Long Flattens Poems
Long Flattens Poems. Below are the most popular long Flattens by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Flattens poems by poem length and keyword.
WHEELCHAIR BOUND
Dots appeared and disappeared
a single sunray flashed onto
wheelspokes, canvas seat
comfortably frayed
bought secondhand
her unexercised legs flabby
window bars rusted, panes cracked
nobody cared
there she sat thinking about
cooking porridge with cinnamon
tricky to wheel in
two meter wide kitchen
lighting gas stove sitting no easy feat
this was charnel ground
no cash oozing pockets or
colour disappearing into op-art
no bra-strap laughter
or fruit bowl decorations
no one visited
thought wheelchair bound infectious
what if they too had to
sit for a narrow cold shower
or pop-a-wheely to see
a bird swallow a caterpillar ?
here trees were being chopped
their screaming pain slicing her nerves
cockroaches, ego-deaths
not knowing about this phase
of unpalatable life
she wheeled to a sunny patch
her relegated cement square
stared at Sun questioningly
He smiled at her pain
saying it was not in vain
she grimaced, then smiled in return
remembering cinema days
mall ice-cream, walks on beaches
vague memories round and round
with wheel tires, like neglected hamsters
nobody wanted to hoist wheelchair into air
then car booth, all too much trouble
had too much to do
shattered human perceptions falling
to be buried
chair had tatty armrests for lifting body
she could not buttocks rise up
to call street boy for corner shop loaf
hunger had to wait
till neighbour knocked
Buddha said all bodies merge
with charnel ground
sooner or later heads, arms, ears
are broken down
images across a sieve screen
Plato saw this too as shadows
still they feared coming near
locked into an eye flap timeline which said
what if I too ?
when wheels become legs
and humans less, sight clears
what was once flotsam and jetsam
floats away into goodbye bays
enjoyment of senses merely a persistent
layer of life
wheelchair bound is part of Plan
so sound, a mechanism for peeling
two wheels become friends
grinding ignorance, flattens what serves not
unfolding a Mode of Goodness
every spoked circle has a
tacit teaching agenda
No experience in virtue vain
I have counted her footsteps
for thirty-seven years
the same path worn
into my slope,
the same pause
at the thorny ridge
where she catches her breath
and adjusts the
weight on her spine.
Her daughters
used to follow,
small shadows
learning the art
of bending
without breaking.
Now I watch
the granddaughters
in school uniforms,
walking the paved road
that cuts through
my base,
their backs straight,
their hands carrying
books instead of
bundles.
But still she comes,
this woman
whose name
the wind whispers
Kamala, Shanta, Rukhmani,
it changes with the seasons
but the story
stays the same!
Dawn rising,
feet finding
familiar stones,
hands selecting
the dead branches
I offer
like a prayer.
The forest guard
has grown fat
on his government salary,
his radio silent now,
his eyes
finding other
thin women
to follow
with his hunger.
She knows
the sound
of his boots
on gravel,
knows which trees
to hide behind,
which paths
lead nowhere
but deeper
into his reach.
Some mornings
I want to
shift my stones,
close my paths,
keep her
in the valley
where children
wait with
empty bowls
and homework
they cannot
read.
But the wood
must be gathered.
The fire
must be lit.
The rice
must be cooked.
And I am only
a hill,
holding
the weight
of women
who climb me
like a ladder
to survival.
When the rains come
I wash away
her footprints,
but by morning
they return,
deeper now,
carved into
my memory
like a promise:
I will rise
before the sun.
I will bend
but not break.
I will carry
what must
be carried.
And when
my bones
become dust,
when development
flattens my peaks
and paves my valleys,
when shopping malls
bloom where
my forests grew
Still,
in the concrete,
someone will remember
the weight of wood,
the curve
of a spine
learning
to hold
the world.
The children
with straight backs
will teach
their children
about the women
who climbed hills
before dawn,
who made pathways
out of necessity,
who left footprints
deep enough
to follow
home.
Midnight darkness suddenly descended upon the city as morning peeped through the blackened sky the city waits in suspense to die.
They have been working for several days battening up windows and doors as if they can keep the wind out. Thousands of sand bags lined the shore forming a pyramid in the shape of a door, the sea gulls' flies to and fro holding mass on top of the sand's bags.
The military is on base, trying to put things in place, the governor is issuing warning and mass evacuation is happening. They have been through this process every year but some people just don’t care. Those that refuse to leave went flying seventy-five meter in the breeze landing in the boat that capsized on the shore.
The hollowing wind comes dancing in and the branches and roots begin to sing scattering leaves on the ground just warming up and looking around.
Everyone grips tightly to their beds holding on to their pillows while the little children held tightly to their mothers as the howling wind races like a mad man through the city. The intensity is low and the wind does not have a long way to go, it swirls around the street dumps water around as the surge spreads water throughout the town.
Everywhere is dark and just the old larks flying around looking for a place to ride out the storm before the wind picks up speed.
Hundreds of them are flying in the air looking for a place to land but the wind is blowing in different directions. They all hobbled on a in a dense tree trying to escape from the breeze but a category three wind was not strong enough to done them in.
