Long Looking glass Poems
Long Looking glass Poems. Below are the most popular long Looking glass by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Looking glass poems by poem length and keyword.
The mind is an amazing key
With the right guidance words will trigger memories
From anger and rage to double personalities
Emotions will rise like the oceans tides
Your muscles will twitch with every cellular connection
Hurt, denial abandonment too
Like a looking glass into the past everything is a reflection of you
And not everything you see will be rosy and clean
Tears and overwhelming fears our bodies remember the slightest infraction
Our habits and beliefs play a major role too
Pain and suffering are a big part of what makes us do the things that we do
Without remorse or a second thought we push things to the back of our minds
But all through our lives we can feel something is just not right
We search for those answers like a child playing hide and seek
Sometimes we will get hints and images to help us remember and think
We’ll catch a glimpse from another life as it rises to the top
Like the coming attractions of new movies your mind plays them through the night
You’ll see your kids, wife and family but as soon as you zoom in to see you
Everything fades to white and suddenly your heart starts beating faster
All the rage and anger start rising up again
Each memory triggers another memory it’s a never ending process
And it’s not an easy path however when you consider the alternative
And you look at the life you have so far lead it is kind of like neo in the Matrix
Once you take that pill there is no going back.
You realize the program you’ve been following has been sabotaging you since birth
It’s a negative dysfunction that only supports your inevitable destruction
Debilitating thoughts that are is still playing from long, long ago
These idea’s became part of your core belief and it’s time to let them go!!..
Abusing yourself no longer serves you its time to learn how to heal
Gently open up your heart and allow people to help you feel
As I read my own words I envision a group of healers circling me with compassion
Each one in the there own way helping me to release these toxic fears
I’ve been poisoned by my own family from generation to generation
And I fought for years to stay positive but their abusive habits still affected me deeply
through their yelling, screaming and verbal attacks that numbed me in my years
I am uncertain what saved me but it could’ve been that angel I’d seen holding me dear
Form:
There are visions roving inside my head
of a time and place where perhaps I once lived.
But how do I know of those worldly things
if I no longer exist? I must question if I ever did.
I am off kilter, as if I'm an invisible entity,
a salty speck of foam floating on a sapphire sea.
Should I feel dire despair, indifference, or jubilant joy
that I am not part of this place that's been laid to waste?
It's as if I'm surfing in shadows over what used to be
an amusement park, but the Ferris Wheel is broken,
and there's no spark of life anywhere to be found.
Only faded pamphlets lying on the ground, sun-bleached
remnants of the way life used to be, once upon a time.
I pity me for having been given this gloomy glimpse,
a vandalized view that no one could misconstrue.
I feel like Alice wandering through a frightening fantasy.
Desperately wanting to go back through the looking glass
and forget the devastation in which the world dwells.
If I ever had an inkling of what living in hell would be,
then in this chaotic clime, this dysfunctional dystopia,
I would seek to escape my existence and set myself free.
I feel the need for fresh air, but who would care
if I should have lived or died? No one cried tears for me.
What future fate have I discovered with thoughts
hovering? Tragic thoughts that haunt me like a cold stare.
What ill winds have swept the world away?
Cursed be!
How can anything exist is this sorrowful sepulcher?
I'd rather be a soulless specter without a home
then live among those in this lamenting land.
This is not Aldous Huxley's Brave New World.
It does no good to imagine a world without me.
Friendships made; children born; none of those would exist.
I can only envision these things. These things that I've given wing.
They roam inside my head, making me wonder if I had a beginning
or an end. I feel repercussions from having a discussion
with myself over the conceptual conundrum of my existence.
Would I have been happy, would I have made others happy,
or brought them grief like the thief who collects the dead?
It's a nightmare of reality, for I am sure it's not a daydream.
Greed played its Trump card and schemed to sit on the throne
in a kingdom I could never contentedly condone.
