Long Head Poems
Long Head Poems. Below are the most popular long Head by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Head poems by poem length and keyword.
Pouring into night
heat and cool rest
to blend
A smell
abstruing sense,
wearing of day,
sliding into an envelope
sent to shadow-lands,
I submerge to rest
in jasmine,
glimmered to dream
slung in a hammock,
bedazzled in the fire of illusion,
I lay in wonder of the cross
A lone cicada
trilled,
a twilight anthem settling
to a cadence of love,
drifting and distracted
by darken descendants,
phantoms of Grey
with no light’s knife,
they twix the mix
of palate,
Ocher hues spread,
merging to black
swallowed,upended,
in the soft line
of the horizons dome,
mixing paradise
with the stars
A spruce air seduces taste,
to find,
this voids seduction
is to breath in heaven,
teasing to gasp
in this beauty,
and suckling to taste
in the delectable Grey,
becoming a twin to moon,
I am struck,
as half-light bewitches me
and swings my hammock,
to the milky way,
the southern cross
cradles my head,
and jasmine visions
are overcome,
listing in an untouchable bliss
I lay down,
abed of light
embraced by a universe
of my own making,
dream knitting
fibrils of saffron time
Like wounded soldiers they walked down the street, carrying their bullet less guns on their shoulders leaving a war that is not yet over, their marred with sweat and tears drips from their swollen face, it is not victory or defeat but they must separate themselves from the fleet.
With battered bodies and broken bones they journey towards their celestial home, with a rancid stench seeping from their breath, and a bashful frown leading them toward a woeful death.
They come from various clans and multiplied all over the land, many of them were slaughtered like trapped sheep in the land; they are no match for an army carrying tons of artillery, rockets, missile and automatic weapon .
The wounded soldiers were placed on the frontline without handguns and grenades, without trenches or barricade and so the bullets from the sky rained upon their head leaving blood spilling all over the street.
Like wounded soldiers they marched on to a place of nothingness, going to place where no home exist, burnt out buildings’ and charred body left in the street and the wind carried the stinking aroma and deposit it in the sea. There is no sign of life, and even the trees have to pay a woeful sacrifice, animal and beast lie down dead and there was no one to bury the dead so they kept marching on.
The other side was bursting with life, traffic was flowing up and down the street and some people went shopping for meat. The smell of freshly brewed coffee perfumes the atmosphere and the smell of fresh baked bread tempted their appetite.
People were having a feast and others were dancing in the street, the markets were busy the malls were overcrowded and life became alive in that city but they kept marching on.
They came to the roundabout, and converge underneath a big tree, nothing was happening there but they had something dynamic to share, the leader pulled out a map and everyone was shocked.
He circles some points and said. “we are crossing over there”, we are going to take this city be surprise with just a butcher and a knife and so the wounded soldiers cross on the other side in dead heat of the night and took the entire city by surprise with just a knife.
If the sun married the rain - It would become a rainbow (quote by poet)
This aquamarine aquarium is a prismatic prison,
reflecting a reality of a pseudo persona
and I've become tired from pretending
behind this veil of pantomime portrayal
just like the mind of 'Kurt Cobain.'
I hunger for harmony,
desiring for juniper and jasmine,
to weave and wrap their tendrils, tenderly
around an alchemy of angst,
but my shroud is a burdensome blanket,
like a softly spoken voice in a nocturnal nightclub.
I shiver in the sunshine, soaking from secretive
somber storm clouds, creating an autumnal aroma,
so I'm wondering why it's raining in summer,
weeping on fading misty rainbows,
prompting me to pour like a tropical monsoon,
reflecting it's spectrum shadows like
red poppies under a crimson nostalgic November,
orange embers from a dying bonfire,
yellow pages of a forgotten book,
green moss covering a timeworn tombstone,
blue jay upon wilting royal forget-me-nots,
indigo horizons slipping into midnight and a
violet velveteen silhouette in a dimly lit basement.
In windswept moors all I wish for,
is for you to allow me to rest upon your blossom,
like a raindrop - even if it's synthetic.
I'm forlorn in a fathomless fate,
where the Grim Reaper sits on
his throne as the king of kismet.
He was once was an unseen predator,
but now, with enchanting enthusiasm,
he's playing the organ in my hymn of death
Its musical pattern keeps repeating in my head,
like recurring nightmares.