The worst is yet to come, the day has just begun, its eyes are bulging, its body is swelling and its head is enlarging, it is coming out of the mountain and it is approaching the county center ripping up power lines, breaking up houses and tossing boats in the middle of the sea.
It rips through an entire city and flattens every house on the street leaving mud and debris in business places and private residence . I stood above and watch the Rolling Tides creating havoc in the town while the old lark kept flying around.
Somedays I feel like I'm surrounded by bars and bricks
encaged on a stage in tar that sticks.
There's an agonisingly unfamiliar reflection in the mirror,
as my eyes detect an unrecognisable inferior figure.
I can't see the stars in the sky at night,
and the sun doesn't rise to provide daylight,
creating days filled with unpleasant darkness,
feeling the hate, I will for heaven sent brightness.
It would be nice to see a flicker,
a shooting star or something quicker,
as my impaired eyes see unseeingly at paradise.
It seems these days have perfected imperfection and sadness,
as though infected but immune to antidote injections that stop madness,
and the bad feel projecting out onto these days seemingly disastrous.
So I turn to alcohol and slowly increase the dose
and down the booze until I doze,
to awake with the shakes that alcohol creates,
reaching straight for the glass of straight voddy,
drowning myself down in hate toward the junkie category.
A way I find carries me through this hell that flattens me,
clouding my mind, shielding hurt that comes with thinking clarity.
Leaving me imprisoned and unable to escape this reality.
………………………………………………………………………….
Somedays I feel like I'm surrounded by bars and bricks,
so I drink water and take vitamins to get far from my minds tricks.
My mind digs up thoughts sick and twisted
from the ditches of the mental scars life inflicted.
I see a full moon but no stars in the sky at night.
There must be a faint cloud blocking that far travelled light.
Throughout the day I stay active as it distracts the gloom
and subtracts it until a world seemingly more attractive resumes.
I shrug off the booze and don't meet the thugs
that deal drugs and rise above a life for chumps.
I start these days feeling down in the dumps,
but if I live the right way I move passed the grumps.
I feel that just the moonlight moves me to comfort,
I perk as I forget today and all that work.
Tomorrow is another first,
I think life offers more than I deserve.
RISING FROM THE ASHES
Wordancer
The eyes of the dragon seen through the trees
Mesmerize minds and cause bodies to freeze.
Which way to go, which way to turn;
No time for questions when the trees burn.
Just jump in the cars and flee towards town
But the road is cut off as the wind swings around.
No way to go, no way to turn;
An acceptance of fate, as the trees burn.
The fence of the paddock does not impede
The scorched car that flattens it, picking up speed
Away from the flames, away they must turn
Desperate with fear, as the trees burn.
The breath of this beast lights fires with no flame
The heat of its breath burn all just the same.
It’s tail flames on, it’s head, see it turn
Back towards town, there are more things to burn.
With fire, smoke and tears these folk have learnt
To rise from the ashes; spirits singed; not burnt
A call for assistance, now the schools turn
To grey squares of ashes; and more townships burn.
The calls went out across this wide country
And the offers came from all and sundry.
What do you need? What can we bring you?
They were told, so they went; what else would they do?
Hand towels, toothbrushes, soap and shampoo
To clean away ashes; the soot, and tears too
Through fire and smoke, these folk have learnt
To rise from the ashes; spirits singed; not burnt
The towns’ people will labor as long as there’s need,
They’ll listen and learn and plant as they weed,
While their houses and schools, fire stations too,
Rise from the ashes, and stand good as new.
The February Dragon has left for a time,
But hope that heals the scars in the minds
Of the people there, is strong and alive,
They have rebuilt their towns, their dreams and their lives.
©
In the cosmic dance,
where stars collide,
Galaxies spiral,
and planets ride.
Saturn’s rings shimmer,
Jupiter’s dim,
Moons circle round,
a celestial hymn.
From quasars’ crescendo to pulsars’ beat
Cycles in cycles take form and retreat
Superstrings vibrate,
harmonies entwine,
From dust comes life,
Is there a design?
Supernovae explode,
Notes of awe,
Dust fields condense
To a nebula claw.
Mass bends space
Took Einstein to learn
But space guides mass
Both take their turn.
From quarks to quasars,
Our scale in between,
We know we exist,
but what does it mean?
Personality traits combine to make you
Like notes combine to make melodies ring true.
Can you hold the tune through the rise and fall?
Through the noise and the smoke, can you stand tall?
This poem you read now,
complex inside your brain
simultaneous patterns
a disciplined flame.
Minds model dynamics,
Our neurons fire,
a strange attractor
assembling a choir.
Our genes express patterns, recursively repeat
Make diagnostic music, a remarkable feat
if cancer lurks, the music hits a false chord,
And tunes affect gene expression, a joke by the Lord.
Between order and chaos,
Our thoughts arise
Each man a universe
Don't waste the lives.
Will the universe end, entropy reign,
Shall all come to naught, in silence remain?
A stacked game, no way to win
Nothing left, no judge of virtue or sin?
