Long Loll Poems
Long Loll Poems. Below are the most popular long Loll by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Loll poems by poem length and keyword.
The shifting of many corporeal hands move across this dead cell,
A vacuums vortex, a psychic sponge, charging this battery of
Energy called the spirit board.
Paranormal phenomenon striking plate to enter realities plane
Of existence, for the ethereal challenged in crisis, seeking the
Threshold for spontaneous release, unto our spiritual realm.
Witchery’s board of trickery left in a polarized stance it
So entices the living with its tempting whispering of lies,
Incantations gate keepers wait on the other side of evils
Door way.
Memorizing the human sensory functions into a false
Sense of harmless mystery of the unexplained, it lures
These victims ever closer to weaving its spell of the demonic.
These capture being lost unto the hypnotic effects are
Transfixed unable to hit their override switch that controls
Their mental powers of persuasion, disabled is there strength
Of will power, they belong to the Ouija now.
Clasping do all for sides of the curtain of reality, times
Displacement begins in earnest, without hesitations
Momentary loll this dead cell bursts to life.
Black magic key has been inserted within the wooden
Door way’s heart and soul, a bizarre power bank draws
Forth the energy of the spiritual lost, swinging hells
Kept wide open.
The pancetta spins out of control, smashing against
The barriers of humanity, darkened ebony light shines
Through this doorway of evil and the flickering candle
Turns to a shades greenish blue wavering in the odious
Breeze.
The voice of a thousand screams echo in sheer delight,
We have been freed at last, broken is the trance, the boards
Hypnotic effects are dashed by the light of the dawn.
Dazed in bewilderment the voyeurs are chilled to their
Very inward bones, shaking, staring in awes amazement,
Wondering if these events really happened at all.
Then within these tented walls a voice responds to their
Questioning, laughing, as if a jackal at a fresh kill site!
Foolish mortals you know not what you have done, this
Night, but I promise thee this, laughing once again,
In a demonic under tone, none shall leave this domicile
Alive.
The entry doors lock without the human touch, the
Curtain windows pull closed, a momentary stilled
Scream, then all is silent, what remains is left up
To my readers to visualize, as the final candle
Blows out!
BY: CHERYL ANNA DUNN
Endless ribbon of tattered poetry in pavement,
Trail of tears for wandering vagabonds,
Seek yourself from this time forth betwixt sunrise and senility,
For the tides of the seasons grow weary with long-suffering,
To the hopes thou clingeth unto, by breadth and bound, unwavering still,
To where have thy troubadours vanished my heartland?
Into the unforgiving sea of nights, long past beneath God's eyes,
Tell me, oh mother, who wring thine hands in the terrible simplicity of despair,
Where have thine young sojourned unto, beyond your grieving sight,
Far across the smoking hills of sin and smoldering ash, to find beauty amongst anguish,
Listen not to the cries of death that smite the heart with wild and evil abandon,
And do you not hear the song of the mourning dove, low and yet with hope,
And tell me, Mr. Kerouac, whither hast thou been these few milion moons before,
Among the snow of the peaked mountains, hushed with the silent iron hand of winter
Drifting amply with the loneliness of the four winds of the Swanee, and the mighty
Mississippi
So roll tides, roll, to take you back to the streets of long-lived, and still loved Lowell,
There are ghosts in the alleys, but thou art no specter in the darkness,
Let us focus, with unwavering desire and redemption, to life and death, body and soul,
To you, the wanderer with pen and parchment, who told the nations of life on the
road
And the majestic unyielding awe of every eye and stillness fixed on every tounge,
from the picture thou hast set before the whole of old America,
For you had me at "Praised be man" in the senseless throes of unbridled youth,
And left to dream of moonlit vigils, as can be seen from the pilot seat of a battered
beetle,
Following the footsteps and felt pen, driving across '66, to Seligman and Flagstaff,
To loll and roll, with the unreal unfurling of your manuscript reels, to give freely your
confusion
For a timeless, aimless quote by thee, picturesque and wanting with gusto
"Whether goest thou America, in thy shiny car in the night?"
