Long Inert Poems
Long Inert Poems. Below are the most popular long Inert by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Inert poems by poem length and keyword.
You’ve met me,
but you just don’t know it yet
The dream house that you want,
I once polar bear hibernated there ...
two winter moons ago
The summer fruit of relaxation
that you’re tasting now,
I planted it
two prior vineyard cycles
I’ve always been double moves ahead,
my checkered past
taught me keen ways
to escape poverty dread
The slum lord pitchfork
tossing that Ebenezer heavy eviction bale,
tried to do the Scrooge pinch
But me knew da Judas outcome of da sell
You’re a patsy-come-lately,
a puppet bought for sure foreswore
Tho’ a couple chiggers too twenty-something slow,
worms like you
got oasis left in the wilderness dust forty years ago
What you wanna see,
I already seen
I’m always two pillow turns ahead
in your dream
What you wanna do,
I’ve already done
Me always be two rabbit hops ahead
of your turtle run
Here’s the six-digit green lumber
you need to cellblock 8 learn
The lockup combination number
to make those tumblers turn
My moves are two steps ahead
Me be a r-Evolving, double smoking barrel —
twice-pulled trigger click hot lead
You’re a patient zero, broken wing sparrow:
double goose egg, game over dead
I’m always two giant steps ahead
Where I’m ultra solar at
is where you really orbital wanna be
Meesa is a quantum grasshopper high five,
and you’re a gravity locust low three
I live in your twin borrowed tomorrow,
two steps above your ire paygrade
Truth trimming lie bacon is how I get paid
Two floors down at prime usury sorrow,
open pawn shop roasting in shade ...
You’re a pet loan shark getting chum made
I’m always thinking two steps ahead,
delivering ancient sayings that was future said
Meesa gon make your puffy jaws red,
two steps backwards is where your hubris bled
Where me be perched,
is where you’re trying to DNA air flow
I’m four wind birthed,
you’re a deuce snake eye on a belly roll
Me two steps ahead,
just so you know
You’re frozen in place,
minus-two below
I’m living at the kiss end of the Snow White story,
and you ain’t even got a singularity event Black Hole clue
Me 9 generation Lives looking thru a supernova rearview,
your Seven Dwarves tardy situation is inert glory
Two slave wage fettered steps ahead,
is how it’s always gonna be
Eating my Thanksgiving meal on your Labor Day,
is so Easter morning worthy
Tired one day of work and its toil, I went home to recover, or recharge my batteries as my friends would say. As I gathered my thoughts after doing my usual after chores, I sat and listened to music, as I often do. It seems to work for me as a Mindfulness technique. As I listened, I wondered what it would be like to have a conversation with my soul. We all hear, read about it and it's importance, to our being in the here and hereafter, yet we k now nothing of its real entity, consistence, base and its contributions to our present makeup as a human here and now. Who breaks the ice? With what? A joke, a memory? A right or wrong done to someone? Can we even have a dialogue that's meaningful, potential? I would want to know what my soul thinks of me? All the things I've done to myself and to others. How does that track to my end? Is there a defining criteria to one's soulful viability/outcome to its human end? How are, or are they, the positives/negatives/neutrals weighed? Accountability for ones actions, blatant or sublime, inert or etheral, candid or insipid? There can be no invisibility of measurable actions or a common denial of blame, stupidity, inaction, ignorance incongruent to a human's capacity to be universal with one another in all scopes of living/dying regardless of anything we hold as a norm. I would like the soul to tell me what it thinks of me, who I am, have become, lived, given hope,helped without reward, missed, been selfish, denied, hurt, a full record of my deeds, and then some. Why I feel the way I do in any given second of my life and what it means? Will I ever know any of the answers we strive to know which we think will make us better in the long run? Can I recapture, make restitution for past wrongs? Fix current/past ills of my being? "What do I want", you ask. If I am Wise to all, I can be Forgiving to all, If I am Empathetic to all, I can be Compassionate to all. If all I do, say and be is with truth and meaning, then I am a real being of the soul with an omnipresent intent, from all that I am within to all those that I meet without. We are then combined into one vast inclusive entity here, now and forever. "Present realities, Finite dreams, annoint Universal hopes, keeping them alive and well in any human scope of eternity". The soul rests--for now.
