Long Immortalizing Poems
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Winter’s love is swallowing me whole
The death that follows the seeds I sowed
Ghosts clipping my heels where I tread cold toes
Immortalizing paired tracks frozen in snow
An icy grip on my throat, I start to breathe slow
Winter’s love is swallowing me whole
I blink my eyes wide for the lessons to show
Another year of life’s cycles come to a close
My skin favors blue as the ground starts to pull
Curled up like a fetus, like a fruit in a bowl
Winter’s love is swallowing me whole
My body is settling but how restless is the soul
Painful tingles subside as I relinquish control
Who might I be come next spring when the sun takes his toll?
I lay my mind to rest, as the thickest frost grows
Winter’s love is swallowing me whole
A Sinner
As I sit here contemplating this time in our lives
When everything wrong is right, and everything right is portrayed as wrong.
Some people in our society have proclaimed our lives as a lie
Our thinking is biased, and our feelings as unimportant.
They have viewed our morals and our beliefs as shallow, unappealing, and half-truths.
They have taken what we have been taught (justice, reliability, and truth– as -
Lies, unjustified, and untrustworthy and lies.
To actually legalize drugs-
To legalize immoral living-
To applaud murder-
To minimize genocide-
And wonder why there is so much killing, dying, murdering, suiciding, extirpating
and immortalizing all around us
It is not that hard to see that we’ve moved away from why we are at war and removed from home.
Or why we are alive - or- why we are here–
And what we are supposed to do with our lives, and who is on our side.
Man is playing God, trying to take life out of god’s hand, doing things their way.
Man has stopped listening to the only voice that deserves to be heard- Our redeemer-
And you wonder why there is so much chaos in the world-
After all, I am just sitting here contemplating this time in our lives- who am I to judge anyone-
For, I too am a sinner-
Butterflies don’t die,
instead they become Frankenstein
electric shocked and back to life;
Hot and cold heart,
hopelessly frozen yet fiercely beating;
Stomach just short of regurgitating,
butterflies are alive;
So blue you want them to decay
instead they flutter endlessly;
Electric shocked and back to life,
possessing traits of a zombie;
Butterflies won’t die;
There is no cocoon to hide in,
you’re stuck within your own skin,
and it just crawls;
Like a butterfly landing delicately
on your wrist;
Now you’re caught,
electric shocked and back to life;
Butterflies never die
instead becoming ink
immortalizing bloody tears;
Forever weeping
within a fly poetic tattoo.
Oh, the poet sees you not just as a fleeting shadow that fades into horizons,
He falls in love as the sun in gold transfigures the curve of your cheeks,
In the line of the smile that steals your guarded secrets, fragments of hopes gathered,
In the tones that around your fingers display codes of lights and dreams.
He is captivated by the vibration of the air when his name is a hymn on your sculpted lips,
He sees ocean depths and stellar explosions in the pigment of your iris full of delicate reflections,
He notices how shadows, in their reverence, outline your form, canvases on which histories are written.
In silent chambers, places not filled or solidified by words,
A poet with a generous heart will find you, beating in unison with the melody that resonates within you.
With eyes that see beyond veils, he extends your being into the most subtle and precious whispers,
He will weave you into immortal verses, every beauty captured is a star in your personal constellation.
Keeper of souls, the poet does not sit as the executioner of your heart,
For he himself, having passed through the fire of mistakes, has learned the art of redemption,
He, bearer of lights in the heavy night, traverses the sunken sentences
Where the word finds its cradle, and his touch is a balm for wounded souls.
In his crafting with the grammatic brush, he resurrects forgotten meanings, and in poetry
He rewrites manuals of love, where every wound finds the ointment of a sublime peace.
He steps, a charmer of silent wisdom, through the antechamber of hearts,
Leaving behind emblems of his passage, inscribing in history cantos
That celebrate the candor of moments and the vastness of human love.
Each scar becomes, in his odes, an illuminated altar that ceaselessly watches over the wellspring of life.
And thus, the master of this arcane lexicon becomes the architect of the kingdoms of imagination,
Immortalizing in his profound rhymes the thirst for affection, for connection, for remembrance.
A Rousseau of words, painting the unexplored jungles of emotions,
Where every mark left, whether it is a gentle step or a sign of suffering, transforms into an ode to existence.
Egyptians ...And us...
At times, you've heard people decry.
"I need my space!"
Years ago, it was a simple,
"Leave me alone!"
This has evolved in modern hieroglyphics
Today known as emojis and texting.
We should, I think, have a cold drink,
And sit at the Sphinx's seat where nobody talks.
But holds a stone tablet as they carve,
Emojis to replace their voices.
I excuse them but they can't hear me!
Long ago...
Their onks ablaze, they feel no rage,
For they see nobody's eyes or tears.
And in a big cave, which was all the rage, immortalizing their lives in Sphinksbook.
Ah, dead Egytians we are so like you,
Hidden in places we call our home.
A primitive people, we!
In the 21st. century,
How can this be?
Many cannot write prose nor poetry,
In fact, many cannot write at all.
Our civilization infected with a terminal disease, called emojimania or acrynomania.
