Long Fluency Poems
Long Fluency Poems. Below are the most popular long Fluency by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Fluency poems by poem length and keyword.
Emerging from sleep dream temerity,
his remote aurora spectral prisms
from which his wakefulness gives legerity,
from which surfaces new burgeoning aphorisms.
Truth’s contours arrayed in fluid fluency,
his morning ataraxia in the still water lake
from where his senses lose their truancy,
from where ideation sheds the opaque.
He finds repose in a moment's seclusion,
his lucid cortex in reflective possibility,
but he learns his real confirmation in inclusion,
and learns our fellowship best protects our fragility.
So quickly we imbrute each other with walls,
he knows how militarization is summoned by anxiety,
he weeps at the endless requiem protocols,
he grieves at history’s long cruel impropriety.
But he detects his promise in human need,
our struggle against forces of dehumanization,
our commission in communitarian creed,
our hope in human family realization.
Awarded second place in Poetrysoup "Grace and Solitude" rhyming poetry contest sponsored by John Hamilton.
It is so lonely
having all time
and only spaciousness
to themselves.
Bored with Other
after so many millennia
planning future events
to finally get even for ungrateful behavior
that pissed them off
when they were even younger
in their co-evolving relationships
as not each Other.
Time lies dead in their competing hands
yet dynamic in their displaced designs
for emerging future climate changes,
great transitions,
spaces and places to regenerate a more cooperative atmosphere
among these co-arising Gods
of Energy and Air,
Water and Soil,
Fire
and Golden AnthroDivine Elixirs.
To drink this beverage of Timeless Gods and Goddesses
is to travel through time Their bilateral Selves
aware of fear as Other godless fear
of Their own Elder divine relationships
transactions
Selecting
Gods of political MonoTheistic Correctness
with Capital-Infested Designs
for self-perpetuating
lost humane development
and wealthy mind
healing EarthBody design
for future multicultural millennia
Future therapeutic chapters
in our collective ReGeneration Story
of Passion/Pleasure
intimate GodNesses.
A lonely lovely story,
from panentheistic perspective
of polyculturally communing gods and goddesses.
All that loving grace of healthy integrity,
yet so few dreams in which to unload
their rich full-octaved color
and inspiraling fluency
of Me/We
humane divines
severed/sacred
double-side divides
EarthGrace
re-stimulating AnthroLovely gratitude;
such steady-state resonant bliss
vexing passionate struggles to erupt outside
inside timeless dramatic elation
without climaxing end
All alone,
hiding monolithic divested blame
without exclusively Self-invested
merely human
shamefully ungodly
dispassionately unpleasant
desecrated lesser Others
ReTexting hate-filled UnTruth scriptures
as if anger/fear bipolar prescriptions
while ting toxins
on His Golden MonoPolistic Throne.
The Decade of Anchored Light: Living Rooted, Radiant, and Unapologetic
Dear 40s,
Now, I am 49 — about to leave you.
In my forties,
I stopped performing strength.
I began practicing peace.
No need to prove anything,
anymore.
They call it midlife crisis.
But you know what I think?
It’s choosing what finally fits —
even if it means letting go of everything that doesn’t.
I stopped arguing with clocks.
I stopped racing silence like it was a finish line.
I learned that rest isn’t laziness.
That letting go isn’t failure.
It is ok to rest
and even say “NO.”
I stopped rushing toward destinations that
drained me.
I stopped dancing for rooms that never clapped.
At forty-five,
I kept my joy private.
I stopped explaining my ‘softness.’
I started honoring it.
No need to explain.
Accept me or not . . .
I no longer needed applause to feel worthy.
I no longer feared solitude.
I became anchored . . .
not in certainty,
but in intention.
And the light I carry now?
It doesn’t flicker for attention.
It glows for legacy.
Financial independence didn’t arrive with fanfare;
it arrived with quiet choices,
with knowing I could walk away
and still be whole.
Job security wasn’t a title;
it was trust in my own consistency.
The kind built over years,
not moments.
Proficiency wasn’t perfection.
It was fluency in what matters.
It was knowing the rhythm of my own excellence.
And acceptance?
That was the hardest.
To look at my achievements
and not downplay them.
To say,
“Yes, I did that.”