In the hidden realm of forsaken souls,
Where echoes of long-forgotten hopes fade,
I wander among dreams seeking their eternal place,
Beneath stars that seem to gossip about their cold neighbors.
Their intangible silhouettes, like leaves shaken by the wind,
Struggle in a world where smiles appear to be rented,
In the endless game of hide-and-seek between desire and reality,
They live their existence, with the regret of an irretrievable time they've missed.
I stand beside them, wrapped in their blanket of unheard sorrows,
And feel how the echoes of each ancient heart reverberate endlessly,
They whisper tales of lost love, of glory and ruination,
Souls sliding gently into the tide of oceans of melancholy.
The sky darkens, and the tired daylight goes to rest,
Amid the night's unrest, thoughts are torn between being and not wanting to be,
In the depths, fragile hopes tremble, each battle, every defeat,
Memories of a past which, like a river, has changed its course time and again, now lies cursed to wander alone.
The moon pierces their gaze with its inert silver rays,
Drawing upon the sea's floor transient and uncertain memories,
Vibrating with the vibration of the sky to catch a spark of luminescent wonder,
Their silent scream is a hymn for those who have loved, lived, but in the end, are absent.
The gate to the morning of another day seems a brick wall,
Lonely nights stretch out, oozing thoughts without rhyme,
With each breath, we find fleeting wings, shards of ephemeral freedom,
Yet somewhere amidst it all, we glimpse the hope of the self from yesteryear, even in these sleepwalking, ephemeral evenings.
And I, a shadow among shadows, have joined their tacit procession,
Listening to the heart as it sings a serenade for the nights in which I have dreamed,
In the rhythm of autumn rain, lamentation envelops, tightens around me, tirelessly,
Bringing with it the echo of a belated "farewell" that time has long awaited.
I lose myself in the length of this soiree, where each drop pulses with its own weight,
A tacit symphony, rhythmized by slides of emotions and unexpected silences,
In search of a tomorrow that doesn't reek of an unhealed yesterday,
I let my thoughts slip, to fall, until they themselves become the morning I once dreamed of.
1
I say I'm a designer of systems, plans
Man's
Parts that stand together, set in place to serve
Trees and planets, too, which are unplanned by us
The observant, wise man
Tries to understand
Name the parts, pistil and stamen
Rocks, eskars
Elements.
Winter is shuddering to an end, mud roads
Cardinal pairs
Robin flocks return that will soon pair off
Buds
Soils swell
Will I live to smell it again, learn the lobelias
Understand and name the parts
It ought to be a great comfort to be so insignificant
Go among weeds, a wind
Thinking to myself
One's never alone
A dichotomous key is needed, a book of twigs and fruits
Accumulated over time and generations
Without it mine would be a blank mind
To be blank but knowledgeable
Without any machinery
In a perfect silence
That is the definition of death for which we have only to wait
But in my panic last night I thought death's inert
Grace requires consciousness
Hold on long to the senses
At least a century, maybe more
A boy hanging upside down from a fence at sunset, counting clouds
2
Now we go to our daily practice
And chosen disciplines
Sustained by the satisfactions of being good men among our fellow men
Women
Choosing to do this and not that
With the finite days allotted us that at first seemed like a lot
They're now few
But the chickadee's life to the chick and the cankerworm moth's to the
worm
Seem as long to them as ours to us
What question am I asking today
By now, past half a century, I should have chosen a discipline
And been satisfied
To be a war president one must have war
May you live in interesting times?wish or curse?
Squirrels, high in oaks,
Fiber, fat and protein in acorns
Strong runners, leapers, climbers
Should stay off the roads which some cannot avoid being where they're
born
Natural selection is occurring
Those that look for machinery in motion
Hesitate or don't as needed before crossing
Live in larger numbers than those whose modus operandi's
Guessing
The ravens eat the fur and guts of bad guesses off the roads
I impose my own small order
Having chosen mountains over plains or shore
Go to my daily discipline
And estimate the motions of the seas and stars
Measuring my satisfactions by my children's satisfactions
FOUNTAIN : LIQUOR BOTTLE SHRINES...
