Long Marginal Poems
Long Marginal Poems. Below are the most popular long Marginal by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Marginal poems by poem length and keyword.
Taoists recognize
all outside exposed inside egos
feel watched
when walking through
a new or, some stressed times,
even a long familiar
housed human eco-habitat
But some of us feel marginal,
suspected,
anxious about being judged
and shamed
and blamed
for assumed insufficiencies
at aggressively playing monoculturing win/lose
Straight
WesternWhite
Patriarchal
eco-political games
And sometimes we feel anticipation,
privileged multicultural excitement
and active hope
That the multigenerational family
moving in next door
will have kids our win/win needy age
Still health/wealth co-empathic
feeling ego/ecosystemic healing memories
Of past
RedYang/GreenYintegrity walking
waking small revolutionary
repurposing
transportive
transcendent communion experiences
ReStorying Earth's polyculturing just Ways,
PolyPathic Means,
CoMediations of health-felt cooperative experience
In Ego/Eco-Pedestrian NonZero Zones
of active co-mediation,
win/win strategic and healing game designers
bilaterally co-passioned,
walking along 1/0 binomial
double-binary
boundaries
Anticipating ego/eco-systemic
compassionately progressing
communions.
I am the wrench in the clockwork,
a tiny twist in the gears of a universe
too vast to notice my pinch,
yet enough to reroute the cascade—
leverage, a quiet conspiracy of small forces.
Like a catapult built from old regrets,
I launch myself over gravity’s grumble,
where time folds like origami cranes—
folds that hide the sharp edges of loss,
each crease a fulcrum point for flight.
Leverage is the sly magician’s hand,
lifting an elephant with a feather,
trading the impossible for a wink—
an alchemist turning doubts into leverage,
transmuting weight into possibility.
I am the offbeat rhythm in a symphony of cogs,
the marginal note that shifts the meaning,
the whispered nudge beneath the thunder—
the pivot that tilts the scale,
turning imbalance into dance.
Leverage is the secret recipe in a shared meal—
a pinch of kindness, a spoonful of patience,
the subtle tilt that makes a cracked cup hold water,
the thread pulled to unravel a knot
that’s strangled days into silence.
It’s the crooked key that fits no lock,
the sideways glance that shifts a stubborn heart,
the small word spoken at just the right moment,
a lever pressed lightly beneath the weight of worlds.
When the world demands a lever long enough
to shift the mountains inside my chest,
I build it from moments others discard—
a stack of fractured promises,
a hinge forged from stubborn hope.
Leverage is not brute strength;
it’s the art of bending without breaking,
of finding the fulcrum in chaos,
a crooked smile in the face of fate,
a quiet power, slight but unrelenting—
the subtle architecture of change.
It’s in the way a whispered apology
loosens the bolts of bitterness,
the way a single seed, planted in cracked soil,
can uproot the wilderness of despair—
leverage is the unseen hand,
the small lever
that pulls a life
out of the shadows.
Lonely Life
Sometimes people think their thoughts are correct. – Infallible beings are?
Why do people think they are infallible? – Pride and egoism. Despising the world
In this world, people live lonely lives. A lot of. Them. Their marginal existence is suffering
Crowds of people. Poor people without any mass. Part of more than eight million
There is no hope, no faith. To be born into suffering and damnation is the cure of life
Live in this life fifty to eighty years? Life is going to the darkness of hell. These lives
But what hell? There are two hell. Hell in this life. Another is the absolute hell, far from this life
Life is our hunter in this life. Sadistic? Or maybe we cannot rule this being? No will?
No will. Blocked minds. Blocked all your opportunities. You are antisocial. Says it's antisocial.
Legally paid antisocials. Your sin is your own will, and your life power. Given by God
They don’t like and don’t love God. They don’t like and don’t love Satan.
Selfish white-robed, mindless criminals. All of them. For super money. Your soul is cash
This is a hidden society and power. Immoral appearance of decency. Evil kinds. All
If they show you the wrong path, you will be driven. You are an individual.
Where is your life?
Where is?
Your life.