Blessings from the heartland, Mr. Kerouac.
See you in Big Sur.
PLIGHTS FOUGHT TOMORROW KNOWN
WRITTEN FOR DR. MARTIN LUTHER KING, JR. HOLIDAY 2016 (Versified!)
As days transpires, better we focus.
As life transgress, better our voice.
A walk, a talk, a political aspect of religion and righteousness.
Via the Founding Fathers we separated church and state.
Socio-political and socio-religious are the floodgates.
As we remember, tears may drop,
Is it the strength we possess that ruminates us?
We overcame our struggles and we are abreast to our accomplishments.
We are the United States of North America.3
Analysis of our external environment let us know
that we are a strong workforce.
That we are no more separated by the color of our skin.
That our unity is our identity of different nations of human beings.
That our mien is our self-image of economy –
the” big picture” of demeanor.
When we falter, we recoup.
We do not assume we will fall from what others do.
We are the people of our regions that are vast and wide.
We are negotiators of our lives.2
As we celebrate today in our mind-sets,
we know what may overwhelm us.
This could be how far we have come.
Or, it could be how far we will continue to go -
to climb the mountains that we must peak -
to deplete human suffering from the illness we perceive.
That is what is known and all the possibilities.
We have witnessed many tragedies from the
time of formation to present day.
But oh, we can find glory just as well in our beliefs,
creeds, and unity.1
Envois is this discourse.
Pro-activism edifice verbalized.
But to no idiom this loll.
We are all part of the same universe.
Each has his or her role to play.
All are formidable when the goal is stated.
May one be easier than the other?
May we strive to be a part of the same country?
Where we are awe-inspiring but together.
That is on the same page.
Where our lives are the similarity, and the same is our home front.
This is right outside our front door.4
The plight is fought and tomorrow is known!5
_____________________________________________________________|
Written January 16, 2016!
Social uselessness is a virtue of its own,
Those we cast aside, glance at and then away from quickly,
Lest they notice, and smell our guilt,
Are free to live immodestly,
There being no need for posturing
When one's invisible.
Trees that grow lumpen or misshapen
Are left to live long and go unfelled,
Never to be transformed into pencils and park benches.
They carry on, in love with the sun,
Spreading their arms to embrace the sky
Season upon season;
The children skip over their roots
And lovers loll beneath their boughs,
Their shade relieves the weary,
Their age comforts the old.
No carpenter's ambition
Will ever reach their wondrous hearts,
Then, perforce, transform them.
When they kick you, unwanted
Out of the hospital psych ward,
Your illness not important because you've done
Nothing to make the newspapers,
You can wander like a prophet, complete in yourself
Living your truths without needing an apologist.
So it is with those we look away from,
The odd shapes among us who don't fit our spaces.
There's more to be seen by looking between things
Than can be found by looking straight at them;
The unshaped space around us speaks with an incessant tongue
Interpretable only by the spirit.
So if you really want to slip the blindfold for a change
To see the ones hovering around the fringes,
Start by studying their shadows;
If they should deign to speak,
Listen with your eyes,
If you want to feel them,
Reach deep inside yourself and rub the sore spots
You spend the day denying.
Reflection sustains reality
Like dewdrops on a leaf.
Try to understand this like a lesson and you'll fail,
But accept it without judgement;
It will come to you.
No man finds more truth than he who looks for nothing;
This is writ upon the bark of twisted trees.
Read it, then know what wisdom is.
Hands awaken! Speak out! Answer to sacred shouts,
subterranean whispering, to stars above rooftops—
thread sunlit branches with the chattering of a thousand leaves.
If fluxes and urgencies of confusion or death
should drawn you into your self-box, I say,
remember when one constructed self-prison fell away.
However you helped this forward,
do more of the same.
Be rain-hands, weeping, steeped in earth fragrance.
Be fingers in blossom, faces turning upward,
loves innumerable, rough-cut bedazzled—
unafraid to be splayed open.
Be pocketed hands, released to the welcoming wind—
multiplying there in mid-air,
riding the four directions.
