Long Gnarls Poems
Long Gnarls Poems. Below are the most popular long Gnarls by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Gnarls poems by poem length and keyword.
Little ant, you are invited to rest here
on the back of my hand.
You’re invited to think about time with me.
I am always thinking about time,
all those thoughts pollinate my very skin.
Time little ant is not on your side.
Feel the coarseness of my skin
the ridges and gnarls
time was my master, yet a bad teacher.
I must confess that I paid too much attention
to the movement of the sky
and missed the movement of my mind,
and you little ant
waving your myopic antennas, no doubt pondering
the pheochrome taste of my words,
no doubt sensing something so large
that you can see it not.
Not even if my eye comes close to you
can you perceive me.
This is what time looks like little ant,
it’s too discrete to be trapped,
too considerable to be conceivable.
We are both just ants filtered through
its porous skins.
Now you wander onto a fingernail.
What now little ant?
Do you glimpse times cliff edge
as I you shake you off,
do you grasp that which is unimaginable to you,
yet which will surely kill you?
Do I?
Why to you have sides, front, back,
left and right besides, betides?
I'm offside, on no one's side.
Why regret and hide the gnarls,
scars and wrinkles on your hides?
Why be ashamed of the 'love-me-dos',
cut into your trunks,
by strangers with sharpened blades?
Why do you hide and cower in my shade
and not reach up with your leaves skyward,
into the warm sun's arms?
Instead you rake up my dead leaves? Why?
Where are your roots, in which my true strength lies?
Leaving your strength to arms and legs, denies you, your roots?
Be like me, rooted in the earth, reaching for the sky!
Why do you hate the passing of season so much?
For shedding and renewal,
allows green shoots and buds to grow.
Your quest for permanence and stability
begs your leaves to free-fall, unexpectedly,
leaving you stripped bare and unprepared.
Each winter I stand proud and tall
with limbs bare, resilient against the cold.
I well know that such absence, lack and emptiness
can never make me feel old.
For trees we never strive,
but lean to and in, compliant,
and stretch and bend gracefully.
Trees stay still and never leave, yet they claim their place.
They never seek tomorrow, satisfied with what is here and now.
Happy to shed what they no longer need, for renewal sake.
Growing slowly old, with dignity and grace.
They're mostly *'Ents', rooted in the earth,
with trunk and branches, twigs and leaves,
content with their lot.
Natural things are rarely smooth
or flawless as they appear on the surface
Smooth fur on skin and curve on wing
are rough and jagged underneath
Push back against the grain shows true texture within
reveals bristling hairs and quill barbs of feathers
It's the grit within that shapes us
A pearl is smooth but inside is a seed of grit
We need the bumps knurls and gnarls to grip and hold
Slick things slip through silky wet and wanton fingers
Most natural things are rough at birth
Stones and gold nuggets are fractured rough at source
They're smoothed by wear and tear of sand rubbing in streams
Babies are smooth at birth but age roughens them
Humans grind away all day at nature's roughness
seeking perfection in shiny smooth and faultless
Blissfully they're unaware that
it's the faults flaws texture and roughness within
that glistens shiny the pearl
It's the bumps and gnarls outside that knurls the grip
"Transport Terminals"
When ghosts find ghosts
they walk through the
core of each other
expecting knowledge
of the other’s being
it’s surprising mirrors
are considered
transport terminals
eerily reflective
otherworldly portals
between there
and here
past, present, future
managing the transfer
easily
but it's never
that easy
when you’re a ghost
blueprints are beggars
to transparency
fingers slip through
the heart never seen
the remand centre
for processing
other channels are used
necromantic psychography
quills for keys
moonlit silver water
in a pen, shaken
sharp fountains for ink
cutting calligraphy for
phantom tears
inside the turmoil
of a storm-filled ocean
stirred surface searched
for eidolon's face
reflecting the other
rising to eat
each other's worlds
becoming words
the hungry need to be fed
ghost writers scrying
lives away, not near at all
but in front of each other
turning empty cups
upside down reading
spectral tea leaves
messages invisible
but it's never
that easy
fingers slip through
the heart never seen
the bare bones
of it all
materialise
skeleton keys
for dancing
those inside
the mirror out
locked in the dream
fingers slip through
the heart never seen
messages
ghost written
on mirrors
quills for keys
(LadyLabyrinth / 2022)
“The Special Ones”, Katie Noonan – George
https://youtu.be/LupbCITf4tw
Necromantic = Necromancy
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Necromancy
Psychography
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Automatic_writing
Scrying
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Scrying
Duality
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dualism_in_cosmology
LYRICS/ "The Special Ones", Katie Noonan - George
https://www.lyricslrc.com/song890471/katie-noonan-special-ones
"Crazy", Katie Noonan (Gnarls Barkley cover)
https://youtu.be/NZkE9GB7JuU
LYRICS /"Crazy"
https://genius.com/Gnarls-barkley-crazy-lyrics
Life is entanglement plus time,
A Gordian knot of opportunities,
Each ravel a riddle to solve
or a battle to be won.