I've no desire to dally here a moment longer, and
since I don't exist, I am certain I will not be missed.
releasing me - of minutes, hours, days - of being bored,
as age creeps into my bed, and what is left, is in my head
- providing nourishment for my soul – my spirit being fed
by looking glass images, images that slip through the crack
in my day dreams, my nightmares as my brain, I rack
for images, memories, experiences - that lay dormant in a stack
upon stacks - waiting to escape the boarded up shack
that has been the villages claim to justify its existence.
The grounds, the foundations, reasons to take a stance
and say yes, yes there where days when I knew romance
and as ever the fool, no one around to kick me in the pants
as all has become history, – fourteen thousand pages – turn a leaf
and you will find that this one’s life is far to empty, far to brief.
In it – between the covers of seventy-eight – can there be any relief
from all that has been laid before you ?, can there be belief ?,
in what is before your eyes, as you look into what is laid before
you, as I reach in, grab at, touch that slow closing door
with hope that it will be possible to get a glimpse of more
before my soul, my spirit, my essence takes wing, begins to soar
beyond this plane, all the pain I have known before.
In here – these lines – I feel the loss.
Upon this stone – know – I see no moss,
for on here, I offer no direction,
just many hours of histories reflection.
Empty- I feel in this alone place.
Emptiness - I see in this aged drooping face.
Where is ?, that I might seek to go ?,
to gain wisdom, to learn what I do not know
of a world of spirit, of soul, of a fine mind.
It seems to me, little hope to find
- among humanity – the true essence of woman kind
as she entombs all- such waste – leaving all behind.
Oh !, if only the fickle hand of fate
could lay upon these drooping shoulders, in these arms, a mate
that in ones darkest hours, a soft glowing light, shine
upon this old soul and in the light of day be mine
that would share on a world , not to compare
with anything like my world of despair.
The hour has passed, the rest are in decline.
The minutes that remain – with stain, are mine.
There is little I see, that will make life fine,
for the ephemeral time left to me, little will shine
through as I look into the black, storm cloud ahead
that rage, stage battles, assassinate instead
A poem is a mirror.
A ?o??i?.
A yes-I-can with crayons the color of Tachyons,
rushing out of whirl’ds where past-meets-future,
reaching for-words…
yet going back-words for some more.
It makes reflections, like a ripple,
but you’re at zero-point too,
where the puddle tessellates to a past in the future you,
and you reflect it back-words and for-words
’til it reverberates…
right there.
Now.
Here.
Like an invertendo-innuendo that’s an in-your-face…
?o??i?.
And this mirror-Kah… it rackles with the spirit of the times.
This mirror… reciprocates.
And everything recorded is written everywhere for anyone to see—
a hit-list for the insurgents,
a collapse scenario for the empire,
as the top one-percent feed the roots of alien, alternative… cycles.
But listen.
‘I see you, you see me’
and maybe together we’re spied-upon in an irony
of what it’s like not to be truly free.
So we carry on.
In a more human innuendo,
a more momento-mori story,
mirroring each other… more merrily.
Another cycle of the Sun,
rollin’ ’round the earth ‘yer on,
then in cycles turned your way,
yes, another day…
where cycles in the Sun are glimmerings on the Sea,
making many reflections,
and sympathetic tessellations vibrate in our oceanic-brain,
where the orbits perigee,
where we learn the lessons of leaving behind
and faltering forward,
where we would-if-I-could be the king who would be a man,
riding these cycles of the Sun by the Sea,
going on this way…
over and over…
mirrorly.
So thank-you, Poets.
For the many reflections.
For the big-hearted yawp of freedom to be who you want to be.
Thank you for sharing your wrought-out ramblings
where my meaning-making takes a rest
and instead, with great exaltation, I surrender
to how you all ‘fess-up and down and around
and always… with a wry wit in it.
It’s bright.
It echoes the numinous in-us.
The euphoric-eunoia.
The bright language of connecting,
an authentic friending in a lightning look…
in intertextual-fugues,
invertendo-innuendos,
or mirrorly… by-the-book.
So is that it then?
This eunoia-euphoria…
this urge-to-merge?
Is that it?
Expressed in longing waves,
swelling in each other as sister and brother?
