Long Madness Poems
Long Madness Poems. Below are the most popular long Madness by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Madness poems by poem length and keyword.
I'm a Piketown son who left his mum
To sail the eastern shores
Spent a year in Gloucester
'mong the barkeeps and the whores
Then a man came 'round to Gloucester town
Said boys I need a few
Strapping lads such as yourselves
To join me whalin' crew
The pay is mighty lowly and
The work'll break yer backs
But if ye crave adventure, men
You'll ne'er get a better chance
Those who'd go out wi' me, lads
Prepare ta leave at dawn
There's a whaler at the dockside
She's called the Dreadful Mourn
Ho! Called I to Captain Frye
My services you've bought
I've traveled here from Piketown
To earn a tale heart'ly wrought
Aye, me lad then ye shall have
A yarn ta spin yer sons
So join me on the Dreadful Mourn
'Ere long's the risin' sun
I nodded Aye to Captain Frye
Then turned to swig my ale
When a man appeared beside me
And pulled up to the rail
He shook his head and then he said
His offer you should spurn
There was another Frye set out
Yet ne'er did he return
This other Frye for he was kin
Of the Captain now about
That fortune on their family frowns
Of that there is no doubt
I turned to the stranger, smiled
Said thank you for the warn
Then headed down the gangway
Out to the Dreadful Mourn
For weeks on end I coiled the ropes
Boiled the oil and pulled the line
Though it was grueling labor
I was feelin' pretty fine
But the winds they soon blew colder
And the ship began to slow
The Captain said don't worry men,
This is how the whales go
One day the ice so thickened that
The ship came to a stop
The Captain cried a wild whoop
Boys I think I've found the spot!
For 'twas about this latitude
Where me brother's ship was lost
And now I've come ta bring him home
No matter what the cost!
Sorry I lied ta ye lads
I blame ye not for yer ire
Now calm ye selves, we've work ta do
Afore we can retire
Of course you know we would not go
Along with his plan
The crew decided mutiny
Right down to the last man
For Captain Frye's madness
We must pay an awful price
But he would join his brother
As a ghost beneath the ice
The ship was stuck, the stores near out
'Twas nothing left to do
'Cept sing a sailin' shanty
And toast the Dreadful crew
So I took a final dram of rum,
Cursed the day that I was born
And lay down to my icy fate
Aboard the Dreadful Mourn
June 24, 2017
Thanks to you all
Thanks to those who come to
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Thanks to those who read my
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me, avoid my poems, block
and ban me from their list
Thanks to you all
I’ve no eternity here, all of me
from least to chest, best to edge,
sharpen blade of new paddy leaves
jeopardize my torn nib of ink
in the field of writings graph
Maybe I couldn’t write any word
for beauty and stunning young girl
in comprehension, in passion and
in my fashionable heart
Maybe I couldn’t write charming note
of flower’s petals, striking fragrance,
in my perpetuity lake of quills
Maybe I couldn’t draw the sexy body of
rose, lotus, tulip, sunflower, orchid,
lily, daffodil… etc in my vulnerable
reef of poetic expression
Maybe I couldn’t draw the colors magic
of rainbow in my infatuated fallen
soaked feathers with November rain
Maybe I couldn’t inscribe the nature
the cosmos, the solar system, the ocean,
the black hole, the space, the sky, the stars,
the planets, the galaxies, the meteors, the
gravitational power…etc in my slumbering
wings of writings
Maybe I couldn’t plant the meditational
tree into the pure heart of words, I couldn’t
select the seeds of immortality in my
ascetic madness and magma script
Maybe I couldn’t greet the autonomy flying
of Cockatiels, Parakeets, Canaries, Finches,
African Grey Parrots, Budgerigars, Cockatoos,
Conures, Macaws, Poicephalus…etc in my
unintelligible incarcerated language
Maybe I couldn’t hail the abode for Labrador,
Bulldog, German, Poodle, Beagle… etc and
Maine Coon, Egyptian Mau, American Bobtail,
Ragdoll…etc in my materialistic
harvesting terminology
Maybe I couldn’t sleep with power of poems,
dream to be a finest classic or modern poet
in my kingdom of pen, paper, ink, writing
table-chair and lamp
Notwithstanding all these, I thanks to those
who come here at least one time daily,
erratically and read, write, share own
thoughts and comment frankly
Thanks to you all a lot. Thanks and love you
all. From me always ready the rose without
thorns and love for you all, although you bleed
