Long Indentations Poems
Long Indentations Poems. Below are the most popular long Indentations by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Indentations poems by poem length and keyword.
A woman, blinded by disease,
Wrote poetry and then,
Inspired to write a novel,
Picked up paper and a pen.
Elastic bands across the pages
Held the pen in place.
With more than twenty pages done,
Not once did she erase.
Her son paid her a visit
And she proudly showed her prize.
He had to break the news, which had
Been hidden from her eyes.
The pages had no writing;
They were blank, ‘cause here’s the kink –
The whole time she’d been writing,
Her poor pen was out of ink!
The local police, forensic branch,
Jumped in and took the case.
The paper’s indentations gave them
Clues they could embrace.
Before too long they did restore
The writer’s missing plot.
She’s back to writing, hoping that
Her novel has a shot.
However, now a volunteer
Types all she has in store.
This writer’s words are out there
And invisible no more!
The sun is screaming
Miles of nothing, beige on beige on beige
The sun is screaming, blistering my skin,
draining me slowly as breath is heated and tastes bitter
Shoulders slung low, I can’t stand straight,
bent over struggling,
nothing is anywhere and nowhere is here
Leaving footprints for the wind dancers,
black feather fathers, winged circlers
high above, watching
Sifting time in barren increments,
hourglass patterns
of falling granules sinking deeper
Water is a dream and this thirst a nightmare
for it is there, just ahead, I can see it glistening
but it does not exist
Nothing exists, as the oasis in my mind
dries up, leaving only empty indentations
on horizontal planes, flat lands
of arid emotions drifting in and out,
reaching for… reaching
10/09/18
For the: I Wander The Desert Alone Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Edward Ibeh
I mourn —
Beneath her insipid skin laid
Vein tunnel hollowed
And beneath anaemic expression,
Laid a smile withering till slumber
I mourned a soul departing —
A soul so garish with love and light
Under the sun's rays she shone
A prismatic bliss of polychromatism
At the end of her devoted performances
Her branches fractured in bruise and scars
Trauma beneath the pipeline tunnels and;
Indentations of infliction by violent hands
Faintly, her vibrance languished to fall
Perishing under the weight of life's abuse
And larghetto into heaven's fáilte
I mourn —
The one who's time was fleeting yet eternal
Beneath deathless lights her beauty shone
Till the next time myself and her would meet
Once more, I'll have the courage to approach
And recite what I couldn't have said then
Her body frail in its struggling grace
Had never felt gentle hands on its surfaces,
But with caress I had vowed to have great caution
When the embrace matured to her beauty fading
On top of mine — I had allowed weeping aloud
I mourned — Her body laid rest before my rainfall of sapphires
Weeping and lamenting in melancholia
For the emaciated angel in her belle slumber.
Scars, like lace etchings, a pattern
Rippling indentations against porcelain skin,
What is that? I ask her, never quite
So humble as my heart when she pulls her arm
Away, like a secret not ready to be opened,
An ache not quite ready to be known
By anyone who might criticize or judge,
Anyone who might see the decorative design,
The shape of clever lines, so foolishly sketched,
Carved into delicate flesh with who could know…
Whatever tools she must have used, a knife –
Most likely a knife, yet it could have been something
Smoother, like a razor blade… sharp and willing
Against the tenderest flesh, the feeling bringing
Release from a mind, unbending – a mind, pleading
For the relief.
The act of cutting bringing respite from the pain,
The heartaches with their own stealthy blades,
Cutting into the soft flesh of a heart, like stilettos
Puncture the black earth, leaving hasty wounds,
The bleeding earth never promises to settle, healing
From the rupture the way weeping flesh, bleeds
As she blinks back the tears…
Seeing only the liberation, the freedom that comes
From slicing through the surface of her skin,
Exposing the inner demons that breathe easier
When the wound has exposed her anguish,
Leaving marks for the world to see, indications
For you and me – inscriptions beckoning, whispering
Into the silent night, erasing the throbbing of emotions,
Washing away the sensitivity with the subtle hint
Pain bleeding out its answers through the gash,
A laceration, filled with feelings that won’t last –
Feelings who sing of darkness and doubt,
Feelings who are mysteries of the fragile heart,
The heart who will reconcile, one day it will mend
only…
Will it still feel? Will this cutter ever genuinely heal?
Grace answers this with a resolve that feels like
Yes, etched into her flesh… Yes, God can reconcile
The only scars written on her flesh as her heart
Is returned to its best… with Him beside her,
There is the promise that she’ll be a survivor!
Find me here
Within graphite words
breathe me deeply
until the lines are blurred
let my smoke fill your lungs
I desperately want to be felt and heard
Ash rises from my bones
from my mind to your heart transferred
my thoughts are paper thin
Yet they levitate upon my imperfections
Two three and four dimensions
The things I can't scream
without fear here I mention
Maybe it's all a cry for attention
is it really me these absurd expressions
I lay it out for the world
Find the holes in my communication
plug in your extension
Maybe the light from your lamp
will illuminate my apprehension
My record silently skips
a soundless sensation
The needle gouges deep
with its intimate groove penetrations
Is this any indication
of my faltering perceptions
or do I have frayed wires
stripped by my preoccupation
So here now and from yesterday
I form words into weird collections
maybe you can find me here
amidst my verbose fascination
I'm here somewhere
in all of these indentations!
