Long Interrogations Poems
Long Interrogations Poems. Below are the most popular long Interrogations by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Interrogations poems by poem length and keyword.
I awoke hoping for a golden day
I’m easily dazzled, I suppose.
But it’s cool and overcast in Paris.
They’re limiting the sunshine today
because of global warming.
How can global warming bring a thousand harms
if it can’t even cook a turkey?
I love this after-Christmas week.
The crowded activities and Hallmark card events are over
but we still have the sunny moods and infectious vibes
(and no classwork).
My parents flew in last night.
It’s a holiday miracle.
What’s better than running into your mother’s arms
for a, “Mom-MEEEEEEEEEE!” hug.
Joy is a land unto itself, dizzying and potent.
“Your hair,” she said, almost immediately
- confiscating my adulthood with ease.
I‘ve missed her interrogations
and itchy, absorbing interest.
Re-entering childhood can be emotionally wearing
I needed a skin of those shuttle tiles for reentry.
The funny thing is, I get to watch my momma smother
under Grandmère’s beam-fixture gaze.
It seems awfully bright in here - far below the overcast.
.
.
Songs for this:
Wouldn't It Be Nice by The Sirens
Conexão by Amber Mark
Alas, she learned too late, the sanctity of being chaste
A teenage soul, lost in the depths of night.
Haunted visions, a spectre's silent cry,
Unspoken secrets beneath a mask, she'll hide.
A fragile heart bearing burdens heavy,
A clandestine choice, a tale unsteady.
For a life, a whisper that was once within her core,
Now echoes silent, haunting evermore.
The unborn, a phantom's wail,
In visions, it questions as time sets sail.
Interrogations, piercing like the wind's keen gust,
Accusing eyes, a conscience crushed to dust.
"Why, oh why, deny me life's embrace?
A chance to dance in time's fleeting grace."
The spectre pleads, a voice from the abyss,
A shadowed soul trapped in the serpent's hiss.
Guilt wraps its tendrils around her heart,
A secret kept now rips her world apart.
In solitude, she bears her weight of sin,
An unspoken truth, an eternal din.
In daylight's mask, she feigns a smile,
Yet, in the dark, she walks a lonesome mile.
Tormented whispers, shadows in her mind,
A heavy secret, a cruel bind.
Insanity's spectre whispers, sly,
Should her public penance be to die?
The ghostly echoes of what's left behind,
A tortured soul, a shattered mind.
Yet, hope persists, a flicker in the gloom,
Redemption's light, dispelling the doom.
For in confession, courage may reside,
A chance for healing, a soul untied.
Let not the secret strangle her soul,
She must seek solace and healing to make her whole.
For in forgiveness, the heart finds peace,
And redemption's dawn grants sweet release.
Nuthin’…..
I do it all the time…
been doin’ it all my life
y’know….nuthin’
Started early – as a kid
during Mom’s interrogations
“Where were you?”
“OUT.”
“Who were you with?”
“NO ONE.”
“Where did you go?”
“NOWHERE.”
“What did you do?”
“NUTHIN’”
As I aged doing NUTHIN’
became an art form.
For with age comes the pretense
of always “doing ‘SUMTHIN’”.
Oftentimes I have been asked
“what are you doing?”
My answer – “NUTHIN’”
Some people have a difficult time
grasping the beauty of “NUTHIN’-NESS”
I read recently that the Dalai Lama
meditates for five hours each morning.
He has achieved the highest level
of doing “NUTHIN’”
When I am “meditating” people ask
“What are you thinking about?”
I tell them – “NUTHIN’”.
They voice their doubts
saying it is impossible
to think about “NUTHIN’”
I tell them that it is possible –
to think about “NUTHIN’”
even while doin’ “SUMTHIN”.
AH – the art of “NUTHIN’-NESS”!!
To rest, unfocused, un-entangled,
in the spidery synaptic web.
So, next time you feel compelled
to strive for the peak of the mountain,
ask the guy sitting at the bottom
quietly contemplating his navel
what he is doing……
drop the backpack of life
and join him
in doing…..“NUTHIN’”
John G. Lawless
9/15/2015
I emerge from a long night
where mind, muscle and bone
failed to find a place, a posture
quiet and comfortable enough
for sleep. And so I have arrived here,
daybreak on this spring morning
with the resident blackbird
performing his familiar
all to early reveille.
I envy his vigorous rousing
lifted full volume
into the morning silence
as if all nature was called
to stir on command of his voice,
no equivocation or hesitant stall
to doubt the worthiness
of his song.
It holds the chords of his being,
a moment when sound
and self are one, meld
into living art. I gather the bits
and pieces of myself
left by the interrogations
of last night, search for the notes
that contain a little of who I am,
pick up a pen to make
myself into me again.