Without shrinking.
Without apology.
In my forties,
I stopped auditioning for belonging.
I started living like I already belonged.
And that . . .
that was the beginning of peace.
(Published - Medium, The Healing Convergence Publication)
I still follow
the blinking spells
of the rose wine sunsets
before surging sandstorms,
believing in the euphoric breeze
floating across the
shivering skyline,
echoing vermilion voices,
lost in the limestone grains,
as questions of change
interrogate the empathy
encrypted within
my inhibited intuition,
like spices of kismet flames,
swirling to the fluid fluency
of sentimental keys
in saxophone tunes…
But in the midst of moving monsoons,
I feel the eagle feathers of Zeus
rain upon the crystalline swing,
crooning songs of tameless time~
wrapped in the crescent cocoon
of silent splendor,
as I rise, dressed in steel and silver.
I hear the bluebird dream
in symphonies of the karmic sea,
streaming with specters
of star-struck ghosts…
O majestic marine jewel,
change is a promised ocean.
It’s sprouting coral blues
from reefs of ambergris embers,
awaiting floods of onyx tears
and jagged thistles,
like a tsunami of smeared streaks
reflecting the smoke
and swollen stains of the red sun.
Tonight, I erase the last mistake;
a scribbled imitation
of my aching past,
for I could not veil the scars,
failing to seize the
splitting clusters of
slate and garnets,
burning between
sleepless lakes,
drenched in midnight terrors,
as satanic waves
blur the turquoise surfing
through the limitless twilight.
Yet, I hear the mermaid moon
call my name in magical refrains,
steering my iridescent silhouette
to an ivory shore
where ebony hints of ink
would home the hermit castles,
where you and I can breathe~
as soulmates destined
to draw neon lifelines from
bioluminescent sparkles…
So let the bluebird drift into an orchid dream
where karma is the poet~
draped in deep violet,
writing elegies
to the eclipsed eyes of the red sun
that stole the silk and sage
of summer sighs…
And change is more than just a mere rhyme,
it is the ultimate essence
to rearrange
whimsical words
woven within wind
from honey and gold
of a
dulcet
dawn.
You see that valve beneath the tree. It is staring directly at Thee; you see the curb in the middle of the road, It is telling you how to be bold; walk a mile onward and look beyond the tree, you will see something that you have never seen, the wilderness lies beyond the sea and the devil lurks Inside the tree, look the bride’s maid are running after thee. Walk close to center stage and move slightly upstage left and look straight in front of you and you will see clearly how things should be. Stand alone in the center stage and examine everything closely and your intuition will guide you appropriately. That is where the devil always complete his round and he knows where destiny is bound; examine the stage through and through and face your greatest fear, go over the lines a hundred times and confronts the demon in front of you and your fluency will come easily and everything will happen naturally, you are the master of the script and no one can throw you off the ship, Jonah spend three nights and three days in the belly of the whale and when he came out he was not the same; you are the master of the stage.
Representation
Fluency of veil
Father's victory provails
Release all he held within
Eradicated sin
Given the choice
To listen to his son's Holy voice
Which do you choose
If you have a clue
Bestowed upon thee
Throne of victory
Put him at his right side
Where Jesus Christ resides
A glorious mission
To bless the forgiven
Bow to our King Jesus Christ
Who cares about your life
Father's angels are sent
Help repent not resent
How are you
The Lord asked, yet knew
My salty tears throughout the years
Caught as sincere
God's armored arm
Who protects his farm
The one that tended to his sheep
Even though they were fast asleep
Given the love of an immaculate heart
To create our God's art
Approved by the Heavenly Father
For my heart has known no other
The music
The rhythm
It was all magical
In its beauty
The order, the do re me fluency
The charm of it
The joy of just hearing it
Opened within me another world
The world of enchanted, of love
The piano continued playing
Sending me to another world
The world of laughter, of hope
I just preserved the moment
Allowed it to dance through my head
Making me smile
Triggering all my senses
Of the other joy
Of the inner joy
The joy of playing it…
I held my breath
Exhaled deeply
On the grand black piano
I played
I lived
With my fingers
I experienced
The rhythm of my life
Paul Jackson Pollock
Condense versions that affected the times,
Immense variants that scoped his pleasures,
Florence immersed unravel a mentor,
Propense expounds at immortal measures.