But when turquoise tides return at dusk,
I hope to wash upon your bronze shore,
shimmering like a trail of neon planktons.
I can't keep blaming the pain,
so let it pour... And let me live.
I came there for same day surgery with a dark cloud over my life
And you listened without judgment as I spoke of no hope in sight.
You held my hand as you spoke soft encouraging words
But so wrapped up in my own misery I never really heard.
The next day I found an anonymous note
And my heart was touched by the words an angel had wrote.
I sat there in total disbelief as I cried without shame
For the generous gift from some angels with no name.
But something extraordinary happened that day
That anonymous gift inspired me to find my way.
These unknown angels lifted me up when I was feeling down
And they gave me a reason to pick myself up off the ground.
They showered me with heartfelt compassion as they illuminated me with their guiding light
They taught me how to hope and showed me the true meaning of life.
Though my own wings were damaged by dark venomous skies
These unknown angels showed me that I still could fly.
I will never forget what those angels did for me that day
And no simple thank you or money could ever repay.
As I adjust the beautiful new glasses sitting on my nose
My deep appreciation for these unknown angels continuously grows.
Thank you anonymous angels for your generous unselfish gift
And for your anchor of compassion that has kept me adrift.
No words can truly express just how much you all mean to me
And how much I appreciate all that I finally can see.
Though I cannot see your golden halo or feel your downy soft wings
I know that you are all angels sent down here to teach me how to sing.
I now hold my head proudly high as I walk with out shame
Because I was touched by angels with no name.
DEDICATED TO THE MANKATO SURGERY CENTER EMPLOYEES
This poem is the very first one I ever wrote and was inspired by some angels that touched
my life in a way no one ever has. It just goes to show that there really truly are angels
among us--you only have to open your eyes and heart to see them!
My father and my mother sat me down one day
to tell me how wonderful that I was growing O.K.
The years passes by as I got to be a teenager
with high hopes of becoming the first young manager
Life turns out a manager job is not for me
so I kept things to a minimum working hard you see
My family had taught me with all do respect
the life we lead is the image of our age in an aspect
Like queens and kings we bow our head
to the people who is wiser in age even when dead
Life as our guide the time we have aged
is what we leave behind that we are gaged
In prospective we are the stars and we are the earth
because we age and leave behind a new birth
To those that seek such blessing of heart
remember this age is respect for living from the start
Do you remember your father, mother, and teachers
they are the ones cheering you on, sitting on those bleachers
Most of the buildings were made of old red brick
They lined the street in regal fashion
A royal guard of centuries past
The blinding white sun forced shadow to sidewalk
as an old woman, bags in hand, walked along
I studied her
I really don’t now why
She wore a drab brown coat, a bit tattered,
her head covered by a bright red crimson scarf
but it was her face which captured me
It was her expression
I could see such sadness, perhaps loneliness in her eyes
Her skin ravaged by the punishment of life,
her gait was slow and as I watched, I wondered
Had she just come from market
Was she headed home to an empty house
Why did she look so sad
I felt such compassion
I wanted to help her
That was my first glimpse of struggle
I was just a small boy, holding my Grandmother’s hand
And it was so long ago
Yet I never forgot her
The stranger in a red scarf
Cutting a path
Along a railroad track
Through desert grass
With no scenery at all
Apart from passing a
barren dry oasis
Because everything else is
nothing but dunes and sand
as far as the eye can see
That and the odd bit of
desert grass
Accompanied only by the clickady
clack of a railroad soundtrack
beating metronome through
my brain
And still no station whence to stop
Still no crossroad to crossover
No conductor to click or
check i had a ticket bought
Nor even a driver aboard to
steer this direction less train
Worst of all where it's going
Where this train's journey
came from began
Or is eventually supposed to
terminate
What it's e.t.a is or even if
it is predestined to arrive at all
For all i know i just may well
be without my knowledge aboard
The land locked locomotive
equivalent
Of the unsinkable shipwreck
now infamously referred to as
simply
Titanic
And on further inspection
according to the official
passanger manifesto
This ghost train heading head long
into the most desolate of desert
Has exactly the same number
of soul's on board
As it's doomed sister ship
And come to think of it
most eerily of all is today's
date is in fact
Thursday
15 April 2012
100 year's to the day the
month the year the second on
A so called girl named
Rose and boy called Jack
apparently met
And drowned hopelessly in love
till death
Don't know about you but I love to sneeze
A good one will bring me down to my knees
Blasting my head right off of my neck
A feeling that makes me an absolute wreck
Shivering on down to my little ole toes
You certainly must know how that all goes
Feels so damn sexy I might hasten to add
A sensation that drives me totally mad
Sure rather sneeze than peel potatoes
Prefer sneezing to playing with Play-Doh
Nicer than poking a sharp stick in my eye
Not quite as painful as a dart in my thigh
Imagine your hoo-ha being caught in a vice
Can't be very pleasant, sure can't be nice
Wanna sneeze till I'm rolling on the floor
Gimme that feeling, want more, more, more
But don't tell my friends I beg of you please
Kinda embarrassed about loving to sneeze
© Jack Ellison 2012
In a small town twenty minutes North of where you live
an alien looks in a mirror and studies your face.
