Long Iota Poems
Long Iota Poems. Below are the most popular long Iota by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Iota poems by poem length and keyword.
"Poetry is thin, with dark eyes and a hollow face that echoes all the time without distinction. The distinction lies in her breasts that are full of beat under her vague dress that changes colours according to the statements.
She never fails, grows old or dies but simply moves to the next place when it is time to move, to slap, to love, to incorporate the unspoken before it fades away unrecognized."
(Miranda Cambanis)
"The Unspoken Army"
it came to me this life,
I did not ask for it,
I was pushed out, not wanting the revisit at all,
one iota
as if in a dream the blinds once drawn were slowly sliding wide open; framed,
through doors to a foreign world where no one spoke my language, the light a bitter potion -
nor sensed the feels of me, the unseeing, deaf to this bleeding open wound that spoke of children stolen;
and all the stage my world turned its sunny back on me;
eyes to the ground their feet shuffled like poetic shackled legions leading towards the unleading,
best to follow the masters they could clearly see and listen like soulless puppets, vacuous and easy,
manouvred senselessly into agreement, contracting the poisonous words trusting falsehoods reverently;
faith had diminished, drowned in faithless cups of erstwhile parish tea,
the conversation took turns ripping to shreds the core of what was left of me, muted,
“...another piece of this delicious dark fruit cake dear?” this suggested patronisingly,
I shook my head sincerely, without saying one word, I smiled thin and grimly
inside my mind was forming a different kind of unspoken army,
leagues beyond the server, somewhere under my drowned sea
the bends were kicking in, it was debated would I make it to the surface
before oxygen took over the blood and water of me;
such unwanted urgency.
Candide Diderot. ‘25
"(Dancing around a shooting star)
(And every cell remembers what has taken us this far)
Feed me sunlight, feed me air
(I see images of killer whales)
Feed me truth and feed me prayers
(Sleeping in a desert trail)
(Dreaming of a parallel world where nothing ever hurts)
(Dreaming of a parallel world where nothing ever hurts)".
Since time immemorial across the Universe—
Traces of my vapor, my dust trails, my footprints, my being
Light up the skies of innumerable planets etching themselves
Indelibly in the consciousness of the stars and making visible
Impressions in the cold continuum of deep dark space.
I’m mere particle matter—in reality, an iota of infinity that
Continues its travel through time and space and all dimensions
Visiting the vast frontiers of the Universe while leaving minute
Traces of my Cosmic DNA.
I’m part of the Universe’s great existential family—
My quest is to travel, to arrive, to be one with everything I touch,
And to savor a continuous divine purpose.
What unbounding possibilities there are as I traverse the far
Outreaches of dark space on Flight Paths of Eternity.
And sometimes I’m a part of rainbows that kiss the Face of God.
Gary Bateman, Copyright © All Rights Reserved (March 24, 2014)
(Free Verse)
Is he absurd to appreciate the abnormal?
Is it admirable to accept her appreciative acrobatic antics?
He's a cool cat, she's his celestial canary caught.
A kept creature can be clearly quite costly.
Young Brandon builds her his best beastly bordello.
Every excellent engineer emits erotic emotions.
Thankfully she is gorgeous, genial and generous.
Golden feathered gown shed, she's gracious and gratuitous.
Perfectly broken she's bouncy bendy and bodacious.
He puts her in his bird like cages, pays her his hurtful wages
She somehow helplessly hopes his hands will heal her.
As her inner Iris increases an iota, he explains why he's irritable.
Cock block knock stops the clock...,
she can't console him with candle lit canary kisses.
No more kink or cum cuz un-kindly doc chimes "she's contagious!"
Out the door on an orange overly dark morning.
He hungers for eggs over easy cause his mind is storming,
worrying about going back to a life that's boring.
But soon a sexy new sparrow with opal eyes is his to order!
Written July 5th 2016 for a July contest.
For Broken Wings' I got Zero, Nothing Nada contest 2.
I thought about it for one day, wrote the next day and edited and revised on the third day.
Panegyric praising phantasmagoric, albeit...
unseen prophets providing perspicuity...,
Who commune with yours truly
within state of mind between
sleep and wakefulness
methinks disembodied spirits
infiltrate mine consciousness
while suspended within trance.
