Long Infiltrates Poems
Long Infiltrates Poems. Below are the most popular long Infiltrates by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Infiltrates poems by poem length and keyword.
"Road Kill and the 3 Fates"
Daughters of Nyx
the sisters
Stand strong together
when darkness
feigns innocence
next to the forgotten
Road Kill
Nyx becomes Themis
a memory
infiltrates the mind
prompting the true law
and order of things
Backwards towards
a beginning
Inside resides
the female Titan
somewhere winning
Collecting the threads
of each life enlightening
the golden chords copacetic
the beginning chapters
come in far too late
back to front
Road Kill and the
3 Fates
Empathetic
(LadyLabyrinth / 2020)
llb-klb-mlb
“Gold” / Chet Faker
https://youtu.be/hi4pzKvuEQM
“At the instant of drowning
he invoked the three sisters
It was a mistake, an aberration,
to cry out for Life everlasting"
"He suffered the enormous agonies of passion
Writing poems from the end backwards,
Brushing away tears that had not yet fallen."
Rosemary Dobson, Poet. Sydney, Australia
(extract The Three Fates)
1. Moirae (Moirai)
https://greekgodsandgoddesses.net/goddesses/the-morai/
2.a
Themis
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Themis
2.b
Nyx
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Nyx
3.a
“The Three Fates” by Rosemary Dobson, Poet. / Analysis
https://poetryprof.com/the-three-fates/
3.b
Rosemary Dobson, Poet. Sydney/Australia.
(18 June 1920 – 27 June 2012)
https://www.poetrylibrary.edu.au/poets/dobson-rosemary
Anthology of Poems/Rosemary Dobson.
https://www.poetrylibrary.edu.au/poets/dobson-rosemary/poems
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rosemary_Dobson
She looks like a sweetheart
but hides an ugly secret.
She chases down back-alley gossip
like an addict craving crack.
Her penchant for twisting truth
rivals her hunger for drama.
She’s hypocrite as they come
much like a venomous snake
who infiltrates without a trace.
She’s stealth with poisoned lips
wagging her wicked forked tongue.
We don’t suspect her strategy
while getting tangled in her web.
We’re blind to the ugliness
concealed behind her smile ~
vulnerable with our misguided trust.
She’s got no moral compass.
Betrayal is but a game.
Lineku: 3 stanzas 5-7-5 with 5 or 7 words in each line
AP: Honorable Mention 2025
Red Sails
Mathilda and Frankenstein, Shelley’s creation
Both penned during times of inhibition
Monster and maiden are at the fore
The maiden had secrets to deplore
Now she sits upon the silvery sand while crimson tinges evening cloud
With thoughts of paternal loss that infiltrates a grieving mind
A father’s love that went beyond to force his tortured soul to flee
Jamaican paradise, red sailed sunset that spans the azure sea
Where orange groves soak fading solar rays in memory of the slave
Who sailed the Atlantic boats, to work the fertile land and early grave
Sharp citrus scent that sits upon the passing breeze of long ago
To tell the tale of hard long days they sang away their woe
Mathilda strokes her fragrant orange sphere that’s perfect like their love
Peering into the seas briny depths where lies the glisten from above
An orphan whose solace remains within the dying embers of this day
Red sails upon the sky line that billow along the freedom way
We once carved our Gods out of stone,
life was harsh, and prospects were grim.
But we felt we were not alone,
though the odds of that seemed slim.
Seeking guidance outside of self,
God filled the gaps that made us whole.
Yet, faith is oft placed on a shelf,
for no one likes to bear their soul.
When conflicting truths drift apart,
arrogance and ignorance thrive.
And as doubt infiltrates your heart,
anger ensures scorn's kept alive.
God's presence is hard to explain,
He's the embodiment of hope.
And His perfection purges pain,
so that imperfect souls can cope.
Religion recruits the pious,
worshiping God in many forms.
But their beliefs hold a bias
oft rejecting accepted norms.
(Quatrain)
11/30/2015
A pen that drips upon hesitating featherless wings
holds vented words that bleed of the music it sings,
longing for escape or some sense of sweet release
of a soul alone, lost in obscure hopes of peace.
Is it rhyme or reason that infiltrates
thrusts of blotted ink spots dripping feelings that titillate
where once free thought expressed joy, peace and rage
now comes the plunge of images dancing on the page.
What do you see in those images displayed
amidst every laugh and tear held in your throat
the visions ofsuffering you have portrayed,
what words and melody could the words emote?
Picture a flower, some red crimson scented rose
sketched clear in its simplest and majestic form
by ink, the pen, the page, the line disclosed
the rapture of this life to which we're born.
Let the pen ink flow, dripping in passionate poetry or prose
a combined expression by couplet, verse or quatrain spent.
flutters of the heart at rest released in quiet safe repose
with melodic imagery in words that sing again, with pens content.
Theme "The rapture of this life" 5/19/18
for Broken Wings contest on Let Your Pen Drip
Pounding at the resonant head
of my chest—he of hunger
latches his fangs just beneath my jaw—
not to sever silence, but to pummel poison.