my heart by thorns stinging
-November 14, 2018 Chattogram
////
DEDICATED TO POETRYSOUP.COM and ALL POETS-POETESSES OF THIS ESTEEMED LITERARY SITE
When I feel compassion
with my positive needs
for love
health
trust
safety,
When I feel compassion
for my fears
wounds
negative fortress wants
to overpower perceived threats
against my egocentric compromises
with ruthless capitalism,
soulless patriarchalism,
strategic genocide,
extractive ecocide,
smug and heartless anthrosupremacy,
aggressively diseased LeftBrain dominance
inside my ruminating self
as schizophrenically viral
outside Those Evil People
voices
without kind choices,
When I feel compassion
with my healthy integral potential
and for my pathological capacity
to do more harm
to further wound EarthTribal consciousness
to militarize my fearmongering
and anger repressing words,
When I feel compassion
as the guy who loves listening
to friends and family, and even foes
excited about our multigenerational attachments
to multicolored
and fabulously gay designed
exotically sexy fragrant flowers
Is also the coempathizing guy
who shares DNA
and bicameral neurosystemic flow structures
with Vladimir Putin
and those who voted for him,
with Adolph Hitler
and those who voted for him,
Donald Trump
and those who voted for him,
Mitch McConnell
and those who voted for his Straight Corporate Man Party,
and possibly even Representative Marjorie Taylor Greene,
and those Georgians who voted for her
bad blond self-image
Which is decidedly not Green
in any feminist compassionate
organically cooperative
and co-empathically engaged way
and means to truth
and healthy resilient life
Maybe,
as I have sometimes whispered,
not-green Greene is a toxic infestment
machine
planted by an alien aryan planet
When I feel compassion
what do I need?
want?
crave?
CoEmpathic cooperation
and healthy co-investment,
experiences of win/win strategic game playing,
celebrating our resonant
positive
social neurological systems
for restorative health
for cooperative
long-term
EarthTribe safety.
When I feel compassion
for my engaged side
AND my dark and ominous potential
to fail in my own indigenous
humane
natural/spiritual development potential,
Then I can at least laugh
with my own creative conspiracy theories
and against my own tragic Earth-degenerative
Mutually Assured Destruction,
MADness that might take out humanity
Or,
even worse,
eradicate Earth's wild
and domesticated flowers.
LUNAR MADNESS
His thought; desire; that driving dream he knew;
so real within his heart and living soul;
the thing he took and fed until it grew,
into the part of life that made him whole;
by doing things that people seldom do
to make it real, and reach his cherished goal!
For who but fools, whose minds are now in tune,
would take a thought, and bounce it off the moon?
If given wings; by one who's gone insane
with lunar madness, loose in universe;
his wish for life would search each hidden plane,
and seek more levels where he might immerse
in pools of knowledge, cleansing every stain,
bleached on his mind by times eternal curse!
And damp with truth, before his mind can rust,
he dries in clouds of flowing cosmic dust!
His world is silent, everywhere he goes,
and dreams he holds so dear, stare silently,
at passersby, who greet him, but he shows,
no recognition to the ones who'd be
some of the ones to take the truth he knows,
and bring him back from where he's flying free!
But don't know how to reach this paranoid,
nor find the things that make his feelings void.
It's plain for them to see, he's not all there,
but lunar madness doesn't cross their minds,
and ships of soul, don't take them anywhere;
perhaps too busy with their daily grinds
to think of flying free form any care,
and seeking many worlds of other kinds!
That he has found by leaving body still,
protected by his knowing mind, and will.
He'll watch the pouring rain, and snowflakes fall,
and bolts that light the sky, in summer storm,
to see the wisdom theree within them all,
as puzzles come together and to form
a tool to shatter down his prison wall,
that's kept him from a life that's soft and warm!
But as he sees the things before his eyes,
the other part of him still seeks, and flies
so free of chains that bind him far below;
the part behind, that's waiting for the end;
or waiting for the wisdom he will know,
return of one, his kind and loving friend;
that once set free, would only come and go,
far from the one who let it first ascend!
Not knowing once he set their powers free,
that lunar madness plagues him, constantly.