Be hands of smoke and fire, descending and ascending like ragged bird-song—
effulgent, double-charged with surprise
and now even with mock surprises.
Start at the beginning, where you are.
Don’t be satiate with loll-lolling
recede wave’s tide, retreat back and back
into yourselves, until grown utterly intellectual and lumpish!
Now, you Human Being—you come awake also!
Sweep the furnishings from table. Upend the table lawlessly.
Bring the muscular, fleshy, feminine against the masculine and muscular.
Bring the masculine to the feminine. Bring friend to enemy,
estranged neighbor to the confidant. In a dance of pressing hands,
let subtle conversation play.
Ring all the tiny bells.
Stir the King and Queen of Remembrance.
In over-arching restraint, holding back one iota, so pure notes sound—
bring sunburst, sphere and harmony.
Make your entire body a listening board
forming therein—tender shape around which love
seed unfolds infinite spaces and then…
Spring awake! All to better dreaming
where hope and faith are undashed, not this dying.
O, hear me now! Hands, every which one of you,
with every human—never again sleep,
never abandon!
This man was suited,
booted,scented,
and flew luxury class,
he was high ranking official
of a bureaucracy,
on one flight back,
I followed him in his life,
second by second,
he was called to a far off city,
to lecture on human resources,
he talked about employee motivation,
employee empowerment,
work conditions,
incentives,
job definitions,
and blah blah what not,
his trip and lecture had costed thousands of dollars,
but he was skating on bureaucratic rollers,
he returned to his work,
which was human management in his bureacracy,
he fired his bright subordinate just because,
he was busy and forgot to wish him,
he stopped normal pay and perks of another brighter guy,
just because he did not like his face,
he transferred another able guy to zanzibar,
because he had a score to settle,
he got other staff to relegate another victim,
in a corner without work,
he saw to it that his folks,
ill educated and poor performing,
got promoted,
he stymied the promotions of a few bright guys,
at the end of day he had a smile,
on his face,
of a man that was elite,well placed,secure,
and communist at that,
his smile was a material smile,
withut ethics or principles,
his smile was expectant,
of returns to the favors he had granted,
he still had another talk to deliver,
on human resources management again,
and he calculated and planned,
that he would return with the same airline as they had nice wine,
and the number of heads that gonna roll,
after his return,
and the number of heads that gonna loll,
after his return,
his talk and his deeds had no link,
because it was not so said in his job contract,
and the matter written in it with bureaucratic ink.
The brook thrums as it vaults over the piled rocks
Rolling on deep into the Zambezi valley
Twisting, flirting with the rigdes that compliment the escarpment beyond
And the indigenous lass strolled to the rivulet a rose
A dragon rose burgeoning before the morning glory of the sun
Her corn-rows tufted with the vermilion splendour
Of marigold petals she picked along the footpath
The sleeves of chives thriving along the watercourse
Weaved in the refined breeze sweeping across the wafting water surface
She surged on a jade
A jade turning, swinging in the butter sunrays
With every step, every turn
Seeking a new face, reflecting a new light.
Her supple skin freed from fetters of freckles and blotches
By the enchanted resins of the savanna balm
The hale and hearty of the chlorophyllous lily-pads
Reclining their backs against the waters
Consuming their limpid, shading enigma below
Genies, river monsters and cold blooded demons
That loll beneath the swish, patient, cuddling an ambush
She reached the songful stream
With her khakied antique clay pot clasped against her left hip
A treasure handled down her lineage
A pride of the tribal women
The gold then rested in her arms
She furled the pot beneath the mesh of lily-pads to quench its thirst
Offering the thyme of her bountiful body to the monsters
Her clamor short-lived while her breath sheared off
The waters gulped her, with the dye of her flesh teeming off
And the stream clad in red
The ceramic whimpered into shards
The seering forest kept vigil, languid
As it guttered down her tears along its wrinkles
Her palm couldn't bridle her fate
But let it sip off between her fingers
..............Baby Steps Out..
