Long Interspersed Poems
Long Interspersed Poems. Below are the most popular long Interspersed by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Interspersed poems by poem length and keyword.
I walk in the shadow
I shore up my doubt, behind a loosely bound hope
Which in turn is propped up without foundation
Cynical of a life, at the mercy of luck
Collateral damage feeds my reservation
I shore up tomorrow with what I see today
Without conspiracy or investigation
I place trust in all that’s completely unfettered
For fear, I’m left to this present resignation
I shore up my life with whatever came before
Not hindsight or academic education
The oblivion traversed until I was born
Strings along primal echoes of information
I shore up my conscious with bliss and ignorance
Interspersed with indifference on occasion
It’s not I don’t care about suffering and death
Rather, I’m desensitised by their pervasion
I shore up my denial with an open mind
Which is nothing except raw interpretation
This planet spins correctly, even though tilted
Not by wishful thinking, but strange gravitation
I shore up my boredom, trying to fall asleep
When really tired, will attempt hibernation
Anything to forget this human condition
After remembering, I’m long past salvation
I shore up my heaven, by creating a hell
Balance looks more appealing, in an equation
Gaze upon purgatory, and share what I see
Not because I’m kind, it’s more my destination
I shore up my poem by claiming it’s my own
But in truth, it’s an open collaboration
I conspire with the musings of all that’s unclear
They dwell inside me, in flawless aberration
- - - - - - -
Horrid little raindrops
Hopping upon the ground
Hosing down my windows
Hoarding inside the clouds
Hanging around my head
Holding my spirit down
Haul your ass off elsewhere
Reduced to a couple once again,
Remembering this is how our life once began,
Blessed by God with three children,
Now all grown up and settled in their own families,
Grateful for their lives, at the same time sad,
Looking at our empty house,
Where once reigned their bubbly children noises,
Each room a rueful reminder
Of their exuberant laughter and a million memories;
Now, we look at each other,
Our conversations interspersed with,
"I wonder what he's doing now!"
Or "How is she managing all her chores?"
Worrying and wondering,
Whiling away our time with Chinese Checkers,
Recalling the days when we used to play together,
Silent spaces speak volumes,
While we wait for photos and phone calls,
Or vacation visits that are few and far between.
3rd May 2023
For Cooper Etheridge's "Empty Nest" contest
"That I may come unto you with joy by the will of God, and may with you be refreshed." Romans 15:32 of the King James Bible
My journey with our special child is sublime halcyon indeed
testifying the vibrant essence of love-propped deed
that can be nurtured along caring breed
beyond reverberating dogmatic creed.
Special… midst quirks of sheer mirth
joyous son is God’s blessing
greeting family members with glad smile
marked by good morning of sign language bliss
radiating cheers that champion hope.
Special child spells victory
gesturing double thumbs up
interspersed with his spastic praying hands
as he seeks for God’s favor and guidance
toward triumphant day worth thanking for.
Beholding his milestones, defying disability's blight
I rejoice to witness him surmounting with grace-filled might
congenital defect that serves as lingering blight
because compassion upholds him to experience goodness-delight.
His special needs require care
as well as patience and grace
meeting demands challenging parents’ role
to stay sober, serenely strong with poise
vanquishing panic against frantic sigh.
Special kindness always reigns
since home begets charity
where safety fortress abides smiting fear
propelling members toward faith ventures
especially to do meaningful roles.
Surely, our special child exudes good heart
grateful for support along security's rampart
protecting him against evil dart
as love prevails with impact that does not depart.
2nd place, "Halcyon, Heartbroken, House Words" Poetry Writing Contest
Sponsored by Constance La France; judged on 10/10/2023
Extant autobiography devoid
of livingsocial, I berate
whatsapp pining now resultant
outcome coping poorly did create
courtesy, sans avast kindled
linkedin self denigrate
predicated series of unfortunate
events buzzfeeding ill fate
capital one after another pinterest
newpages writers block did generate
countless blank pages interspersed
with scrawled sentences untrained great
fully dreadful bully heavable
box scarred tortured letters humiliate
head arabesques twisted abc's...