© Ron Wilson aka Vee Bdosa the Doylestown Poet
beautification of painted imageries)
Like these broken shadows spread on the floor of my father's tattered room,
Like those weeping spirits by the corner of my mother's excited kitchen singing,
The sky wept in the absence of those beds allocated to the sun of its glories.
Thousand mouths wagged at the dogs for sighting another ghost in the heart of the church that must be hidden at night. we are ourselves the mirror of fantasy handed over to the priest that knows whole lots of women's nakedness,
Let's fire out memories of lost heritages.
"This will cure your madness and gives you eternal life in Christ Jesus" they said "for Chinese Alchemist will come again with a precious gold made by this liquid. we'll drink from it fountain of lost want,
The sand we counted, the priest said It was for the body of the Holy Mary.
The stars we counted, he said it was for the body of Christ who resurrected with sins of the flesh and blood of the lamb.
When next you hear a preacher' mouth preaching ask him of Sodom and sinful Gomorrah before he tells you the truth is bitter.
Here are the eastern equivalent mastery philosopher's stone of creed and prayers before we were born to this clothed love world, mother told a tale of the mirror,
How they found the end in the end light,
How they searched for a way in a way;
But at the end, the clergy men deceived them and saw their prides gazing openly. We'll sit to listen to the pebble of the broken silence the priest will spread yet on another grave for Auntie Tabitha.
Flocks are the shepherd's prey as they lead them into hell of condemination.
We are ourselves the clothes we wear,
The clergy men had sipped the remains of our sanity and gave us insanity of lost. we are ourselves the stream of lines in our thoughts breaking the hun skylines. We believed all they said.
Remember, not all they said by the soil graveyard happen in heaven and hell.
I have been in heaven and tested hell and discovered we're given elixir of life by their lies to keep us following like faithful sheep tracking the greener bush.
You are what you believe and think is right.
We are not immortal but mortals, ashes.
No eternal life, no eternal youth, when we die, the records closed and the world become silent and silent covers all priest had told us with shadows.
Yours Poetically,
©John Chizoba Vincent.
Panting, running, paying, fuming,
Bumping, swearing, hurrying, driving,
All because today is the thirty first
Of the month, why are we all nigh to burst!
Got to buy groceries, go the butcher
The dry cleaners, the florist, the baker,
Did i turn on the slow cooker?
Have guests coming at 8.00p.m still
On the road, home in 15 minutes – phone Will,
Darling, Did you collect the birthday cake,
There is a big accident, traffic hectic won’t make
It to pick it up – Yes sweetheart I have
Drive carefully the roads are crazy,
Looks like a storm brewing, weather drizzly and hazy.
As I arrive in our driveway it pours with rain,
And I drop a packet, which had the red wine, I stain
My clothes and the car seat, go have your shower,
Hubby says, relax, everything is under control,
Turned shower taps to their full strength and power
Exhausted, let the water run over my naked body
Till I feel refreshed, get dressed in my
Sexy black number,
And come downstairs, hubby gives me a wolf whistle,
Just wait till the guests leave he says, look at him
From under my lashes!
The aroma wafting from the stove is
Provocatively divine!
And next to the sofa is a glass of room
Temperature red wine.
Table is set, arrange flowers I brought in a vase,
Immediately, the bell goes ding dong,
It’s Cherry and Tim,
She couldn’t wait to show me her engagement ring,
Hot on their heels are Susan and Barry,
He has just asked Susan to him marry,
And last of all my twin sister Rina, arrives she’s wise,
With her new boyfriend in tow she bellows, Hi guys!
Fun was had and wine was drunk
Laughter abounded in the lounge and dining room,
We all forgot how tired we were and
It was end of the month, and all the media forecasted,
Was doom and gloom!
It was my birthday, turning forty, no turning back now,
Don’t regret a day of my life, bless the day I took my vow,
Happy birthday dear Mary, happy Birthday to you,
I felt blest had my hubby and sister present and select
Friends but few,
Mellow and happy and with certainly no one drunk,
Just four happy couples full of zest and funk!
Our guests began departing, in twos they left,
I slipped of my shoes and gave a big yawn,
Will picked me up, and must have undressed
Me – for all I remember is waking up to a peck
On my cheek,
And a scrumptious breakfast in bed,
I always knew I had picked the right guy to wed!