I am winter
I can hear the birds singing,
calling for the sun to rise
from dark branches scraping an alabaster sky
Full of life they sound,
perched high above a frosted lawn,
clinging to sticks, crooked and bare,
formed of countless years trying
and mistletoe nightmares
Frigid sonatas echo
through a stoic countryside,
white dustings coat sparse thicket
woven in below freezing motions
Footprint remnants, slight indentations
wander finding nowhere a reality
along disguised pathways
Melodies bridge the breeze across
a lonely corn field of empty rows
and a garden of sleeping blooms
Life waiting to be reborn,
to paint the landscape with color,
bringing happiness to the birds,
chirping on the cusp of new,
the edge of beauty,
as eastern horizons wake
Grey skies still cling to the heavens
I listen, quietly to this music
as if their harmonies will lift
the chilly loneliness from my heart
Chambered worries of what will come,
frozen rivers in icicle vistas
Counting sunsets until spring arrives,
when I whisper a sad good bye,
but I will return…
I am winter
A most remarkable parish spire! and, widely acknowledged as
Just such...constantly commented upon being seen for the
Very first time.
Pressed into the church's soft sandstone walls, the shallow
Indentations from ball and shot left over from when the
Roundheads had came this way;
The Royalists did determine to fight to the last man...
Or so it was, reportedly, thus contendend.
The sky above as hollow as a cathedral's resounding dome; and
Possessing a sort of wild, uncharted immensity...
And not a bird singing...not a single bird in flight.
A strangely discomforting sunshine began to gently filter
Through the moitionless leaves on the already limp branches
Of the pale trees;
Spots of sunlight dappling the pavements and roadway,
Lying patiently underneath, with a hesitancy akin to
Reluctant rain.
Pausing in Sainsbury's carpark, I half turned:-
The slow, dulled, monotonous clanging of the grieving bell
As it relentlessly mourned the passing of it's beloved Queen.
People moving about me with measured deliberation as if on
Stage acting a part in a Victorian Drawing-room play.
Cars and vans drove more slowly...perhaps they were compelled
To do so by sudden divine intervention? ...or an inexplicable
Sense of spiritual duty?
Some great, unseen, all-powerful white God who had visted
Each of them in their dreams and threatened one and all with
Terrible retribution...and quite rightly so to my way of
Thinking.
And still the sobbing bell tolled...for it was determined to
Command this sombre day.
As rust falls from the anchor
Where do sandcastles go
when the tide engulfs the view and
lonely shorelines crest in tear drops
beneath white capped dream chasers,
foam laced erasers combing sanded wishes,
taking towers in the water's rage
as moats become minor indentations
on a beach bathed in the moon light,
moving gleams in metronome tickling
as our hearts wash out to sea
drowning in the depths of forbidden love
and with my final breath,
salt water drenched I profess
that forbidden or not, I love you
and the lighthouse shines its orbiting light
as I go under for the last time
happy in my declaration
as rust falls from the anchor
and I wait until we meet again,
on the island of meant to be
Bare foot walking on a primeval beach
Before people, (it was just 3 o’clock,)
Balance hunched with longer stride
My feet made indentations in the sand.
With each rising step, my prints
Filled with toe-sized ponds and heel-sized lakes,
A tidal microcosm of a pulsing beach.
Life before people after all.
Far away, I saw a scrap of white
Propped against escarpment rock.
Assessed as some precious speck,
As so rare a thing so often is.
Already grains of sand had worked
Between my sandals and my soles.
Curious, I strode towards it,
To more closely see.
A sign of white posted my accidental crime:
Turtle Nest
Do Not Disturb
As easily saying, “Forgo knowing to let things be.”
FATE LEADS THE WILLING
when my life
my very wellbeing
depends on the actions of those around me
it’s a trial to my innate sensibilities to bring my side
if my destiny is to live my final years in isolation
cut off from the interaction with others
it shouldn’t be any hardship
as I can employ this time to the enrichment of my scant knowledge
to learn to do without material trappings of this capitalist world
admit that we are guided by the rules of nature
and I must accept all things are beyond one’s own personal power
every day
every hour
every minute of my day
is another chance for a different path
there are very few things that we can control
also those who resist the pull of Fate will feel hamstrung by events that alter
their life plans
an individual who accepts the things that occur in life that are beyond his
control
can lead a happy life by controlling negative emotions and passions
et du volentem fata nolentem trahunt*
_________________________________________________________________________
*both Fate leads the willing and drags the unwilling
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POET'S NOTE: The prepenultemate and penultimate lines (both 23 syllables per line - the top of the range as far as breathing is concerned) overrun the line space, hence the indentations.
All lines were checked via Howmanysyllables.com