Long Flint Poems
Long Flint Poems. Below are the most popular long Flint by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Flint poems by poem length and keyword.
The brain is an instrument of improvisation
With its white and gray byways
garnished in electrical blood drops.
Creating refined works, although pressed for time and pressurized.
It suffers in its bone cage.
Like an octopus in a jar, always planning the grandest escape.
It is also a weapon of mass deception
pods of oddness, always plotting.
Endless deep blueness and innate jealousy.
A DNA staircase decorated in ornate self-centeredness.
Prone to God-mocking and demon-envy.
Overall, the brain is a hieroglyphic glass ball.
Bursting with dead-end riddles and black troughs.
Perched on a flint-and-paper faith pedestal.
[You, the speaker, sit on a chair.
Back straight. Hands still.
The room is too quiet.]
I became a fault line
people swore they felt tremble—
even when the ground
never moved.
[Lift your eyes. Don’t move anything else.]
A rumour sparked,
struck like flint
against my name.
My silence—
they shaped it into a monster,
a shadow they insisted
had teeth.
[Lean forward, elbows on knees.
Voice low.]
I walked into the courtroom
like stepping into
a lion’s throat,
and still walked out
whole.
But echoes cling.
Smoke remembers
what fire never touched.
[Stand slowly.
Let the chair creak]
So hear me now.
My silence
was a drawn blade,
not surrender.
[Step away from the chair.
One step only. Stand tall]
This—
right here—
is the line carved clean
through the dust.
And I do
not
move.
bruised from a snow- capped flesh
earth is growing numb without rest,
threadbare plants gasp; existence
bites the nodes of winter’s skin
turned every which way, bends droop
like deep chambers upon chilled meadow
striking flint, just a bit, a spark
that wants to sip a flower moist,
till darkness swallows the pistils
hush…wait when springtime ushers
a roulette of buds dyed stark yellow
pouring dew from a cycle reborn
to seize her unmentionable thrill of being
once here, crowned hillsides glitter
igniting stars to touch the moon,
clouds dripping of raindrops’ spray
pitter patter; the gentle streams flow
while from the river, luster pours down
through an ocean igniting April’s two hands...
one waking the flame of petals’ limbs,
the other cuddling grace of season past
a mixture of spring… wild and tender.
-------------
collaboration of nette onclaud and liam mcdaid
thank you nette
The southern slope kept a secret—
a slight tear where a shadow learns to grow.
I felt the pulse that pulled me in,
past where the daylight breaks,
down to where the cold, clear water flows.
The entrance wore a veil of living lace,
stretched tight across the limestone seams.
My hand caught the web—snap.
A sound like a severed nerve,
a frantic flight of silk in the dark.
A thousand eyes of jet* looked back at me,
skittish guardians shifting in the bend.
They sensed the weight I carried,
the heavy, hollow ache of winter’s end,
and pulled away into the rock’s silence.
I moved the stone, one by one,
shimmying into the throat of the hill.
Leaving the world of coffee and schedules,
of letters never sent and cold, still rooms,
to trade the sun for the smell of wet flint.
The air grew thick—a history held in breath.
The mountain drank the noise of my life,
the schedules, the fears, the static of days,
until the gravity beneath my feet shifted,
as if the earth were re-calibrating its mantle.
Deep inside, it was not empty.
It breathed in a bioluminescent hum—
walls bleeding a spectral, bruised blue.
A path snaked away, a vein of light
offered by a world that had forgotten me.
The cavern opened—a limestone cathedral.
There, glyphs bled from the stone,
a language of weight, of tectonic patience,
etched by hands that knew the cooling of the crust.
The "Litany of Compression"—the agony of eons.
The "Silent Watchers" warned of the breathers,
the map of veins reaching toward the mantle.
I knelt in the dirt, finding the charcoal
the ancients left for the next ghost to arrive.
I did not write a name, or a date, or a prayer.
I traced the suture of my own breath
into the wall, a frantic, uneven line.
My body began to chime with the cave.
Limbs turning to cold, heavy mineral;
skin thickening, pores sealed with dust.
I was lifted to the ceiling, a slow drift,
tethered to a sister-spire of quartz,
the two of us holding up the dark,
holding up the sky of the hill.
Outside, the spiders return to their work.
They knit the entrance shut with elastic silk,
weaving the wound of my entry back into stone,
hiding the secret from the reach of the sun.
The hill holds its peace.
And I, finally, have found my own.
* Jet black eyes of 125 spiders
The Fortress Within
The walls I built so no one could ever touch or wound me again,
grew perfect, straight, and cold, like winters carved from flint by frozen men,
stone upon stone I raised them with hands of terror and of sleepless guard,
a fortress with no gates, no windows, and no law within its yard.
Now I am safe at last — no spear can ever break me anymore,
no foreign word can split my chest and make it bleed down to the core,
but in the darkness between walls, where not a whisper finds its way,
I'm locked in with the architect of fear, who taught me how to build my grave.
He is the shadow that dictated every slab in silence grim,
the gentle executioner who whispered every soul hides sin,
I built a fortress against enemies — and stayed inside with him,
with the jailer from within, more hungry, crueler, and more faithful still.
My fortress is a basalt skull in which the echo kneels to pray,
every thought returns to me like a crippled bird that lost its way,
through the single crack there falls a yellow ray like a torch of old,
showing me my pallid face — a prisoner in my own rope's hold.
For so many years I took the armor for a second, newer skin,
I never saw the wall that stops the hail also stops the dew from coming in,
that the fortress which no longer lets the evil cross its floor,
no longer lets love catch its flame, nor light stretch out across the door.
