Long Knotting Poems
Long Knotting Poems. Below are the most popular long Knotting by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Knotting poems by poem length and keyword.
Your face in the wind
the black hair unbridled
some swirl squally knotting the wild gale
some wind untamed lashing the forehead
create a web of tempting pattern enigmatic
trapping the mind in the tangle
lest it blows away.
Your face in the wind
the curvy eyebrows creased
one wondering why the invisible wind blows
the other asking puzzled where the wind goes
prop the webbed forehead in case it falls on the eyes
hold the eyelids fixed in place
lest they fly away.
Your face in the wind
the dove eyes closed
like the sleeping butterfly wings shut
the eyelashes pierce tender needles
on the face of the wind locking dreamy eyelids
make the eyes look within caging the vision
lest it runs away.
Your face in the wind
the sensuous lips pursed
splash dissolved rainbow colors in the air
lay intimate warmth in the heart of the wind
carve on face the contours of exaltation
the wind spreads a shroud on the frozen smile
lest it withers away.
Your face in the wind
the supple cheeks caressed
glow at the loving touch of the zipping zephyr
lighting the face in the aura of the dawn
the glinting grace divinely illuminated
like a candle in the wind
lest the beauty is swept away.
August 22, 2017
October is Dancing
she is a trap of joy for a mark
to those tunes tapping on line
stepping out in her black
before the white for a remark
for the dance shoes redefine
the effect of all the months lack
in the meantime at kitchen advancing
Old and young months were watchin' her
as she prance in peaceful steps on the dance floor
so cool and sizzling to hear up the need to confer
for fire to keep warm the weather and not burn for war
the joy and courage the months have in the year
which is the interest of their purpose counting days
to number moments and minutes of cheer
and the exposure and enrichment appraise
Serious music from funny act
labels young minds mischievous youths
how the hell's rain labels heaven's dews fire
and its own the curlers pure desire
that was a just lie tied up as a fact
to keep away from blowing hearts, truths
with which head for a new place sit upon
redesigned of little difference in old baker's apron
Knock knows knocks knotting knowledge
while whistles whisper whim whacking
villagers' vaults vulnerably via villains
bragging beyond boasting bossy bell
flooded flowers faith flying flaws
hiring hasty hatred healing headlines
retiring reunion's rights relieved repulse
sitting soothing stresses safe separately
Now the dance floor is a bouncing stillness
on a muting lousy sounds
jumping to dance but go off
whenever trials are seen as illness
death tricks set its hounds
that the hade may laugh
how we wish a new Odùduwà
but Yoruba is stumping on ìwà
Our shoes now become red
R.I.P to those bloods shed
The heroes efforts are seen
Remain forever in our green
The lights that can go dim
The lines and stanza in the hymn
May these effects be fruitful
Even though it's seen unlawful
Note: This poem is in memory of those that lost their lives in the peaceful protest of ENDSARS in Nigeria on 20th October, 2020. May their souls rest in peace
They married me in the season of rain.
The whole village smelled of river rot
and wet stone.
Water lapped at the chapel steps
as though the lake herself
had come to witness the ceremony.
No one spoke above a whisper there.
Not the women knotting my veil
with cold, trembling fingers.
Not the priest with mildew staining his cuffs.
Not even my groom,
whose eyes carried the stillness
of something half-drowned.
The village was sinking.
Slowly.
The people said that every year the water climbed higher—
swallowing fields,
then gardens,
then the lower rooms of houses
where the furniture floated in place,
Frozen in time.
The church bells had drowned three winters before.
Still, some nights,
the villagers claimed they heard them ringing
deep beneath the water,
soft and warped as funeral hymns.
I should have fled then,
when I first learned of what the silence meant here.
There were boats upriver,
kept hidden by women who never spoke of them aloud.
Leaving was never spoken of directly—
only implied, like it was some sort of sin.
Instead, I let them crown me in pearls.
The women threaded them into my hair
like tiny moons,
their faces pale with pity
and something beneath it—fear disguised as something like tradition.
One of them pressed a shell into my palm before the ceremony.
She looked at me with a certainty I had not seen in anyone
since the month I arrived in this village—
as if she already knew exactly what I would become.
“For the crossing,” she whispered.
I thought I must have misunderstood her, somehow.
I understand now that I did not.
The calling gull leaves her nest
her wild magic cleaves the nimbus.