You are free
Independent
Don’t be
Driven
I am following
Demonic life
Freedom
From
God
Great
Satan
Rich life
The lonely
Life
Demons
Dancing
Community
Of my heart
ATMOSPHERES
ambient
installation
in
communal cipherss
transitioned
then
transcended
appropriated
with symbolic
affectation
of
attitudes
characterised
by
circles
simple
&positive
yet
marginal
merging
with
modernity
when
flourishing&
profound
&all around
is
decline
of the
premodern
replacing
the
rational with
harmonious
hubris
of
circular time
in
mystical
views
so intertwined
with
the
contemporary
NOTE:THIS IS AN OPEN(organic) FORM VERSE using spaces&breaks without grammatical symbols ,the ' open' relies upon 'the one breath limitation' & so inherently requires the 'reader' (reciter) to input and responds thus making this enigmatic form a two way interplay & interpretatIon unique to the moment& changing according to mood is inherently variable.
DIMENSIONS
spectacular
experiments
into
a magical
world
of dream-like
expression
a union with
the
invisible
absorbed by
the avant-garde
impossible
to engage
the marginal
moment
with
eccentricities
of an
imaginary world
with
a profound
demeanour
to incite
on going
inspiration
THIS IS AN OPEN(organic) FORM VERSE without grammatical symbols the ' open' relies upon 'the one breath limitation' & so inherently requires the 'reader' (reciter) to input and respond thus making the form a two way interplay and often a unique interpretation by the enigma so derived
I observe the sway of the grass
In moments I'm feeling crass
An identity may be found at the rainbow
But how would I ever really know
Imprisoned by gnarled branches so strong
I wonder how it all went so very wrong
When I was young I believed in love
But now I know affection is cast off like a glove
And a heart full of love is destined for hurt
It's just another damned thing to subvert
I'm so terrified I'm going to go one and done
That I can no longer have any fun
My face has the pessimist's pallor
And in truth I exist without valor
Fear made my confidence disappear
And to my peers I must seem so very *****
If love truly is so fleeting
What was the point of our meeting
Memories swell in my heart
And each of my feelings is ripped apart
When a heart breaks it's not very fair
Because you take most of mine without a care
And I'm left with just a marginal little thing
That no longer has the ability to sing
When you're depressed and a man it seems nobody cares
And expressed feelings earn you only befuddled stares
And now in my heart chamber there is only a casket
Having blown my one and only gasket
So I just bend down and observe the grass
In moments I'm feeling crass
Soothing suttlness
a tender, tender kiss
Good morning Miss
what a lovely day
couldn't wait to say it
I was the first one to say it
Happy Anniversary my Dear
--------------------------------------------------------------
It's the most memerabale part
it's just a start
it's a cool soothing melody
makes you wanna sing your part
when the music starts
it's structured with a just right harmony
it's contracting section
gives direction
the chorus and verse
tells the story for me
when it changes tempo
it aint that simple
to hold my emotions
I love the way it do
the pitch and tempo
the horns and strings go
the beat set the stage for the honeymoon
the beats calculated; Lyrics clearly stated
shaped by it's musicale elements
------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Publishing Agreement
Songwriter
and Publishing Agent
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------
iThe term "MC" in business formulas most commonly refers to marginal cost, calculated as the change in total cost divided by the change in quantity of output (
). Other formulas with "MC" include marginal profit (
) and marginal social cost (
). Musical words for song creation include melody (the tune), harmony (simultaneous notes), and rhythm (the pattern of durations). Key terms for song structure are verse (storytelling part), chorus (repeated, memorable part), and bridge (contrasting section). You also need to consider the tempo (speed) and dynamics (volume) to create a complete song.
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One Month Into Winter 2019 Elapsed Here...