...xyz's, a field day for graphoanalyst,
wrought cribbed hand did obviously illustrate
chicken scratch inferiority complex intimate
lee evinced worthlessness, intimidate
dead visibly withdrawn frightened
undersized lad meek nasality intonate
head out button nose invalidate
ding any professed parental love
adopted, believed, coaxed...
hermetically sealed inviolate
coda sustaining purposelessness
reinforced silence no matter irate,
when glared, jeered, mocked,...
defenseless scapegoat remained isolate
internalizing harassment groveling
bowed boy smarting as hectoring did lacerate
quotidian repeated bajillion times
hence, where death could liberate
academic, demonic, horrific struggle,
now unable to shuck off residual
emotional fallout thru poems literate
attempt to expunge counterproductive
thoughts smoldering like kindling
gray matter festered toxicity did marinate
skool of hard knocks did matriculate
pharmacological cornucopia doth mitigate
in tandem with therapy delivers soul asylum,
a theme yours truly often doth narrate.
I use to wish I was there for the Big Bang…I can only imagine my elation…
If I was there at the beginning…the first one to eavesdrop on creation.
To watch the world at its conception…to see the birth of the wind and the trees…
to marvel at the formation of the mountains…the rivers and the seas.
To witness the origin of the sun and the clouds that drift on high…
to watch each star begin to twinkle as they were placed up in the sky.
To witness the first sunrise and sunset…across our vast terrain…
to feel the first warmth of sunshine…to play in those first drops of rain.
But I was not present at the creation…and, you know what…that’s okay…
because I have found joy eavesdropping at the creation of each new day.
I watch as clouds I’ve never seen before are created in the sky.
I’ve watched…as a tiny caterpillar creates a butterfly.
I’ve seen flowers created from the earth…dolphins in the sea…
I’ve seen rainbows arch across the sky…created prismatically
I’ve witnessed babies being born…
In the eyes of parents I’ve seen love created on the spot
I’ve watched animals creating babies…yes…I’ve seen creation quite a-lot…
I learned long ago of all the creations before our eyes…
how in our life they’re interspersed…
and when it comes to seeing them…I don’t have to be the first.
I’ve learned how every creation is a gift…
how no two creations are the same……and should never be compared…
How every creation is to be cherished…
to be savored…
to be shared.
Deep blood red orange cloud’s,
ethereal dream float,
satin wind carrier of luscious mint,
green hymnody’s deft transport,
Spring hues random loitering,
between gray peeled branches,
chirpy echo squeak,
from red-wing blackbird,
a fragile wafer tin threshold,
golden stream gurgle,
under marsh reeds,
evanescent saline grain haze,
azure ocean tide aroused,
from still wave slumber,
clamshell pearl strewn oyster,
oddments interspersed,
on pockmark sandstone beach,
iridescent canopy of nature trail,
awaits the first blush pilgrim,
who revels in luscious glimpses,
and sumptuous earworm madrigal,
a tantalizing world so close,
glad tiding raptures,
from the camper awakened,
coffee caper bean whiff aromatic,
quencher of dust road harsh throat,
splatter free rapeseed oil,
daub on an iron pan,
wild howl from prehistoric wolf,
so quaint in its primal sweep,
hair-raising backdrop to stir fry meal,
tinplate dollop sated hunger
To Be Ancient
It is good to be ancient,
As with a vintage of the eternal red,
Sealed for the duration with an aged English cork.
Now youthful impulses hold no sway in the empty offing.
I recall them all, as I have remembered certain dreams all my life,
Undead ghosts from distant tree-lined shores in time,
Strolling languorously in a marshy fetid fog;
Their ancient faces I remember caressing,
Their yearning eyes and doubting smiles I recall seeing,
And the supple lips of some I can still feel, recalling,
The passionate interspersed minutes of unreal time,
Secretly spent, behind concealing curtains and ascending ivy vines,
With no real words of crystalline memory being uttered or heard.
And now, returning from wet membranes hidden insidiously,
Inside the watery swooshing gullies inside my brain,
Old friends and lovers appear again, like in an old film,
As they meander an astonished ancient avenue in single file.
