Long Lifelessly Poems
Long Lifelessly Poems. Below are the most popular long Lifelessly by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Lifelessly poems by poem length and keyword.
A four piece string ensemble competes
with fluted crystal glasses harmonizing
to the tinkling of fine silverware
underpinned by the purring whispers
of well-to-do's and their hobnobbery.
Buttery lobster and rib-eyed supper in
opulent gravies and exotic spices;
cornucopia fruits on sterling platters
all floating about the ballroom on
white gloved tuxedos.
There’s a thick pretense in the air;
a high browed notion of superiority
reflected off each gold-fitted gemstone
amplified when ostensibly viewed
through a monocle lens.
I suppose it’s a lonely company they keep
esteeming each other as conquerors
by cordially extended handshake;
dodging and redirecting questions incessantly,
so as not to be rude, no doubt.
All the lavish excess of the night
is surpassed in every rise and fall
of her chest, as I contemplate silently
what fate has befallen that life, no more
beaming behind those sapphire eyes.
Empty sockets abound, lifelessly
betraying boisterous expressions of mirth.
Dancing corpses swig their Dom Perignon
forgetting for tonight, at least,
the toiling lilies of the field.
Preston Graham
(Grahamburglar)
08/16/15
For Contest: Puttin on the Ritz
Hosted by: Judy Konos
By your ink on this parchment, my thoughts tattooed
I'm drawn to this bouquet; I am left so madly.
Fields of blazing stars, lying randomly, strewed
Happiest are these thoughts deliberately construed.
Winter taking them from my core destroys me, sadly.
By your ink on this parchment, my thoughts tattooed
Purple pillars of violently swaying happiness imbue
So I harvest them as fast as I can, enjoying them gladly.
Fields of blazing stars, lying randomly, strewed
After such a long time between blossoms, histories accrued.
I waited patiently for their replacement, so very badly.
By your ink on this parchment, my thoughts tattooed
I felt the truest of forlorn, nearly left lifelessly blued.
Springtime rain brought them back to my welcoming hands, comradely.
Fields of blazing stars, lying randomly, strewed
Once I found eyes on them, new happiness did exude.
Replenishing their hearts energy regrown in me
By your ink on this parchment, my thoughts tattooed
Fields of blazing stars, lying randomly, strewed
I chose no other option,
But to make it all undone.
To give up on my effort,
Which I had put with all my heart.
I chose no other option,
But to shatter my dreams.
Life could become a magical realm,
It could have all felt real.
I chose no other option,
But to let fear win.
To make words powerful enough,
Which eventually made it tough.
I chose no other option,
But to disappoint my mom.
Who gave nothing but love and care,
I still made her life unfair.
I chose no other option,
But to listen to society.
The people who could never encourage,
Were enough to break my courage.
I chose no other option,
But to make my life undesirable.
My heart became weak and unable,
To survive the unknown sufferings of life.
I chose no other option,
But to see life ebbing away.
The flickering lamps of hope,
Just turning off entirely.
I chose no other option,
But to feel the tear drop falling.
As I slowly close my eyes upon the world,
Lifelessly lying.
I chose no other option,
But to make my god cry,
Who gave his entire try,
To give me what he had planned.
I chose no other option,
But to see my God's hopeless face,
Who had chosen for me the highest place
Filled with honour and grace.
I chose no other option,
But to kill myself.
On a still...ancient horizon,
Massive dragon wings emerge,
To the atmospheric battlefield.
Where two legendary beasts,
Clash for the love...of a dragoness.
A battle of mythic proportions,
Of two stonily serpents in the sky.
Only three dragons remain,
The two wary warriors,
And the dragoness they fight for.
The flap of enormous wings,
Thunders the air abroad.
The fire in the sky illustrates,
That the battle has begun.
Fierce deafening roars,
Rape the quiet Delphi skies.
In a solemn brave attempt,
To win the dragoness’ heart.
She rests...nestled in the mountains,
For the winning warrior’s return.
Strident screams pierce the heavens,
From the vicious violent brutality.
Aggressive attacks resonate,
Vibrating her lair of stone,
As she shivers in despair and wonder.
Sharp talons pierce the scales,
Shredding the tissue of life.
Effervescent mists spray,
Staining the clouds with gore.
A thud hits the landscape,
And her attentive attention reacts.
Waiting with complete ambition,
A second thud thumps the landscape.
Curious eyes creep from the cave,
She wrestles with the thought of extinction,
As both...her warriors are slain,
Laying lifelessly...in a crimson rain.
When the darkness finally consumes the remnants of my mind
Oh the broken pieces
They struck the floor this morning at dusk
Cutting my toes
Leaving butter and blood to intermingle
Like cutting away at human flesh
To match this unreachable goal
Of societies defined beautiful people protocol
Cast it
It is because of this
the last tear rolls down this deadened cheek
overwrought with no outlet for my own expression
numbed to nothingness
I do not feel the tear which
runs down the length of my silent body onto the floor
My heart, My lungs. Covered in your
superficial dust
Seeping through the crooks and cranny
Launder my wrinkled brow
Polish the dirtied regions of my soul
To become unsoiled
Cleanse me from my sins
Make me right
To the godforsaken cruel reddened world
Oh virtuous grace, I can never be
Exactly right now can I
To be like sparkling jewels
Like the crystals hanging from my window
Iridescently dappled
Flecking the floor with pure light
Until they too
Fall
Continuing this desire to meet it in the end
WE ALL FALL
Almost like a faerie princess
I glimmer
Oh my eyes
How lifelessly they shimmer
Tear apart my ribs
‘for
For a smaller waist
Bitterly
My heart harbors a deep sorrow
I wear the blackest pearls
Locked away in my room
Bandaged, Hidden, Monster-like
Hard to breathe
Just
Few more weeks
And
The splendor of plastic
Will pretty much
Pretty the ugliest molecule in me.