..........There's a waiting world
.......Doctors nurses eager staff
......A doting father, mother in pain
.....It is said that we chose our birth
....An act of free will, desired destiny
....The paths are all charted by our will
....This birthday I decided to recall..loll
......A memory jog, back to time of birth
.........An unborn peeping into his future
..............The little steps on roads ahead
.................Unfolding destiny milestones
.....................Cherished moments in wait
.....................Some vivid some smudged
.....................Hand drawn on masterprint
..................Paths to travel people to meet
................The resting places n thirst stops
...............Careful leaps on stepping stones
...........The journeys that were yet to unfold
.........All vivid in storehouse before take-off
.....In the sojourn I was told: Precious is birth
...In baby steps or our giant strides a purpose
.The joys or sufferings are like passing screens
There is an axis a polestar guiding & connecting
A constant the unchanging in all that is changing
Distracted get our senses by colors cacophonies
.Not difficult to lose the picture in such a journey
...Precious is birth- holds many a promise....es ....
......like many seeds...finding ground.. ..yes !!
.........pods germinate ..stored... ..loved ..
...............friends near far ...unmet :)
......................thank you.....<3.....
.................................Fam ....frnds
.........................................................for remembering
.............................................................flowing wishes
Calling and hooting
to the wind tiptoeing
along the terrified face
of the wriggling curtain
looking through the window
at the trees and their dark ghosts
casted upon the blood of
the moon o'er the floor-
where loll a breathless frog
silent as a voiceless doll,
the wind to the wall came
now pulling on the curtain
to drag it under the rain,
where under the soil
an half-buried corncob.
The thunder-stricken eyes
of the silence is slized
with the crying of a cock
symphatised with the clock
burying yesternight
in the grave of the calender
and not under the floor
where there's an half-buried corncob.
As the dawn is fallen
the sun is rising
with a brand new light
spreading over the grave of yester-night
in the graveyard of the calender
which was from a sweetheart
a girl with lips stolen from heaven
who was once by this oven
baking her birthday cake
while the radius of her waist
I measure without a tape
but the hope to have a taste
both of the cake and her lips
which is more red or gold
red than the chilly rose
gold than the dripping oil of the sun
where loll the half-buried corncob.
The cock at watch
with his eyes afore
casting the rays
where the head is raised
the head of a somnambulistic worm
from where loll the half-buried corncob.
O'er my bed
worries bereft
under the blanket I loll
like the half-buried corncob.
It's the hatching of Sunday
hatching under the sunrays-
the egg of an angry hen
cracking under my pen
for how beautifully I draw it
without my drawing things,
I painted a drop of blood
where loll an half-buried corncob.
Lay down noiselessly,
as long as you stay still
and breathe lightly, then they will ignore you.
You can smile under your eyelids,
you can pretend that they have legs
and wear business suits.
You can imagine milking the poison
out of their hollow fangs;
like sperm it will ease your mind.
In the viper pit
let the forked tongue's sense your resignation,
let the forked tongue's lick your meekness.
Let the forked tongue's wrap you up
in their sinuous dreams.
On Monday morning they will be waiting
to interrogate your presence,
Their tight shiny pants dick slick
and cocksure. Their pointing shoulder pads
puffed up like rock adders,
high hips sharp and akimbo
pencil-sharp eyes probing,
testing your capacity to still undulate.
If you are male, screw red thorns upon
your rodent parts.
The mice around your spine
are freezing,
wrap them in fox skins
you haggled for at the meat-market.
Grin with your back teeth.
If you are female,
If you have hands,
then hold them up, reveal your armpits,
cream your pheromone-laced musk
into their morning coffee.
Loll with the water-cooler moccasins,
laugh at their venomous jokes.
Feed them scraps of velvety rabbit skin
you have shaved off your inner thighs.
Wear your skirt just a little bit higher.
At the end of the work day,
if your eyes are filled with dried-up slime
remove the crud with a cattle-prod
then slither into a deep sleep.
Dream of eating the juicy white meat
of roasted pythons,
or disemboweling a writhing nest
of Anacondas
with a razor-sharp, steely forked tongue.
.