At work
I slave away
And during the day
I read, I watch
I plan, I dream
Setting goals
Making everything seem
That in a few years it will all come together
But in a few years will all of this matter?
I’m a jack of all trades
But a master at NONE
I slave away
Until the day is done
But for what?
For who?
Am I doing all of this Just to have something to do?
I ask, I pray, I watch
No time for fun
Not until ALL my work is done
In hopes to better my future
In hopes to better myself
Not leaving my dreams to be lived by someone else
I’ve read all the books
I’ve done all the classes
I’ve listened to the masters instead of the masses
7 steps to wealth
12 steps to riches
The “keys”,
The “wisdom”,
The “knowledge”,
The “tickets”.
The tickets to the money train
The keys to the treasure box
I’m overwhelmed by all this “want this” & “want not”
Who am I?
Who will I be?
I guess only God can look in and see.
Maybe I’m overlooking all the important things
Maybe my “riches” aren’t exactly what they seem
Maybe it’s love, patience, giving and kindness
Maybe its overcoming life’s struggles, chaos, and madness
Maybe it’s in the strength of my mind over the dismay of the world
Maybe it’s in my parenting of my sweet, baby girl
All this time I thought I had failed
I thought my ship to success had already sailed
I thought I was a jack of all trades and a master at none.
But my kid said, “No, Mom, you’re wrong.
You’re a master at one.
You raised me right, you raised me well.
You’re a great mom! I can tell.”
Whoa, well people do say
You can’t buy happiness
And I’m one of the few
That believes this is true.
For all the work, learning, and adding action to plans,
I’ve found that I’m rich in character, integrity, and helping my fellow man.
So I stopped thinking of all this “wasted” work I had done over the years
I realized that through the blood, sweat, pain, and tears
That my efforts, dreams, and goals weren’t in vain
Instead of money, homes, cars and other material things
I got something that money cannot buy,
A daughter
Beautiful, smart, and wise.
Yes, I’ve mastered something
And this something is great!
And here I thought it was way too late!
Yes, I’m a jack of all trades
But now I’m a master at ONE!
In all my years
I’ve become a great mom!
I’m truly a success
Because of you Jess!
Cruelest thoughts overwhelm
beyond the patrol
beyond the drowning sunlight
firelight creeping up my back,
grab your camera and attack
a moment that doesn't hear
the glowing blue
I should have kept in a faerie jar
ajar is my mind,
hinges broken, hinges built
100 years ago, the repairman's dead
like the postcard I still cherish
oh it has arrived uninvited again, this pain
this favorite feeling flowers
when the spoken dagger
lathered
in poisonous affection
takes the habitual plunge
into pulsing core, and oh
she cannot feel the swirling madness fought
no, that is the worst of it all, she knows not of this
chest clutched, scream schooner, a whirlwind
through every room
each white convulsing
red cherries in time
after Euphrates dries
and Hyde's head screws back on.
I am fine. Everything smiles.
Oozing cryptically, cryptic cryptic don't let them know
that beyond a year ago,
Into slow void, I challenge Time,
I challenge
the non-existent;
I challenge
myself,
and discover...
Don't go back to the fireless rooms?
The fireless rooms
were never places.
The fireless rooms
were never avoidable.
Forlorn freedoms flung farthest
feasting from fear-falling
feint faithfully; fictitiously.
In a lone, innocent desire, the perfect jazz song is playing
it is her favorite song
her unavoidable song on every playlist
as a hallow briar floats by,
knows why
and where
and who I truly am,
knows the buried youth,
and the noxious adult of hap.
I am swinging again. He is swinging again.
That youth,
that whippersnapper.
That fool.
Going too fast. Too fast for his Truth to catch up.
Agony! Laugh at me!
Dig those heals in, heels into the ground, digging
into that old world
of a hosted carnival
that kept the best parts of our personalities. Kept the parts
everyone loved the most
at the top of that ferris wheel,
ecstasy eyes embracing the stars
that would later become supernovas inside
black fire death-in-life,
a death of slow pain would be lovely
masochist!
if only I could hold death as a moment,
death it and then command death
sic death upon evil
and witness true happiness
for the entire world.
Death...
and slow will be...
my descent once again...
Inebriation.