Meditation invokes light hypnosis
gently beckoning me to surrender self
fearlessness disappears relinquishing
clutched grip upon ethereal essence
without substance, I wonder
how emotions, ideas, longings...
can weigh so oppressively
as if such elusive thought processes
(however they become manifest
spontaneously crowdsourcing then...
just as quickly re: blink of eye
irretrievably lost in space (mind)
farther than outer limits of twilight zone
realizing futility to conjure them back
synonymous when this (hymn) mortal
male i.e. contemplative,
intuitive, ruminative...
nonetheless unable to recall revelatory
insight...,and/or when steeped deeply
within sleep (ah...such dynamic,
magnificent, vivid...dreams) more so
pronounced since relying to function
almost half dozen medications
(to mitigate predisposition wrought
courtesy of anxiety,
ocd, panic attacks..),
yet upon opening
(even without disruption)
access to such excellent
personal profundity...slightly biased
denied, analogous to
steel door shutting tight
with nary an iota remembered
to self interpret what subconscious
exposure means, a motherlode
rich with material
to write poetry or prose
tis quite bothersome
this sudden disappearance
evocations vanishes without a trace
aware no intense concentration
will jog abundant cerebral activity
forever out of reach
Argh...such evocative manifestations
serve as private cable channel
obvious drawback reruns
cannot be rebroadcast
aware (of course) nobody boot me
agog with exhilaration,
fascination, galvanization...
to plumb depths into world
I will never fathom
further than 20,000
leagues under the sea.
The Truth Of Many Lies
Prose, Instead of my non-inclusive poem
Gravity has no tolerance. Laws have no tolerance.
Tragedy has no tolerance.
The truth has not a way to give one iota from its conviction.
There are not many truths.
There is however, what is and what is not,
and at any part of that scale of what is and
what is not, a self inserted place (adspace)
to label a wish-stamp of self esteemed belief
(a textbox-picture show/stage of illusion
(of a pride/lust of selfishness
(self gratification/prideful masturbation)).
Actions suffer either what the heart wants or
what the illusioned parasite of sins temptation
wants; as it seeks entry
(it lies to the heart to get its fingers the heart.
It lies about integrity and its integrity and
motive/motif).
The heart, in its purity or innocence naturally sides with Truth.
So Truth's face must be disguised and replaced
to keep you from it.
Pharmakeia is a gateway, a drug.
This is the sleazy fingering method of infiltration and corruption.
Get rid of the lies and the sin.
The self needs a guide. For the self is a child.
A bit of a selfish and spoiled child
that needs structure and integrity.
It is these latter things that the sin competes with
and erodes through hooks, shortcuts, flatteries and illusionary pleasures (gifts of pharmakeia).
And that self/Gratification is a shiny
gift-box packaged with a chain-bow
of diverse eye candies that do not read from its ingredients.
Instead, it says look over there !
For Inside is the snare of confusion,
a rotten fruit hatched Tekilla-sand-worm soaked in, pouncing with the silky tangle of web (enslavement, then eventually, frustration and destruction.)
Why me father/daughter relationship
important to this papa
Fourteen and a half years
since death of mother (mine),
nary one iota of communication
in general and compassion
in particular while
she lived, now wears
heavy and yokes
mantle fostering tears
indirectly sabotaging rapport
with eldest daughter
futility doth arise uttering
feeble secular prayers,
cuz interaction with mother,
whose vehemence more
deafening than banshee killdeers
exceeding threshold of
decibels tolerable these ears.
Now comeuppance came
full family circle, yes
that's her within picture frame,
when young, innocent, and beautiful,
decades before terminal
illness rendered her
incapacitated and lame.
Her second of
three born offspring,
and yours truly
that singular boy
figuratively tethered himself
to her apron strings,
which near omnipotent
biochemical bond her
rancor would destroy,
when lonesome son
failed to employ
purported adult responsibilities
solitary without any
even one homeboy
never knowing how
to maximize potential
rather totally tubular at loss
advantageously to deploy
supposed ducks in a row
always imp pond
durable feeling cast ahoy
shore lee within alien nation,
whereby village people
observe an exceptionally
unresponsive immovable
lad - qua zee decoy
analogous to stonewall,
albeit socially withdrawn
emotionally, physically,
and socially retracting
exhibiting no joy,
nor any audible,
tactile or visible life
stockstill like an
abandoned broken toy.
Silence spoke volumes mainly
I don't wanna be alive
antithetical to that basic
instinct to survive
protestations arose deliberately
minus figurative parachute,
I took kamikaze nosedive
a couple years after two times five
orbitz astride planet Earth
ne'er did amity, comity,
fraternity ever jive,
nope not even pleasant hello
would fake deaf/mute contrive
interaction between kith and kin
affection toward parents
and siblings (two sisters,
not twisted) I did deprive,
whence fast forward decades later,
a metaphorical wedge would drive
roughshod o'er kinship,
when fatherhood did arrive
though "star student" did connive
him (me) to test discomfort zones,
yet more often than not inclusive
integration abandoned among
linkedin with kindling explosive
smoldering volcano found
wicked volatility expressive.
One day on the streets of Delhi
I was passing under a Bridge
A crowd was gathered
Beating a woman with sticks.
Upon inquiring I was told
She had stolen food from a local store
Robbing for her hungry kids a shame, no more.
There suddenly appeared a girl of 7 or 8
Who stood between her mother and the crowd
And told them they should let the woman go
She had four mouths to feed and a
drunken husband at her door.
