Long Flume Poems
Long Flume Poems. Below are the most popular long Flume by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Flume poems by poem length and keyword.
Overdosing (rather binge reading) thesaurus...
Imagine if ye will
earlier one blustery February sixteenth
two thousand twenty one,
yours truly experienced atypical thrill
perusing pages of heavily laden word book
marking where I leave off reading
courtesy no frills inked quill
(sold to yours truly courtesy original
big bird on his deathbed)
plus jotting down page number
so mundane effort to marry me interest
with me lingua franca (English language)
neither void nor nill
aforementioned laborious literary task
persevered despite forgoing
eating and sleeping might kill
(reading every last word)
hoop ping diligence improves vocabulary
making me maxillary stronger
no matter chronological years
considered smidgen whipping
over third scored Sam Hill
Earth orbitz around nearest star
traveling at (pun one mach two)
warp speed amidst escadrille
whereby accompanying aircraft
eventually zooms into Brazil
housing disproportionate Amazon
rainforest biome encompassing
6.7 million square kilometers and shared
by eight countries.
Even before (the square root of 3844)
years ago exiting the womb
Logophile mine self anointed
nom figuratively feathery de plume
no matter mine cranium
ready to explode ka-boom
I continue to parlay mental energy
like some garden variety harum scarum
and jam additional minutiae
(at thee expense not preserving sanity)
despite very limited (maximum) headroom
to decrease hydranencephaly
the whole hare brain scheme
rigged up with shunted
(think chutes and ladders) flume.
One definite lament
until death doth do me proud
constitutes deficient intelligence
genetically (father) endowed
imbibing cerebral thirst for knowledge
constitutes the lack of photographic memory
nsync with fifty plus shades of gray matter
ofttimes smoldering like dark storm cloud
to retain information I read aloud.
Quite an exciting
(seat of pants) life I did asseverate
less to impress any anonymous reader,
whose interest I did pique and captivate
versus (verses crafted) more so to delineate
quirky passion (couched as poetic endeavor)
inexplicable how to formulate
though no justification be given
hoop fully only kudos to generate.
An almost stillness came about
as she strode into my door,
like breath itself refused to move,
fearful of touching her mysterious beauty
But her obsidian eyes betrayed her.
Sharp and gleaming,
with a silver sheen
she looked at me,
and I knew…
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Molten lava spilled forth from her mouth, melting our clocks—
eighteen hundred nightmares compressed in two hours.
Long hand moving forward, as the short hand moved backward
How can memories persist in such an acrid life?
She spoke of a beast in the guise of a man,
one who ravaged innocence with the flick of a click
A coward that collected milk teeth for hardened bones
of other horny beasts with no spine
That throaty tenderness when she spoke
sprinkled crystal seeds of frustration in me
She says he loathed him, denied she loved him
but her obsidian eyes betrayed her
There she was, a bud he plucked from the nuns’ garden
He grafted then he pruned her,
spreading her pollen, wafting her scent
yet folding her petals to himself
Caterpillars feeding upon her leaves,
she lets them devour her,
yet once they are wrapped in their cocoons to sleep,
she stabs them with her thorns.
Tears then slid down from her midnight lace eyes
and it was all I could do to catch them
She said she was weary of curtailing butterflies,
of tearing their wings before they can even fly
I had to ask, how many… how many winged gems?
She lifted her sleeves, and showed me her scars
One ugly mark for each innocent child plunged deep,
my heart getting slashed at least three hundred a beat.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
A certain stillness came about
as I strode into her door,
like fear itself refused to move,
letting breath touch her mysterious beauty for the last time....
Her obsidian eyes had betrayed her.
Sharp and gleaming,
with a silver sheen
I looked at the knife beside her.
Maroon-mapped sheets, a stunted womb.
