Long Liquidity Poems
Long Liquidity Poems. Below are the most popular long Liquidity by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Liquidity poems by poem length and keyword.
Ode to Pain:
Springing forth and flowing in energetic liquidity. Emotions in motion in chasms far reaching me.
Of hearts preaching unbalanced in teaching thee. Lessons in life.
In balance.
Far from reaching me.
Ode to pain in yesterday's strife.
Memories of laid down bodies at night.
Darkest of specters nefarious in plight.
Left us unanswered in misery's strife.
Ode to the moon.
Only a fraction of light.
In mortal terror.
Rancid owls screeching in flight!
How, let us see through pitch blackness and fright?
When words are but all remembered.
With no dawning of light.
In lew of an awakening mind in the night.
We are given to remember our lives from great heights.
Falling from heaven became habits and rites.
Trapping our intentions.
Expectations arise.
Praying for forgiveness so that our Son may still rise.
Giving us forgiveness for wicked deeds in sight.
From the bowels are earthquakes.
Not butterflies.
Just lies.
We gather for sermons.
Hope will arise?
But all we are doing is looking elsewhere in spite.
Rather than the victims of our deeds in their eyes.
Instead we pray for forgiveness in the absence of sight.
Focusing on before.
The traumatic moments we die.
It's only in that moment.
Forgiveness will arise.
With power to break chains from your victims felt cries.
Relieving the pressures of dark gasses.
Bottled up inside.
Dissolving the lies from behind those eyes.
Your soul became wicked and suffered by night.
But mourning for forgiveness is not only just wise.
It's the only reason the sun has to wake up.
Have the courage to rise.
Shining light on your failures as a human is nice.
But shining light from your victim is forgiveness.
It carries you in time.
Relieving your worries and healing your mind.
Instead we kneel in darkness and pray to a vine.
Who's divine berries are sweeter and made into wine.
But the thorns are ripping apart in your mind.
Now that It's open.
Your blood we shall find.
Dripping and dropping and leaving behind.
A trail of just sorrow.
Nothing in mind.
Tears are long passed.
Nothing to find.
When the dark heart will not follow.
It's left there behind.
In these dark mortal terrors.
Forever.
You're left here.
You're Blind!
Dark heart of the lonely.
I love you
As if You are mine.
Angry words have fear-mongering consequences,
said rhetorical behaviorist Hillary,
then Kamala, to Donald,
we would no more peacefully
and compassionately select a Donald Trump as President
than we would bipartisan co-invest to win Donald Duck for Empire Builder.
Words mean things,
said linguistic behaviorist Anat
to her fellow Economist Collective,
and the absence of kind words means something too.
We're not sure what
but I place my bet
on more discommunicating eco-political
ego-apartisanship.
FatherSun enlightenment led toward EarthMother liquidity.
We know this from our indigenous history
of Yang/Yin Win/Win
environmental science books
but this is difficult to see
how exactly this could be
without sufficient silence to recall
what dipolar co-arising energies lie in wait
within this shared bilateral brilliance.
Fire and water,
progenitors of stardust
eco-empowering,
sacred ecologizing
fertile organic planets
birthing health moisturized wealthy regenerations.
To paraphrase bodhisattva Joanna Macy,
Co-invested communing economics
is not more wishful monopolistic thinking
(or messianic ideation).
Active political gathering verbs
enlightening sacred habitats
do not wait for renowned
divisive
drowned-out
dis-organic trauma issues
to be reverently resurrected
and religiously re-membered
by monoculturing Donald Ducks
or by some Anti-Other quacking
self-serving colonization
of patriarchal monotheistic
discommunicating misbehavior.
Active Hope wakes up in love-life's ecological
EarthMother baptismal beauty
wonder
fertile light and flowing power sabbath
on who's silently communing behalf
we can act in sacred light
for animated
organic
polyamorous co-empowerment.
To the responsible Hillaries, and Kamalas:
Follow positively cooperative light,
not so much darkly threatening
reactively monolithic
swampy miscommunication.