To Sleep. To Machination. Avoid the void...
A love for the forbidden fruit.
Bone-drained, there is no respite, no split second of peace. The “sundowner”, a hyper-active toddler in a man’s vehicle, never sleeps nor sits.
When I succumb to that one precious moment of rest; I am awakened to a furnace running full blast in a freezing cold house and on a nineteen degree night. A butter knife has removed a window; the culprit and dementia-mind panics; he’s terrified of being trapped in a fire. There’s no arguing with dementia-mind; it’s best to play along with the his ideas.
Another day of madness and I awake to a frantically screeching doorbell; it’s his nurse. I've revived in the floor. A migraine faint pulled me down; I’ve had no sleep for eight nights, you see. Sweet respite…she says she’ll, “sit with him”, so I can lie down a bit; a pleasant miracle; such happenstance is a rarity.
Dementia-mind has no solutions, only hallucinations, delusions; absence of mind and aggression for the “sundowners”. I watch at breakfast, as he pours his milk upon the floor; he has no clue of what he is doing or why;
he stares, mindless. When the eyes go blank it’s obvious; he’s not in there. A robot gone haywire, used to be my Father. The last thing to go, were his mathematical skills. Dementia-mind has forgotten so many people; how to swallow, but recalls numbers…
“Who is that man?” he demands, pointing at himself in the mirror. My exhausted mind briefly forgets and I mistakenly reply, “You dad.” The firestorm is initiated; he calls me a, “liar”. Self recognition has failed him now; the flame of his mind is burning low; soon to extinguish.
He’s fed and dressed, but I’ve no time to eat; if he should sleep an hour today; I must cook for the week. It’s the only opportunity I have…when and if he sleeps. I must not go to the bathroom; he’ll break something or fall. I must hold myself until my sister arrives.
The “passives” are painful to watch, as they deteriorate, but the “sundowners” are constant exhaustion. I was in the ER, almost as much as, he. You see, there’s no one to care for the caregiver, but themselves and when they can’t, exhaustion and malnutrition escalate. Dementia-mind is round-the-clock work and two doing the work of six people, takes its’ toll. The disease never discriminates; it destroys everyone.
(My Father died with dementia, a form of Alzheimer's in 2003, after a 15 year battle.)
Everyone hates my poetry
Because it doesn’t wear makeup.
Because it stares too long,
or not long enough.
Because it mentions the body
like a room that remembers
every man who left his name in dust.
Because it’s too sad,
too loud,
too holy,
too raw—
because it does not ask permission
to bleed
where others would politely weep.
They say I should whisper.
I scream in stanzas instead.
Line breaks like broken bones —
each one healed wrong on purpose.
I rhyme “fxxk” with “forgiveness”
and call it a sacrament.
I flirt with ghosts.
I give grief a seat at the table.
I write what I can’t confess.
And then I press send.
And wait.
And wait.
And wait.
?
Go your own way, they say.
But I was never theirs to lose.
I won’t be your throat,
your mouth,
your Sunday-quiet muse.
Dance in the avalanche —
I’ll be drinking full-blooded wine.
You butter your toast,
I’ll bleed ink and call it divine.
I’m Dracula,
you’re limpets —
clinging to shores of should.
Sinister mercy monsters
with teeth made of wood.
You won’t take mine.
I’ve bartered them
for metaphor.
For myth.
For the kind of flame
that never asks to be understood.
I sit on a throne
shaped like an electric chair,
burning truth until
only the bones of beauty remain.
You?
You live in living rooms.
You collect pretty things.
I braid your betrayal
into a lei of lunacy —
my madness in bloom.
Say I’m too old.
Too female.
Too much.
There’s something in the water.
Damn right.
I am the water.
I merge with ocean light.
The moon kisses me goodnight.
Why do I need your approval to feel seen?
Must just be a throwback trauma dream.
Your eyes — not galaxies,
but black holes,
sucking the light from my becoming.
I offered constellations,
you brought collapse.
But still—
I orbit my own flame.
Still, I rise in ruin’s dress,
sequined with scars.
I chew the fat
with better men than you,
men who don’t flinch
when a woman burns through.
Men who sip my fury like wine,
and still
ask for another glass.
You?
You watered me down,
then called me “too much”
for the mess you made.
?
And still I write.