Strains of Bon Iver’s “Flume”
flit past the sighing air like a butterfly,
and I knew…
08112014
breast cancer runs rampant within me late mother side
whar moost every female diagnosed with emotional ride
into the depths of despair where metastatic cells pried
their way into the appendages whar din o suckling provide
did initial sustenance prior to malignant growth lied
Innocuously within fleshy tissue til oncologist could not hide
Truth from females that birthed and availed motherly guide
among most ever Harris heiress, whence treatment fried
will power to live (I can only imagine) as rogue growth did elide
as nemesis to body politick where no boxes of tissues dried
the river of tears when such news shell shocked me – I cried
for indiscriminate injustice whence fate snatched me father’s bride
shunting any trivial tit for tat resentments re: grudges aside.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
no other priority but being alive matters when surgeon knife
for malignant curse forces impending mortals to value life
purposeless double mastectomy performed when invisible mass rife
with errant duty to destroy sense and sensibility commanding strife
whether circumstance involved me eldest sister (still alive) or the late wife.
me octogenarian widower father summoned breastworks when last breath
o me long deceased mother – vehemently opposed being sentenced to death
no matter visualization practiced – such as furiously swapping with broom
who truthfully cursed with ovarian cancer, which spelt her actual doom
an unstoppable toxic brew within her being that coursed as meandering flume
Time elapsed, yet still difficult to espy wedding pictures with handsome groom
that would be my 20 plus year old father unbeknownst ill fate would loom
occupying cellular wall street where awry growth jostled for room
a harbinger of lifelessness, whereby she chose creation versus burial in a tomb
many fifty odd decades after my youngest sister exited the womb!
by: matthew scott harris
In a winter chorus, autumn’s rouge and sallow shed.
Their shuffle settles loamy dregs of timber lords.
As they await the hurling puff to haply brush the forest floor,
of what to grace their lot, they’ve lack. No praise up-whirls.
All we born, as such, descend, as severed from an high accord.
Then swept to shadowed crags, the dreams of day retire.
With hardened creeds to surly shelter us beneath their stale lore,
the burly breeze to heft comes seldom to inspire.
But note the gust that swaggers brazing licks. Proud trunks in swaths it leaves.
The tongue to pummel trees, the tunnel breath, rolls through us.
The nostril flume imbibes this ghost, the same who, wrapped in thunder, looms.
There stirs incessantly the So and Hum, the chant by which we move.
Now when the clearings and the coasts show nowhere crowd nor cross of deer,
all the same, the hunt, there seems, a trail ‘s taking.
And one’s wile, self-avowed, is from that faithless rut to veer.
Stray the path, would he, which he the wolf is breaking.
Yet hear! The faintest ting and slightest twitch received command.
To cosmic tenor, resound seasons with their forms.
The chief of words holds still the ages in a solitary day.
The less are strung to sentence nature to her norms.
Transfixed whilst in the lunar gaze, a deathlike swoon stars wield.
Sonic relevance will seize in dins and swirls.
As planes celestial pivot lives by this unheard, odd eloquence,
there must a whisper be, recanting etheric grooves.
For contentment covets smiles from the jowls of astral frill,
when the way has winter whited to no end.
Will not the stellar figures, sought and viewed, resolve the brisk enthrall?
They must revolve with summer’s patterns to portend.
But with the cold, the heaven’s clearest churn in crystals.
The night is smeared in depths, occult by frigid flow.
Yet the utterance to shift the morning twilight’s brightest stars
lies silence hedged with the chime of flakes of snow.
Beatrice: Tu miri a la funestia de l'austeria
commistion de l'invidia e d'acerbe
quando crescer non vive e pur ingeria:
principia sono falde e non riserbe,
scienza che non impozza ma s'intenda
innesta a la puerizia unìce berbe;
così l'amplesso de' sofismi addenda
a 'l mondo la piètra ancora e rude,
e non liquor ch'accidia disincenda.
O altrove negasi qüelle drude
artefatte sentenze sanza cura
d'esser venène se non crude?
Ed esse cinte d'ingloriose mura
inspazia lo su' autor ne l'avvenire
non come munificio ma 'n usura;
per ciò che 'l suo miasma 'ntende aulire
intorno al pensier suo immaturo e marcio,
e assuono di sua sorditate benedire.