To the authoritarian Donalds:
Follow your competitively brilliant
SunFather responsive truth
with EarthMother beauty
loves polyculturing liquidity,
not so much your prized
monopolistic
and monotheistic
anthro-patriarchal
discommunicating fear and anger
military-industrialized pathologies.
qu'ry this:
a chivalrous charlatan, I
dareth feign to pen thy prop'r aspect?
aye, f'r thy legitimate contours art
yet ov'rwhelmingly stagg'ring to the gazeth
and if beheld by the ingraft
m'rtal, thus, wouldst rend'r those
folk stunn'd to reticence …
such provocative p'rfection f'r a
prop'r prose pedestal doth now standeth
thy outlines …
if 't only the ink of mine own quill
flow'd with the langu'rous liquidity of
thy libidinous limbs -
w'rds danceth off the wit
at but a glance of thy exquisite epid'rmal embodiment
w'rds liketh touch, tickleth, tease, tempteth …
coequal the wisest of w'rdsmiths
wouldst strain to holdeth nigh and effectual,
the phrasing of the
diaphanous d'rmal dialogue that elucidates the
sultry "esses" yond thy shadow paints on
the walls and flo'rs …
only those bless'd as i, without pure
sight of the eye, art accomplish'd enough to
appropriate a competency of fair and
f'rm'd appreciation and charact'rization of
the voluptuous p'rtions that
composeth thy physique …
those such as i w're b'rn to the burden of
the darkness, but also bless'd to
the bearing of the tactile and touchable -
mine own pen is the palm,
the fing'rtip, the soft application of skin-to-skin contact,
the int'rpretation of v'ry tiny ‘lectrical impulses
from ev'rything integumentary
and the und'rstanding of all that
keen inf'rmation being convey'd to the brain …
o beg, my love -
alloweth me readeth thee anon,
alloweth me putteth tactile "pen" to the pages
of mine own soul and psyche,
alloweth me writeth a st'ry th're upon thee,
alloweth me knoweth with mine own fing'rs and carpus
the wond'rful w'rds that describeth thee
in all thy immaculate, sublime consummation,
alloweth me abs'rb the text of thy
curv'd and faultless f'rm,
and lighteth the darkness of mine
own blind w'rld …
transf'rm this beshrew into mine own blessing,
alloweth me beholdeth thee
as nay oth'r ev'r shall -
as a st'ry,
as a biography, book, tale,
aye, as an adventure …
without end.
The price we pay for our freedom is not contained in a man’s wallet,
Nor is liberty a currency found in a female fancy Gucci pocketbook.
It’s not in anyone’s liquidity portfolio investment bank records,
Nor is it contained in anybody's “Wall Street” premier trust fund accounts.
Reverently, the price we pay is not derived from ensuing wealth.
The red blood of freedom travels naturally in our veins—immutable!
Freedom has been ordained from creation in the lives of all people.
Liberty runs from heart to heart, inspires from soul to soul—sours like an eagle!
It’s linking parents to children, brother to sister, displaying courage.
Generations standing on the shoulders of generations—a fighting refuge!
The price we pay for our freedom and liberty—will never be free!
Historical accounts tried; produced no detailed cost—"It’s a sacred decree!”
The price paid has clearly left budgets—fragmented and unbalanced,
Red poppies blooming in the fields of courageous remembrance!
It has triggered aching souls, caused running nostrils, and weeping eyes.
Ladies wearing dark veils, and men black suits—great spirits that never die!
Uplifting hand and heads under the moon and sparkling stars at night.
Courage inspiring life in delight to continue the fight without—fright nor flight!.
Many look forward to more significant liberating inspiration to come.
Brilliantly embracing the shining new embolden golden rays of the rising sun.
Such a priceless premium runs in our veins and precious arteries.
The price paid for liberty and freedom is entrenched in our hearts naturally!
Have an awesome day, don't forget to pray, stay encouraged, inspired, ingenious, resilient, mindful, enlightened, and blessed always!
Happy July 4th to America's 244th Independence Day Celebration. "Still Leading The Way." Always Count Your Blessings!
© His Excellency, Ambassador, Professor, Honorable, Dr. Joseph S. Spence Sr. USA. (Epulaeryu Master)!
Qu'ry this: a chivalrous charlatan, I,
Dareth feign to pen thy prop'r aspect?
Aye, f'r thy legitimate contours art yet
Ov'rwhelmingly stagg'ring to the gazeth,
And if beheld by the ingraft m'rtal, thus,
Wouldst rend'r those folk stunn'd to reticence.
Such provocative p'rfection f'r a prop'r prose
Pedestal doth now standeth thy outlines.
If 't only the ink of mine own quill flow'd with
The langu'rous liquidity of thy libidinous limbs.
W'rds danceth off the wit at but a glance
Of thy exquisite epid'rmal embodiment,
W'rds liketh touch, tickleth, tease, tempteth.
