Long Granular Poems
Long Granular Poems. Below are the most popular long Granular by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Granular poems by poem length and keyword.
Gathering darkness lies in the desert dead
Breathe the doom. Black birds will follow
Few things grow in the wasteland
Roses spring into action into April reds
Bloodied with their thorns along the edge
Nourished by rich soil from the plains
Cruel at best are their chances for survival
Where the bio changes divergent from wet to dry
At war with life and forces that came before
Dawn wakes with yellow birds escaping
Still tethered to the Earth which holds
All accountable to their task biological
To forces higher than the sky
There is a warning at the desert entrance
Water is absent as a Christmas gift or kiss
Thirst would hang you from a tree but alas
Wood and rope are scarce in the badlands
-What is missing-
The desert grows out by the mile
Wider by the dunes as their child
Into cities like granular specters
Tiny specs stretched, extended on the wind
Into marches, into riots. Into you life flows
Sand has no life beyond dry dead heat
At best it enters the eyes and covers bones
Gathering desert doom alone
Alabaster streaks of warmth
in its dewy first glow,
tepidly stirring the senses, as
my gaze roams to the
trickle of ebony beads;
in the distance,
chimes of granular dustings,
with fragrances rich in
mahogany earthen grounds,
shaking the last of the
quondam night’s moon specks,
as life’s poignant rays
seep deep into my sights,
coaxing myself out of
hibernation,
longing for the first sip
of sunshine,
basking in the early beams of
balmy dawns and
sepia sunsets,
blessed to
start and end the
sands of time with you—
upon my soul’s sanctuary,
my lucid dream ablaze.
"God within me is the enjoyer of the aroma
As also this dopamine boosting flavour I taste
I surrender all pleasures to the dweller of my heart
Breath by breath thus that my soul presence be chaste"
Ursus Maritimus ...
I entered your world in quietude, slipping through the granular, soft.
Long slats to feet parting the frozen. Cold of a previously unknown
Extreme, nipping, sharp, the epidermis with ardor. A Mid-May akin to
February, homeward, first warning of extrinsic ire, ignored. Hours of
Similar (sobering) revelations ensued, supplanted by days, weeks,
Moons ... reality - icebound and born of abiding trial. The basic
Elements staggering, swallowed by the providence around me. A
Vastness beyond vast, afar ... crushing cold of limitless value, each
Sunrise a new contingency for measure of my insignificance. How I
Adored you for your beauty - such reward for the naked eye, there
Amidst a denuded struggle. Shaped by eons of selection into a
Creation of perfect form and ease, as at home with desolation as
I at a warm hearth and aliment. Moving sprite through your environs,
All senses attuned to the mind's axis ... at once knowing and known,
Master of a savage domain. Every dynamism a fluid dance, every
Steamed puff of exhalation a waif of delicacy, bespoken. Do not the
Gods aspire to such? If there were deities afforded such barren and
Bleak scapes, it would be none other than you - as exquisitely
Magnificent and divine as the forbidding but breathtaking element
Around you, my brother. Yet, I fear I have doomed you, for others
Will now follow ... others who find no such elegance in anything
But graft and greed. By the simple act of watching I may have
Sealed your fate, firm and grim. So, I will not turn to admire you
As I leave ... but rather keep you forever as a phantom in my mind
And heart and longings - to let you devour my spirit and join with
You, ever after straining to hear the echo of your lonely, distant
Growl, the one that so often haunts my thoughts and meanderings,
Dark and cold in the arctic night, dark and cold in the willows ...
Deep and frozen and dreaming, of your gleaming and breathless
Beauty. If but mine to touch ... to know. Forgive me and farewell ...
Brother Bear.
I divorced the cirrus heat
that once laced the sky with fire,
carrying searing sins of
the scorching sun ~
burning the soft bronze of my melanin;
an unabated rage,
a labyrinth of blooming lilac,
an assortment of angst,
a library of healing lullabies
homed beneath the glass-skin silence
of my quivering chest~
like wind through cathedral clusters,
a poison to my psyche,
too bright for the darkness that dwells.
