Long Flatness Poems
Long Flatness Poems. Below are the most popular long Flatness by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Flatness poems by poem length and keyword.
It reminds me of an East Anglian landscape.
This garden’s flat planes of grass give the illusion
Of greater distance,the eye travels down them
To the trees rising at the end.
On this scene my mind superimposes
Other ideas of summer days in hot places
In flat fields stretching on either
Side down to the sea.
My eye enjoys the shape,the flatness
The form,a symbol for so many other gardens
And summer journeys on unknown lanes
Across new landscapes ,delighting in them,
In the space extending,and the trees
A gentle contradiction to the horizontal meadows.
In summer in recent years,what I remember
Is the sun across these long,flat shapes.
Looking at this small garden,I remember
So many things,my eye sees through
What is here,to far beyond
What has passed and what is to come
All contained here.
in traffic there is an accidie and weariness
and flatness and humdrum of the road
but leonard cohen helps with that
and i think about the poor north koreans
without their fix of coca cola
and the mental health of the finnish with
their billabong of coffee and caffeine flowing
out their ears and the best brand of water in china
has the biggest market reach and woodpeckers don't
get headaches because according to a
professional content provider they just don't
and speaking of the chinese
they've found a hut on the moon
some distance away from their rover; who can tell
who might be living in that hut
i look up out the windscreen at the moon
and imagine myself living in that hut
or maybe leonard cohen is living there now
and england have lost the first ashes test
and outside the hut is a scoreboard showing
australia need twenty runs to win
the hut has become a pavilion and there's plenty of
tea drinking going on
no finnish there pal
and someone shouts howssszat! across the galaxy
as asteroid 4660 nereus misses earth
as i miss childhood
it travels on and on into the depths of the saddle
of the universe
Some say that some gains are not worth the risk,
and that their pursuit causes far too much pain.
They say that some things are better left the same.
They say that if it's not broken, don't fix it or make a change.
Sameness is boring and robs us of creativity.
In a quest demanding liquids not to stay,
ROOF-TOPS of buildings were mostly SLANTED.
Rain, sleet, snow, and ice had to fall to the ground.
Moreover, the interiors of facilities are not fond of sameness.
Living Rooms now have a twin sister known as THE GREAT ROOM.
The elevation, more windows, and OPEN CEILINGS let the sunshine in.
FLATNESS is out, recessed ceilings are in, and the changes look terrific.
There was a time when car makers were far more concerned with mobility.
Energy was cheap and combustion engines had no concern about the wind.
Aerodynamics were yet to be utilized in land travel, and the CARS were BOXY.
OVAL corners and slightly CURBED bodies in vehicles became the SHAPE of things to come.
050922PS
FLAT EARTH VS. GLOBAL
I don't believe the earth is flat
I'm not a scientist but it's a sure bet
That no matter how far one travels
No one has fallen over the edge as of yet
I often wonder if the flat earth society
Have memberships around the globe
How would they explain that phenomenon
The truth would sooner or later unfold
My sister and brother in law
Regularly hike the "Abby grind"
I'm sure when they are climbing, the flatness
Of the earth is not prominent in their mind
Though the flat earthers have some very good points
Like the earth is 71% H2o
Maybe in a sense it is flat
Because it's not carbonated, we know
When I was in school we learned the earth is round
But I'm from Sasatchewan, born and raised
And my world is definitely pancake flat
That's the situation here, that I've appraised
DJC Dec 23/25
Silent in its violence
the sun lays ancient fire-fingers
on the heat-scoured concrete of the promenade:
boxy seafront chalets tilting and creaking at angles,
scorched, salt-stiffened gardens,
sand dunes, a screaming blue sea.
It is so difficult to accept a loss, a deprivation.
Innocence flaps its winding sheet behind me,
its mummy cloth of myth.
As from an isolated moon I see
the first cold breaker rush to engulf me -
an underwater undulance,
undercurrents of menace, of malice.
The sand-strewn strand stretches into infinity,
shimmering with the visions, the voices, the echoes,
the faceless departments of government and society.
I watch the insouciant people around me,
they possess a flatness, like blank paper.
