Long Grinds Poems
Long Grinds Poems. Below are the most popular long Grinds by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Grinds poems by poem length and keyword.
Blame hardly ever helps unless it is used to express anger
it does not achieve any more than venting raging frustration
levels the playing field to a point apportioning recrimination
without actually achieving anything but turning on the tap
of seemingly futile emotions seeking for a functional cause
My lover and I were set to move on from Spain back to home
a new abode on the British Isles to work and retire for good
Sitting in a house in Valencia with boxes packed with books
memorabilia trinkets and carpets rolled up for easy transport
we simply waited for one final certificate from the authorities
Nothing fancy just a signature on paper and promised long ago
but nothing had prepared us for the legendary mañana mañana
with months of inaction inaptitude and not a thought for reason
We are working on it they said but no one seemed to care about
how much depended on the form and a long chain of consequences
Now the buyers pulled out and who can blame them as they
patiently waited such a long time and eventually merely gave up
on their dream and by proxy on our venture and own aspirations
Unpacking the moving goods will keep us busy for a short while
to make our house presentable once more and waiting to ensue
Injustice grinds its teeth at feelings and reason that do not conform
fail to find the wise mind to align their disarray and stark confusion
and so we are lost in transition that keeps on lingering for an eternity
while our souls bleed remonstrate on what ifs and other conjunctives
Lashing out at floorboards and ceilings does not deal with the grief
My grandma used to say it is what it is and advised with great caution
that one never knows what it may be good for and advised acceptance
and her problems were bigger than ours with a war raging in Europe
bombs on her head ruins devastation existential fear and an unknown
and we have each other a roof over our heads and food on our table
And yet it is difficult to be grateful when a vision for imminent future
has been shattered so crudely in its unfairness of unnecessary delay
On the bright side candles and scent sticks are unpacked as we pray
17th March 2021
In the stillness of frost, the glacier rests,
Bound by the law of inertia’s quest.
Silent and steady, it clings to the land,
Until gravity whispers its gentle command.
A force unseen begins the glide,
Massive and ancient, it cannot hide.
For Newton spoke: F = ma,
And so the glacier carves its way.
Downward it presses, a relentless might,
Through valleys and time, both day and night.
The ice grinds rock in a cold embrace,
Shaping the earth, leaving its trace.
But action meets reaction's call,
As the glacier leans, the earth stands tall.
The ground pushes back with an equal refrain,
And meltwater flows where the ice once reigned.
From towering peaks to rivers below,
The laws of motion direct the flow.
A timeless tale of ice and stone,
Where Newton’s wisdom is clearly shown.
GRIST MILLER
The grist miller Christopher lives near river Dee.
Marble pillar at his gate stands rigid steady.
He enjoys feast,
cooking ground grist,
eats lot on clay pot, cold or hot, but not greedy.
To preserve seeds miller uses pest-killer.
With customers he is perfect dealer.
Machine whirls, roars loud,
grinds with high pitch sound.
Christopher feels proud being a grist miller.
06/07/18
The Grist Mill Contest by craig cornish
Hitchhiking by blurred station generic
Gypsy Flora slips anonymous, gravel
Grinds her heart of garbage, barbaric
Buried skeleton stirred, further travel
Ticket to Keep It Secret
Scarred in fish guts grubby, harbour
Heaves its putrid out to sea, amnesia
Avails an arbour over bleak macabre
Mutineer hurled ragdoll dumb, seizure
Saline dreams Dali delirium
Draped clock face, Flora's flailing coma
Collides with shore, format felicitous
Ferocious ocean spews sweet soma
Segued fortunate Flora duplicitous
Digs over fingers scratching
Sea sparks zesty spirit, crystal clairvoyant
Clavicle thrummed during tumble turquoise
Touched pitching ceiling, delight buoyant
Blackened flotsam, frivolous foam destroys
Destined to nest content
29th March
Redefined
"Do not go gentle into that good night."
"Rage, rage against the dying of the light."
Quote By Dylan Thomas
Smoky clouds float above slate skies.
Powdery alabaster flakes of snow glide to the earth.
A frozen taste of grief hovers in the breeze,
while maniacal machinery grinds close by.
The scent of industrial oil stings my nose,
as your chestnut coffin lowers into the misty petrichor below.
The pattering of moist dirt dings against the hardened box.
Crystal-clear tears wash over my face,
your warmth now replaced by a marble headstone.
Hours pass under opaque moonlight;
I sit with midnight winds
and buttery daisies,
clinging to the glistening stone,
trying to find a way back to you.
If there's frost on your noodle, don't despair
It's a sign of genius if you've got grey hair
But the experts say when the colour takes flight
Intelligence doesn't just happen overnight
It takes years and years of bumps and grinds
So make sure you don't get left behind
To survive in this crazy and wacky old world
Ya gotta be ready for whatever gets hurled
Grey hair says intelligence between the ears
Achieving great wisdom throughout the years
A scholarly person you've turned out to be
Now if only your kiddies could also see
That parents are not just a couple dolts
May even be smarter than a lot of young colts
Who may know computers and all that stuff
That's not all there is, it's not quite enough
To be able to deal with the challenges of life
One needs the smarts to deal with strife
For everyday problems that are bound to arise
Facing head on life's every surprise
Don't be embarrassed by frost on you noodle
You've got the whole kit and caboodle
Acquiring great knowledge throughout the years
With loads of laughter and many tears
©Jack Ellison 2012
strobe into the secret night
the scene of our sacred crime
not just any old crime
I confess to you but
I cry most insidious in design
a crime worthy of the divine
what can such a crime be
that even a God can shame thee?
