Long Indiscrete Poems
Long Indiscrete Poems. Below are the most popular long Indiscrete by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Indiscrete poems by poem length and keyword.
Notice
in silent anticipations
softening distinctions
empower fluidity,
blending Language
Culture
Communication,
symbol recreating systems.
Consider
how apparent differences
between discrete word choices
may also nonverbally spread
across indiscrete relationships
dividing and regathering
LeftBrain verbally dominant
embodied Natural
severed from abstract Spiritual
RightHand Body dominating communion
over RightMind wisdom communication
Where "RightBrain" sensation
flows information
non-segregation
celebration
from root-chakra throbbing Source
for making sacred sense
of metaphysical nonsensory distinctions
Nonverbal noticed communications
flow up to capital-headed eyes
centered right and left
in-between bicameral ears
and bilateral nostrils
and bipartisan sides
of internally/externally conflicted
red health and green wealth
mouths
Disrespecting everyday lives
next door ins and outs
of sacred felt empowering
black rabbit holes
engaging verbally renouned
enlightening binomial poles.
I notice too
two sensory felt nondifferences
between responsible MotherTree Pride
of deep nurturing
mutually communing Meaning
And victimized minoriTrees
reacting in defense
against
LeftBrain verbal Othering
smothering
not bothering
blustering
Disabling win/win potential communication
and enlightened health-care language
and inclusive empowering enculturation
Which could more positively invite
mutual EarthTribe regard,
expressions,
full mind-bodied
spiritual natures
of indigenously felt
compassion
beauty
integrity
dignity
serenity
curiosity
musicality
humanity
The NonOthering Side
for preventing pathology
I watched as she dropped down
that full six-foot wingspan graced the air around
that slipped in quiet, somehow silenced in the cold gray steel
and suddenly again, she was here, looking for another meal.
The great blue neck stretched up while below her leggy feet
slowly stepped as she walked toward the pond indiscrete.
Her visit came too often
and my heart could no longer be softened
for her hunger and her need
had well depleted most of my fish and their seed.
Still, she stepped methodic around the edge
eyeing close the waters for some movement along the ledge
slowly I rose as she stepped closer in to look some more
but with caution, she scanned my figure in the door.
Reluctant and defiant she stood beneath the net
as I yelled admonishment at her brazen gaze met
she was defiant and stood her ground
until thru the door raced my little doxie hound.
Then with an elongated step, she flew away
leave it to my dog to save the day.
What’s left of Octavia glides down the hall
Past the portraits she painted in life,
Now framed in mahogany, rosewood, and oak,
And they’re hers for the haunting tonight.
She looks for the canvas she started the day
Her desire became indiscrete;
A nude on a balcony under the moon.
It was one she would never complete.
What’s left of Octavia passes the wall
Where her art is the featured display,
Recalling advances she made in the past
That went far beyond being risqué.
She goes to the window and conjures the scene
As it happened those long years before,
And thinks of the model who posed for her then;
A temptation too ripe to ignore.
What’s left of Octavia mourns what she’s lost
Like a dreamer deprived of her dream.
Her husband threw open the studio door
To discover her subject and theme.
He looked at the model, he looked at his wife,
And he saw what a fool he had been
To blindly indulge her artistic pursuits,
Which she took as occasion to sin.
A new moon at midnight. She whispers a name.
Her face in the shadows, a study in pain.
Still searching for what she can never regain,
And she’s out on a haunting tonight.
What’s left of Octavia longs for the time
She felt anything other than numb.
The smell of the paint and the feel of the brush
Being foreign to what she’s become.
A specter deprived of the flavor of life.
An obsession that won’t fade away.
A monochrome canvas, a faintly drawn sketch
From a palette with ten shades of gray.
What’s left of Octavia stands on the ledge,
And considers the landscape below.
The moment of impact still fresh in her mind,
Because time has not softened the blow.
Her family gathered to lay her to rest,
And the ring was removed from her hand.
Though people would gossip, and ponder her fate,
There are none who in truth understand.
What’s left of Octavia comes to him now,
Late at night when he puts on her ring.
A family heirloom entrusted to him
When he married his lover last spring.
He stands in the dark as she enters the room,
And the séance is set to begin.
She watches him pose, while he takes off his clothes,
With her brushstrokes caressing his skin.
Confessions at midnight. She whispers a name.
Her face in the shadows, a study in pain.
Still searching for what she can never regain,
But he's hers for the haunting tonight.
A melody
unlike any other message we bring
played on the depths of inner heartstrings
riding on the bow of a soulful violin;
notes beating along tight drum skins
rumbling in the trees upon the winds,
trembling lightly in the eyes teared,
a tease in life's orchestra played
easing time to a slow waltz charade;
arms and bodies tight entwined
bonding the movements less sublime;
dance with me,
a last synchronizing of two hearts
dance once more before we part,
one last flawless alluring spark;
tenderly rest your lips against my cheek
with secrets revealed now indiscrete
this is a final goodbye to love.