But perhaps it is in eclipsed spheres
I thrive in comfort~
attain nirvana
through sketched peace lilies
drawn in stillness.
Now I’ve found inner
nectarine ingredients~
a recipe for resilience
to pollinate my passion,
to compose myself,
to uncloud storms
by marrying the
moon in my conscience~
painting citrine and topaz
on the pillows where I weep,
in seclusion and solitude.
Here, stars of solace ~ I do breathe~
a self-consolation that needs
no granular words scratching
the inner walls of the throat chakra.
O beloved, forgive my need
to see through the haze
that has been fogging
the fluorescence of your aurora horizon.
My woe ~ a broken vow,
my ache ~ a bleeding wound,
my grief ~ your scar~
a suffocating scarf,
a burden I relieve you of with severed ties,
letting go amidst the love
that still flutters in Luna sparkles…
You were a hallucinatory
hymn of dawn ~ beautiful, yet bruised,
and I am silver thread
tied to the oblivion of diamond dusk,
basking in the raining remedies,
seeking floriated meadows,
lost in the breeze of
sea-kissed azure~
an awakening: to trade venom for vigor,
like the unfurling of sakura
in the warmth of spring’s splendor,
brushing away crystals
of mulberry-black ice
when cold are the conversations
left unread and dried
between misinterpreted metaphors...
Sometimes, farewells are healing,
moving on ~ a contemplative prayer,
the spiritual pilgrimage
toward embracing clarity and zen.
For there, in the vintage
forest of forsaken violets,
wilted petals are watered
with tears and roseate radiance,
and, in the ruins of
pixelated promises,
we will learn to linger in
the luminous reveries of love ~ evermore...
You see them parked by the base lodge,
often still in the bright of day,
big, tracked machines that will ensure
the snow is nice when you come to play.
A wide-arced plow across the front,
and broad tank-treads on either side,
large windows mounted high above
in the cabin where people drive.
A roto-tiller on the back,
or a long and carpet-like sweep,
with weight to crush through any crust,
to find the ice, then slay and reap.
Most skiers just call them groomers,
though that word has…connotations,
and every day (save powder days)
we show our appreciation.
Turning a lumpy, windblow mess
into the smoothest corduroy,
grinding blue ice to granular
so it no longer can annoy,
and crushing through the skiers bane,
the woe we call ‘breakable crust.’
These vertical Zambonis do
make it quite nice for all of us.
They started as such little things,
truck-sized with triangle tracks,
they lacked the weight and lacked the tech
to mount that much of an attack.
But they grew into behemoths
that still can turn fast, on a dime,
only once have I ridden one,
shocked by the smoothness of the ride.
Though they sometimes smell of diesel,
and come as shocks to novices,
most skiers soon are thankful for
all of the service that they give.