Ioàn: In nome de la tua spada disquarcio
onne mia dedizione pria diletta
se no da mia equità meco disarcio:
name mi sono appreso intra la letta
in che lo flume de 'l discorso rade
d'aver d'una rugiada l'aude umetta;
(Lat.absisto)astito da le mie false contrade
i' vegno a 'l primo freddo de 'l mattino
e sì novella possa mi pervade!
Beatrice: Ricorditi virtute è 'l tuo confino
ma 'n ella libertate a te è plenaria
e teco suggellar non può 'l destino.
Allora fa': di molte isquame acquaria
il laco de 'l tuo cuore mai diverso
d' amor che tutto 'nvita e seco invaria
e fé l'oceano sempre limpio e terso.
After most recent shower,
and particularly washing hair
(then shaking head
analogous to sopping wet dog
drying her/himself after a bath),
I immediately said helloo
to Long lasting fragrance Suave
essentials Daily Clarifying
Deep cleansing Shampoo,
which permeated mine scalp
facilitating healthy follicles.
More so frothy lather upon noggin
after getting rinsed out
yielded bounteous, luscious, luxurious,
and marvelous full bodied tresses
reminiscent when yours truly an adolescent,
a veritable long haired pencil necked geek
whose hirsute trademark
still characterizes atypical sexagenarian
above mentioned characteristic
still (after scores of years)
emblematic of this enigmatic poetaster.
Ever since being in utero
soon after seminal fusion
insync with fallopian tube bearing ova
begot zygote courtesy said gametes,
and engendered silent boom
after piercing zona pellucida
creating microscopic flume,
nevertheless collection of cells
coalescing into embryo
eventually manifesting into yours truly,
I painstakingly took minuscule
comb and brush to groom,
and dreaded most fearfully being locked,
where pair of outsize scissors did loom
threatening to cut thick,
what could best be envisioned analogous
to imperceptible fancy plume
hich features specific feature
drew medical community
(i.e. namely human reproductive specialists)
constituted extensive expanse
within blastocyst very limited room
crowd sourcing out rivaling curious onlookers
formerly geared up
to espy King Tutankhamun's tomb
can you dear reader believe
a hairy globule within the womb
became global attraction
viz - of a young fecund Harriet Harris,
cuz about nine months later
out the birth canal I did zoom.
Takes a gallon of coffee to wake him,
But it’s sweet when his axe hits the spot,
While the mist slips away from the mountain,
And the day hardens dusty and hot.
He contends with the bothersome thicket,
Stays alert for the growl of the bear,
And considers the question of silence
Should he fall when there’s nobody there.
He’s no steam donkey spool tender,
Nor bolt punching river pig.
He can chow down the gut robber’s grub.
He’s no short-stake bark peeler.
He’s a tin pants timber beast,
A high balling bull of the woods.
Shoulders burn as he carves his obsession,
Dark and moist, till his brow’s dripping wet,
Like the day when she danced for him naked
And the night when they mingled their sweat
In that boarding house in Seattle
Just across from the Skid Road Saloon,
In the heat of a lumber town payday,
By the light of a Puget Sound moon.
He’s no steam donkey spool tender,
Nor bolt punching river pig.
He can chow down the gut robber’s grub.
He’s no short-stake bark peeler.
He’s a tin pants timber beast,
A high balling bull of the woods.
There’s a kerosene lamp in the bunkhouse,
Lends a halo of warmth to the room
Where the dreamers see visions of back cuts
And their snores sound like logs in a flume.
As he ponders the hand that’s been dealt him,
Can’t distinguish a heart from a spade
On the deacon seat drinking whisky.
Getting drunk when he’d rather get laid.
A woodsman works from dark to dark.
He labors from tree to tree.
Yet light of heart he leaves his mark
For none but his Maker to see.
This gypsy soul is on the road
It leaves castles far behind
It abandons ghostly mist
which sabotages the caravan of life.