‘tis but a crime of most elegant jest!
for my soul has been down
to the lower levels of Dantes infernos,
it kinda likes it there
the ice is but a thrill
the old demon sleeps
as I watch faces scream and talk and wink
in the frozen lake Cocytus
but I shall not make a fuss
but do I carry on
none, not I, shall I fear
for I know not what I am doing
how could I,
how could I, the courts will not hear
or understand
do such shameful things my eye sees
all but naught
and still, I sit here or stand, nevermind
in my demise, thinking
things that no mortal should
consider or aspire to see
here before me the scene of the crime
awash in cobalt in Crimson
all painted in colors of justice and purity
but I see not
but I do hear
the calls from the holly cost
I have laid waste to Valhalla
holy halls but what crime, what causes
how can I devise, conspire
contrive and execute
with supreme device
so insidious that even my soul will be
loathed even in a divine comedy
a bitter hell
if only you could know my inner planes
and the pain, the sadness brings
the massacre of my children’s dreams.
what am I but just a lonely servant
to that which is ruled by my heart
I love thy light bringer, Lucifer
I linger here with the heavy blade
glistening something wet slides
from its chrome shaft
along its razor edge
down splashing in pools of Crimson black & cobalt fears.
The car has come to a stop which the engine grinds
no more, all awash in Crimson and cobalt,
I stumble away from this crime scene
I lay waste to my inner mind's eye…
I welcome this blessed night…
I'm headed to the holocaust, like to come along?
I guess not?!
such the pitty...
Why don't we discard the mask, let all the stage props fall?
The answer, whispered through shadows, is found in our sunlight-forgotten guise.
The true color has washed away in the rains of days, so that we no longer recognize who is,
The figure now wearing our face, lost within the deceptive, layered veil.
From the first moment, when innocence played upon our dexterous, nimble fingers,
The mask clung to our skin, grew with us, roots burrowed deep into our veins.
It transformed into a second façade, nearly forgetting the original countenance,
We've identified with the role, into its gentle silver chalice we poured our spirit.
We have wrapped ourselves in the banners of characters, taking on thickly drawn contours,
Elaborate shells that muffle the sound of the sea, the voice of our true self.
Behind this crafted wall, the solitary 'I' incessantly questions, tirelessly grinds:
"What was my former being, where is the chain that linked past, present and forever?"
Thus, we become acclaimed actors in a play we no longer know how to finish,
Where each fault, longing, laughter implies a scene masterfully depicted.
In this perpetual theater we act, sending echoes of applause into void chambers,
On stage, we perish and revive, in the wings we forget the mask that once served as our collateral.
As we lose ourselves behind this façade, the ancient beast of light gradually extinguishes,
Offering only a flash when one gazes into the deep waters of unfocused eyes.
We have become the dwelling of roles which we change as easily as the leaves of days thinned calendar,
We continually wash in the river of forgetfulness, solidifying into steadfast and mute characters.
Behind this zealously painted wall with its numerous layers,
Lurks the enchantment of relinquishing, the chalice of courage to be simple and undefined by realms.
But if we peel away, layer by layer, thought by thought, the mask off the face of eternity,
Perhaps we will glimpse what we once were - a barren soul, yet full of its own essences and sap.
a drop of rain, among a million drops
a grain of sand, among a million grains
a blade of grass, among a million blades
a single thought, among a million thoughts
each one plucked from a vast singular collective
how small the drop
how small the grain
how small the blade of grass
all tethered to a world of commonality... to form
a storm
a beach
a meadow
like a single thought forming a basis for reason
how perfect the moment of realization
when we begin to understand
like the drop of rain
which bends light to create colors within its sphere
or the sand which grinds stone to widen rivers
or the meadow that's eaten, only to grow again
we are more than we appear to be
11/16/18 contest The Rain Drop
I sit next to her
Dreaming my boyhood fantasies
The side of my hand touches her thigh
Wishing I could reach between her legs
Push my fingers into her softness
Feel the dampness of her need
Hear that wanting sigh
Her calling out
"ohhhhh, you're my guy
push deeper
I want to fly"
I look down her top
see the delicate curve of her breast
imagine what it would be like
to see her undressed
Within my minds eye
every part of her caressed
Me her master
In control
Her desiring me to fill each hole
together intertwined on the floor we role
I dive deep
like a submarine
As I push forward she grinds and leans
Me taking her places she's never been
From my mouth a gurgled sigh
Wetness creates a dark stain near my fly
She turns towards me
my throat goes dry
I silently pray
"please don't look at my pants."
If she sees it
I won't have a chance
She smiles a knowing smile and says
"Don't worry young man,
it's time for him to come out and play!"
Charlotte's Scorchers Contest
Written November 18th, 2013