Be it carving out halfpipe walls,
pushing big snow piles around,
lugging skiers to back-country,
or smoothing the bunny slope down;
it’s all thanks to this big machine
bringing all the white stuff to heal,
and yes, I’ve asked, their insurance
won’t let customers take the wheel…
Beaches are alive with the sounds of waves
Crashing down and people sunning getting brown
Picking up using its watery hand to give a cruise to the granular of sand
It is time for summer warmth and to go forth
Outdoor play may not be here
That should not affect the tranquil setting that could create a tear
As the fiery ball set
A relaxing moment one may get
With the moon soon to be coming
Creating romance that is humming
The beaches are alive with the sound of waves
Drawing people out of their wintry caves
Turning their back on the cold
Letting the bitterness fold
Listen to those waves arriving at the shores
Allowing trusting relationships to take the floor
It is the time of year to worship the sun
With cheer and fun
Saying good bye to the frigid frowns
By listening to the ocean sounds
Heart of my heart brings back lost memories
When on the beach when made of sand it sinks
When broken there transformed to granular
There is no place to go but into madness
When the heart turns cold and sad and into sand
The surf turns dark with shadows growing dim
Over distant ocean waves alone with thoughts adrift
Like a lunar landing lonely but more remote than this
When the heart becomes removed by evil
Pretending to be something cute and cuddly
When you learn what ugly is about
The tide goes out but you remain insane
When I collect myself and all the little pieces
There is not much left inside the hollow self
What remains I place inside a dirty shoe box
More lost than found
That which was a beating heart inside
As I walk the seashore down one last time
Once living once upon a time for only you
Now soulless I must take it home to hide
Not on a shelf or on display with trophies
But under beds or underground with graver endings
It does not matter where you place a broken heart
Both it and I know our place when dead is dead
Desert Life And Ice
Sand, granular dust, polished white by fire in the sky
Bones of the old camel scorched as well
Scattered about the dunes in broad day light
By the red sun punishing the wasted land
Pushed at winds back and un-breathable command
Dire consequences of a flooded inferno ignited
On a lifeless world, in constant heat, killing
Wells dried up long ago along with ground water
The last oasis on the land evaporated
Vegetation, animals, withered
Leaving a hole in the heart of life
Marching over the desert’s screaming pain
I drag my burnt crisping body on in agony
My last drink, like me, was an ancient relic, lost and gone
Skin blistered, tongue swollen purple, air too heavy to breath
Feet burnt and bleeding on the desert rising distances
There is very little left behind my sunken red eyes
I walk the endless sea of fire sands and think of ice
Dwell on frozen stories of cold winds and storms
And contemplate on an iron tub filled with glacier ice and water
A friendly woman by my side to take the plunge
Below freezing, below the cold, we grow old
Sunk in bitter winter frost together
Sinking into the tub forever
Usually clad in nothing
Under the blue distant burnt out sun
The growth was not in the ring,
but in the rot.
It began with a refusal: the pot, a tyranny of ceramic.
The roots, pale serpents, began to press.
A fine, hairline crack, a fracture in the logic of containment.
This was the first transgression.
Then, the soil itself grew tired of being soil.
It dreamed of being air, of being skin.
It fell away in a slow, granular sigh,
exposing the pale, pulsing truth of the anchor.
The growth was not a reaching, but an un-becoming.
Leaves inverted, photosynthesis in reverse.
They drank the shadow, excreted a thin, bitter light.
The stem, a gnarled question mark, twisted back upon itself,
learning the syntax of its own distortion.
It did not seek the sun. It became a sun,
a small, cold, black-dwarf star of a thing,
pulling the light into its own peculiar gravity.
The growth was in the rupture.
A petal, sharp as a scalpel, sliced the humid air.
The scent was not of perfume, but of ozone and rust,
the smell of a new law being written.
It outgrew the category of "flower,"
outgrew the word "bloom."
It was a system of tensions, a beautiful error replicating.
The gardener, with his water and his stakes, wept.
He called it a malignancy, a failure to thrive.
But the plant was thriving in a language he could not hear—
the loud, silent frequency of a thing that has broken its vessel
and found itself larger, stranger, and more complete
in the open air of its own making.
missing something
I am not sad
little worried, but I am not ...
... just missing ... you know
and afraid
because
for what you're leaving unfinished
you are sentenced to be only half human
and you didn't let me even once to say goodbye
even once
I don't want to be half human
by water preordained for persuasion
I searched for you
I really did
so intense that in the way the very purpose abandoned itself
release me from your rush conviction
I am the product of circumstances that shaped my life
and consolation is not reason good enough for
constraining my eyes all over again
simply because of possibility that
by kneeling over granular salt
they could washed out that feeling
which possessed me every time when you let things to happen
I really hope that you aren't letting them go
only because
I look good in black