When all flattens out, was it worth all the scheming?
Was sound at the end more important than meaning?
Maybe all you can do,
before that final hush,
is take life in both hands,
don't think too much, feel the rush.
An early morning appetiser to help breakfast go down better. TC
This just to whet your appetite
As A Fly Does
What would it be like to be a Fly?
Buzzing around wondering why
Flitting from lampshade to curtain and back,
Dodging the cobwebs and flyswats that crack
Landing on baldheads about to sleep,
Tickling their forearms and couping a “bleep”
How silly a fly simply has to be,
Annoying people just like a flea
Stirring them up to a frightful degree,
Until one can’t stand it and flattens at least three
Who can blame them it can’t be much fun,
The higher they fly the nearer the sun
Regurgitating on ordure and eating it up
Then walking awhile on the lip of your cup
Flies can madden a man to the enth degree,
Making one itch to kill far more than three
But it is only a little insect with a penchant to infect
Doing things peculiar to a lonely insect
Just like we do and the folks they inspect
They proliferate and swiftly inject
A modicum of frustration is generated as I do no doubt
When I’ve gotten under one’s skin and made her pout
Intelligence is remarkable, is it in a fly?
Smarter ones appear to be there as they go on bye
Some certainly keep away, others are a pest
I reckon the further ones are those that know best
If you were a fly would you try to die?
Who would want to linger around a fresh turd pie
Don’t be absurd I hear you ply
You were always ready to give anything a try
This poem by TC is not only great. It is delirious.
When I said that Terry said Horn, are you serious.
Ho Ho
I know there are some people out there who in their hearts believe that…
in spite of all the evidence to the contrary our planet Earth…is flat!
When I hear this…I admit…I am astounded…
for I believe the scientists and my own eyes…when I say the Earth is rounded.
I say rounded because due to centrifugal force, gravity and the whims of our creator
Earth flattens out a little at each of her poles and bugles at her equator.
Which technically makes her an oblate spheroid as scientists have found…
but for the purposes of this poem…It’s okay to call her round.
I’m not interested in her exact measurements, her circumference or her girth
today I’m interested in her corners…yes in the corners of round Earth.
Figuratively Earth has a multitude of corners…corners specific to you and me…
my little corner of the world consists of my friends and family.
Which means every family out there has their own corner…corners they can see
and we do our best to make our little corners of the world…as happy as they can be.
And since we’re talking about the Earth…no matter how you spin it…
we each hope our little corner of the world…will smile on everybody in it.
But such is the the nature of the Earth…if you travel at all you might suspect…
none of our corners stand alone…they all intersect.
Which means and I’m sorry for the convoluted nature of this poem…
how to get to the point it took me a while…
But if we tried a little harder at the points where our corners intersect
perhaps we could make the whole world smile?
Within a night, a simple crop field has been transformed into a magnificent work of art, the overnight cryptic formations capture the attention of all as the large section of the crop has been tamped into marvellous morphic designs of art, rings and other intricate accomplished geometric patterns.
Edges so neat, it appears that they have been crafted meticulously with most advanced gadgets, with such precision that even though the stalks are bent, they are not damaged at all.
One scientific theory explains the spinning columns force a burst of air down to the ground, which flattens the crops, yet the myth remains how can a few seconds works of spinning air creates such intricate and absolutely perfect circles, sometimes plain, sometimes circles within the circles with myriads of meticulous patterns within patterns? Some says aliens hands behind, some negates them as man-made hoaxes.
Wonder! People close to those rings of crops, encounter strange physical and emotional reactions as the circles rotate clockwise and anti-clockwise as unseen hands or remote controls are controlling them from unknown realms.
From Hollywood magic to spirits of secret weapons, from evidences of UFOs to erudite explanations, there is something hypnotic in their architectures, in their cryptic presences, in their aesthetic textures for inquisitive minds to continue further quests to unravel their enigmatic riddles.
© Silpika Kalita
The sandman moved to the corner as I eyed him. The pain creased, and sheared my attention. Pain would shoot blanks at my head. Running would only excite the strange feeling of being followed but not contacted. I touch my memory and cut my finger, blood covers dry tears. My lip curls, quivers, and then flattens. I work too hard to see through crusted saline. Fingers can’t clean away the frozen, shattered, lens from dirt. I can feel the moment but a reaction is concealed in a dry tear. I see myself on the ground unable to stand, but am I standing? I cling to the hair I pulled out. I look at it as I pick up the mane I once had. It was my strength, it was my distinction. But they never let me be myself so my mane was just me fighting back at a wall to high to clime. Once again I look back, once again I break the skin. There are no handles to keep from falling. The edge of time moves away, but than retracts towards me, I react with a windless breath. I try to breath, but feel no life. My cries are mute, I am not heard. I drown in a dry lake in a very deep valley. Only shards of light reach me, I feel the warmth on fingers but it is fleeting. The heat is being replaced with chilling cold. Soon I see the breath of my despair. Desperate to escape I challenged my gate keeper. Weakness buckles my knees but doesn’t change the equation. I push my hand fully into the light and feel the evaporation.