Long Folding Poems
Long Folding Poems. Below are the most popular long Folding by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Folding poems by poem length and keyword.
"Puzzle Stomped"
Pieces scattered
placed on a table
with boundaries
between
the incarcerated margins
there are strict conditions
Time drips
its wet connection
each piece a stair fitted
imperfectly
perfect
towards upwards
new mirror reflection
a cracked heart piercing
the tear with savage dedication
behind her veil
the known Morpheus assails
her compromised senses
holding her captured
behind the external view
eyes blindfolded
the blue sashes now let loose
opening green windows to
free the redressed vicissitudes
to undress the crisp breeze of her
monk chanting wake
a new phantom arrives caressing secrets
gambled on a fresh Delius
composing his unfinished symphony
he’s looking for her singular notes
Somewhere,
he stands behind her
sharp as a needle,
cutting tall poppy
each step she takes
towards her freedom gate
In his hands he cups
the hidden
missing piece
The sewing of pages
she continues to bind
in her sleep
along a strong spine
turning and folding stories
uncommon ne'er sublime
their spelt magic
grows majestically spoilt
seeded from a sweet perfume
conducting intoxicating notes
stories flying black-winged
off all the slippery knaves
and wax-sealed pages
like ebony feathers
mummerating starlings
turn into suffocating
dream stealing
king crows smiling maces
She the Smythsewer
laying tenuous imprints
for a new road home
He the myth Beyond
shakes the game board
peace in pieces, a long forgotten song
the chance card thrown
the blanket of romance
thundering over a stormy mind grows
patch worked with glassed-in
jarred ghost bees, the old
puzzle of a story stomped on
He places his feet
firmly between hers
closing in on time
Beyond takes her hand
And sensually whispers
along all her fairest fears
sweeping all pieces off her
tattered story board
fallen irretrievable
forgotten
left lacking
on the harsh floor
Cum dederit
dilectis suis somnum,
Ecce haereditas
to the tune of fate
there is so much more
the words are sewn and sung
the child in time fled
long gone, as if all was pure fantasy
destiny arrives supernaturally too soon
Time for a new story
He says darkly
and swiftly closes
Past’s door.
(LadyLabyrinth / 2020)
As I conclude each day
and year
and life,
conclude that life with death
refers only to LeftBrain ego's Past toward Future
ionic-ironic languaged consciousness,
too often angry about life
and therefore fear-filled about an untimely
and clearly inappropriate
not to mention unfair,
death.
Earth's Time memory
is stored in natural-systemic DNA/RNA regenerative folding
and unfolding egoclocks,
sequence,
rhythmic function,
a recycling journey of time traveling identities,
memory strings transcending generations
by transposing across the eisegetical communications
of any one ego-identified entity
Learning to harmonize in
on
with
within
a too strident humanizing nature
trying to invite more resilient
humane kindness and justice
To gift EcoTribal nature with humane nature
as a blessing for Earth,
from Earth,
with Earth,
for Earth's Advent,
inclusive of all species
and all natural economies,
and all RNA/DNA cellular cultures
of universal co-arising intelligence.
When divine love
and win/win neurosystemic kindness say
"I have nothing but time with you"
fear and anger are also saying
"I regret not having enough time
for my own anthrocentric agenda
right now,
between past's neglected anger
and future-fear depression
anticipating further repression
of this integral body
authentic mind
moment."
EcoLove and Ego's Kindness
only speak with present-tense consciousness,
which is all remaining communication
when neither future nor past tensions
tyrannies
terrors
win/lose dominate preverbal anxiety
Post-traumatic tension
and trauma-informed intension
of ego's fear and anger experience
Anger about past leads toward further fear
about repeating
and repeating
ego's degenerative abuse
and neglect
in Earth healthy life future.