So I begin to pull one stone away, then another, with nails worn through,
not to surrender to the storm, but to let back into my marrow's room
the sun unseen for far too long, the wind, and one warm reaching hand,
for better wounded in the world than king above a grave of sand.
An Internet Handshake
She reluctantly closed the book,
locking the painting back inside her mind,
then a sudden frisson of emotion,
another surreal-reveal moment,
and her smile was flint; lips unmoving
as slices of memory were being served…cold.
The relationship began with an Internet handshake
and a few engaging discoveries about each other.
It developed weekly, daily via the telephone,
stretching from Whitefish, Montana to Dover in Kent.
Initially, they felt distanced from each other
but soon they were emotionally in the next room.
A month later, in London, they met,
a spill of nervousness, a thrill of emotions
and that night jazz developed their relationship,
an allegro rhythm which rose to a presto beat
and then ‘hey presto’ they were moving in together.
He, a job in London; she followed, as did their marriage.
The months hustled by, the clock ticked relentlessly
but their allegro rhythm slackened, slowed to adagio.
Then gradually he began to control, to criticize
and, on one occasion, even bully with bruises.
It pleasured him, darkened him, reminded him
and slowly he began to feast on it.
But he hadn’t noticed that someone else had moved in!
The artist, Salvador Dali, had slipped into her imagination
and had decided to settle, to stay, to simmer.
So now the surreal had entered their relationship
but what he did note was the tickling cough again
and the spit of pain, occasionally scoring his stomach.
Preparing the evening meal, she felt for the perfumed bottle
caressing its curved edges she flushed with excitement,
soon she was adding seasoned drops of Aqua Tofana,
those special ingredients: arsenic, lead and belladonna
and she slyly sed at the irony of the situation.
He thought HE was the power and SHE knew he wasn’t!
Very soon now she was to be a widow…..a black one
but she knew she wouldn’t cry, she’d been disconnected,
and after all, she was now an expert in death.
She thought once again of the book, the painting,
the Salvador Dali image - Death Outside the Head
and then of the enduring journey of her subconscious.
Ian Souter Nov, 2024
The sun opens her eyes behind a roseate veil,
her aubade harmonizing with Argus-eyed blackbirds
as it rises to a crescendo, staring in her husband’s
cratered eyes, ready to relieve him of his watch over the
world’s children so he can attend to their parents —
that is, the cosmic bodies that collided to create them; the
sacred alchemy.
He lifts her honey veil; a goodnight kiss he hopes to reenact
eternally, the aeons circling anniversaries as if liesegang
rings. She looks back, her flint knife eyes flashing violently.
“This fierce face is a facade,” he thinks, seeing her tremulous
expression, lips quivering in anticipation; a holy seduction
— that is, the ancient and sui generis matrimonio of
gods.
Tireless Universe
by Odin Roark
Time defies denial,
Knowing well its empirical presence
Will never be of absence.
Dense as its surrounding matter,
Its aged archives remain
Forever fortressed beneath passage and growth,
Like termite mounds of tunneled journeys,
A labyrinth of cosmic dust
Forever of remnant coatings
Upon endless bell tolling posterity.
Here within the maze of stellar nurseries,
Time’s infinite presence passes through our microcosm
As we attempt to aggrandize selfhood
Beyond its limitations.
Like the beam of a miner’s lamp,
Our import seeks to impact the void,
While this depth of immense profundity
Reveals our illuminative essence
As more akin to a spark of flint
Confronting the revelation of existence.
Perhaps…
Somewhere beyond our consciousness,
Smiles mix with duration’s yawn,
Humoring the metaphysical malady of rest deprivation.
After all,
Like time,
Existence has never slumbered.
Such a tireless universe this.
Blue sky forms the fortress of their world
I can picture them- the ebony and white
velvet stripes, the arch of necks, the
flint-edged hooves
Beneath the weather-regimented trees
they gather in the heat- to rest
Heat waves and the dreaded grunt of beasts of prey
then the hegira, enmasse
following
the calling of the rain
a vital splash of life-
they heed the voices
of the seasons change- along the hidden
pathways of
the sun browned plains
Suzanne Delaney
he•gi•ra also he•ji•ra (hi-ji'r?, hej'?r-?)
n.
1. A flight to escape danger.
2. also Hegira The flight of Muhammad from Mecca to Medina in 622 A.D., marking the beginning of the Muslim era.
[Medieval Latin, from Arabic hijra, emigration, flight, from hajara, to depart.]
There was a day on TV
Where westerns were all the rage
You could take your pick
From your TV paper page
Together our masked hero the Lone Ranger
With Tonto kept outlaws in a spin
Have Gun Will Travel was the card
For black dressed professional gunfighter Paladin
Wagon Train kept rolling along
Seth Adams the leader
Flint McCullough chief scout
Old Charlie Wooster was the feeder
Rawhide kept the cattle moving
Gil and Randy kept control
In Dodge City it was Gunsmoke
Marshall Matt Dillon was key role
On the ponderosa it was Bonanza
Where Ben Cartwright was the boss
With his family of three boys
Adam, little Joe and Hoss
Wells Fargo was the stagecoach
Where Jim Hardie was the star
Now these are only some
For they were many more by far
They were the Virginian and the Rifleman
Laramie, Maverick and Cheyenne
The High Chaparral not to mention alias Smith and Jones
These made us all a fan
Cowboys where are you?
Memories of you is our lot
On TV we can’t see
Is this our last shot?
poetgord@2013