Intoxicated and driven,
Staggering to a higher purpose where they buy their souls
Meeting with their Maker as they peak and overflow
Seeing all these empty faces file in and out in dance to the tune
No need to protect the treasure if it stifles their zenith
In and out of bodies they seem to leave
No flow from the fountain from which they drink
Stagnant, waiting to satisfy their insatiable thirst
With unimaginable haste gulping from the core as if a first encounter with an
oasis
Dripping down the contours of the mouth from the aggression
‘Drop off the gratitude before leaving the shrine’
The unholy water whispers after it quenches
Dressed in robes of fine cotton another traveler enters
With such poise and dominance that leaves the ground shaken
Unwrapping the cloth from the perfect curves
Ready to take a sip and maybe indulge
Let loose and even contain some in the silver chalice
Slowly ...steady does it
Starting off with a lick then a slurp out of impulse
As if tasting the finest wine making sure not to miss a drop
For the water it is a forever ago once forgotten
The delicacy
Hand upon lips to wipe away the resistant drops
The evidence of true of the luxury that should have never been
The water forgets
Until he leaves a fine too hefty even for indulgence
Eyes blood shot and teary from the wind
With the force of a hurricane marching towards emancipation
There is a need to irrigate the death
Ripples can be seen in the water while the typhoon swallows
It is an impact so strong that everything else is rendered inert
There is a spilling and maybe even a leaking
A time out should be called for the forces that are to repair
It is not a damage alien
Maybe add some yeast and watch it ferment
Sprinkle perfume and delude the nostrils of the parched
A measure necessary for the uplifting of all spirits
Nickels and dimes left in the fountain as the swagger out with satisfaction
Maybe tomorrow will be a good day to experience the bliss
Yet again and then maybe again and again
An ephemeral source that should be exploited
Expiration is imminent and thirst is persistent
Until they stumble upon another gift of the rain
They will drink
Till drink is no more...
First draft
I
By his deeds he was duly judged
And by his greed he was condemned
To the bowels far beneath the Earth-
Cursed tenfold to rot and feed the maggots unfed.
Stark Kilns was his doomed name
A man who burnt with hideous flame-
A name to forever tumble to oblivion
With its proprietor’s ruins and vision.
Not a soul wept
Not a tear on cheeks crept.
Not a soul attended the funeral
Save Kilns’ only overdue Aunt Feen-
A shrunken lady of a hundred and fifteen.
There petched on the solitary scaffold
Was the casket, a sad but terrible thing to behold-
For every inch of it gleamed of black-
A thing that still makes me tremble as a feeble stag.
The old priest by dogma read the eulogy
And alas! The casket was lowered
To the bowels of the cemetery
As the Sun hid its pale face
Beneath the horizon.
Thinking that this had brought the end
I turned away from my hiding behind the fern
But my attention became arrested
By a hollow sound, as if a drum had dropped.
There, the very black casket had reached
The base of the grave harder than intended.
Or perhaps the undertakers were in haste
For I had noticed them on edge and none chaste.
Then the undertakers fell to filling
And cursing that grave which today
Is marked by nothing but a pale olive tree
On which every evening perches a mute owl.
For ten years, that olive tree has never a fruit borne:
For ten solid years the owl has had itself sworn
To keep guard on that tree, that hideous tree
And Wait for its doomed master, I presume.
It had braved through like the very true son
Who had lost to the claws of cold death
The best dad in the world. So it had braved
Through the rain and cold that had plagued most days
How the town stirred upon becoming sentient
Of the cold guest at Kilns’ resting place.
Nothing but the owl was on the people’s menu
Many a townsfolk went to see for themselves
How the owl stared back with so much nonchalance
How the creature just glared back, its huge eyes inert.
