Long Indent Poems
Long Indent Poems. Below are the most popular long Indent by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Indent poems by poem length and keyword.
He enters looking bedraggled, tired and worn out, his skin like Vellum, blank and pale. Lifting his eyes to catch their gaze he gives a slight nod to acknowledge their presence. He scans the room as he would a poem, looking for an Indent that leads to a quiet corner. A half-lit light casts a shadow on the flock wallpaper, (ink stained)! He sits hidden from view, away from plagiaristic eyes. Head in hand scribbling while listening for a new word. A muse sings, emanating an un-heard Beat that guides his rhythm while searching for that elusive vowel. On the floor a scattering of pencil shavings and broken lead... frustration at the loss of an adjective, the Half-Rhyme squeezes like a tourniquet on the brain...
Frustration runs high as Enjambment slips off the stage and gathers in reflective pools. The Lady Pastoral reads an Elegy to the passing of Sir Rondeau Redouble, he lead a very lonely life, ascending and then diminishing becoming less Didactic, the Footle holds a Lantern for the loss, while the Limerick found it quite humorous.
At the bar a Stanza of poets gather, disciples of Villanelle, and regale of their latest triumphs in Womans Quarterly. The Epulaeryu's compare their Diamante while eating their babba ghanoosh. At the pool table the movers and shakers decant opinions on the latest 'form' something to do with A.E.I.O.U...Acrostic looks it up and down looking puzzled, Blank Verse remains silent. They dissect, analyse the entrails, the faint hearted look a little Grook. The atmosphere is tense, Verbs drift like dust in the light, causing confusion, they mop their brows with a tired Senryu, the Haiku has little to say on the matter...
A Quintain of intellectuals quietly sit, the Sicilian sipping slim line Monoku's ( no ice ) hoping for a Couplet before the end of the night. On a stool sits the barfly spilling his Bio over the counter top exposing an Ode-ious life, (Metaphorically speaking). On stage the hottest group in town, Chant Royal and the Syllables...singing their latest Sestina, the notes drift across the room resting on the floor, congealing into a Poet-tree fountain, they feel at home as the last act MC McWhirtle enthrals with his Ballad, the barman Ric Tameter calls time, the evening is a Rap, the club is Epic...
Frozen in my memory like the last frost of winter
I find out sadly how a red rose can give a splinter
When the chapped lips of love lose their honey,
there is no one there to make December sunny
Dozens of red roses appearing in loom, hindsight
from the one who has grown them without lament
From a woman ignited by passion, claiming right
To an existent gasp of daylight, his love's indent
Woven in golden threads, it was a life well spent
my heart blooms every day with sweet roses red
life was good as a garden grew beneath our tent
until winter arrived, then everything went dead
Thawing in my memory is a rose that didn't die
it harbors still the kiss, of a virgin's piercing cry
Blistering winds arrive, when a gardener desists,
A once pure red rose without Him, cannot exist .
Dec 12, 2021
A light instrument flows, ink darkness; folded within
Flowers; a painless, healing, prescription of treatment
Such secure grounding, found; in glowing obsidian
Happiness; gives sharp antithesis of lifes oblivion
Tectonic; the plate layer produces a fiery quill of lament
A light instrument flows, ink darkness; folded within
Waving; a molten brush of colors, results cascadian
A surgeons gift; to be given, a unique scalpel of torment
Such secure grounding, found; in glowing obsidian
Emotional eruptions; give way to a physical custodian
Islands of hope; from a mind, of seas with dubious intent
A light instrument flows, ink darkness; folded within
Feelings so igneous; venting becomes it's guardian
A healing phase; melting purposely cooled stone indent
Such secure grounding, found; in glowing obsidian
A cinder cone; written to perform acts so tragedian
Dormant, till; the next event of this calderas' fulfillment
A light instrument flows, ink darkness; folded within
Such secure grounding, found; in glowing obsidian
The ocean is home to a curation of shells,
The type you admire, the kind you call into,
The ones that whisper stories the sea never tells.
The peach and the pink, the pastels and the white —
All of them bring such a sense of delight.
I trace my finger over each and every grove and indent,
Each fracture and dent,
Wondering what they have seen, and what places they went.
I wonder if they are signs — heaven-sent.
This poet wonders — does she know the truth that is grand?
The shell that is pretty mesmerizes those little eyes
While the sea calls out her name for help.
Sand between her toes and wind through her hairs,
She felt every emotion one feels at a shore.