It passes along the mountainside
by golden hay fields where daises bloom
By streams of waters which sweep
all withered leaves towards
the decayed lumber flume.
This gypsy soul is on the road
from Edinburgh to Lochlomond
against high winds,against the rain
against aquatic monsters of pain.
This gypsy soul is on the road
to the woodlands of your heart
where I would camp inside your tent
as our blissful thoughts impart.
This gypsy soul within myself
and all the woman in me
would wantingly await your fingertips
to compose a guitar's melody.
The smell of early coffee
would fill our empty cups
The song of the cicada
echoes in the shrubs
And as the chimney-smoke
drifts side-ways in the breeze
As warm dappled light filters
through purple pansy leaves
The pressed rose of my lips
would leave its crimson mark
below your sun-kissed cheek
My arms would cling around
your once a muscular physique
We'd laze upon a hammock
strung between two old oak trees
I play upon your strings my hundred fantasies.
As the incandescent half moon
rises above the dusky hue
and orange paper-lanterns
float high in cobalt-blue
We'd chase the opalescent glow
Of a million firefly
You'll be able to touch me
before last embers die.
This gypsy soul is on the road
in search to be set free
Across each bridge,on every journey
Your compass is my destiny.
A revised repost .
Rising on island,
Mountain, with peaks of possibility,
Valley lush and green.
When my knees collapse, lightning and thunder -
Call it butterflies.
The palms warmed and cooled us, warned us, fooled us.
Explosive, our love -
Once conjoined, often drifting in the sea,
Eyes leaping with fire.
Hot Lava, Lover,
Have we been here before? You’re smoking hot!
Hearts of stone, lifting upwards, tears running,
Drifting on riffraff.
Outbreak of chortling might redirect winds.
La la…ooh…la la.
Sips of berries and pineapple; we share
Icy tropical
Attempts to cool things down; steam underfoot.
Ebb and flow of raft,
Seeking to poke embers - attentive ears.
Hot Lava, Lover,
Have we been here before? You’re smoking hot!
Collapse of civilization, in grass
Skirt, paradise shirt,
Atomic timing sans wearing a watch.
Heads buried in sand -
Lips meeting in molten-red, not passive,
Dirty and tender.
Swimming in sweep of lava lake, suntan-
Baked, gliding upwards,
Climactic eruption, falling with love.
Hot Lava, Lover,
Have we been here before? You’re smoking hot!
We ride the flume of volcanic weather,
Can’t raise the tall man,
Seek the insane chance of sane survival -
Valiancy in strife.
Man and wife seeking each other’s island -
Pieces fit just right.
Synchronic habitation, breathing room.
Volcano’s, how old?
In the end it shuts its mouth… a whisper
Hot Lava, Lover,
Have we been here before? You’re smoking hot!
This gypsy soul is on the road
It leaves castles far behind
It abandons ghostly mist
which sabotages the caravan of life
It passes along the mountainside
by golden hay fields where daises bloom
by stream of waters which sweeps
a withered rose
towards the decayed lumber flume
This gypsy soul is on the road
from Edinburgh to Lochlomond
against high winds,against the rain
against aquatic monsters of pain
This gypsy soul is on the road
to the woodlands of your heart
where I would camp inside your tent
as our blissful thoughts impart
This gypsy soul within myself
and all the woman in me
would wantingly await your fingertips
to compose soft pastel fantasy
The smell of early coffee
then fills our empty cups
The song of the cicada
would echo in the shrubs
And as the chimney smoke
drift sideways in the breeze
as warm dappled light filters
through purple pansy leaves
The pressing of my lips
would leave their crimson mark
below your sun- kissed cheek
My arms would cling around
your once a muscular physique
We laze upon a hammock
strung between two old oak trees
I play on your guitar,my hundred melodies
As the incandescent half moon
rises above the dusky hue
and orange paper lanterns
float high in cobalt blue
We'd chase the opalescent glow
of a million firefly
You'd be able to touch me
before last embers die
This gypsy soul is on the road
in search to be set free
Across bridges,on a journey
your compass-my destiny.