The townsfolk upon leaving would but mutter:
“A ***** creature! I never trusted Kiln’s death.”
It came that these very townsfolk then sat
And secretly planned to bring to its death
This inert guest upon Kilns’ grave.
II
"Quesions for God"
CONTEST
There I was, missing her,
As she was lost somewhere in the snow,
The dead of winter encompassed her,
-slowly passed into oblivian.
There are no words to convey,
These inert thoughts of her sadness,
For I called on God,
For I had never accepted...
-the truth.
I had all these interruptions,
I fell into the fire so inquisitive,
And above my sights,
And below my perceptions,
I broke myself,
I seperated my thoughts,
Into pieces and parts with unkown beliefs.
As the inadequate temperature,
Raised questions in my mind,
Then I felt my God,
My haste has been incomplete...
-until that moment.
I slept in the basement,
And awoke in the black atmosphere,
So many inquisitive questions,
"Why isn't she still alive?"
Thoughts and inquiry,
I softly whispered...
"Is there a way to explain,
Why she left me so alone?
For I can't live with out her,
I'm a reducing agent on the quinone.
Now my ability to breathe,
My emotions so suppressed,
Will I ever see her again?
I have addressed that I'm depressed.
Why can I not move anymore,
Why did she take her own life?
Why is suicide so alive lately?
Now I'm paying the price."
Suddenly I felt her purpose,
On this earth so apparent,
So I quietly meditated,
Eyes closed, heart refreshed,
And in that moment..
-I understood this tragedy...
"Is it normal to feel at ease,
Underneath the shattered glass?
Has my confliction subsided?"
I'm allowing this catastrophe to surpass.
"What's the dealing in the healing?
And what's the warmth in the snow?
You've listened as I've expressed my grievance,
A delighted gift you have bestowed."
Higher power, how I trust you,
Thoughts and inquiry, I softly whispered,
"For now my restraints have been lifted,
And I understood her purpose,
To be the most beautiful woman,
But she ended up so mirthless."
Even though she gave up too soon,
And no matter the circumstance,
I feel from my guidance from my higher power,
And I imagined her as she danced.
"Where were you hiding?
My power greater than myself,"
As I thanked you soul revived,
"I'm grateful for my personal wealth."
October 14, 2015
4th Place Winner
Plethora of humans (think overpopulation)
directly linkedin to planet Earth dire strait
re: environmental catastrophe, née debacle
teeters along brink tipping point inevitably
pitching civilization headlong into oblivion
*****sapiens (minus those living off grid)
admirably self sufficient unto themselves,
perhaps ecological intentional community
while yours truly, one guilt ridden scrivener
laments impacting minimal carbon footprint
(courtesy these thankful little feet size nine+)
nonetheless psychological torment wracks
lovely bones garden variety/generic human
specifically comprising complex edifice me
Matthew Scott Harris riven with loathsome
abomination, constipation, indignation, et al
mustered, tethered, yoked into capitalistic,
commercialistic, consumeristic ditto et alia
versus altruistic holistic, simplistic again re:
call synonymous words regarding contrast
between belching, exhausting, and polluting
(naming three adjectives describing impact
predominantly nsync with prophetic albeit,
profit oriented profligate, profane paradigm
unleashing immense global carbon emissions
see following website for further details: https:
//www.scientificamerican.com/article/co2-
emissions-will-break-another-record-in-2019/.
Impossible mission to uncouple accountability,
(no matter minuscule - veritable drop within
figurative bucket when quantity contrasted/
compared alongside industrial waste courtesy
major corporations), yet helplessness prevails
survival (mine) inextricably bound trappings
twenty first century allow, enable, and provide
exploiting even dollop so called nonrenewable
resources, I could sacrifice corporeal entity -
body, mind and spirit within eyeblink exhales
last breath before becoming repurposed - inert
cremated ashes randomly scattered across all
points encompassing terrestrial world wide web.