Is that it?
When you’ve engaged both sides of the brain…
the scholar and the minstrel…
is that the euphoria we’re after?
You have been running around the world looking for a diamond girl; You have been running around the world making unfair investment and driving the interest right up to heaven.
You have stolen the gold from off shore and bury it beneath the dirt; you have crossed the line and interfere with the divine. The world is one big mass spinning around in a looking glass, it can see you from every angle and when the sun goes down and the moon rises up you will see your shadow on the wall.
You have been running around the world from Bahrain to Kuwait, knocking on every door and spilling oil on the gulf shore. You spend time romancing in the UAE in expensive hotel and mingling with young boys whose puberty is wrapped in keffiyeh on top of their head and marrying them off to innocent girls whose Virginity is stacked underneath their bed, and the old men seducing the pauper at gun point, with black tea and a jar of ice.
This morning I stood between the line and the divine piecing together the mystical trail that will get you over the rail, there is no imaginary line and I keep telling you that from time to time you have got to find the mouth of the cave that run through my grandfather land and track the connection with the gulf
.A tunnel is manmade but a cave is designed by nature to provide human shelter. It begins somewhere in Qatar and ends somewhere in the great mosque of Mecca, oh what great tragedy lies at the foot to the cave.
From the beginning of time the Arab were bold, they were skillful men with beautiful women and they had their work cut out for them. They were the best traders in town and they could build a castle on top of the mountain with a hammer and a stick and they could sweep you off your feet with their indigenous barging techniques.
They were skillful fighters and strong mountain divers; they knew the mountain like the back of my hands and they could run up and down the mountain in seconds and find peace in heaven but something went wrong when the Europeans invaded the Arabs.
They give them fifty-three for fifty-two and got a brand-new pair of shoes.
You have one more assignment to do before the mission is complete.
Here & there, everywhere
lie pieces & parts of me
I exist only in the moments between what is and will be…
Taking a ride to the minimart...
Enjoy the passing lands...
...watching the sun playing on the warm sands.
These are fragments of imagery; memory.
Notes to a past life through a Childs looking glass
Sticks and stones blocks and collecting rocks tug of war,
Cowboys, and Indians and don’t forget monsters and such…
These are the fragments of thought here, there, and everywhere.
Lie the secrets of these skeletal remains, My moral refrain…
The life intertwined; a shard of crazy cracked glass,
door knobs made of brass,
firelight camping at night jumping at strange sites…
These are the fragments of me, my history!
Laughing like a loon to the break of noon,
staring at the lights of stars far, far above blazing from millenniums ago…
Fragments of things seen, known n believed!
Ghost stories and hot chocolate, jack o lanterns and witches scream,
these are what memories are made of, here and there lie these mortal remains…
This is all that is or will be again, faded memories pasted
into this tired and ruined frame, a scrapbook of imagery.
Posted deep into the past, pasted together from my fragments.
...together with collected things: Midnight in backyards, playing cards, broken toys, dog-eared books, quiet metronomes, and black rooks…
Moments lost once more,
so off to neverlands of distant mystery,
the vibrations die from the distant bell,
as echoes of jingle bells and carols
fall silent on a snowy evening…
The ticks of a cooling car on a winter night, the tocks of old clocks in grandfather's home, where shadows roam...
This is where I find the fragments of my time,
as I dig through my skeletal remains,
its parts fall on obscure shores
of distant histories…
Thunder and rain,
fears of war,
inner eyes cloud,
different thoughts crowd
like snow drifting in empty rooms.
Sun-rays fall as the wind plays,
dancing on my summer planes
these images are lost
in dusty folded faded photographs…
Define in my skeletal remains,
my bones barely seek human form,
they remember the pieces n parts of my existence,
as only anything can,
here & there & everywhere,
I am left picking up my skeletal remains...