That day I learnt what courage was all about
A little girl of 7 or 8 hugged her mother
A crowd dispersed my heart was touched
The scene now playing in my mind
I asked myself if I could show an iota of bravery
that she had shown, sadly my answer was no
I made up my mind I would help her kind some more.
06.09.2020
The world came together as one —
Or rather, acted as one, like in the
Days of Noah, in the first lockdown
Following the first pandemic of flooding.
There was the smell of a virus.
Thick and heavy, it held the lungs hostage.
There was a confraternal mass, and between heaven and hell
An iota of odour, bigger than the sinking sun, hung in the stratus
Dour moments followed us to the bedrooms
Where we cringed without facial masks.
As we sneezed, the earth caught cold and shivered.
I never knew that viruses were also weapons.
Vaccines became the new baptism.
Darkness descended quickly every evening
With patterns of winter during wars of attrition
Global hate paused as the clocks ticked loudly
Hostilities ceased.
Material envy retreated to
The back pews of desolate churches,
Fragile and lonely with the silence of the wilderness.
The beasts of the earth visited on tiptoe — as hard times
Would come and go;
We were reborn, and clutched at the saddened minutes of
Borrowed sanctity.
Holed up in lacerated mattresses and hovels of death,
Many made music alongside silenced choirs
That hummed trembling hymns from distances brought nearer home
By visuals of horror.
The earth was on her knees,
Addled by the haste of her own funeral,
Subdued by a thunderless, voiceless rainstorm,
Cremated without the need of wood and fire.
The smell of the virus came with the intensity of balmed sin.
It was sin itself.
Recovering from that attack, that invasion, that lockdown
Would require the touring strengths of the dove and raven,
Who would cruise on the wings of passing time
To secure a landing word of caution,
With or without olive branches on their beaks, displaying
Redrawn maps of fumigated paths and ravines of earth.
The allure of mused poems,
No longer visits this nonchalant psyche.
It trickles now, once a roaring torrent
Now a lazy stream
Am like a desultory jaded heaven
Where starry jewels once decked the night,
But are now drossy shadowy blackholes,
And sparks and dreams,
Are ripped in the accretion disc.
No longer avid, but seeking meaning in the mundane.
No longer enraptured by the she said, he said,
And all that jazz, no iota of care; for trifling muses,
Their short goodbyes or critique, no not one,
Their infighting and bad blood, no longer,
No nuts to crack, nor rain to flush, no iota of care.
It was never about who is better,
Neither has it been nor will it ever be,
About any Magnum Opus.
Like doors closing and skies descending,
Each visiting muse devoid of ardor,
Oblivious to the yawning dawn,
Or the scent of sprouting posies.
Jaded, without allure or sheen
And devoid of all its lustre.
Maybe one day soon a spark will reignite
And reanimate this frenetic mused madness
But until then...
I remain adrift in this sea of trivialities,
Worrying about trifling stuff
Like ad blockers and AI opinions
And irked...
By their emasculating knowledge
Poem Of The Week(POTW) -9/15/2024 To 9/21/2024
Or Woman, Or Child, Or...
The following elucidated
conjecture actually can
(reed best) be taken with a grain
of salt, and no re ban
nah nah split 'ope ya 'ere me
cloud and lear, cuz (Oh my...
heavens to Betsy), ennui
got pulled by Evan -
Jewel Lean, who handed this long fellow
(wads worth to you)
speculation with fan
see prestidigitation legerdemain - tan
ta mount to cheap tricks
re: out of thin air
by this half
fast hue man,
Hill Billy Willy Wonka Nilly,
who blithely doth asseverate
apothegm (poem title) equally applicable
Century21 today Aswan
damn maxim initially
bespoke, when collective
primates begat enfant terrible
foo fighting predetermining anon
metastasizing debacle Yeti
bedeviling civilization
a bajillion years in the future with
Matthew Scott Harris deadpan
words worth less his way
before even an odd iota
of dire straight sultan
of swing didst merely span
spottily scattered amidst
pristine Earth, where
unchanging arboreal
beastie boys to oman,
and flock of sea gulls
continuity elapsed – Ivan
hunch, albeit un
recorded disc contented sow
sow hogtied pan
dum mo' nee ham, or
blessed historical events,
kept (stay'n) alive,
courtesy"FAKE" Trump
petting Dapper Dan,
where he knit pattern,
qua oral tradition, sans clan
destine scattered hot pockets
of sparse *****sapiens,
i.e. humanity LESS preponderant,
primary, and/or prolific,
where superstitions parlayed
(voodoo with no Fran Schwa),
and whirling dervishes fed elan,
which earliest recorded (doctored,
digitized, and demented
oh yea), not
tomb mitt to dimly mentioned
asper "time and tide
wait for no man"
purportedly by one
Saint Marher, circa:
1225 anno domini.