Obituary -
Despite havoc primate species did wreak
from the afterlife I figuratively speak
and applaud millennials whose peak
performance accorded courtesy
your token "aged hippie,"
and long haired pencil necked geek,
whose disembodied spirit
now volunteers as Halloween sideshow freak
incorporating gallows humor tongue in cheek.
The crossroads of shadows within my mind, where darkness and light intertwine
in an eternal dance, I sit in my own solitude,
feeling nothing but the painful flatness of existence,
consumed by loneliness, why must it be this way?
In a room full of people, all I see is my reflection, empty and pale.
A weight of stone upon my chest, a grip that steals every breath,
in agony, I writhe, a prisoner of unending suffering.
My movements constrained, the pain persists, waves of torment intensify,
the burden deepens, in pain, I lament, emptied of tears and hope.
Sleep has departed, only thoughts remain in a mournful waltz,
devoid of appetite, my body becomes a tight cage.
I unravel, falling slowly, piece by piece,
through the silence of the night, I've sought deliverance, but found only muffled echoes.
I am nothing, my image forever tainted by doubt,
thoughts that chain me, an implacable barrier,
as despair reigns with a crown of thorns,
I will never be better.
My perception shrouded by a veil of darkness,
feelings of despair hold firm like stones crushed under pressure.
My heart now knows only the sorrow of an eternal storm,
my soul, an abyss emptied of light, an unending night of the grave.
Portrayed as a morning without the sun,
the feeling of emptiness extends endlessly,
the pain persists, and hope slowly fades away.
The pain has become an unbearable cadence,
now I feel nothing but the silence of a frozen void,
the person I once was is lost forever,
and what remains is an empty, sterile freeze, devoid of life.
Ice flowers bloom on the walls of my soul,
as a testament to the cold that has embraced me,
in a realm of shadows beneath dead stars, I lose myself,
in the ethereal dance of longing and forgetting,
aimlessly seeking a spark of what I once was,
only to discover crystals of pain in the boundless desolation.
Here, in this eternal night of my conscience,
where thoughts flow like rivers of silvery mist,
I find myself on the edge of my universe,
in an endless quest for release, in the inert silence of existence.
A kaleidoscope of unknown metaphors finds its place
in the tapestry of a frozen heart, an unwritten poem of suffering and melancholy.
I know that I was born insane
to love so much the face of Death.
Insanity romanced me even when
a child still dwelled beneath infernal skin.
Why could society not understand
that all I’ve ever really wanted equals none?
They knew I never fancied animating flesh
but would not let my life be done.
I couldn't stir myself into the mix
of scribes and commons laying decent laws
demanding that I shadow the shadow cast
by some thin, mortal God.
I've always been enchanted by the doomsday trim
of lightness edged with Death’s esthetic claws
and yet, new dawns decreed I stay
and left me pinched in Life's stiff, rigid pause.
I pined away in darkest corridors for He
who could erase the curse of knowledge learned.
My Alabaster Wraith, He sat with me while Life
held me confined and counted out my every breath
as if a promise that he'd wrest the soil
back from my hollow bones
and press my spirit back into the dust,
so I might find some peace, in the unknown.
I often pled for cruelest remedies
that Life's more favored inmates feared
because each torture treatment let me glimpse
His lethal cowl and my demise.
Mere breaths and heartbeats stood
between my sickness and the cure
for Life's oppression of my soul
that lay too far on Death's frontier.
I've never sought forked-ray lobotomies
or sun-salts poured in night-stained eyes.
I never yearned for freedom or the sun
but revelled in the sweetest dreams
that I would breech the human warehouse walls
but not survive the birth,
become a husk of inert flesh allowed
to find asylum in the earth.
Restraint within a man-made tomb of Life
was all the Hell I ever feared and yet
my mind was so incurable that by and by
I was abandoned by the pious saints...
until there rose a hero on the still walls of
a midnight void of Death's sure faith;
He came and he collected me
my Alabaster Wraith.
Stone testaments commomorate a Life
I never lived or wanted to have lived,
a number chains my bones in place
where people forcefully preserved
Life's longing for itself.
My meatless parts communicate
a warmth for living that I never felt
but balms of death have healed my hate.