Long Lurk Poems
Long Lurk Poems. Below are the most popular long Lurk by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Lurk poems by poem length and keyword.
Hormones make the Endocrine System work
They’re always around, they always lurk.
And they do so many things
And to the body the blood always brings
So many chemicals all over abound
Each only binds to specific receptors found.
Sometimes they’re high, sometimes they’re low
And hormones always absolutely go
Via the blood until it finds,
Its special receptor, where it binds.
And no matter what you think you knew
There’s only five things they generally do.
Membrane potential, a hormone can alter,
And so a cell’s function will never falter.
When they alter membrane potentials we know
And that always means information will flow.
Protein synthesis, too, gets involved
And making large molecules soon gets resolved.
They can cause proteins synthesis in the cell
By turning on genes that work so well.
Enzyme modifications are also the norms
They can activate second messenger forms.
And when it does, it can certainly cause,
Enzyme activity or enzyme pause.
Secretions, too, the cell will spit out,
Due to the hormone, because of its clout.
And what is the importance of what the hormones’ issues
These cells spew out substances to affect other tissues.
Then there’s the last, reproductive in nature
Mitosis and meiosis, both important in stature.
Both types of cell division are obviously affected,
Another example of hormones, reflected.
I can’t believe I thought that,
I can’t believe I went that way,
My mind journeys and wanders,
Mountain highs and valley lows,
It travels.
I can’t believe I strung together those words,
I can’t believe those words flowed from me,
My mind is a window to my outside,
Sometimes it’s shadowed by the night,
Sometimes I see a trail of light.
I can’t believe I opened that door,
I can’t believe I went down that alley,
Monsters lurk around the corner,
Darkness pervades the ambience,
Mysteries stand like lampposts.
I can’t believe I went through that rain,
I can’t believe I came out of that pain,
My mind seeks solace in a new day,
My mind searches for comfort in the dawn,
I inquire about the path to redemption.
May 22, 2024.
These ragged shards of breath, catching in my lungs with grasping fingers of jagged glass
Howling tormented wolves in my mind, clawing and shredding the last remnants of the last
Desperate attempts to live, temerarious in the quest to quench their thirst with blood
Monsters lurk in the shadows of my eyes, hungry for my conscious suffering
No rest, no peace, no sleep for sinners, servants to a greater ill, mindless revolutions of pain
Spinning endlessly in space, reaching for a cold and distant sun without the light of lies
A frozen, broken waste stretches in the expanse of my eyes, terror stalking ceaselessly
In every hidden juncture of the labyrinth of my mind, dark embodiments of hatred, shame, and anger
My eyelids are weighted, crusted in the sands of the blazing desert of my soul
Scraping away my retina with every blink, gasp, choke for air, smothering and breathless
Into infinity I carry loneliness, alone, unwept, unsung, swept into the vast waters of time
Drowning in the enormity of insignificance I wait, sleepless.
Boots, Love, and Alien Diplomacy
My love is five five, a sturdy delight,
With eyes like warm coffee just kissed by the night.
His hair oh, it's brown, but wait, there's a glint,
Silver like stardust, a celestial hint.
A soldier, he stands with a mission in mind,
So set in his ways, he's a rare, stubborn kind.
His socks hide a secret, though not so discreet,
Dear God, those are feet I just don’t want to meet.
He says certain phrases that rattle my brain,
Like “irregardless” I twitch from the strain.
But then he appears with my door swung wide,
Pulls out my chair like a 1940s guide.
He’s not one for roses or moonlight or art,
But somehow, this man has completely my heart.
He’ll wrestle the monsters that lurk in my head,
And still keep the Wi-Fi and toddlers both fed.
He parents with strength and a soft, steady hand,
Though he once tried to “fix” me with duct tape and sand.
He’s mine and he’s real and he’s terribly true
A man who’s got honor, and barbecue too.
But one night it shifted this poem takes a turn,
Because love isn’t boring, and neither’s this burn.
Aliens landed right there in our yard,
Demanding Earth's leader, their tone pretty hard.
My soldier stood firm, in his socks full of holes,
And challenged their captain in Intergal roles.
He argued for Earth with his militant pride,
While I rolled my eyes from the passenger side.
They said, “We’ll spare Earth, we can see he’s devout,”
Then winced as he shouted his catchphrase, “No doubt!”
They flew off in fear his feet made them flee,
And somehow, he’d saved both the planet and me.
So here is my ode to the man that I love,
More grounded than gravity, stars up above.