Or what is left
In this empty vessel
I have drowned
In my own tendencies to be shallow
Form:
There should be a place to shelter us when sleep is a bird that no longer comes,
or when we are tired of getting drunk on our own thoughts, and the grass no longer lifts dreams,
I don't mean powders or cocaine, but a realm beyond the death that watches us
or the loves that have been lost like echoes in a cave forgotten by time.
There should be a sanctuary to hide us when sleep refuses to embrace us,
beyond the screens that flicker lifelessly or the cinema halls projecting shadows,
beyond the newspapers carrying the world's news or the novels promising imaginary worlds,
the absence of this refuge gives birth to lost souls in asylums and those who choose eternal silence.
I believe that in the absence of this place, people turn to corners that barely caress their desires,
and this ritual polishes them like the wind sculpting rocks, until they can continue,
even without hope, like empty calendars swallowing their days without counting them,
the faces we see daily are not devoid of hope, but merely of wings.
Be gentle with them, for they too, like you, seek a place to rest their souls,
perhaps, one day, that place will appear like a strip of light in the densest night,
where silence will become a balm, not an abyss that swallows us whole with stars,
and until then, let us be gentle with those who, like us, seek to learn to dream again.
in soft susurrations
and lofty aberrations,
a special specimen
spills out spontaneously,
the wan white winter rose
has withered and wilted,
but its petals wrap themselves
around arousing aromas,
the chosen bits lay frozen
under the glow of snow,
in an eerie, dreary,
ghastly, ghostly graveyard,
where silence sweeps
through weeping willows,
and cawing ravens croak
their curses rambunctiously,
winter honeysuckle climbs
in clusters near the cracked wall,
which some forgotten Pharisee
has planted for its fragrance,
bare twisted, twined branches
of wild wisteria beckon,
uncanny, uncared for tombstones
tell of their travails
to tall, tattered, tired trees,
listening listlessly, lustrelessly,
leaflessly and lifelessly...
a crackling and a rustling,
someone is bustling,
he goes straight to one gloomy tomb,
the cemetery comes alive,
awakened after hibernation,
sniffing the whiff of something different,
he spends time, cleaning the grime,
clearing his cherished love's sepulchre,
and places there a pleasant,
perfume-giving, pale piece ~
a single, white rose
~ her favourite fetish
Our dinner, boiled to death root vegetables, we swallow in silence as night closes-in on the school. The co-opted Buddhist monastery housing us empties its porcelain thrones into the walled garden’s weedy rear yard. Village women wash: the floors, the pots, the laundry from first light to deep dark. The water runs downhill. War does not stop the drudgery. Where the women sleep is unknown to us. The owners’ are small men; they rule the house with a heavy hand. They teach the techniques of shamanic healing and Thai Massage.
the Green Tara
hangs upon the room's wall:
geraniums on the ledge
The drowse of Friday evening evaporates in a burst of gunfire. Behind the high walls surrounding the school, the sounds of violence escalate. Through open, screen-less, windows sirens sound, the sky lights up and red, yellow, blue, and white prayer flags hang lifelessly from the eaves to the locked gate. Sleep hides, as I do, beneath the covers.
coiled
insecticide smolders:
temple bells sound
The monks, long gone, leave remnants of themselves on the incense coated plaster. Peace sought here was not found. Poverty necessitated the building’s sale. Here on a side street in walking distance from the American embassy, a school for westerner’s storm cellars. The desire to learn Eastern Healing techniques and a common language, English, binds us together: American, French, Spanish, and South African captures of the internet, pilgrims. We come, healers all, undaunted by the Civil War, to Kathmandu, Nepal.
Monday, the riots end on cue. Tourists, again, meander the dust clouded streets, skirting the alley’s begging children. Tea is served in the burgeoning shops. Butchers swat flies from hanging haunches of meat, rare bird vendors walk the street with baskets of exotic birds. And, brazen Westerners stride bare armed, sari-less exposed, and rude, at least until next Friday night—they own the world.
First Published by Mulberry Fork 2016
I have always imagine myself dying everyday
Rising and reborn for tomorrow anew
Yet always grafted am I serve a yesterday
I truly wonder if there is a tomorrow I can deal
Sometimes you have to let it all go
Sometimes you have to take all in
Because sometimes you cannot remember tomorrow
And sometimes... it'll all pass like a dream
We hold on to what built and destroy us
Remembering all in ways only us know how
So much life in digress to simply trust
Have we heads held high to know when to bow?
With our life... we are always without
Days we have it good... we seldom do know
Because we will never know what life is about
Don't even know when death is lifelessly cold
Shall we start afresh and anew?
Can you bring yourself to forget the many yesterday?
If our timeline is even ever real
How we simply just go by our everyday?
Have you ever stopped to wonder?
How curious we can be
How we gleam with awe and wonder
Still filled with anxiety
The world they say is a tornado
So filled with love and hate
So beautifully designed
To make our teeth grate
A plethora of emotions run around the playful sky
So beautiful and quaint, so filthy and undesired
How lifelessly animated we make it all seem
Every night as we sleep below its glorious beam
The world they say is an arena
A precinct of heartless desire
A place to decide
If love will ever conquer or if money will divide
Still we add those barricades
Which, we think, would in the end, indeed make us, one day fly
Or swim freely in this circus
Where one day we shall all definitely die
By
Amanda.M.Miller