Long Grok Poems
Long Grok Poems. Below are the most popular long Grok by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Grok poems by poem length and keyword.
Look! A Shooting Star!
Let me honor your presence (dot chalked on ‘blacksky’),
as my poems (muse offers) make light of faint hope
that one day you’ll look skyward and grok my light too,
though the distance stays greater than words can unearth,
and bards’ light is more passive, a light that reflects
the low mass that they orbit (the skill few undress).
I belong to the school of ‘Who Thinks This, Not I,’
as my fingers keep tabs on where muse would elope
to, desirous of love. Ah! What more can I do?
If your gift’s you receive light, you’re pearl of great worth,
as an oyster gives luster to grit life rejects,
and grants layers of beauty a queen would possess!
I’m struck dumb as a mute when words pour from my pen,
though I take time to flirt as I tease muse with head.
Who can own thoughts full-bloomed (that gestate in one rhyme),
dreams that cadence can crumble (bridged links to the past.)
Now prose sirens shipwreck, their songs buzz to my ear,
as more thoughts (that aren’t mine) leave scorched earth in rhyme’s wake.
If I’m stuck more in giving than getting, say “When!”
if you’d love to see balance, have time more ‘coed,’
where I’m taking your light in, a new paradigm.
I may plead for exemption; my end’s coming fast,
there’s debris all around me; I’ll soon disappear!
Light this fleeting’s a gift, not an ask! Please partake!
Krakatoa Kritic #007
April 10th in 2021
Poet’s Notes:
This poetic form is (new?) to me, and it seems only recently to have
appeared on PH and PS! I like it! Write on!
Where, oh where, is God?
When will the man-child stop asking why,
stop searching for the other, the greater, the bigger
the more glorious presence?
This constant need to see other than oneself as the source.
Even with a brain (and we know Frank Baum has told us
only STRAW men don’t have brains) we refuse to see,
refuse like a baby forced to eat mashed peas.
We make our children are we their God’s? Hell no!
We name this Creator (for man is nothing-if not a naming animal).
(The father says Da; the baby says DA! Da says cat, baby says CAT!)
Life cannot exist for man without a naming, a judgment, a categorizing.
We cannot GROK it (as Heinlein's Christ character, Valentine Michael Smith
illustrates for us in Stranger in a Strange Land).
For something, someone, has to have made us, yes? no?
Oh yes, they had to consciously decide to make
something as marvelously special as us, didn’t they/it?
* Please refer back to verse 2 line 5.
Where, oh where, is God? When will the man-child stop,
stop searching for the teat, stop the blame game,
accept the responsibility for fouling His own nest?
Why does God have to look like us?
Does everything we create look like us (the light bulb, the car)?
Does that mean there is NO primogeniture if He/she/it doesn’t look like us?
Wait, wait, all of Creation manifests differently, eco systems need
diversity to maintain homeostasis!
Yet we bawl like babies. WHY are You killing me!
Why must I die? What mutant child have you given me
this spawn of Satan!
This primogeniture, this God, this be all, end all, know all, BEING,
this omnipotent source either is outside of us? or inside of us?
Or are we inside of it? And, if it knows us not—
If like the amoeba, it simply divides to exist, absorbs to exist,
excretes to exist. Why do we insist on worshiping it?
Does It Know us? Does it know all of its creations?
Is it an active participant in its own creations?
Refer to the book of life, the planet earth,
the solar system, the structure of an atom.
Use the brain you were given by God
for YOU are not a Straw Man.
First Published in 2013 Sweet Dreams and Night Terrors
There are days when my capacity for anguish runs thin
I can’t grok suffering as deeply as once I did,
In those carefree days of work and timelessness
Lacking the necessary sense of direction to ask
Is this place where I find myself truly mine?
I’d gladly rehash now this desultory vision
To fill the desperate need of balance and calmness
But it always occurs too late to be changed.
Who can tell why the autumn brings this anxiety
In a hindsight, what looks like a budget movie, poorly directed
As if I’m passing some young guy
On a shady street, in a lunch hour
In whom I would never recognize myself
With whom I don't have a word to share.
Starting from Scratch with Ol’ Scratch
by Michael R. Burch
Love, with a small, fatalistic sigh
went to the ovens. Please don’t bother to cry.
You could have saved her, but you were all tied up
complaining about the Jews to Reichmeister Grupp.
Scratch that. You were born after World War II.
You had something more important to do:
while the children of the Nakba were perishing in Gaza
with the complicity of your government, you had a noble cause (a
religious tract against homosexual marriage
and various things gods and evangelists disparage.)
Jesus will grok you? Ah, yes, I’m quite sure
that your intentions were good and ineluctably pure.
After all, what the hell does he care about Palestinians?
Certainly, Christians were right about serfs, slaves and Indians.