Coequal the wisest of w'rdsmiths wouldst strain
To holdeth nigh and effectual, the phrasing
Of the diaphanous d'rmal dialogue that
Elucidates the sultry "esses" yond thy
Shadow paints on the walls and flo'rs.
Only those bless'd as i, without pure
Sight of the eye, art accomplish'd
Enough to appropriate a competency
Of fair and f'rm'd appreciation and
Charact'rization, of the voluptuous
P'rtions that composeth thy physique.
Those such as i w're b'rn to the burden
Of the darkness, but also bless'd to the
Bearing of the tactile and touchable.
Mine own pen is the palm, the fing'rtip,
The soft application of skin-to-skin contact,
The int'rpretation of v'ry tiny electrical
Impulses from ev'rything integumentary,
And the und'rstanding of all that keen
Inf'rmation being convey'd to the brain. Alloweth
Me readeth thee anon, alloweth me putteth tactile
"Pen" to the pages of mine own soul and psyche,
Alloweth me writeth a st'ry th're upon thee, alloweth
Me knoweth with mine own fing'rs and palms
The wond'rful w'rds that describeth thee in all
Thy immaculate, sublime consummation,
Alloweth me abs'rb the text of thy curve'd f'rm,
And lighteth the darkness of mine own blind w'rld.
Transf'rm this beshrew into mine own blessing.
Alloweth me beholdeth thee as nay oth'r ev'r shall.
As a st'ry, biography, adventure, book, a tale ...
Without end.
THE LIQUIDITY OF LIES
To be precise It is now exactly half past never
And see, I’ve been trying to tell you that for years
The last will always come first as second seeks solitude
When the best is bested by the worst
And the damage done is due dutifully to a pen you threw away and damnable difficulties
But then the stars start to startle you by speaking
And the moon tells them to keep it down
However all of them know the sun dons a crown
And weeping willows aren’t truly weeping
They’re just as startled by and concerned about the fifth of forever as I am
And what happens when the daffodils refuse to bloom
Now have another cup of sassafras gloom while trapped in a triangular shaped room
Where the angle meets the hypotenuse toe to toe
In a fight of fledgling fallacies
With last winter hiding in your closet
And don’t believe them
There is a monster under your bed
If only in your head
And the mercury will dip as low as it chooses with no limit set
Only the breath from the fifth of forever can get us to where we wish and want to be
But somehow concret puddles of yesterday follow our feet
So we’ll speed up the pace to a place of pleasantries and platitudes
But respite there has a bad reputation
and will be ostrasized until the fifth of forever
I’ve been trying to tell you these things with the hope you’ll heed what I needed to say today
Now above all remember that wherever you see a moth there is a hoard of locusts bound
May the rain be your shower and the sacrosanct sea your bath
As we face Mother Nature’s wrath
I am prophesizing the fact that there will come a day when even a cork will sink
I’m telling you man, this ain’t nothing but a planet filled with people who should shut up, sit
down and think
but they annoint themselves as being oh so very clever
until the fifth of forever
© 2011.…Phreepoetree ~free cee!~
THE LIQUIDITY OF LIES
To be precise It is now exactly half past never
And see, I’ve been trying to tell you that for years
The last will always come first as second seeks solitude
When the best is bested by the worst
And the damage done is due dutifully to a pen you threw away and damnable difficulties
But then the stars start to startle you by speaking
And the moon tells them to keep it down
However all of them know the sun dons a crown
And weeping willows aren’t truly weeping
They’re just as startled by and concerned about the fifth of forever as I am
And what happens when the daffodils refuse to bloom
Now have another cup of sassafras gloom while trapped in a triangular shaped room
Where the angle meets the hypotenuse toe to toe
In a ring of fledgling fallacies
With last winter hiding in your closet
And don’t believe them
There is a monster under your bed
If only in your head
And the mercury will dip as low as it chooses with no limit set
Only the breath from the fifth of forever can get us to where we wish and want to be
But somehow melted puddles of yesterday move under our feet
So we’ll speed up the pace to a place of pleasantries and platitudes
But respite there has a bad reputation
and won’t exist until the fifth of forever
I’ve been trying to tell you these things with the hope you’ll heed what I needed to say today
Now above all remember that wherever you see a moth there is a hoard of locusts bound
May the rain be your shower and the sacrosanct sea your bath
As we are held hostage by Mother Nature’s wrath
I am prophesizing the fact that there will come a day when even a cork will sink
I’m telling you man, this ain’t nothing but a planet filled with people who should shut up, sit down and think
© 2011.…Phreepoetree ~free cee!~
The rich fare so poorly
in completely divesting of the gold chains
Losing it all ... casting away
the luster of the pearly platinum
family portraits on the baroque mansion,
spiral stairway wall
The copper savings ... deposit daub
straw crumbs,
that built the foundation of it all,
starts to totter and fall
When accumulations begin to fail,
put the diminished sprawl
money sign up for sale
Cashing out prematurely ...