Paul J. Pollock, painter, from Wyoming,
Haul labeled abstract impressionist art,
Gall at pouring, splashing, horizontal,
Call, was his ardor, loved beyond his heart.
Drip technique viewed canvass at all angles,
Whip body whole, frenetic dancing style,
Flip the brush, traverse the canvass boldly,
Grip abrupts a hold, paint flicks, dons a smile.
Divide hath praised his immediacy,
Pride his fluency of the creation,
Deride the random effects of his art,
Astride the split, sits a fenced summation.
Face that he wore was like seasons changing,
Space art goes on, naught a start, nor an end,
Trace that he drew, nay pictures, but events,
Chase rare acclaimed, never, nor what they penned.
He paints Blue Poles in 1952,
The Australian government purchased it,
Be it known, poles sought, chase made, was futile,
We found the entitled, be a misfit.
First, the Mural most expensive of his,
Burst, Number 17-A, naught mellow,
Dispersed, Mural on Indian Red Ground,
Versed, The Deep black and white, hints of yellow.
Guise his failing marriage with Lee Krasner,
Unwise, alcohol, substitutes his wife,
Empathize, Ruth Kligman, unfaithfulness,
Dies, drunk driving, Ruth lived, late renown life.
2020 February 08
*3rd Place*
STRAND SELECT J ,any form,any theme
~~Brian Strand
Where are you going to direct me if I'm not with you?
What I fear is the root of my most profound agony.
I'm scared as I'm always compelled to pursue.
I've run out of excuses to be emotional and scary.
And on the mantel, candles have been set to provide shade.
Overcast our movements with an unfathomable shade of darkness
Despite my distress and stiffness, I chose to stay with you, not fade.
I cherished the eternal depths of your being a lover and kindness.
The throb continues to pound me, and my heart continues to race.
When we're not together, I feel an emptiness in my heart.
My wish is that we should have parted way before we embrace.
It's been ages since I've felt this thoughtful zest.
The utter denigration of memories
To find an aspiration where none is apparent.
Several moral tales emerge from exploited reveries.
My merit is similar to that of a sacrificial victim pigeon, errant.
Any rose petals could have fallen to the floor in that corner.
Spread similar to a river, elaborate on flows.
Giggles are alive and well, bringing some much-needed light warner.
Rather than flowers, thorns sprouted from the rose.
My heart was tearing itself apart as I screamed in agony.
In my heart, there is no longer space for anything but suffering.
There is no way for you to return to your set point of insanity.
You'd been waiting in line for too long hovering.
My pet bird took off into the trees.
I'm sick of seeing me having to leave.
It's the only thing that's obvious; a vulnerability exposed by the breeze.
Although the pain is momentary, it takes years to evolve.
I crave the contentment and peace you are lacking.
Do you prefer what I imply? Nothing specific you aim to?"
I'm not sure I trust what you're saying.
Not much is left in my body except bones and your fluency too.
All that remains are these revolting, dirty, sickening tremors in my limbs.
I can't even evolve any closer because I'm trapped in the past.
Every day is a hollow one for me; you can only satisfy my whims.
It's impossible to ignore you because you're so lovely ever to last.
Allowing you to suffer has made my life grumpy.
Writing Prompt - Ache - Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Constance La France
Written April 23, 2021
I reduce myself into smaller categories
Speaking languages I don’t really know
Spreading my wings in different places
Multiplying myself in countable numbers
Just to do several things at once
Nothing is really done in the same time
But I do it in the same time of my life
I speak the language of Music, of poetry
Discovering and awakening the Do Re Me and Rhythms of fluency
I speak the language of Friendship and devotion
Spending my time with friends and devoting things I really admire
I speak the language of Disrespect and hatred
Of the many things I did, this I am not proud of
I speak the language of love and loyalty
Converting actions into feelings and feelings into actions
I speak the language of pain and enduring
Suffering the events, enduring the results
I speak the language of Eyes and spirit
Understanding things’ reasons and the connection with the soul
I speak the language of Revenge and right
I fight for what is taken, grabbing my right
I see through God’s sign
I think before I act
I speak the language of life…