An avian aerialist suspended aloft
she sails on tapered feathers of cirrus silk,
ruffled sea breeze ironed ‘neath her lustrous wings.
A wind witch, she defies and defines the w-i-n-d…
a weaver of worlds, knotting strings of stories as one wampum belt
in union with the sea’s connection to land and air.
She steals the sough from the surf and the sigh from my sinew;
my guide to a mindful haven. This nurture-maven
glides among bouquets of pink-peony-cumulus.
She; my blue-sky-muse in celebration!
She; my compass rose, mediates my meditation.
I unfurl fresh wings, a night-to-day tern, and claim my turn with the wind
no longer a granite stone asleep on sand. I soar
from the glacial-age strand and lift through fog.. brief my tryst
with mist. Eyes blessed by the crest of a humpback’s breach.
I distill myself, my will; a droplet, tear, a sphere free of guise.
An ascendant of moon-magnet tides yet a descendant
from stratus to stratum, I settle upon the cliffs along the coast
in union with my soul’s connection to body and breath.
In the cup of my hands I hold the sun and drink its yolk,
white-cap breakers below chant a soluble sonnet.
From my inner dark, a flint-spark flares as I find what I lost.
My heart, a wild cranberry, reborn from the womb of dawn.
I inhale the moment. Red clay cliffs, lifeblood, fire-skies merge.
Windswept pitch pines croon as I grow roots for my tabernacle,
cosmic beams stream through stained-glass-eyes.
The calling gull rests. A distant, silent witness to my quest.
My pulse a psalm as I emerge; a cathedral lit by sunrise.
A. Hatta asked
Q.”...why is the Raven like a writing desk?...”
because
it’s a.haven
Artemis
and not a fowl quill
he said... ah!
x
...
more regulus
then romulus
and brighter
then remus
i’d say
but not quite
so famous
the heart of a lion
called a raven
shameless
ah!
but distinctly
i remember
once upon a knight
in a dreamy september
flying embers knotting
quaint surrenders tapping
i nodded into nearly
and almost gently napping
when satin robes rustled
and i awoke wondering
“tis some visitor”
i uttered almost laughing
with and not at
his gentle naughty tapping
pleased
and shyly grinning
in the decor of my room
he was quite inviting
“couldnt find the door
so i came through the floor”
“ive come to remember
and perhaps to forget
that ive read the forgotten
on the ecliptics lip”
then a howling wolf
made a growling sound
but the raven stayed quiet
in the eyes of time
and 32 flights
became 33 rhymes
so do tell a soul
if with sorrows laden
that there is a palm
and a caring maiden
serving fresh
her cups of malt
with talons cut
upon a falcons deck
and even if
raven speaks knot
many have lived
tHere without
a trace
Form:
Hey A Diddle, Diddle
The Cat has a riddle...
So when the dish ran away with Spoon
What station did little dog craft
giving big dog reason
to laugh at noon...
"... she works the wire..."
Regulishus!
More Regulus then Romulus
and brighter than Remus
I’d say
but not quite so famous
the heart of a Lion
called a raven shameless
ah but distinctly
I remember
once upon a Knight
in a dreamy September
flying embers knotting
in quaint surrenders tapping...
I nodded into nearly
and almost gently napping
when satin robes rustled
so I awoke to wander
“...It'za visitor...”
I uttered almost laughing
as his gentle naughty clapping
pleased and shyly grinning
in the decor of my room
was quite inviting...
So I asked about the Moon
"...Who, I said, am I..."
I have no rational faith
that I can remember,
much less with full-will to comprehend,
spiritual Beings as progenitors
of natural becomings
No faith in "God" as ProGenitor of DNA/RNA
naturally fractal
round orchestrations
evolving regenerate systems
for economically enlightened co-invested relationships,
or politically co-empowering compassion.
No faith in exhaling purgative decomposition,
reductive pathological Evil and Death analysis of
mindbody experience
without prior appositional, dipolar
healthy wealth of information,
fractal strings of (0) soul dialectical polymorphs
confluently optimizing neuro-sensory
win/win co-reception
and responsive experience of healthy regenerative
"EarthGod" is good
enlightened inhalation,
empowering absorption,
resilient ego/eco-consciousness
Peak Beloved Climaxing
Win/Win crowning
cooperative communication,
reiterating primal relationships of mutual-solidarity
positive/negative co-gravitational
re-connecting co-messianic intent.
