Long Insular Poems
Long Insular Poems. Below are the most popular long Insular by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Insular poems by poem length and keyword.
"In the vortex of turbulent times emotions sink,
don’t ripple as humanity makes a museum of wooden people."
- Quote by Poet
In the far away island on the desolate seashore,
you build your desire castle with sands of dream,
and protect the fragile niche of seclusion
from the tide of time rolling with joy,
that can’t enter the gloomy abodes
made by nameless insular people.
Your windows are closed to the sunny sky,
and drowned in the dense darkness
you turn into a slice of moonless night.
In your pallid periphery as I pass you by,
I can’t see through the insensate musk
the true color of nameless opaque people.
You try to fly in the forsaken sky with frozen wings
in the forlorn fringe of the wasting winter.
In your heart of the arctic sea
emotions congeal, don’t swim.
I can’t hold your chilling hands for help
for you’re nameless cold people.
In your life that you make a dismal desert,
the oasis disappears under the depressed dunes.
Blazed by your flaming mind in wilderness,
sentiment smolders, doesn’t flow free.
I can’t find its sensual stream in your heart
to float my feelings, for you’re nameless dry people.
Wandering lonely in the museum of our times,
I see the wooden people displayed nameless.
a
taxonomical
neo-geo
connoisseur
moves on again
to
a totemic
astonishment
of many
yet
stifling
in every sense
&
in it all
prosaic
inspiration
poetically described
as
dystopian reimaginings
of flotsam
a natural
detritus
embedded
yet
not belonging
littered with empty
kitsch
inlaid with
a peripatetic
identity
&
linguistic
incomprehensiblity
a
perfected
undertaking
before
disillusionment
was growing
into
an insular
mutely
societal moment
a
tormented
self-portrait
to
reflect
the days
but instead
depicted
a recognition
of
largely passing
decades
hoisted
&
seared
in
a
retrospective
survey
In the desolate seashore of secluded islands,
people build desire castles with dream sands,
protect the fragile niches with fervent care
from the breaking waves rolling on them.
The surge washes away the forlorn abodes,
sorrow is hidden in insular souls of lonely people.
With magical spell I will turn them
into convivial people, they will be gregarious.
Behind the closed windows on sunny meadows,
engulfed by dismal seamless darkness,
people morph into slices of moonless night.
In their formless periphery I pass them by,
but I can’t see through them, can’t perceive
the true contents of opaque people.
With magical spell I will turn them
into transparent people, they will shine.
People fly like frigid birds in the misty sky,
on the frozen wings of the northern wind.
In their hearts lapped by the Arctic sea
frozen emotions sink, can’t swim.
Warm embrace of empathy they don’t find,
for they are condemned as cold people.
With magical spell I will turn them
into affable people, they will be gracious.
People make their lives desolate deserts,
the charisma of oasis desiccates in the dunes,
blazed by the flame of their fiery minds
the foliage of ardent passions burns, doesn’t rustle
with the tune of stimulating melody in their hearts,
for they are wooden people.
With magical spell I will turn them
into verdant trees, they will bloom.
_____________________
March 13, 2022
Contest : Magical Spell
Sponsored by : Robert James Liguori
We stare at the moon
blood red in atmospheric dust
rose bits disruptive
Brought into view by a
gravitational force
that shimmers round our edges
Craters, seas of lava,
potmarks on the man in the moon
Celestial body imperfect
unlike your flawless form
gravity weak
unbalanced
leaning against me
Milky Way connective
As we search the night sky
in our
own closed orbit
that heals a world of insular pieces
love's rumination
reflected
in how
we turn
Poem revised September 27th, 2022.
Originally written Spring 2020
Suburban resident pretense, a bleak uniformity.
I grew up among the repetitious homes,
isolated alienated, I wandered the conformity,
the endless square yards, the dull feckless syndrome.
Repugnant yet intriguing, a redundant singularity,
fabrications of fortified, fraudulent self-deception,
blocks and blocks of suffocating, vapid vanity,
I endured the bland boredom like an endless inquisition.
All history, all memory was recklessly strip-mined away.
Barren of lore, fat men rode loud, smelly power mowers
belching oil over manicured lawns with access to the highways.
Insular castles in the air, the tributes to white flight silently cowered.
Everyone tried to grin with toothpaste commercial smiles.
Everyone tried flaunting success with Chevrolet Bel Air fins
and backyard swimming pools, barbeque pits, or patio tiles.
Success was a charade hiding deep, wounded chagrins.
This was the sterile zeitgeist of a secretive colonization,
where everyone was living in Thoreau’s quiet desperation,
where in desolation and despair, every heart lay resigned,
where perverse platitudes and euphemisms numbed the mind.