He may not recite Shakespeare under the moon,
But he’ll fight off invaders and grill me a spoon.
A hero. A father. My foot funky knight.
A man who won’t kiss but will hold me so tight.
So hold my breath for romance? Okay, that’s a chore
But he’ll open the car door, and I couldn’t want more.
The teachers and staff at the special school, Graysmill,
Did what they could to give the severes a life afterwards,
And they presumed I would be accepted to work,
At the CALL Centre of Edinburgh University, for a long time to lurk.
It’s now CALL Scotland, and researches special tech,
Develops assistive software, devices, and communication aids;
It digitalise written exams energetically and with voice,
For disabled kids who need to have their own writing choice.
But I went to Daniel Stewarts nursery, was well accepted, superior,
As I came top of the class for both words and numbers,
And as it is a top private school near Edinburgh’s city centre,
I found the sympathy hard at Graysmill ‘cos I was not inferior.
In the 70s and 80s they thought the special pupils couldn’t interact,
In mainstream schools where the able-bodied were understood;
Most of my friends had a dislike of normal, ordinary kids,
And didn’t understand my perceptions of relationality and brotherhood.
So as it was sometimes an effort for me to be part of the school,
And I just wanted to walk away from all things disabled or impaired,
The moment I started university where opportunity beckoned,
Where my intentions and abilities could be so aired.
I wanted to maybe be a software engineer for organisations,
But knew I couldn’t type all day every day with my foot,
So after uni got a part-time job at the CALL Centre, but felt self-defeated,
‘Cos I'd had blows with my parents about my own mechanism of input.
I did home computing growing up using my hands on the keyboard,
But did my school and homework with my foot, not good,
And since they wanted me to go to university, no big deal,
They forced me to keep using the faster mechanism, the switch for my foot.
So I resented the CALL Centre right throughout my young years,
For not believing or ingratiating me when I told them of my hand dexterity,
And as a graduate able to deliberate upon my case of disrespect,
I can say that my parents should have certainly been certified for neglect.
I did not renew my contract with the Call, was only for four months,
As I didn’t want to put myself through that close contact and innocence assumption,
But think that they do an note-worthy job for severely disabled kids,
And that my case was an exception to their loving, kind gumption.
Some days, I just like to be silently invisible
and lurk, prowl and creep in the shadows of my soul,
in a foggy, misty, haze of beauty,
hushed, withdrawn and hidden,
submerged in my innermost thoughts.
I want to hide away behind a veil of concealment
where my voice is mute but my imagination is wild,
writing poems in my head,
using invisible ink, where I am . . .
a leaf, floating on an emerald deep ocean,
an infinitesimal speck, just a fragment detached.
Oh, how glorious, how painful,
to dwell behind a wall
of my own secret construction.
This whisper of a girl camouflaged and invisible
and hidden in the dark curved corridors of my mind,
writing poems in my head,
using invisible ink.
_________________________
February 16, 2017 (Re-write)
Poetry/Free Verse/Writing in Invisible Ink
Copyright Protected, ID 17-1099-241-0
All Rights Reserved. Written under Pseudonym.
Submitted to the Ultimate 2018 Standard Contest
sponsor, Brian Strand
First Place
Deep as first love,
and wild as all regret -
Alfred Lord Tennyson
There is an aching in the heart
slipping into tears that burn and tear apart
every fiber of your being
so that the eyes are no longer seeing.
Each look was just pretend
knowing well how love would end
and there deep in the hallowed halls of time
well I knew, you wouldn't always be mine.
A somber memory paints
the heartthrob emotions making youth faint
delirious with love and sensual feelings
enough to send two bodies reeling.
Shadows lurk easing back and forth
assured each struggle for their own worth
there in that selfish centered need
one would follow and the other lead.
Just a moment held
as lovers succumb to love's spell
that quickly fades and disappears
with hearts held back by fear.
There in the shadows, each one alone will walk
their first love slipped away without talk
and futures die in the dream's regret
but it is a memory none ever forget.
Joseph May contest
Lines to awake the muse
3/1/20
The Bishops bathe in Babylon
while Princes, prancing on the lawn,
watch Queen deflowered, pale and wan.
The King dares not defend her.
The Horsemen, holding broken reins
the Morning of the Hurricanes,
sigh “it’s no use, it’s all in vain,
the Saints will soon surrender”.
They wonder why they ever came,
they have No One whom they can blame,
they have no face, they have no name,
and even less, a gender.
