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.
Once there was a haughty queen
who decided to spend more time on
her own:
here, there, she flew everywhere
followed by a lovesick drone --
She said: "little man, you're not
in my plan...please find a poem
all your own!"
Himself, no good at gathering nectar...after
thought said, "The heck with her!"
Wasting no time, instead of wallowing
in self-pity, moved to the big city, wrote
a book on Hive Theory: how drones are
mere sex objects, sleepless, eyes bleary
With profits from his book, opened a bank
offering no penalty early liquidity -- finally, some
respect for drones, bee dandies feeling hopeless
and weary. Up till then having little other choice
but to serve the whims of Her majesty, often royally
finicky, they began investing their nest-eggs of sweets
for retirement in our protagonist's very successful,
totally liberating, high dividend paying -- novel
Savings And Drone.
{For Contest : unintended innuendo
Sponsor: Unseeking Seeker
Date submitted: 11/5/25}
Line of inquiry:
[“as we passed her she did wilt
which caused in us sense of guilt
since our stance perhaps did cause
to put her heart’s joy on pause
though we’re gentle, not hostile
we diminished her soul’s smile
since our aura as she viewed
scent of love did not exude”]
~o~
she was from another starry realm
where Heart heralds as the only balm
it governs all aspects of Soul’s demeanour
which meant she needed no fancy armour
there energy passing flashes flaming
creations new, filled with intoxicating dew
such purified liquidity imbues Infinity’s Grace
with guiltless, shameless, lubricating pace
visiting from a skytown where nothing faded
eyes, ears, skin, nose and tongue jaded
superfluous sense organs centuries shaded
Joy, only sublime sensation boldly braided
how could we assess filament of her Soul
we had not yet attained her station whole
mind was our playground, still the master
where little can blast ahead or go any faster
auras defined by progress through timelines
when viewed by ascended goddesses divine
sometimes cause wilt or withdrawal so sore
not understanding our love’s sullied impure
we meant no harm, she just seemed strange
her ambience Love had no earthly range
resting at point zero seemed colourless
we beamed it dreamy stream fathomless
~o~
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.
I am a river,
surging, never still,
never bound,
within walls,
I’ve never had,
nor cherished, nor craved.
You ask me to remember —
but where would
such memories be
forged or stored in liquidity?
Plunge your hands
within me and
all you will find is
the glinting surge of present motion,
with nothing before or after,
nothing upstream nor downstream
only the fleeting touch of one instance.
My fate is only yoked to gravity
which too, bears no memory.
You are my container,
the bearer of memory,
the architect of recalls.
For I am not a being,
but a fluid reckoning,
a moment of becoming,
dissolving instantly
after it's freshly made.
I searched all night for a contortionist,
so that I might appreciate my own lack of flexibility.
She twisted my mind and body in the most pretzel of ways.
Even though I tried hard, I couldn’t achieve my Gumby aspirations.
In the end, she felt I was kinda Pokey, so she kicked me out of her bed.
As I walked down the street,
I contemplated the lawlessness of attraction.
There I was wandering around the rules,
wondering which ones I had broken.
Had I not tried my best to bend backwards?
She said I was stiff but not in the way that mattered.
What I wanted, apparently left her Wanton.
I could feel it in her perfectly formed aura.
She somehow lacked the liquidity to complete our transaction.
Still I admired her foot to neck accomplishments.
I had wanted to pole vault to new depths,
but my Noodled Udon couldn’t reach China.
From the beginning I was aching for her attraction,
but was left to watch her perform an exquisite Aria.
I am thankful and must admit, she played her instrument perfectly.
Leaving me mesmerized and completely
.....Astounded!
January 17th, 2020
A bit of humour to start your day. ;0)
—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)
‘Oh I say isn’t this spiffing or what?’
says Jeremy taking the horse for a trot.
It will be pheasant for dinner which the butler will sort
followed by Havana cigars and a nice drop of port
in the billiard room where the gentlemen play,
then a nice game of backgammon if it’s on a Wednesday.
The silver spoon in his mouth means he speaks rather strange,
words like golly gosh, old bean- all rather deranged.
The Rolls will be cleaned for a trip to the course
where golf will be played in tidy plus fours.
Then it's off to the cricket with the boys for a jolly,
joined by stock brokers and bankers with plenty of lolly!
It’s lunch at the Ivy or tea at the Ritz
all terribly posh, just like St Moritz
where his chalet will tend to the winter delight,
skiing with royalty on champagne powder of white.
The hallway displays portraits of the old,
founders of industry which took hold
securing old money to ensure a liquidity
where one will never face financial humility.
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.
So funny, that what is left these days are men in long trousers who look up to boys in shorts.
No one to break the wheel,
so they remain in circles.
They, the mid ones who are supposed to lead the young ones.
And so the world never changes,
Just the boy who wants to be a baby.
Heavy is the heart that pours these words,
Sorry are the ones hoping for something in a line of nothing .
Entrapping positions placed,
A hall of servitude,
Of ugly quagmires,
That for these bodies that once had souls,
have been made soulless in this precarious arena.
Nothing naughty nurtures a liquidity of luxury,
for everything comes with a price.
Placing bet on life's tariff was completely off the hook,
which made greatness abated because of the nuisance
caused by the new ones.
Like the woman who dwells in God's acre ululating in a public secret,
for the despicable world she bore that now burns.
What can dispel her agita?
And so, here we are, all together
as we sing our songs of lamentations and bitter anguishes of the past and dawdle today,
while contemplating on tomorrow.
Hmm! A sign of exhaustion,
From the shallow to the bobbling
From the bobbling to the shallow
why is the event on repeat?
Let the reason be because the next plan is no longer in the nest carved by one of the best among the rest who acted as guests in this wide range of test.
Detest is the taste which can't quench my thirst,
First, I need a fence to protect my chance incase It becomes tensed.
Mm! sense, not common, I known,
but in my defense, it is less than I expect,
This thing called common sense.
Hence, boys want to be men,
Men want to be boys,
So obsessed with the absence
and ignore the presence
that when the time finally comes for the switch,
they all become distanced.
Wait, cut the chase.
There is the price to cover the expenses of what they ordered for,
but all they can afford is,
Reluctance.
Ode to the dew of morning’s youth:
Cling silently
to your fresh presence
in an iridescent world
absent of horizon’s
shadows.
Glowing amber reveals
your eager luminescence
as you await
her spotlight;
Yet her ardent rays
merely celebrate
absorption
to a lonely atmosphere...
Signify
pure liquidity;
bask in droplets
of
chromatic adventure.
Commemorate
your velvet green stage
and layered
petal curtains...
At maturity, we
float
in muddied complexities
and fallen blades;
Dutifully enrichening the soil,
taken too soon
by the g r a v i t y
of time.