They hump and lug plastic picnic paraphernalia,
ridiculously, all beach grime and blistered backs,
reduced to a red cindery glow.
Ice creams, scooped from the freezers
in trinkety seashore shops,
are clutched in sunburnt hands.
They are spreading striped sunbathing mats,
snide and smiling slyly.
Is it a mirage, a delusion,
dredged from the desert-dry air?
The air snags in my throat: the flat summer stench
of warm wood, sun lotion, billowing cotton -
blank but expansive. The creaking, the flapping.
A strange wind howls and banters in my ear
and the train shrieks through its station,
the station of my brain -
a riddled red abyss, poker-hot.
The sun is sinking -
a disc of fire, a blood clot.
Water floods the ridgy shallows,
eddying into treacherous pits.
The black gun muzzle of my mouth
blasts the oxygen from the air.
My nerves a hive of wires suffering
the scarlet atrocities.
Pokers put out my eyes.
Squeezed by the forceps of agony
I see nothing, there is nothing
but a mirage of wavering dunes closing in
and the sea splintering; a multitude of glass glittering.
I.
Fold, crease, unfold, sheets
of paper thin as possibility,
a crisp white plea to gravity.
Forty-five times, a cosmic origami
building bridges from table to the moon.
The mind dreams, unfurls
dimensions from the flatness,
each fold a petition of ascension.
But reality, that quiet artisan,
intervenes. Seven, eight,
perhaps nine folds—
the paper resists,
its fibers tightening,
a rebellion against a lunar destiny.
The geometry of dreams
collapses into the physics of limitation,
a negotiation between ambition and restraint.
II.
Sated with the hunger of excess,
we feast at counters where gluttony
is a ritual, a rhapsody of indulgence.
Plates piled high, offerings to the insatiable
gods of appetite, mouths moving
in a tempo of ingestion.
Like a paper's rebellion against too much
folding, the body, too, whispers its limits.
Sometimes in tears, sometimes in laughter,
but always in inevitability, the stomach's
silent protest, a wall that even the voracious
cannot breach. Eruption looms, a volcanic
protest, or else the creeping weight, its own
gravity pulling the body to a corporeal moon.
III.
From paper to body, from the moon
to the food, all are tethered by the finite,
implacable laws governing a universe
of possibility.
Fold and unfold, feast and decline,
the trajectory of excess tempered by
the ever-present specter of consequence.
I don’t believe Donald Trump should be impeached,
He’s brought light to the Presidency, a dynasty,
Of a long line of ‘born again’ believers, screeched,
Wiling government into a god-inspired fallacy.
Burocracy is not an heuristic term or value judgement -
It’s a rational roll of reasonable deliberations, business,
Mirroring the typical American citizen as sediment,
Which Mr Trump places, to his credit and best guess.
He’s not a force for power without love and freedom,
Stealing smiles from unlikely Democrats, Pub’s alike,
He gives the lesser the right to arbitrate and custom,
When climbing the hierarchy an eager workers’ hike.
He’s not killed five people, an individual’s sadness,
Another quinquennial would see America great again,
With Covid faced squarely and firmly by flatness,
Joe Biden will take it as efficient, practical and fain.
Let the people speak from the Representative’s House,
Not one view, but proffering all view’s to regulate,
Bold with speech, he’s turned the stiff upper clouse,
Into commerce’s flutter, so please give a vulgate.
Dominique Webb
God rests His feet on the face of the sky.
The face of the sky which stares at the face of the Earth.
There is flatness in the blueness of its face,
as its sapphire eyes gaze into the blue-green
or tawny oculense of the Earth.
The Earth and skies stare into each other’s eyes.
Noticing all the movements in the other’s side.
Movements of peoples and modern things, creatures
and those who inhabit the sky.
And as the sky and the Earth give momentary birth
to grandeur we see and wonders we have yet to see.
If this is an amazing place
that was created by an Amazing Grace,
imagining all that is cool.
(If the streets are paved with gold there
As on Earth a bitumen pool)
Imagine what Heaven is like
if the sky and the Earth are His footstool.