We grab and pull at the gnarls,
Greedy fingers seeking solutions alone.
Though the more we worry them,
the tighter the fibers cling together,
defeating our efforts with every turn.
The working ends unhitched and hidden,
Knots impossible to untie without another;
Desperate, we seek the means to unset
the tightened rounds of coil.
We need only look up from our lonely struggle,
Unhand the ties and trice up munitions,
In favor of a more effective weapon,
for a prize worth more than any puzzle.
Love is the sword that cuts,
The foil to Gordius' grateful gift,
The force that frees us from the knots
that bind us alone in despair.
Love is the lens that exposes the path,
To unraveling the tangled mess,
To bearing witness to the holism of loops
and eyes along the same length of rope.
Love alone is the key that unlocks
The secrets of the tightly-wound tangle,
Revealing the pattern of the overlaps
and the beauty of the intermingled angles.
With love as our scope, we can maneuver
Through the maze of twists and turns,
Unleashing joys and embracing the weight
of the lessons we learn as the bind slowly burns.
Through patience and kindness, we can loosen
The strands that have wound us so tightly,
Embracing the challenge and refusing to choose
the path of ire or slacking down without a fight.
So let us unravel the knot with hearts ablaze
And together minds set on finding the way,
With love as our sword and our site and our hope,
we can unravel the rigging and seize hold of the day.
Babies and young saplings are silky smooth,
adorned by curls and twirls, unfurled.
But age assails and weather beats brows
to dry, and wrinkles the smooth with furrows and lines.
Twists and contortions compels, yields, and compliances
reshapes the surface to bumpy, with knots and gnarls,
knurling a rough grip, to deny the slip
that smooth young skin and wills
are prone to show when asked to follow a lead.
The rough and worn acrimony of old age,
despite the crabby, cantankerous snarls,
can be gripped and convinced to comply and yield.
It is the gnarls of age that knurls the grip.
In My Garden of Freedom
To no human, do I belong!
I am the afterglow of freedom’s song.
My friends bring me water and light.
The hour matters not, even at midnight!
It is no secret, one need not kneel on floors.
Begging for others to open their heart’s doors.
My friends are humble yet accomplished in life skills.
They are not dancing pridefully, to some selfish quadrille.
They rarely, suddenly, disappear nor fall silent in my life.
And those who do…I know their hearts are experiencing strife!
My Lord, has provided more than plentifully for all my needs.
And, I look to that final day, when he brings me home,with Godspeed!
Through many centuries, I am fortunate to have flourished and lived.
I hope that in my final hours, I realize I have taken less than I indeed, gived.
A miraculous life, blessed thrice and spared the gnarls of death!
Let my final words, be in praise of God, in a humble breath.
9/20/2022
BEHOLD, see, times tower hast struck three, hour chimes for thee,
The Devil's hour is here, my dear, but thee need not fear,
Sound, nay bells, snarls? Demon dog's gnarls bound from Hell's Gate, dear.
Fear not, for thine art with thee, heart, mind, pith soul you see.
We will be by thy side, so fear not and abide here.
Thou prepareth a cup for thee? Nay, drinketh not, dear!
The Devil's beer, a special brew, fear just for you, see.
Causes thee to slumber, see, it is us, thee must hear!
The hour will be in the past, thou must move fast, to be,
Come o'er here, my dear, and have no fear, for we art here.
The clock has struck four, so out the door, thou art FREE, FREE!
2020 January 27
2.) Come here, my dear, and have no fear
I don't want to go my own way, Stevie
I want to rush through the weeds,
the thicket, the gnarls, the never-will-be trails
with you, sharper than machetes,
blazing our way backwards
on bicycles through hell
cutting ice sculptures in heaven
when we need a challenge
Time is an impatient bastard
on leopard legs
but you outdance Shakespeare
"Then I remember"
how your voice of silk and cactus cords
molded the clay into
what I would call me
"But if our paths never cross"
I will keep hacking away at stubborn verses
and insidious cucumber vines
that don't produce
All the guitars are weeping for you,
glorious gold
Now, let's tango time
across the moon
Who says a tree is bent, not straight, kinked?
For there are no straight lines in nature.
A line is a human abstraction, a connection between points.
Look around, all of nature is curves, coils, gnarls and bumps.
It's true that some spikes and spines are almost straight,
and beams of light are true,
but light has waves within
and the profiles of spines are wavy too.
All the lines you see in the view about you
are human-made structures,
with dead straight lines.
Most walls, roofs, bridges, buildings
are made plumb level and aligned upright,
by wayward designers, hell-bent on lines.