To dissipate fear,
we have evolved curious Adventure
to co-empathically embrace Anger's
non-violent communication
About not repeating a negative judgy,
too Left-brain dominant,
toxic nontrauma-informed past
mono-culturation
Perpetuating anthro-privilege
playing a Win-Lose political game
toward ego-centric political economies
disabling RightBrain ecological pilgrimage
to AdventTransition Ego Away
Toward further
LoseMind/LoseBody
cosmological
devolutionary
deadly conclusions
And not not cobinary
positive health
Win/Win revolutions.
You, me, seashore, one place, one earphone,
Coconut with two straws—one ice cream, two noses.
Cold winds, but your warmth wraps me whole,
Two souls in one sweater, hearts beating slow.
Sitting under the moon, watching him chase the clouds,
And that night, love, I realized how foolish I’ve been,
Calling you my moon in all my poems—
When he borrows his light, and you, you shine without a single shadow within.
Our legs sinking into the sand, always chasing the shore,
Waves kissing our toes as they meet once more.
I’ll show you the pictures—screenshots I took slowly,
Not the perfect ones, just the freaky, fuzzy shots where you’re you, wholly.
I lied when I said I was chasing butterflies in your hair,
You were between my legs, your spine pressed against my chest,
Wrapped in one jacket, sharing warmth, our breaths in sync.
The shore beneath us, waves whispering secrets at our feet.
I told you I was playing with a butterfly,
But really, I was setting your hair free from that clip that didn’t care.
I needed to feel your hair wild, untamed, falling like waves,
As it brushed against my face, soft strands dancing with the breeze,
Every lock sent chills down my spine,
Your scent filling the air, your hair wrapping around my fingers,
And the wind, like us, was making us one,
Your hair, in its messy perfection, said more than words could ever speak.
Your hair blowing, my eyes closing, breath aligning with the wind,
Like the universe itself was folding us together, as if it had planned it.
Let’s forget forever—just be with me tonight—
Until we count every star, holding on to each other tight.
No time, no crowd, just you and me, enough as we are,
I want to bury my ego in the sand, let it go,
In that moment, I’ll be mad, unfiltered,
The way I would be before my mother, no regrets left to show.
We’ll dream of a future, a life we’ve yet to write,
Maybe two passengers might join us—two little hands we’ll miss tonight.
And as our eyes grow heavy, as stars fade from the sky,
We’ll break the chains that hold us, love—eyes closed, we’ll fly.
Good morning, whenever we wake from that sleep so deep,
Now four hands and two rings—two hearts that forever keep.
The rest of the story, love, I’ll tell you in a language only we’ll know...
When we leave this seashore.
planned it out all along
to find my place among those doing nothing wrong
they wouldn't know it
but i have people believing we're bigger than we are
planned it all along
to come your way
and leave you holding the bag
probably will do it again
me myself and I standing alone
now you get the blame
of a simple logical equation
to find the perpetrator of such a twisted plot
whose come into your life
and dressed you up in everything but love
premeditated perfect plan
simple as 1 2 3
walk away looking innocent
so why are my dirty hands the only ones clean
to blackmail you with the fear of being caught doing the wrong thing
simple solution to such soo called chaos
logic dear watson
we knew this day would come
the day we'd have to sing a familiar dance and song
so why among all of you singing along
do you not know the dance routine
of those coming your way to do you wrong
the world doesnt like to admit to its mistakes
but familiar patterns of unhealthy routines
life is pretty simple when you follow your heart
we all know that dance
we all know that song
so why are the misinformed of the act of how to spot
the ones you wouldnt let in
I'm smaller than you realise
and with emotional baggage to hang on you
why do you look so guilty
when i know the truth
simple logical equation
so lets start back at act 1 scene 1
the curtain closes when we have to change the routine
because a few people truly dont belong
executing a plan to blackmail you
and walk away leaving you to pay the consequences
i may not be intelligence
but honestly
its a simple logical equation
anyone can solve
to find out whose the one
follow your heart
the day hate makes more sense your defeated
breaking down what happened in my living room
how i was held hostage
and in the end the cop blamed and beat me
put that into perspective
and see that there must be a simple solution
the world just isn't organised enough to pull this off
someone would have said something
someone would have taken a stand
but if not
its pretty obvious
from this distance
so here i go folding with the winning hand
lightning doesnt strike the same place twice
but ohnestly hiding behind your intelligence
and freedom of speach to blackball me
i did it to myself
i just dont know why so many of you wouldnt do the right thing
I am scrolling down hill,
folding the pills,
elongating the tree's
and simplifying the breeze,
I am a song to be played-
earlier than you might say
in the day,
when hearing is a complaint
and danger is delayed,
but you are a spade,
to be wondered and craved,
you are your own way,
with the sing of the slave-
underground-
above the haze,
glazed with the betrayed,
honed in on like waves,
so stubborn your gay-
holding on to the page!