losing it all
It's the fatal heart attack,
before the disappearing assets
hit zero
And the cancelled checks
start bouncing back
There are no bankrupt heroes
This penny dreadful thought
gives the wealthy
Freddy Krugerrand nightmares
Leaving the golden nest behind ...
to wing it pauperously alone,
is a wallet tear, safety net falling out
Parachute pursed lips don’t ever
reveal all —
Where the secret stash is mnemonic hid,
in case of an emergency landing
liquidity call ... phantom accounts off-the-grid
Covertly cashing out,
don’t leave much room for
mint condition doubt
Keeping a stuffed mattress attitude,
it’s poor manners to be
obnoxiously soup-line bourgeois rude
Maintain fiscal proletarian discipline;
looking fo’ mo’ easy-open vault,
capital idea opportunities
to reinvest the debt reset default
Staying on a silver cloud
at all cost
Means rushing headlong to a sky precipice,
bullishly fretting fearful
of a bearer bond, bear market free-fall
Piggy bank 401k squeals
be just another Poor & Standard
snout pocket poke to the profit-strapped chin
No-frills credit rating T-note bills
are being dividend, early retirement cashed in
It’s all down-low, bankroll covert action ...
‘cause everybody know
that being milk poppy poor is a withdrawal sin
The victim weeps constantly
she defends herself when she has no need
and every plead to her sanity
lays rejected in tearful liquidity
She cries out her bullying tactic
of mental anguish
and blackmailed by your own emotional
her reasoning to melancholy so dramatic
and sure to be sorrowful of misunderstanding
a martyrdom's wreck
too hurt by all her own suffering
There is no fault
no compensation
this world of little girl lost
by inconsiderate condemnation
overburdened by the woeful cost
became the victim of herself
Never plausible
this walls defense
the projection of her victimization
an effigy's impersonation
is always someone else
as you trip and scatter on her eggshell dance
There must be someone to blame
for all this pain
some accusation
some undefinable curse must have been given
to drain her strength
to see herself weaken
but still demand your attention
there can be no acceptance
of past indiscretion
and by willing blindness
becomes the parody of her own misfortune
No one can equal her distress
but from somewhere
it has come from someone else
she is battered and bruised
this sweet tiny soul
too timid to confront her guilt
too innocent to escape her own persuasion
and with all her misdeeds
by herself she is eaten
The victim weeps continually
she protects herself when she has no need
they still stand by her
all those who love her
but their compassion
for her it has become her weapon
to entreat a response
to her victimization
There must be someone to blame
for all this pain
and someone else
must carry her burden
someone else must suffer her accusation
be the mirror of herself projection
—wThis Thing Called Aging
1All day, no, far more nearly for 2 years,
I have been thinking I have had
Enough of being old, being
Pleasant about this form of present:
I have had enough of this aging task.
I wish to go back— not, no, not
Return to my troublesome youth.
No returning, please,but, perhaps,
A re-setting of some physical,
.Dimensional clock, just as springtime
Returns every year and the perennials
Re-grace us all around, splendidly,
Their petals unscarred.
I will concede to grayed hair, even to
These painful bones, but I want
To hand in how I drop every 3rd
Thing I touch, misplace every 3rd
Thing I set down, or take a fall every 3rd
Outing I dare. How it goes on
That I must ask help to stand,
To lift, to fetch, to set down, to plan.
As decades passed, perhaps I gained
Some wisdom, tho now must pray
Daily for strength. And even if
I cannot travel anymore, I retain
A universe of unknowns - by Faith - in
Views from my soul, for which
I need not squint or lean in closer
To the turning pages...
I was a ballet dancer in my youth.
I miss in this aging, the liquidity
Of motion, and I give apologies
For my neediness, and also give
Thanks for this continuing life...
Not ballet, but a tango with language,
And a promenade with my dreams:
This concourse of wishing traverses
A decrepit, wooden bridge failing
Its hold over a river of inconsequence.
And, next time these desires consume
A further day, I shall laugh,
Just as aging will have taught me to do.
*********************************
sally young-Eslinger2020 (c)