The next scene was haunting — it took away her innocence.
Fishes started to wash up on the shore,
The water began to form bubbles.
As she looked at her mother, who
Whispered with her eyes-
“Sorry, my precious little baby,
Forgive the humankind,
For the future we will leave behind.”
a thousand times I call your name
throughout the day
like I always would
you'd come frolicking around the corner
always making your way
to me
a thousand times I swear I feel you
brush up against my legs
like you always would
a thousand times more
I forget your gone
because you should be here
not there
but I know it's an oasis
one where your lungs are restored,
your breaths aren't shallow
and you're eating all of the tuna in the world
a thousand times I swear I wake up
you next to me
on the other pillow
I can't help but sleep against the wall
afraid I'll roll over on you
and then I wake up,
pillow bare
no indent
and the reality takes toll
a thousand times I've prayed for your soul
but in the end,
I'm alone
Listless images swirl up from tangled seaweed.
Instead of going home to study
a youth stayed on at a topless bar.
This reoccurring nightmare is a parody,
a Dahliesque floor show of every
melting, pants down moment.
Unschooled for future-shock, ill-equipped
for long forgotten questions;
scruffy owls hoot in an empty lecture hall
as a mind reacts with a jittery dread.
A lost post-graduate thesis rides on a city bus,
passengers sit on it as they come and go;
the manuscript is deeply buckled
with butt cheeks.
No time to revise the unprepared.
Dimples of anxiety indent a head trip.
Despondency envelopes.
At any moment,
eyes will open above a pool of sweat,
then blink stupidly
as they have done - often and repeatedly
for the last 45 years.
God I wanna touch you
I wanna feel your skin
Meld our bodies to the point
Don't know where mine begins
Wanna put my hands all over you
Trace the indent of your spine
Dig my fingers in your flesh
I wanna make you mine
I really wanna kiss you
Probe inside your mouth
Taste the slickness of your tongue
Nibble on your pout
What I really wanna know
Is do you wanna too?
Does your body ache for me
The way mine aches for you?
Do you lie awake at night
Burning with desire
Do I make you sweat, soak your sheets
Say that you're on fire
I can't take this pain much longer
You gotta let me know
I need to hear you want me
I just wanna know
It is always there,
never quite within range
where the mind can snare
some shadowy form, or shape
an outline and hold it long enough
to name.
It waits for the sun to go down
and the evening to draw in
like a taken breath when it comes
closer and nestles into what warmth
lingers there under the folds
of a gathered dark.
Sometimes when I am off
elsewhere and far away in thought,
I am sure it slips inside my head
and enters where memories are,
trying on a face, posing
in some familiar scene,
rummaging through what a child
left there long ago as if
it was searching for itself.
And there are mornings
when waking I sense its presence
in the dissolving residue of a dream,
a small footprint left on that
shore between awareness and sleep,
an indent, a scooped out hole
where something broken
took refuge and sought comfort
in being near.
There are dark times
when it almost becomes
a plumbed in part of me,
each bunkered in our own
adjoining rooms, held apart
by a wall neither of us
want to breach. We have spent
a good part of our lives here,
holding onto what should be set free,
fearing that if we did, one of us
would cease to be.
With sweet incline her ear is on dawn's arrival
even if night reigns by day, she has no rival
only the morning contains her birthing vine
Her ear is on dawn's arrival with sweet incline'
Dolce Amor upon the curve of her pillow rest
is the indent of the dreams that loved her best
only the dawn holds the whispers of her core
The curve of her pillow rest upon Dolce Amor
She is the scented violet of his early fantasies
more deep then the indigo of deep blue seas
a muslin touch of running silk with eyelets
Of his early fantasies she is the scented violets'
Dolce Amor a rose and a bouquet of baby breath
he knows that she will love him even until death
she is pepper on his heart and scented tuberose
A bouquet of baby breath and Dolce Amor his rose
June 25, 2020
Non descript brown wallet
Slightly bent at the edges
Indent of cards on leather
Inside is a Driver’s license
Credit card
Debit card
Building pass
Right hand side
Photos of children
Train pass
Metro card
Retail card from a drug store chain
Six singles in front
Larger denominations in rear
Five, tens and one twenty
Tucked behind the photos
Is an extra twenty dollar bill.
Thumbing through the wallet
Nothing else is found
Contents spilled out onto a formica desk
A life for all to see
Scrutinized under bright fluorescent light
Nothing extraordinary
Just everyday ordinary.
How do we tell the family?