Don't you walk that way!
Troubled little weaver-
always weavin' in and out of the days,
with your face,
and two others that may show you the way.
So...Whenever there is game,
whenever you are just being insane,
two others can ring your ping-
scratch at your lawn,
ease your bickering fawn,
who is ages old-
cranky and yet cold,
shines like the rivers of silver soles,
wasted and bold.
...Blanketing and broad like the system of the slots,
put in a coin so you can jog-
with your eye's,
and with your pogs,
fall to the floor,
while dude ranchers await cry's out the doors,
become single and slower,
dangerous like snow blowers,
manned by cats
with fake joints hangin' in their lips crowin,'
as they are growin,' croppin,'
and sowing,
the stage is set to start goin,'
but you stay all knowin'-
with the people out there- asses a blowin'!
Like the sound of the tick was that on it-
like the leaper out of time was so subordinate,
you know you could have grabbed mine,
you know about other ways to shine,
but still you sit and grind-
sleep and unwind,
base your catches on other famous people's finds...
I don't confide,
I really don't try,
I just hear god and ask about the water in the sky,
why doesn't it come down on African pride?
When they need it most?
When we know 911 proved evil the most...
But sit here and boast
and you'll hear gods jokes-
he's got what a man needs,
he's got you underneath a sheet,
so don't breathe!
Just start running,
got the mustard?
Pray for a plead,
because random people leave
while friends try and greet,
an acre of land with animals and plants couldn't please,
even if they spoke the language, and cured the disease,
sorry if I sound meek-
but pride comes when I'm done writing these...
...I could do anything....I could...
...any-thing...
...action is action....
...what you are doing is of minimal importance...
....there is no difference between folding clothing and sweeping the floor...
...both need movement.... Why favor any particular movement over another?
...that's what doing has me doing....
....it has me moving, thinking, deciding, processing, interacting with life.....
....but is it any different for a math teacher than it is for an accountant?
....I don't think so....every exercise requires execution...every proceeding is after a
result...
...it's all the same...
.... but then I see so many people love what they do....
...they choose a specific activity that coincides with what feels rewarding...
....but again, what is it about that particular action that makes it any different from
another so much as to make a person like folding clothes MORE THAN sweeping the
floor?
...for me I don't know....
.... its as elusive as the most profound mysteries....
....AND, if everyone can know what they love to do, how do I choose for myself if I
find all things alike...?
....I sit for many many hours contemplating what job should be my vocation...
...What practice should I give my life over to?
....I ask myself what interests me, what do I like learning about...
....but I love everything...EVERYTHING!
...politics...history....flowers... sowing clothing... singing...writing poetry....
..."its all good!"...literally...
...I always circle around, back to the same place...
...I could do anything...I could...
....everything is rewarding as long as you participate with the goal of feeding your
spirit more knowledge and wisdom of how to honor the gift of life...
....but knowing this gets me no closer to knowing what I'm supposed to do...
...SO... I pray...
and pray and pray and pray...
...and search myself... and ask others, and try things to no avail...
...and since I don't know for myself, I ask God to show me....
... I'll do what HE wants me to do...
...there's nothing that could be more rewarding....
...but He hasn't answered my prayer, so I wander still...