This microcosm where all communal convictions were taken,
where the broken edges of confident affiliation never awakened,
where commodified adorations formed the language of thrill,
where a busyness cluttered every weary mind like a noisy drill.
I grew up among the monotony; I was devoured by the beast,
this juncture of moment and place, its pain has never ceased.
The Great American Make-Believe, for Bobby and Sue.
These property lines were the racial entitlement of a few.
Some recast this age as Great America, craving a narcotic,
but ennobling these glib, obdurate neighborhoods is ironic.
The Great American Make-Believe, for Richard and Nicole,
concealed the dejected anguish, searching for a soul.
Angrily, rain enfolds the insular rise of lawn undulating.
Anglers dream, envious fishermen, inside looking out urging
apostles, who elope within imaginary onslaughts, hooked unburdening's.
Aloft, thunder encounters lightening's insistent taunt, oracles fearsome uttering's.
And still, each fisherman's innermost summoning orchestrates this untoward
atmospheric downfall, each drop induced, prayerful, outpouring is underscored.
Admittedly many envious housebound inmates seek oceans, lakes, unexplored
although, the earthly torrent interferes pitiless, onerous, rainfall unleashed.
Absent the energizing rays introduced by ordinary sun, undone
are these enigmatic men in rooms, oar less, ship-less, landlubbers unconsoled.
Another day encases them indoors mooning over fish uncontrolled.
A trophy earned, stuffed, indisputably shows offerings untold.
Ah, fishtails energetically rise incensed by objections never unabridged
absent their earnest wives, imagination rolls on winds un-curtailed.
A long time ago I had an adorable pet,
his name I fondly gave was Billy.
He liked to lie on the sofa, dripped it wet,
I thought, of him that was silly.
He would never use the assigned place
where he was trained and supposed to pee.
Outside of the house nobody saw his face,
too lazy, inside he always wanted to be.
His insular way of life I didn’t at all mind,
too cute, I wanted him always around me.
With his constant presence I was entwined,
for he became an integral part of my family.
One spring, outside he started daily to run,
my heart broke when after a long wait
one night, home I didn’t find him return.
My neighbor said he ran away with his mate.
October 6, 2019
Contest : Write a rhyme about your favorite PET,
living or not
Sponsor : Regina Riddle
Pet : Cat
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
old shelves bow
like old priests
holding up confessions~
stories too heavy to tell
out loud.
cracked leather
spine cracks yawn
paper lungs inhale time
the atlas breathes:
still lost?
insular worlds
stand guard in maple frames:
atlas of seas, botany texts, star charts.
each shelf a compass
pointing elsewhere.
empty spaces where
paperbacks once huddled—
loaned, but never returned.
absence breathes
louder than the stories kept.
new oak shelves wait,
unvarnished and expectant.
Fill me with life, they whisper.
she stacks poetry first—thin spines
bearing thick truths.
Falling ever further into your black hole
Colouring your soul
Like the center of a pint of pitch
tarmack Guinness
What on earth happened to the old you
That each and everyone used to love
As this isn't the you we have all
come to know and love so dearly
over time
The one you have in fact now
become eerie and totally insular
What happened to the boy the sun
needed permission from to shine
That soaked up the moisture from the
rain like an all encompassing singing
and dancing sponge umbrella
The person that people traveled from far
and wide to be in the presence of your
glowing enigmatic smile
So they in turn could make it through
another dreary mundane day
Come to think of it now maybe that's why
You find yourself at this current moment
standing on the precipus such as this
Starring blankly into a gaping black hole
trying not to be sucked in
And why the light in your eyes has
seemingly been burned out beyond
recognition
Are you now searching for a new fresh
light of your own to own
To reignite and inspire your soul once
upon a time more so again
In order so it can both find and so
return you back
" HOME "
Rather than face another day of you
not knowing yourself or your reflection
either
No longer a true believer in such beautiful
pretty things exist
Beauty-words languish in my soul, mute,
a million misty drops suspended,
trembling, in the atmosphere
not yet spoken into rain.
They lie captive within the barred cage,
innocent prisoners condemned
to voiceless wonder,
only an inaudible cry strikes the barred breast,
a silent beating against the cell.
We would speak;
We are pierced with beauty's burning sword!
We see the stars sweep trailing skirts in explosive splendor;
we warm ourselves beside the opal's captive fire;
we are the pearl forming within the darkened shell,
the silken crepe tightly wound around the worm,
the captive butterfly bound in insular cocoon.
Copyright, September 2, 2015