You don’t know it, but he has taken over the life
that you no longer use.
While you were sleeping
your life leaked back into the cosmos
to be re-engineered into a vehicle
that will travel further than just the end of your arms.
The extraterrestrial combs'
your hair grumbling about the thinness.
He is about to leave a rented apartment,
a place psychically ingrained
with traits and characteristics -
your personal underwear.
Meticulously he has borrowed you
while you strove to be
unique among the children of Adam.
You go out to eat. Plans do not go well.
You stop at a Wendy’s.
You like cheeseburger ‘mini’s,’
they are better than the ‘Baconnater,’
which you have to crouch over,
your fingers and lips splattered
with karmic chow.
The alien chooses this moment
to stop by for a chicken salad.
From behind his chair, you watch him
as he picks at the food.
Last week you went to the barber
the visual memory of the back of your head
is still fresh.
You begin to suspect your life
is being gradually usurped.
A scream, a pack of your personal peccadilloes
are running amok in the restaurant,
in the resulting chaos, the alien departs.
Fast food attains the speed of light.
A grill cook has come out from the back,
he looks like the Swedish chef from the Muppet Show,
but in reality, he is a messenger from the future.
In the hubbub and furor,
and despite his heavily accented English,
he demands that you get going anywhere.
You don’t know it yet, but the alien has made off
with your grease-stained napkin,
a document that cannot be disposed of
until you are far South
of your last known positions
An Internet Handshake
She reluctantly closed the book,
locking the painting back inside her mind,
then a sudden frisson of emotion,
another surreal-reveal moment,
and her smile was flint; lips unmoving
as slices of memory were being served…cold.
The relationship began with an Internet handshake
and a few engaging discoveries about each other.
It developed weekly, daily via the telephone,
stretching from Whitefish, Montana to Dover in Kent.
Initially, they felt distanced from each other
but soon they were emotionally in the next room.
A month later, in London, they met,
a spill of nervousness, a thrill of emotions
and that night jazz developed their relationship,
an allegro rhythm which rose to a presto beat
and then ‘hey presto’ they were moving in together.
He, a job in London; she followed, as did their marriage.
The months hustled by, the clock ticked relentlessly
but their allegro rhythm slackened, slowed to adagio.
Then gradually he began to control, to criticize
and, on one occasion, even bully with bruises.
It pleasured him, darkened him, reminded him
and slowly he began to feast on it.
But he hadn’t noticed that someone else had moved in!
The artist, Salvador Dali, had slipped into her imagination
and had decided to settle, to stay, to simmer.
So now the surreal had entered their relationship
but what he did note was the tickling cough again
and the spit of pain, occasionally scoring his stomach.
Preparing the evening meal, she felt for the perfumed bottle
caressing its curved edges she flushed with excitement,
soon she was adding seasoned drops of Aqua Tofana,
those special ingredients: arsenic, lead and belladonna
and she slyly sed at the irony of the situation.
He thought HE was the power and SHE knew he wasn’t!
Very soon now she was to be a widow…..a black one
but she knew she wouldn’t cry, she’d been disconnected,
and after all, she was now an expert in death.
She thought once again of the book, the painting,
the Salvador Dali image - Death Outside the Head
and then of the enduring journey of her subconscious.
Ian Souter Nov, 2024