I am the vampire, is this thing on?
As I said I'm merely a pawn.
NOW you're recording? I am the vam--oh bother it all!
Must we do this in the bathroom stall?
Wolfman took the girl, anyway.
He's always out for the stray.
What was I doing?
Taking a coffin nap, with the possibility of snoring.
That's as violent as I got from head to toe.
Heck, I even heard Mummy might've had a go.
Can I go, now?
Well you got a bright light on me,
Of course there's sweat on my brow!
Wolfman, here. Did you get that?
Wolf--wolf, louder? What do I look like a bat?
I'm not a shrieker.
Not like that vampire. George.
Who's George? That's his name.
George The Vampire.
Boy are your background check's lame...
Answer the question?
What question?
No, I don't know a Linda May.
No, no, I was never at Creekside Way.
What do you mean you found her blood on my ear?
Lab work? Whatever. Talk to my lawyer.
I gotta run. Full moon's near.
It's a figure of speech! No not the running part.
I do LITERALLY have to run.
I meant the moon nearing.
So y'all best be fearing.
No, I didn't just threaten a police officer!
Just let me go before I turn a lot less nicer!
Mfmmrmmmummy...
Mhmm.
Mhmm.
Hm.
Hmfrmmkkrffmmkrffmmkrfmm!
Mm. Sorry. Could I get a glass of water, please?
Scratchy throat. Linda? 'Course I killed her, geez!
*Matt Caliri
*Halloween Fun
*(too much fun for a 20 line limit)
dancing to the rhythm of my world
it helps me to ignore you and the force of the grip that pulls you
the rhythms heard are the medicines of my motion
it is then when i can truly be free even in conflict
my exclamatories become inaudible whispers
my interrogations become internal answers
there are no tears for they are abolished by laws of simplicity
there is such a thing in life....if you only let it in....
dancing to the rhythm of my world
it prevents me from the mighty clutches the continuously pulls you (back) in
the beats experienced are the elixirs for the sanity of my wearied mind
my heavy bellows become murmurs barely breathing
my inquisitiveness becomes exponential edutainment
there are no fears for they are abolished by laws of simplicity
there is such a thing in life....if you only let it in....
unfortunately I rouse,
incapacitated, fettered,
fuzzily sensitising to
my bedchamber, I ruminate
and periodically deem adequate.
eyes hanging with encumbrances,
engendering the plagued gaze,
empty and dull of scintillation
that flickered out lang syne,
inadvertently blighting all
who love me enough to meet it
with sorrow and remorse.
bitter utterances resound—
sarcastic, playful, yet
it swipes at my skin, scarring,
each reverberation swells
the ache, once dull, now palpitating,
degrading my ability to exist.
repugnance laces my features,
sewn into the cavities and pits
inside I can’t otherwise fill;
dentition stained, a miasma
of decay, tainting energy
emptily pledged to sustenance.
my body a vinyl record
obscure, weakened, aimless,
and the community the stylus,
passing over me, yet somehow
boldly navigating my scratched shell,
incapable of realising
impairment is done to the core,
ignorant that the music,
even with perpetual
interrogations “are you okay?”
like a broken record,
erelong will stop playing.
diamond grazing integument
unravelling muscle, a dazzling show,
zenith of the symphony,
populace vocalising and jiving
over the sound of my wails,
misconstrued to entertainment
solely from my torment.
severed sinew gathers in
accruals of sanguine liquor.
unseamed as the music crackles,
fading to a somehow louder silence
upon the tragic epiphany
of my lacerated cadaver.
I addressed the young stranger sitting alone on a park bench:
"Hi, I'm Jason Bills." His handshake was firm, his smile uncertain
but warm.
"Hello, Jason. I--I don't know my name or where I am!"
And so began the odd but fulfilling relationship between the amnesiac
and my entire little sheltered Southern town. Enveloping him in
concern and love, we created "Jerry" and a life for him, making him
brother, son, friend to us all. We took pride in our--uh, invention--gladly
taking care of his needs and wants. He did odd jobs quite skillfully; we,
of course, paid him in cash.
At first, we asked few questions, since he so quickly became nervous.
Then, after a few weeks, the town's conscience reared its accusing head,
demanding that we make an all-out effort to awaken his past. Loved ones
surely were grieving and searching for him.
We weren't very subtle. We probed and prodded: "Any memories,
even vague ones, of family? Past surroundings? Profession? Hobbies?
Religious faith? Problems that might've traumatized . . . ?"
By then, "Jerry" was trembling, almost in tears. "I--I just don't
remember--ANYTHING. I'm sorry!"
We promised, "Okay, Jerry, no more interrogations! Some day soon,
maybe we can contact authorities to help us discover who you are.
Surely you, deep down, want to know."
Jerry's smile was gone. The next day, so was he.