Look at these dead pale girls here!
Girls who once spiraled to the stars in the darkness!
Now they tiptoe by my front window, perfume-scented,
Seeking their simple tombstones in the far graveyard.
As I read the words of a skinny girl
My tears fell to the page
Pain and hope interspersed
A woman who wanted change
I saw her reflection in my mirror
She was most certainly there
A spirit of substance
Calling from a distance
I could not help but be aware
I ran my mind
Through her words
I danced along each note
Her spirit gifted with distinction
Raised a lump inside my throat
I reached across the ocean
Of the tears that had been shed
Thankful for such honesty
In the words that I read
Images of substance
That made me so aware
She is not invisible
I can see her standing there
We humans all struggle
In our own different ways
We live in broken moments
Trapped in our yesterdays
Heading towards horizons
On the wings of pain
Sometimes flying in circles
Over and over again
Still Within life's dance
We struggle and we strive
Grasping for pieces of happy
Music to make us feel alive
We are partially broken
Desiring to be whole
Reaching out with our words
In hopes of healing our soul
When we get weary of trying
Jesus holds out his hand
The One who knows and formed us
is the One who understands
He desires to protect
and remove us from all harm
If like a child we run to Him
He will wrap us in loving arms
After Reading Katie Pukash's poem "Skinny Girl Wants More" that She entered
in my Girl Rising Contest I had to find out who wrote it. This is
an exceptional and expressive piece of work. Normaly I would
not comment on a piece or look up the author but this poem
demanded my attention. Thanks Katie for this honest and emotionally
relevant piece of work.
Form:
Sleeping in the corner of a boxcar bound for Boulder
Got a life I like to leave behind a love I'd like to keep.
With the River passing slowly through the desert night below me
The thunder rips across the sky and wakes me from my sleep.
Now I spent the later sixties in the Colorado Rockies,
But California called when I was running out of bread .
As Caroline tried not to cry, we slowly kissed our love goodbye
And 10 years came between us is our separate lives we led.
Now a man in search of girls and dreams can bend his mind and make it seem
Like all good things are waiting in the next town round the bend.
But all I got from the traveling life was a beat-up Ford and a nagging wife,
And nothing in my future here but things that might have been.
Another pour of Cutty Sark at a Chinese bar in Buena Park ,
I thought back on my life ‘till there was nothing more to say.
So I didn’t find it too hard to walk out to that train yard
And in the dusk I jumped aboard an eastbound Santa Fe.
Now staring blankly at the wall a life of hatred I recall
Our quiet nights were seldom as are fighting words increased.
But I've left it all eight hours ago to start life I used to know,
With the night chill on my blanket, ‘cross the River headed East.
Pardon me but I've made one mistake.
Can't you see I'm doing all I can.
Let me be and I’ll find love a gain
Because I'm going to see my Mountain Girl again.
Author's note: Intended as a song, the last four lines are meant to be a chorus interspersed after every other stanza. Dedicated to Ian Tyson.
PARTURATION berthing the inpiration
simultaneous
visions,
mutli-layered
inspiration:
innovative
coherence
now apparent,
broken
syntax
in semantic
ambiguity...
unresolved
inspiration burns
turns a spark
from the tinder
of imagination
into a flame..
a flame
that gathers up
experience
burnishes and
refines
a nugget of emotion
into an image, then
crystallize as a phrase
to become
a spoken word,
a voice
from
the seeing eye
bursts of
creativity..
...short-lived....
colourful
caberets
exercises in
inspiration:
fearless
interaction
of parody and
sentiment..
in wordplay:
interspersed
crafting
of sensibilities
in compositions
....incarnate
A now moment,instantaneous,
parentage unknown,alive borne
of inspiration.Scattered here and there,
colours everywhere.The inner made
outer.Inherent originality conceived,
perceived,crystallised,the beneath
now in relief,of line,spot,point and
dab upon a canvas,to dry before the
eye.Succinct,complete of itself, never
to be reproduced it stays unique,of
me,for all to see.Of me,was once,this,
must art elsewhere,forever did depart.
I look upon it now,and wonder how!