The crossroads of shadows within my mind, where darkness and light intertwine
in an eternal dance, I sit in my own solitude,
feeling nothing but the painful flatness of existence,
consumed by loneliness, why must it be this way?
In a room full of people, all I see is my reflection, empty and pale.
A weight of stone upon my chest, a grip that steals every breath,
in agony, I writhe, a prisoner of unending suffering.
My movements constrained, the pain persists, waves of torment intensify,
the burden deepens, in pain, I lament, emptied of tears and hope.
Sleep has departed, only thoughts remain in a mournful waltz,
devoid of appetite, my body becomes a tight cage.
I unravel, falling slowly, piece by piece,
through the silence of the night, I've sought deliverance, but found only muffled echoes.
I am nothing, my image forever tainted by doubt,
thoughts that chain me, an implacable barrier,
as despair reigns with a crown of thorns,
I will never be better.
My perception shrouded by a veil of darkness,
feelings of despair hold firm like stones crushed under pressure.
My heart now knows only the sorrow of an eternal storm,
my soul, an abyss emptied of light, an unending night of the grave.
Portrayed as a morning without the sun,
the feeling of emptiness extends endlessly,
the pain persists, and hope slowly fades away.
The pain has become an unbearable cadence,
now I feel nothing but the silence of a frozen void,
the person I once was is lost forever,
and what remains is an empty, sterile freeze, devoid of life.
Ice flowers bloom on the walls of my soul,
as a testament to the cold that has embraced me,
in a realm of shadows beneath dead stars, I lose myself,
in the ethereal dance of longing and forgetting,
aimlessly seeking a spark of what I once was,
only to discover crystals of pain in the boundless desolation.
Here, in this eternal night of my conscience,
where thoughts flow like rivers of silvery mist,
I find myself on the edge of my universe,
in an endless quest for release, in the inert silence of existence.
A kaleidoscope of unknown metaphors finds its place
in the tapestry of a frozen heart, an unwritten poem of suffering and melancholy.
between new nightmares
and day dreams
of a better life
lay reality resurfaced
tight with taut brutality
unspeakable thoughts drift
down through time's flash
triggered not there
not then
but now and here
her mind digs through fear
as she sinks
slight form down
crisp skirt's rustle sound
folds with her
to ground
and she says to herself
I will lay here
in this hollow
it fits the curve of my spine
holds the shape
of my hips
and the grass padded earth
cups itself a little
around my waist
hugs me
till I sleep
I am still alive
I am dead
to the world
tar roads
pavements
are too hard
concrete
cannot hold me
the same way
they resist my shape
press flatness
hard
against me
leave me sore
unrested
complaints unheard
where may I sleep
With fragrance
of grass and earth
maybe
in a garden
a cultured space
thoughts arouse
aroma once known
from those past
yet still present
places
so pleasant
maybe then
I will fall into dreams
of painless light
sunshine will soothe
I will feel bright
flame red flowers
in free fall
Will not burn
as they engulf me
float from arms
branches
blue sky stretched
they will caress me
in potpourri perfume
memories mock
her senses
she yearns to block
their burn
when I sleep
I'll not smell
petrol fumes
flared up
I will not hear
the shudder of bodies
breaking down the door
I will forget
the screams
eardrums pierced
my own
I will not feel
my body burn
in hell hound fire
twisted hatred
from ordinary mothers
fathers sisters sons
bizarre beliefs
turned my skin
from brown silk smooth
to outlandish patches
pink and brown
how will I
become
familiar
with who I am
now
she falls asleep
dreams
of sunshine
tree shadow dappled
nature cradles her
in dark and light
she breathes low
drum sounds
bring her back
there
next to eyes
awakening
her fingers
delicate drummers
play the earth
With firm tips
tap tapping
a well known song
her long gone
mother's lullaby
hush my child
hush now
don't cry
sleep sweet
against my heart
hush now
hear the beats
of my love
for you
hush now
so angels
do not sigh
hum drum
hum drum
hum drum
she starts to cry
Posted:15-12-2018
Note: "Sister" poem to "thin skinned"