Marvelous mitzvah "munchkin" minted
Thy eldest daughter Eden Liat
treasured more'n a pearl
(otherwise known as Rapunzel)...
donated cut hair to charity - you go girl,
ha, whereat your fine brunette locks of love
will be repurposed into wigs for kids,
and perhaps even don kepi
of trumpeting Bullwinkle, his Sciuridae
friend named Rocket J. Squirrel,
and/or his nemesis Natasha Fatale.
Kudos to thee savvy
twenty three plus year old offspring
voluntarily unwittingly hood
amazingly gracefully support
exhausting, flagging, grueling...
stricken young spirits and bring
joie de vivre during
treatment and convalescence
of challenging treatment ailing,
perhaps hoop fully nipping
terminal illness in bud
beaten into remission,
whereby family, friends medical staff sing
ode to joy cherishing
nothing short of a blessing.
Said sensible, smart and
stalwart inadvertent mentor,
a splendidly mirthful and mindful lass
yes, tis biased opinion, quite a
truckload of abilities she did amass
even fending bullies who tried to harass
attractive petite proportionate physique
confident smile shown back
courtesy looking glass
and papa cognizant,
how her art of humbleness
helped her succeed as top class
high achiever at Harriton High School,
especially acing rigorous
International Baccalaureate (IB)
(worldwide, nonprofit education program
plus even when just a little girl
attending Belmont Elementary
promise of success,
my feeble accomplishments
"star student" did quickly surpass
with flying colors earned free pass
concomitantly acquiring invisible
magic ring, and carpet made of brass
the latter powered by
Walt Whitman wrought leaves of grass
at University of Pennsylvania
earning stripes as Ivy League graduate
freelance activist while completing
internship linkedin with
University of Southern California.
Spellbound birth father
internally rejoices ta deum,
we knew e'er since Eden Liat
healthy growing fetus within the womb
whip smart progeny
undoubtedly healthy unbridled maturation,
I vicariously exalt storied accomplishments
accrediting and applauding
every iota offspring earned
blood, sweat and tears
created deafening sonic boom,
and where infinitesimal blazing saddle
burned blinding trajectory
catching eminent potential groom.
“Past Old Strangers”
I met a man with piercing eyes,
Whose cool façade was mere disguise,
Whose soul reflected sadness there,
The like of which I can’t compare.
Whose massive frame seemed somehow small
For one whose stature stood so tall,
Whose glance I felt afraid to meet
For fear of déjà vous’ entreat –
Like past old strangers reunited,
Or some lost love, not yet requited.
He was running, so was I;
We almost passed each other by,
But something gave us moment’s pause
In destiny’s ill-fated cause.
So, we stopped and shared a word, or two,
Like old acquaintances might do.
We passed the time, as best we could,
Both knowing somehow that we should.
And gradually, he made me smile,
As did he, in turn, in a little while,
But underneath I saw the pain
And fear he felt to love, again.
And compassion overtook me then
For all those empty hours we spend
In seeking warmth from someone else
Instead of looking to ourselves.
For all those nameless faces yet,
And all those ghosts we can’t forget;
For all the loves that haunt us still
And rob us of our own free will.
For all those memories that lie
So heavily on heart’s goodbyes;
For all the love that we may miss
Because of nurtured cowardice.
For all the chances we let pass
When stepping through that looking glass,
To let the words we long to say
Fall lost along our appointed way.
Because we fear, in foolish pride,
To let another step inside,
To take a place so deep within
That no one else has ever been.
For fear of feeling human need
In fond fulfillment or lover’s deed,
For giving is that part of love
We find that we’re most fearful of.
And all those things I thought within
That sweet reunion with my old friend,
When glimpsing there beneath those eyes
Midst idle talk and flirting sighs.
But he knew well, as I did too,
The candle’s flame to which we drew,
Like moths who flutter to be free,
But can’t escape Fate’s destiny.
And so it was, we passed the night,
But never touched, as once we might,
For we both feared what we both knew,
As past old strangers often do,
The haunting warmth that we might find,
The kindredship of mirrored minds,
The comfort we would share as friends,
The fear of where it all might end…
J. B. Pearce
Copyright
DO NOT READ IF YOU HAVE EMOTIONAL ISSUES
I was born in a land far, far away called... home.