...waiting to know...
....waiting to accomplish...
....waiting to set goals...
....waiting to feel fulfilled....
...waiting....
" SuperFine" Borrow Quarrious made his debut in a bout against his former tag team partner "Honey Mambo" Yurts Kussinov. The bout ended when there former manager Caul Fennish interfered using a folding chair to pummel both men. Caul Fennish is number one contender for $@$$$$$@!---$$$$@$$@ championship. ( Because of "Contractual Science") we can't speak the $@$$$$$@---$$$$@$$@ champions name, we can't recognize the title or show the match or title without distortion. The Collusion Illusion is a big deal!
Rambles Bassoonist wrested to a draw agains "Cattle"Stan Murphy, leaving a crowd at awe, but both men satisfied the onlookers when the
Promoters allowed the match to continue giving both men 10:00 minutes to settle the score. at 2:13 the member of " The Electric Audience" Rambles Bassoonist the victory via a "broken arrow" submission manuver. The former Game Pro Greco-Roman champion, out wrested his opponent in a crowd pleasing fashion.
Maybe it was the attire, or maybe these men just know where they stand. We do nd I t they had opposing views, and both went to a micro phone to air there point s of view, let's say members of the promotion saw something in letting these men go at it. No time to change the promoter said come as you are and two men clashed in an opportunity to showcase there talents. Drama "the Mingler" verses "Cash Money" Tenseultown Mannex Reeler went at it for a chance to queit the other. Ten mins nutes in a "Wicked-Wicked" back dropped found Mannex victorious.
Doctor Wolfgang Sinster and his Ganglioness Dax Savage ( "Crumbling Carl Savages sister) rocked the auditorium. A one-sided crowd saw
Guam's, Gaffa " Main Man" Chovey-Claud meet the conclusion of the best of seven series. The score was 3- Gaffa, to 3 Wolfgang Sinster. At 25:54 Sinster used a fysterfall fistdrop, into a spinning toehold for the victory, he now is number one contender to Talus Championship Gold. He will meet the winner of his opposition, either "Sumthang Special" Sammy Gordillo who is up 3-2 verses "Mumbles" Mantel Darbow. The winner goes head to head with " the guy from the other side" to become 2020 Talus Champion, this is the only championship which is relenquished so the title holder can claim there number one World title bout, and it's rubber match.
i want to write a poem for the women on brown street,
the ones who work at the diner i go to every sunday with my parents,
the ones who keep the dulled butter knives hidden up their sleeves and the cans of mace hidden in their aprons.
i want to write a poem for the women making minimum wage like they drew the short end of the stick,
like they’re trapped in a cycle filled with nothing but cracked plates and wandering hands.
the women on brown street know that the customer is always right, but i’ve found them
wondering when they’ll get their turn.
after all, how can the customer be wrong when you just moved the wrong way, darlin’.
how can the customer be wrong when they leave a hearty tip and a vulgar message on the receipt?
how can the customer be wrong when they’ve never been given a chance to be proven right?
the women at the diner on the corner of brown street and an avenue where nothing bad ever happens keep their purses clutched so close to them they become a second skin when they walk to their cars at night, to their bus stops, to their train stations.
these women mold themselves into their bags because that’s where safety lies, hidden in
the can of mace or the switchblade they felt too silly to order online but can’t help finding useful more times than should be normal -
more times than they can count.
i want to write a poem about the women at the rinky diner because they are the unsung heroes,
folding their capes down to fit around their waists,
snug enough that the regular at table eight can’t force his sticky fingers under there again,
tight enough that he feels the safety click and the thump thump thump of their hearts falling into their stomachs when someone gets too close,
when someone forgets that the hunted can flip the script in a split second.
i want to write this poem for debra and connie and margerie and erica, who greet every guest with a watery smile and a tightened grip around the coffee pot,
because lately, filling the coffee cup up to the brim never gets past half-full.
on the corner of brown street and an avenue where nothing like this ever happens,
they call it half-empty.