Scratch that. You’re one of the Devil’s minions.
In a looking glass world
We’d talk over tea
On theories about theories
As if we could see
What the basic ground
Of those theories actually means
And what we would do then
If we weren’t all just teens.
We’d talk, talk and talk
With nothing to show
As if talk made it something
You could actually know,
But of course we all failed
And just couldn’t see
that doing not thinking
Is what makes you free.
In the morning we try
Something new in the light
Reading the tea leaves we’d left
There in the darkness of night
All exhausted by theories
Reduced by Moon to a howl
Thinking things would be better
If we just threw in the towel.
Figuring it’s something Alice
Might do, when she was just small
Or maybe quite large,
And so taller than tall
At least something Caterpillar
Would say was worth doing
Certainly better than arguing
Or sitting there stewing.
So then all clear headed
We head out and about
To grok a day full of things
Without question or doubt
Until with night fall at last
It begins once again
All those words about thoughts
Of who, what, where and when.
Oh, such is the life
Of delusional youth
Confusing questions and answers
With actual truth
Not knowing that one day
All spinning tops come to rest
A simple entropic fact
That stops even the best.
And when it all stops
Then what do you do
Who are you then
When your theories are through?
Well, whatever it is
It’ll certainly be that
You might even become
A Cat in the Hat.
(9/19/26)
Living life without you
Not thinking about life without you,
Are different in his heart.
He feels if he thinks about it copiously
Then his mind and heart shatters more and more
He lives it daily ever since;
Ever since the last time he saw you
But never thinks about it.
Never thinks about it
Because he only wishes to see you everyday.
He only wishes to laugh with you everyday.
He only wishes to live life with you again: everyday.
He only wishes for you.
His thoughts of you; without you: disheveled
His thoughts of you; without you, he cannot grok
The cocophony of silence around him, disrupts.
The clangor of his mind, disturbs.
All because he seeks you.
Spiffy spiders in a bag.
Each was donning a top hat.
Each was holding a bright flag.
Just what do you make of that?
The top hats were silken black.
Each flag was flying so high.
Each spider lay on his back.
Just what to wonder and why?
Eight legs rose up in the air.
Each one waved his flag around.
Each hummed a song of Eau Claire.
Just where musing jolly found?
The flags moved from leg to fang.
Each signing change of baton.
Each now in cocksure voice sang.
Just why did that song catch on?
I left them in that black bag
Each one now dancing around.
Each one stepping wig and wag
Just how can I grok that sound?
Joyous tears aplenty, in search of willow trees,
where ancient might has fallen, shriveled, sagging life and limb.
Thirsty seeds of sacred trust have scattered ‘cross the seas.
Seething words of wisdom sing in glorious praise of sin.
Where ancient might has fallen, shriveled, sagging life and limb,
the shifting sands of time have formed a desert ‘neath the roots.
Seething words of wisdom sing in glorious praise of sin.
Drink my loving tears oh tree; I labor for your fruits.
The shifting sands of time have formed a desert ‘neath the roots.
Thirsty seeds of sacred trust have scattered ‘cross the seas
Drink my loving tears oh tree; I labor for your fruits.
Joyous tears aplenty, in search of willow trees.
Elon Musk would wear a trillion stars
If or not he reaches planet Mars,
His wealth of cosmic scale
From X, Grok AI and Tesla cars
Making some nations pale.
________________________
Happenings |10. 06.2026 | money, planet, star, wealth, Quintain
Note: Elon Musk, already the richest man, is about to become world’s first trillion-dollar worth with SpaceX’s IPO. This kind of money may fail to make sense to some poetic minds like us to whom less is more. On my part I can do no better than pen this ditty. It is not that he makes millions in a minute, but as Edmund Hillary said, it is not the mountain we conquer, but ourselves. This kind of wealth of cosmic proportions can destroy the very value and meaning of wealth to us, simple souls.
My doctor likes to see the Earth
I get a nosebleed, she’s wading the surf
Maybe off Thailand, maybe Brazil
Who’s gonna save me when I get ill?
Yeah, there’s satellites, I can always text
But she’s out of town at the smallest pretext
Running a marathon, maybe in Rome
Everywhere is her home away from home
Maybe its that she sees all the frailties of man
Maybe that galvanizes her to move while she can.
I shouldn't grudge it, but I've just broken my toe
Kicking a wall when she mentioned "Idaho".
So I’ll drive like a saint, not drag race the streets
Not eat the wrong things, not trip on my feet
Not mouth off to strangers, not poke at a bear
Not flirt with disaster or agree to a dare.
I'll use Gemini or Grok or Chat G P T
Then I'll order from an offshore pharmacy
That might finish me off and I'll complain no more
Hope she feels sorry before heading to the Jersey shore.
(note: she really is a good doctor, I'm just having fun here)