With PhD degrees, we read old stones.
Higher education our terminal disease.
We drool over dead philosophers!
But to one another are deaf.
We toss friends screaming hearts into a blazing funeral pyre.
As that famous rock song says,
"Come on baby, light my fire."
Yes, indeed do!
Better yet, all rabid techies best hear that song..
"See me, feel me, touch me, heal me."
Your friend needs you, not your smart phone.
Your face, your hugs, your voice.
Texting and emails cannot replace humanity.
And no, I shall not join those sheeples..
Who love technology over flesh and blood peoples.
With love~
Panagiota, Poet of the Heart
Panagiota Romios
April 30. 2019
11:15am PST
Inspirations falling down
Like stardust kisses
In vibrant mahogany and gold
Bold, flaming whispers
September’s soothing calm
Sharing tender serenity
With the cool joy of dawn
Imaginations coloring hearts
Like flamboyant September skies
Laughing lights in the eyes
Singing melancholic poetry
Into the moonlit night
Trembling with soft sensations
Prickling silence through zephyr
Illuminations touch the soul
Like miracles falling, exciting, alive
Beckoning spirits to listen, to hear
The freedom found in a teardrop
Melting away the darkness
Praising the One who brings life
With September’s breath of serenity
Immortalizing September’s love
Like the throbbing of rainfall’s thought
Beating away all the dirty and wrong
Baptizing dreams in flavors of belief
Awakening minds to a flow of motivation
Sighing like leaves as they tumble down
Stirring revelations without a sound
Illustriously the harmonious
September murmurs of Autumn
Who mesmerizes the shadows
With glowing joys of fulfillment
Praising, praying, penetrating
Every emotion with goodness
Kindness poured from heaven
September is the crisp, cool touch
Preparing us for the gentle grace
That Autumn shares with such affection
September is the color of acceptance
The manner of mercy and blessing
The hope that longs to be known
The sanctification of other month’s goals
September is hope for harvest blessings!
Sweet September – I’ll never forget her
Hello September Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Mystic Rose Rose
September 12, 2021
In a rather egotistical
and pathetic attempt
to immortalize myself,
in something I lost,
everything.
And now that I’ve burned
all of my bridges and I’m drowning,
the only thing I have left
to do is work.
And it's not working.
And the only ones
praising my work
are little kids,
the same age I was
when I broke everything.
Lucky me.
I watch them do
the same foolish things,
reaching for pointless dreams,
immortalizing themselves
for no one and nothing.
What I wouldn’t do
to have something,
and what I wouldn’t give
for something
worth saying.
Empty words
look prettier
when they’re
written in blood.
And trust me,
it’s dripping
straight out of
my pen tip
and into my lungs.
I wish that
instead of pneumonia
I had amnesia.
Maybe then,
I could forget about
all of this.
Flirting with my demons is like a wild cat gambling in a casino.
It’s fun, reckless, irresistible.
It’s thrilling, it hums with danger,
until curiosity, as it always does, catches the cat.
Flirting carries consequences.
You lose everything when you forget the promise you once made to walk away.
Therefore sometimes a promise of foreverness gets fractures into foreneverness,
a storm of uncertainty, like fallen trees
too weak to stand against the wind.
Now gone.
I memorized your metaphors, by immortalizing your Mona Lisa smile,
with the majestic violin tone of your voice,
softly, igniting wildfire graffiti of butterflies of kisses continue to continue to flutter and glow throughout my heart and soul.
While out and about
an unexpected over bare ring bout
to defecate arose,
where sphincter asserted clout
and would excrete
despite without doubt...
if closing distance
(to reach rental abode)
beaten out by loosening sphincter muscle
transmitting excretory code
set sights on prowl for outlawed, secluded,
and wooded make shift commode
and essentially for naught negating
toddler toilet training, sans
getting potty trained undone
via my tushy ready to explode
and blast immense solid waste byproduct
(oh...close to the size of Rhode Island)
thus a marathon race against time
found immediate readiness to pull off roadside
to access make shift water closet
generating image firmly in pooping mode
grabbing hold of a tree trunk
(a mini rocky horror picture show, -
this analogy included for no particular reason
other than as a non-sequitur)
and also to convey, how I tried
to allay distractions
while painful contractions flowed
(perhaps approximating woman
on verge of giving birth)
but...no matter, aye could envision,
an ever increasing heavy m*****f****** load
hence approaching Highland Manor Apartments
this chap abandoned
prior simultaneous evacuation plan
starkly aware probability for secluded spot sunk
(nonetheless, thy darting darting
anguish, futile lizard like lookout,
a geico Gekko whose cheeks did blush
even for a measly Georgian bush
quickened nsync with rectal spasms
visual scouting industrialized
where backhoes didst crush
once a time sacred happy hunting grounds
of native Americans, now royally flush
with newly built vinyl city re: urban sprawl a gush,
where cookie cutter houses long since bringing hush
puppies muzzled, yet never the less and mush
a doo doo about nothing) except sprint
ting to the verizon with a void push
immortalizing indigenous tribes ghosts rush
peopling infrastructure affixing
urbanization with lamb basted,
and sigh lance warrior whoosh!