Tissue parts with wet reluctance,
he with need more than malice
burrows into the larynx of what
was once controlled, fearful sound.
Nameless, shapeless he who
with shark-possessed teeth does not ravage—
but infiltrates—peeling cartilage from confession,
mining marrow-thoughts clogged in
curse-traversed trachea.
I am a conduit split open—
voice extracted in ligaments,
fibrous and twitching,
stripped from the cords—
myofibrils separatus tendon.
Nameless, shapeless he!
How does he so musically reshape
what I cannot say?
How does he gut syllables
I do not recognize—
yet still, convince me
they are mine?
With his guiding talons,
my breath comes out red,
heavier than blood—
tastes of steel-bitten soul—
boiled vowels
that never knew air
but somehow rise.
His incantation:
Spiritus somni!
Spits into my mouth—
a blessing—not!
a summons—not!
but a shameful dream behind my teeth
like bruises that speak sermons.
Nameless, shapeless he…
He says I was never mute—
only sealed for some latter doomsday…
And now, with my throat laid open like a shrine,
he listens as I blaspheme
my dream.
(Note: In this abecedarian poem, I redacted the name of the particular denomination to protect the innocent and to universalize the context. Fill in your own favorite groups! Prejudice against those perceived to be “other” than “us” infiltrates human hearts no matter the identity or extent of the difference.)
Closed Community Prejudice (an Alphabetized Memoir)
By Mark D. Stucky
Almost everyone in my home community
belonged to _________ churches.
Churches not _________ (like Methodist and Lutheran)
didn’t seem “right” somehow, although nobody whispered it.
Every other group was less homogenous than us,
fated to be born “different” from us.
Good people maybe.
However,
inferior to us surely.
Just not quite like us.
Knew them only superficially.
Looked like us on the outside.
Maybe not that different after all?
No, they weren’t the same ethnicity as us.
Otherness lurked inside them.
…
Perhaps prejudices in all people,
quietly
rise
slowly
toward
unholy
vantage points.
What if
xenophobes, like
you and me, could
zero out all our distortions?
(Originally published as "Closed Community Memoir (Alphabetized)" in Reflecting on Race Through Poetry, a collection of participant poems from a class at First United Methodist Church in Kalamazoo, Michigan, 1 Nov. 2000. See also my poems "Races," "Weapons of Wonder," and "Hate Vacuuming?")
(Original image by Braden Collum on Pexels.com.)
A life without end in sight! Fed up, I hibernate.
A sleep like the dead, until I wake,
I yawn, nod, doze and wake again.
Yet I feel lethargic and tired.
Why wake into full aesthetic consciousness?
Why should I not grab forty more winks?
I wish my vitality infiltrates my essential existence,
but the going is truly tough.
It's like crossing the black Styx
wading across a bottomless ford,
as if I have been condemned to Hades.
I tremble into awareness, search for reconciliation
sacrifice a peace offering to my merciful Lord.
Can I find redemption? Should I plead insanity,
mental disorder or lunatic madness?
Maybe 'tis what I should have done,
instead I wake, work hard, test my tired arteries,
hear the creak of arthritic bones,
do gratifying things, like every workman should:
until I sleep the repose of the just.
3 December 2020
An SO contest
Placed 2
My sizzling heart failing around the clock
No light colliding with the dark to spark
But essence dying passively through the dim
Dream's wall burning by the fire of terror
In a second, a sharp arrow infiltrates the soul
And silently overflowing blood around its artery.
Nothing emerged than an insane time,
Everything not set as materialised
There are volatile inheritance bloodstreams
Follows to end up with a quiet destination.
What a life ushers for nought...
No, no satiety to purify the lure in life.
Look at the moon shaded by a cloud
A hard rocky cloud
Cosmos horizon...
Never has it appeared over the sky
Even ancient times have yet to happen.
A silent mourning overthrows the time
A path continues to the graveyard
And I found a frosted body lying
cuddled with dreams.
A scamp life left behind the snag...
A presence of fervent destiny, a final milestone!
If I could morph from human form
into a thing, what would I be?
I’d want to have a positive
influence on humanity.
I wouldn’t be a campaign speech
chock-full of vows too grand to keep
a harsh word or a honeyed lie
that makes a shattered lover weep
a game promoting violence
that infiltrates a young child’s mind.
New me won’t be political,
just something simple and so kind.
Time’s moving fast. I must decide
before my hair grows grayer!
I’ve got it now. Y’all please don’t laugh.
I’ll be a CD player.
We all know music’s powerful;
it has been through the ages.
It’s there for us in times of peace
and soothes when chaos rages.
It’s part and parcel of our lives;
our spirits it engages.
What can I play for you today?
What is your heart desiring?
My purpose is to bring you joy
and play some tunes inspiring.
I’m here for you and proud to be
a part of musicality!
Date Posted: June 13, 2020
Contest Title: Non Human Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Chantelle Anne Cooke