Long Freeze dried Poems
Long Freeze dried Poems. Below are the most popular long Freeze dried by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Freeze dried poems by poem length and keyword.
When the sky crashes down onto your weary soul remember
It’s a lot of thin air and you are never closer to nutritious clouds
When your world falls into a hole of paramount proportions
Consider being down to earth and adjacent to togetherness
When shadows cast emptiness and freeze dried revelations
Appraise the shade approach contours of opaque silhouettes
When rainbows hallucinate your vision review erroneous projections
Embrace your doubts and dreams as you settle for the night
You are the Sky the World the Sun and Moon the wise old Jester
And if you wish to be the Shadow of your Rainbow
03rd June 2019
12/28/18
I just received a gift from my {step}mother.
Only three days late this year.
It's a Santa Claus soap dispenser... with a twirl and a twist.
I used to own it, well over twenty years ago.
It has yellow soap still clogging the spigot...
*****, that you've treated old Saint Nick like a {step},
How true to your form and fitting that is.
{Step} Santa was more of a message than a gift.
After all, I've been a half-assed {step}son at best.
But {step}mother, you must admit, I was always your third-class citizen.
From the brackish affection, impish rags you stapled to my rear,
Minor infractions, met with a strap called; I'll reduce you to tears.
You were the metal-toothed snapper in the pond of my youth.
Mother, if you deny this, you're just another abuser of truth!
For the most part, I've freeze-dried your slipperiness,
I think {step} is glacier cold, but a most accurate prefix.
Every last one of my thoughts
Is begged, borrowed or stolen
Somewhere in memory
They are freeze-dried or frozen
I want to chip at the edifice
Want to recognize what's real
Is it some second-hand artifact
Or a thing I can call real?
Every last one of my friends
Is there because I put them
In some sub-cavernous lair
Like a pre-ancestral cushion
I want to loose my tethers
Get back to a primal state
Take some peyote and howl in the wind
At the village doctor's gate
Is there a demon in the sky
A malevolent presence in the cosmos
Willing it all in a masquerade
And playing off my base illusions?
No wonder we live
No wonder we live
In a state of unbridled confusion
Can you tell me my friend
How long has it been
At least 30 years or more
I still think of you
Being one in their youth
As I have yet to pull that cord
Pictures inside my mind
Are stuck in that time
Freeze dried yet warm to the soul
Friends from the past
In a die have been cast
Where they never grow old
Those that we see
In our world of daily
Gray with us toe to toe
Though it may be
Done gradually
A fact that we all know
There is never a need
For a mirror to see
The season in life that we comb
But it's the one's that we miss
Still inside of our heads
That never seem to grow old
The good part about this
Is we still exist
In their minds for all that we know
Running footloose and free
Through their memories
The way we were before time took its toll
Where days became years
Turning our age old fears
From our does into our don'ts
If we hold tight to that
With the time we have left
Perhaps like them we'll never grow old
Thinking of friends from the past that I've lost touch with and realized they're still young in my memories... They've never aged.
The raspy rustling of freeze-dried multicolored leaves
Rush past my raised windows and open door as the soft breeze
Gathers its strength and sprays them haphazardly along
The leaf cluttered sidewalk and shadowed lined street.
Fall is rushing past me, Massaging my ears,
Delighting my senses. Raising my awareness
Of another passing year.
Another Season coming into its own,
Of which I must rise in unison to capture
The play of its vibrant life colors
To experience its fully clothed glory
Trees are giving up their spring and summer growth
To the nudging of cooler nights and coming winter snows,
Only to rise again with next year’s budding.
Each Season expresses a new and different story.
So soars by us each brief life through its Seasons,
One with the cycles of the Creator,
Loving the magnificent moments of brightness and joy
It's lingering beauty swept away
In the next season of liberation.
Walking through a grove of maple trees,
I saunter amongst swaying giants.
And musky smells assault my nostrils
with odors of damp, decaying leaves:
Nature's scent, in perfect harmony;
nurturing and invigorating.
Sunlight pierces the bare canopy
with flickering rays of its splendor.
And a crisp carpet of freeze-dried leaves
forms a mosaic of abstract art:
a magnificent patchwork quilt, stitched
with burnt-orange and magenta threads.
Twigs tap a melodic, rhythmic sound,
their mantra, heard in lofty branches.
And a gentle breeze tickles each leaf
until they all laugh in unison:
applauding newly fallen brethren,
lazily fluttering to the ground.
In Autumn's scheme, green is restricted
to grasses and mosses hardly seen.
And awaiting Winter's frigid breath,
a rusty golden-speckled mantle:
painted with flames of searing scarlet,
forms a fitting shroud: for Summer's dead.
Hands like dirt
Cracking in sunlight
where weeping willows grow and glow
burning in the snow
freeze-dried
tied below and pulled into a flash fire
your art dies you write the words
"right before they kissed"
with the "i"s undotted
time unalloted
the crime has been spotted
your hands are covered in dirt
wash them in the fire
wash them dry
watch them die
with all your worst ideas
with your eyes
wash them dry
they're not worth your tears
watch them die
with your eyes
wash them dry
they're not worth my tears
watch them die
with all your worst ideas
watch them
but don't wash them
just throw them in the fire
watch them dry up
close your nose
and drown it in dirt
until the smoke can't fly
watch the smoke
eat it up and leave the dirt behind
wash them in the fire
wash them dry
watch them die
with all your worst ideas
with your eyes
wash them die
they're not worth your tears
close your eyes
so you can't see their cries
close your nose so your can't smell their lies
close your ears
so you won't hear them disappear
icy daggers serrated his chilly mind
memories sharp as polar bear’s claws
wielded reminiscent evocation in pain
how he longed for selective amnesia
heart and reason at war with the enemy
a battle only to be won if he surrendered
to inevitability that conflicts were useless
unless of course they concluded in cease fire
his father had fought at the Russian Front
which left his own upbringing out in the cold
no Potemkin façade could melt the chagrin of
twelve years of Germanic menace and madness
both of them prisoner to emotional deprivation
trans-generational transmission of trauma in action
it was bitterly cold in the heat of many a moment
and icicles festered in the young brain to be formed
shape up they said – fight flight or freeze
food for thought no doubt but what about feelings
many winters have passed and the old man is dead now
took many secrets and memories into his grave
the boy now in his sixties decided he needed a snow man
carrot charcoal eyes and Che Guevara’s bandana
collected drift wood from a beach of forgiveness
and danced around the bonfire of exorcised hurt
until permafrost yielded to fire and passion in time
he had been his own antagonist for far too long
In between a wand and a warded space
lies an old Book Of Shadows to embrace;
Fee fried foe thumbs,
throw them in as the guitar strums;
Picked over hair follicles and toenails,
A few fast words followed by quick inhales;
Freeze dried pho crumbs,
throw them in as the harp hums;
Now toss in the vibrato of a ghost,
that sound is the recipe’s binding host;
Free fly fall mums!
Fester rich color to smack drums;
Add to that something so easily missed,
subtle allows magic to come undressed;
Fae, fire cauldrons!
manifest the desired outcomes;
In between a wand and the hand it takes,
lies an old Book Of Shadows to embrace.