The empty-handed Vagabonds
smoke stale cigars, stroke faded Blondes
while waiting at the walls beyond,
but kneel as Chaos enters.
They’re gazing through the window panes
in hopes that distant Hurricanes
will twist and break their iron chains
defying life’s tormentors.
The Fantom of the Opera frowns
as feeble minded Cleric-clowns
mouth hollow hurdy-gurdy sounds
when blessing doomed dissenters.
The Pirate wields a wooden leg,
with pupils dull and visage vague,
and if by chance he spreads the plague,
it really doesn’t matter.
His Princess, pale, no longer feigns,
foresees instead (down ancient lanes)
the coming of the Hurricanes -
the Stones stir, staring at her.
And Jackals scrape the river bed
as Savants soothe the underfed
and Crows, collecting scattered bread,
adorn, with crumbs, the platter.
The Jokers Wild and One Eyed Janes
weep, winding up in rundown trains
mid whispers of the Hurricanes,
and Priests refuse to christen.
They’re fleeing from the Leprechauns,
the cuckoo birds, the dying swans;
while pitching pennies into ponds
their eyes opaquely glisten.
The spectral Clocks with spindled spokes
remind the Mimes to tell the Folks
the time of day and other jokes,
yet No One looks to listen.
The Hunchbacks with contorted canes
galumph before the Hurricanes,
in melted sleet, in frozen rains,
in bruised and battered sandals.
Their Groans engulf the land of gulls,
the land of stones, the land of nulls,
and lurk between the blackened lulls,
for Nighttime brooks no candles.
Their prayers to Dogs and Nuns and Dukes,
(and other long forgotten Spooks)
are more than random crazed rebukes,
though taunting to the Vandals.
Continued in Part 2
Never trust a shepherdess
Although she may look pretty
Beneath her lacy frilly dress
A heart beats without pity.
There’s furtive tales of Miss Bo Peep
Told behind closed doors
And just what happened to her sheep
Upon those silent moors
They never did return, you see
Though many tried to find them
They disappeared in mystery
Complete with tails behind them.
Dark doings lurk in hill and dale
Untold in nursery rhymes
‘Tis best that we should draw a veil
Across these rural crimes.
Don’t think of cruelty in the grass
Don’t think of woolly plight
Don’t think those thoughts that will not pass
Or let you sleep at night
So do not think of Miss Bo Peep
Or of that crook she wields
Or of those dark deeds buried deep
In England’s pleasant fields.
Unknowing we can only guess
The horrors that went down
Beware the Wicked Shepherdess
Who stalks Old London Town.
When soft colors of
the amethyst twilight,
dance amongst shadows~
swirling through forlorn forests,
I count sparkling syllables of
pirouetting peridots,
looking for metered refrains
from the emerald empyrean,
while wondering,
what am I but a
speck of astral dust;
garnet silhouette of
desert orchid dusk,
hanging on thin threads
of lilac-laced lines,
seeking sanguine
streaks between
black and white realms,
composed with rhythmic reasons,
that reveal pristine pathways
to still wander,
like a soulful sojourner,
sleepwalking through pilgrims
perfumed with peace,
to attain eternal nirvana,
there, I’ll no longer
be a wingless bird,
but will soar like a golden eagle,
feathered in fragranced faith,
and porcelain-tailed promises.
And as the pink pearl moon
unveils its hyacinth halo,
I twirl to the tamarind tenors
of twinkling topaz,
that fall upon healing hills
thriving with buttercup bliss,
below funeral fogs,
where melanin phases of faces
lurk in sweltering silence,
stimulating my quill to release
pastel pigments of contentment,
like glowing galaxies of gratitude.
Yet, I am an unfinished poem,
completely incomplete,
comfortably rhyme-less,
misplaced in a melancholic
meadow of magnolia metaphors,
too vague for the eye
that sees not beyond
my sun-kissed skin.
While from ethereal verses,
scattered across
seraphic spheres, I strive,
wishing that phrases I weave
across midnight skies,
would calm the soundless storms
beneath lunar-pillowed oceans,
as this glistening ink on
the ceremonial canvas
of life and beyond,
longs to be the epitaph
that immortalizes my voice
amidst ashes and stones,
skeletons and bones,
there I’ll slumber with
light still flowing
through poetic veins,
amidst the
piercing pandemonium
and turmeric tranquility;
yin and yang of existence,
I am both, earth and water;
aura of intuitive seas~
and cathartic currents
mirroring the crestfallen crescent,
soaked in infinite luminescence
from aesthetic lanterns.