Not yet still-born.
A place of iced mountain mazes,
that were once warm, like an oasis of blessings,
featured.
Life, overlooking question marked plains,
where the grass is green and the wind, wild
and unfiltered.
Where adventure and path was half-balanced,
teetered.
Hung on the Horizon like the Moon in High Holy Day
in shift phase-,shifting phase-shift,
of the nurtured.
Still, a Banshee Howling; a Temptress-Whore,
lifting all protocol of the Hunt, "About Face."
Her *** breathe,-iced gossamer-
lining a sarcophagus
below the succession-chain pyramid
of gathered slaves', witness.
Whipped foam in sheet-layers
of emotional-strata denied
by iced Earth and Zombie Tomb.
Society will have its sheep and its shepherds.
Voices do cry in the Wilderness.
Echoes cracked in the darkessphere.
None. The less. The lesser.
An hourglass-of-open-window- shards,
the- daylight-stained-looking-glass-
piercing-the-veil-of-dusks-Sovereign-Sentencing.
The chill of my spine, her memory.
A promise of reunion as she smirks back
with puzzle-encrypted messages.
My Home went away from me,
to re-address ceremonies' garb.
With flinty eyes that bore witness to an empty womb.
Was it me?
The Banshee Howling:
I lived in a house of glass
in a place forbidden to ever be seen. To ever be..
The mirrors promise reflected a lonely,
loveless woman.
Her beauty was too perfect to be real.
She was the one who left me.
To search for better things on these Streets.
To a place called none.
She was gone, but her memory lingers on. For me, the Sonic Howling. The memory of her...
A Banshee Howling; The memory of our union,
reunion, re-toothed in cold steel.
Of ritual, undoing, dung.
The premise : I was unborn in a far-away place
where the grass has never been.
Never was real. A holo sonogram. Life's hologram. The mirror's tear.
Just a shadow, of one teasing shades
of cruelty of what could, has, not wanted. Here?
There? No more? There there. No more tears.
“It’s in there!”
The frizzy haired woman insisted with mirth in her eye.
“But, how?”
I asked beseechingly.
She gave a mischievous laugh from impish lips in reply
And then skipped merrily on her way.
The most precious thing I ever lost
Contained in a small puzzle box?
Ridiculous!
I paused.
No, I knew what the lady said to be true.
I could hear the enchanted object
Whispering to me
In an unfamiliar language
That my heart somehow understood.
I was missing a precious commodity.
Something very special.
My memory could only see vague outlines.
However, I was confident
A magnificent treasure
Lied within the small chest.
Now focused,
The mystery of unlocking the chest came naturally.
With greedy eagerness
I quickly opened that which held me back
From my forgotten prize.
And . . .
The chamber was empty
Save a simple unframed mirror
Taped to the inside of the lid.
I remembered the woman with a playful smile
And thought,
“Is this a woeful attempt at a joke?!”
I started to seethe
And my face began to contort
Then I saw my reflection.
Memories of loss
Due to anger, regret, and missed opportunities
Cascaded into my mind.
Were these my most precious valuables?
Did I now consider these thoughts so I could make changes?
Or did I recall them to realize that they made me who I am today?
Both or neither!
It didn’t matter.
It was simply the past
On which I didn’t dwell.
Again enraged,
I shook myself from my stupor,
tore the mirror from its place,
and threw it shattering to the ground.
“So, it was a trick.” I grumbled.
And was just about to curse
when a glint from box caught the corner of my eye.
Upon closer examination,
Behind where the looking glass once stood,
Was a simple etching that pierced me with a penitent knife.
“I heart Jenny”
Jenny.
Jennifer.
My sister who passed away
When I was the simple age of five.
A beautiful brown haired brown eyed teenager
With a kind smile and the most incredible soul.
Cancer.
Had it really been over four decades?
Too few memories and too little recollection over the years.
Now, I recalled.
Feelings as much as details.
Love and peace.
I made a commitment to myself.
To never lose sight of that which was most important again.