It must be written on the wind,
those ancient prophecies
of time immemorial and its hymn,
repeating the rise and the fall
of spring rain and summer dew
floating in the fallen leaf hues;
here it comes again in fall of rain
hazy torrential downpour streams
pumpkin and chrysanthumum dreams
with color palettes indiscrete
crimson reds and festive oranges
faded greens and yellowed brown beats;
slipping into shadows of midday gloom
and the quiet stillness of the autmn fall
where neither sun nor flower bloom
ready now for winter sleep
as all life rests in momentary pause
in wait of thanksgiving and Christmas treats;
in the solitary seasons hush
memory recalls the times long gone
as nature paints the earth with its newest brush.
That was then….
When the tapestry of contentment enveloped
the enthralled expanse exhilarated,
of the sensuous sky called life.
When the fervent flight was friendly
for the esoteric essence to fly fearless
near and far like a free bird beguiled.
When happiness was convivially contoured
in the consummate cauldron of time present,
relationships extended arms all the way
to embrace with unreserved fervor.
Strangers mingled with smile of no pretense,
kept the dormant egos unexpressed.
When life had the gracious fluidity,
flooding the kinship landscape with candor,
flowed like the fragrant spring zephyr
over the contented topography of being,
touched the ebullient perimeter
of the fulfilled psychic sanctum.
When your onyx cloud of latent tolerance
showered the soothing rains of empathy
on my blazing mental mantle doused,
you enwrapped me within memory petals,
made the bouquet of togetherness
when I was gone from your garden of roses.
This is now…
When deranged life is desolately disjointed,
things that matter to you and me
don’t relate as relevant any more.
The lone journey in the connived course,
fraught with fright is to descry the destiny
in the uncertain horizon of the unknown.
When self-imposed isolation takes the mind
from tentative today to ambiguous tomorrow,
ruptured rapport unholds hands even in sorrow.
In life the solo actors make their own stage,
play the unreal roles in the drama they write,
till the curtain of self-inflicted seclusion drops.
When the impeded flow of time
stalls in the hourglass of verily viscous sands,
sliding in the manipulated tortuous trail,
crashes at the basal indiscrete instincts
of the impatient and imprudent life,
buried in the debris of dismembered dreams.
When compassion morphs into mirage
in the desolate desert of the desiccated life,
where my soul is a snapped string
in the frail fabric of human disharmony.
When I’m gone you instantly erase
my fading face from your contrived canvas.
I listened
heard in disbelief
the glorification of a liar and a thief.
I paused in this interlude
feeling the praise was misused
and then I scanned the crowd
blank eyes, minds within a shroud
none shouting truth aloud.
All was quiet
here along the western front
marginalized by corrupted stunts,
the rants and raves
the cowards unafraid;
voices rose
the hail of war unclothed
in hate and anger, no longer loathed
bullets, missiles, bombs laid down in droves,
followed by admiration, praise disclosed.
A haughtiness of destructive force
forged across a liar's greedy course
hidden in deceit by the elite
war in forever repeat
purposes indiscrete.
I listened and I prayed
for the coming of a brand new day
when warriors lay down their blades
rest at peace
beneath the smoke and shade.
I scanned the world that God had made
fearful and ashamed
at the haughtiness of a foolishness of men
who began another war again
always now never then.
i
i
The past few days have been okay,
However, I anxiously await the day,
That the other shoe will inevitably drop.
That your love for me will eventually stop.
You tell me I am silly, yet I sometimes smother,
I wonder if that is the reason your heart found another.
You tell me it was a gigantic mistake,
Yet it was my heart that you were to break.
You say you love me and that you did not cheat,
Yet, your love and affection were indiscrete.
You may not have shared your body with her,
Yet, betrayal by you most certainly did occur.
I am trying daily to forgive,
Yet, the heartbreak I somehow relive.
I do not want you or I to be lonely,
Is it too much to ask to be your one & only?
I love you with all my heart,
Though not the case at our start.
You slowly chipped away at my walls,
Until I heard all your heartfelt calls.
Please just give me some time,
To try to get over your shocking crime.
I am trying to see all this through
As I am still genuinely in love with you!
Painting the music on a bow
The lure fashioned a form
The engine and a circuit
A pinning of a crucial phenomenon
A policy by allowance
A permission into wheat
Each probable wind opportunity for sketch
Probability be the ghost of a denied greed
Fingers to the bees and failing fads
For picking and choosing and refusing the swarm
In the best indiscrete
Such the creatures a vase of future
The thick plague and reminiscent of the times
So great the heavy patience by the creators deny
Tissues and torment of entertainment
By gods throwing the marked shot
As grave and lingering to what they succumb
The excavators eating cherries in the snow
So veil the limited permission
So cruel the probability by its course
How shallow the visit and such fiscal acid
Some touch of a weak wild guess
Hot, humid, burning sun rays
it's the noon hour smack in the light of mid-day,
the random moments of a Monday deluge of renewal
back to work to the tied-down, set-in-place routines do all
pushing back the weekend play and scenes that flee;
the grit and grime of hard physical work release
managed, stressed, perspiration indiscrete,
the sedimentary desk chair resting weary feet
sequestered uncomfortable and lean
locked in closure at the old computer screens;
the phone tags to update this or that
the pay scales uneasily raised then taxed
paperwork printing to and from the fax;
just another day to start the beginning of the week
mundane, ordinary, fatiguing, ever on repeat
with the morning hours slipping past as we speak,
the noon hour
marking half the day,
complete.