solace in the Sea
among writers we are the infirm, the mad heretics of desire,
ridiculed for whiskers and soft-eyes,
for bumping into enjambments, fish-like
and working out destiny by changing it,
moving it, Moon like...
we are the occasional ones,
risking decay and our sanity
for these holy short comings
and goings,
rather than face the impossibility of facts
or that self-righteous blind-eye of economics ...
there is mercy in this daring,
there is an art to this astonishing,
beyond these reasons which trap us,
beyond our need to pay the rent,
while the world conspires to ignore us,
we swell