Within Perkiomen Valley, Pennsylvania,
thus far marginal snowfall
yet...the Furies of old man winter
huffs and puffs...with gall
unable make headway
against invisible firewall
shielding this area
of the keystone state haul
in tandem with the spirit
of Saint Peter, Paul
and Mary (Southeastern -
tri county (also)
encompassing the suburban hall,
sans Spring Mount Mountain King -
an egg gree us fellow - quite tall
simultaneously straddling Bucks,
Delaware, and Montgomery),
and much as I revel,
when blizzard conditions rage, a Saul
ting self importance of humanity,
where meteorological conditions
hurl a wicked frozen curveball
forcing fatuous, egocentric brazen arrogance
into unassuming (ruff) atoll
shape shifting paradigm,
viz dogmatic couture of modesty call
out depravity, immodesty, pomposity,
et cetera, vis a vis,
when "she" declares marshall,
law yes only when might
of Mother Nature tempers
trumpeting one donning
guise of cloudy meatball
unfortunately indiscriminately
striking havoc overall
mindful, honest, decent... folks
swept up in maelstrom, which pitfall
could cause loss of life or limb,
this teetotaler inebriated,
fascinated, and captivated,
and linkedin to thrall
dom wielded by volcanic, tectonic, climatic...
of phenomena take (measure for measure)
an indifference to scuttling
hominids beef four all
lose well that ends well,
asper scrimmage maul
ling the accouterments of civilization
then...deathly still quiet doth befall
after unleashed forces exhaust
and expend blistering might
temporarily silencing madding crowd
to standstill, and eventual faint crawl
courtesy of a wicked atmospheric drawl!
He did his hash slinger training
Then with a couple of his mates
Set up this high class restaurant
Where they didn’t bother with plates,
Just bits of brickkies rubble,
Guttering and such,
Jam jars and slabs of wood
Stuff not costing very much,
And they served minutest portions
Arranged with artistic taste
Just little appetisers really
So very little went to waste.
And they did the strangest things
Like serving food in hay
Even chocolate covered ants
One special gourmet day.
Folk came from near and far
Just to be seen
Eating his creations of
Advanced Nouvelle Cuisine.
And they charged the highest prices
Just to keep it riff raff free
And so very very soon
It became the place to be.
They worked and they strived
Seldom long serving the same
And so they managed to stay
Well ahead of the game
And they thrived and multiplied
Were franchised all over the nation
With proposals from America
And internationalisation,
They got gongs from Palace
And nobody ever knew
They’d only been to night class
To do Catering, NVQ Level Two.
Then came a call from on high
The Palace of Westminster beckoned
He stood a good chance
So the Party Hierarchy reckoned.
It was touch and it was go
But he only just got beat
Standing for the Tories
In a very marginal seat.
Thus he’d proved that old adage,
If you’re daring and brash and bold
The people will swallow
Any old garbage that they’re sold.
Make hay while the sun shines.
I grew up as a closeted polypathic nature-mystic
on a marginal, at best, family farm
in Michigan.
This farm was my embryonic home,
an extension of my vastly loved and nurturing Mother,
more than my workaholic homophobic Father,
who most emphatically did create a patriarchal god in his own image.
His farm was for slave labor.
Her farm was a garden for growing healthy wealth.
I loved Mom's Multi-ReGenerational Family Farm
like an extension of my ego-mind and anthro-body.
And, like a turtle without a shell,
when I first headed off to Ann Arbor's University
I brought my happy and healthy ego with me,
eager to begin my new adventure story,
yet I emotionally stumbled,
felt naked and exposed and depressed,
for lack of my embryonic habitus,
my eco-center,
my home,
my interdependently embracing love of sacred spaces
and their seasons of regeneration and degeneration,
growing still and fading without ego me
conjoining.
I was homesick,
but not for Nurturing Nanny
and Fearsome Father
or even Perfect Princess Sister, whom I cherished,
whom I could talk and listen with as whim might invite,
and, although somewhat more of a sore detachment from our farmhouse interior spaces,
my disorienting alienation from Ann Arbor
was as a too-urban outside place
just as my recreating resident embrace
favored my dorm and classroom youth-learning multicultural race
against more oppressive monoculturing times.
To this day,
despite a six week backpacking hike
along California's Pacific Coast Trail,
plundered by surreal vistas and fragrance and light and unspeakable beauty,
when I imagine a meadow, a field, a woodland,
a pond,
a barn,
an unpaved road,
a gravel drive,
a herd of cattle,
a pen of pigs,
a coop of chickens,
a litter of kittens with eyes still sealed shut,
I recall iconic scenes from this sacred originating home,
my eco-memory
calling my doubly-bound ego-enculturing self
back home
to where we permaculturally began together,
making hay while the sun did shine.