I have rational bicameral faith
that we can each and all fully comprehend
ego/eco co-binary bodhisattva partnering consciousness
as EgoBody Yang
Positive-Left Thought = NotNotNegative-Right Feeling
EcoMind Yintegrity
restorative binomial equity.
Here, in this polymorphic timespace
metasystemic mindbody sacred place,
we may rediscover treasured wealth without walls
of cytosine-biocentric QByte/8-bit reverse hierarchical
+/(-,-) 0-binary, double-bound temporal/spatial
bipartisan dipolar apposition
normative liberating/conservational
passion/pleasure fractals
reforming eco-political historic knotting
herstoric knitting
resonant octave empowering sound frequencies
of Earth's green/blue/white/grey network crown
enlight/darkening seasonal neuro-systemic harmonics.
DNA health wisdom
leading toward our dual
EarthTribe her/history,
divinely humane
compassionate destiny.
Your existence lingers on my being.
My heart pumps the ink with which you write;
The more I live, the more you do
Your countdown begins the day I die
I don’t need you to survive. I don’t.
You need me to breathe. You need me to live
I may be nothing, that is my collateral.
I am life to you. I am your god. I am.
I discard disdain’d garments.
Clothe me with respect, lest…
My nothing was knotting. Depressing.
Now my knotting isn’t nothing no more
Epiphany has been kind to me.
I see the truth, but I do not feel free.
My emptiness fills your belly and
Makes the shiny shimmering metals
Glitter in folds in your folds.
I may be nothing. So are you.
Today, I choose to choose.
No more rains for fountains.
No more obscurity for me. No more
The fixed looks upon the ground.
I have found I am your bridge,
I am the reason for your living
I am the source of your existence.
Vanishing souls lies in death's pastures
Fleeting joy, incurious in my surroundings
Shades of green glistening in glory
An unpredictable breath that barely measures
A destiny that lies and vanishes through the Death Valley
A heart's main glee
Shines peaceably... passing above a wave of sparkling envy
Bliss sinks in my marrow
Pensive solitude,
Splitting it into a rejoicing vibe
Joyous in its company...we could have a blissful sleepover until
tomorrow
Together we'll make a strengthening converse
Piety fitting in these periling times
Wandering over vales, evanescent life screwing my infancy
A jocund soul departs from a burden--too cherished in disobedient lies
Childish features blurring my uncertain future
Incessant in my trespasses
I draw near through deathly shadows
Moping in ceaseless torment
Roaring as a monsoon in abstract movement
Vacant in thought...wealth filling in our evanescent humility
Dodging arrows of inevitable death
Bound to track us down,
Chopping down the Weeping Willow tree
Driven mad in knotting triumph
Hoarsely placing us in a shady asylum
Numbed by flustering anxiety
Cursing down this greedy society
Whirling us back to
Evanescent pastures
I'm dependent in this unordinary place
Though it leaves me with only disgrace
Discontent by the isolated misfortune
Vacant in thought...wealth filling in our evanescent humility
Dodging arrows of inevitable death
Bound to track us down,
Fogging our interest of society,
Doom crafting our fate...soon we'll be too late
Whirling us back to
Evanescent pastures
Denying our repents out of revenge
Unsuitable to reconstruct chastening renewal
Superb for a
tranquilizing solitude
*Image of Freedom Pub
Freedom Pub
Marred fictions of emus, ostriches
dip their heads neath, were hailed
by Ancient Rome's false divination,
of individuals, whose conquest of
enshrining their implied role.
Emancipated exacters, whereto,
the subjugators of the unlearned
majority, daily context by untruths,
orientations hard-pressed, by
tainted thumbs of paperwork,
loads conveniently,
mache for obvious design.
Decaying precursors demonocracy,
aptitudes knotting promotes,
a panache promenade of quilted
quids, as characters clash with
reality quarrels, as a shoreline
of sculpted castled sands, drift to
its emptiness of their costly
noted, S.O.S.
The absence of freedom is a true
reinvention for the masses, to
rummage and further wander, its
lineage of class enumeration
liken to some zombie apocalypse,
clueless beginning.
Lo and behold, its keepers adrift,
salty surges hath rise o'er, the
fresh living waters.
2023 January 07
*HM*
Freedom Pub
~~Joe Maverick: Judged 2023 January 09