- on the corner of brown street and twenty broken avenues
A student hunched over a Macbook Pro gone mad with overachievement,
Typed away at a fifty-page essay with aid from sleep's bereavement.
As his fingers stroked the keypad's letters with pace and fine finesse,
The clock struck midnight when his stressing brain had asked for rest.
"I must finish," he said to the self trapped inside his aching tired body,
So he popped his prescribed Adderall and brewed twelve cups of coffee.
Then, his two fellow suitemates had returned from the school's library,
Whose brutalist folding shapen stone held tomes for the literary.
It was a university named after Jonas Clark, where Sigmund Freud had given lectures,
On his first and only trip to America: the failed experiment, according to his own conjecture.
The boy was a psychology and political science student who blended these two fields,
In his work to describe how his government affects the mind, which his paper would reveal.
Then, as the stimulant pills and beverages began to awaken his mind,
Something began stirring in the lights strung in the corner of his eyes.
They were Christmas lights, though colored orange and purple,
And wrapped around the square room in a luminescent circle.
The boy heard a sudden buzzing sound shocking him like bee,
When he looked he saw what seemed to be a giant flying flea.
It was hiding in the lucent trickles of lights that splashed upon the walls,
And making an electric voltaic sound which scared the boy who ran into the hall.
As the boy shut the door in stupefied horror of the bug inside his dorm,
His body began to tighten and tense while his hands glown red with warmth.
He looked up and could feel the fluorescent lights shaking on his skin,
As if each of the photon's strands were tiny shooting needles and pins.
His brain began to beat as if it were to burst through his furrowed brow,
As its very own waves began to blur the vision his eyes would not allow.
Darkness melted over his sight like chocolate atop a marbled cake,
As the boy's mind pushed him into a dream while his body had been awake.
A nightmare had melded with reality from the overstimulated boy,
Whose mind had trapped him in a terror and played with him like a toy.
I am a thread unraveling,
A song fading in the wind.
A paper boat on an endless sea,
Folding under waves I can’t control.
I am vulnerable,
Glass stretched thin,
Waiting for the shatter.
I break
More often than I dare to admit.
I break in silence,
Behind closed doors,
Where tears carve rivers
Through the deserts of my resolve.
Regrets hang like unfinished paintings,
Muted colors of choices left undone,
Of routes I feared to walk,
Of words I swallowed instead of spoke.
I write
Pieces, fragments, half-built worlds,
Never finding the courage to complete.
I am scared,
Insecure, undecided,
A pendulum swinging between what could be
And what I’ve lost.
But you don’t see this me.
I stitched together a mask,
Seamless and smooth,
Strong enough to shield your gaze.
It keeps me safe from your judgment,
From the weight of your expectations.
I smile,
A practiced craft,
A sunbeam on demand,
Lighting the room even as my own sky darkens.
I inspire,
I motivate,
I paint a picture of strength
While trembling beneath the brush strokes.
When I am at my lowest,
My mask crowns me king of a world
That doesn’t know my quiet chaos.
I give you what you want to see
And keep my truth locked away,
Its key hidden in the cracks of my own heart.
I confide in me,
For who else could shoulder this weight?
But confiding in me is lonely.
It feels like whispering into an empty canyon,
My voice echoing back, distorted and hollow.
Loneliness is a quiet thief,
Stealing pieces of me while I’m distracted,
Leaving gaps where certainty used to be.
I sit with it,
A shadow in a chair across the room,
Always there, always silent,
Yet louder than the crowd’s applause.
I am my own diary,
Unwritten pages worn thin with secrets.
I am the candle burning for no one,
Flickering against the wind of my own doubts.
I tell myself it’s enough.
That I can carry this,
That I can confide in me,
But sometimes,
Even the strongest masks crack.
And when they do,
They will see the storm.
The fragments of a human undone.
And whole all at once.
But in the stillness of my solitude.
I hear my truth.
And perhaps, in the echoes of this verse.
You might find yours too.