Long Mechanics Poems
Long Mechanics Poems. Below are the most popular long Mechanics by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Mechanics poems by poem length and keyword.
She is not made of atoms,
but aftermaths—
the kind that linger in a room long after
the lights remember to flicker back on.
Her spine?
An origami of fallen yesterdays,
creased by collapse,
but folded forward into flight.
They call it resilience,
but she knows better—
it’s architecture,
a cathedral of nerve built from
"this will not break me,"
hummed on repeat until it didn’t.
She speaks fluent scar.
Not in pity,
but in translation.
She translates grief into gardens,
anger into architecture,
your silence into a symphony
with minor keys,
because sadness, too, deserves an audience.
Her empathy is not soft.
It is surgical.
It sees you,
sutures you,
and leaves you with just enough scar
to remember you survived.
And her creativity?
It’s less coloring-book, more quantum mechanics.
She rearranges particles of pain
into poetry,
invents emotions that haven’t been named yet,
spins metaphors out of moonlight
and missed calls.
She is the punchline of a cosmic joke
you didn’t know you were telling—
a glitch in the matrix
that decided to build a garden in the code.
Not here to be understood,
but to unmake the question.
Not here to fit—
but to fracture the mold
and plant sunflowers in the cracks.
She is not your mirror.
She is your prism.
Try to define her—
and she will refract.
All day the wind
has tormented the trees,
causing branches to whip
and bend. There is an anger
let loose, loud in its haste
to rip and destroy
what is vulnerable.
Spider webs woven last night
are torn, flowers are plucked
of petals and the wind chime
has been strangled
by its own chord, choked
of its sound. But nothing
is intended.
It is I who have interpreted
the scene and set language
the task to frame nature
in human terms, give
the mechanics of a clock
the power to decide the tick
of its own time.
All is mindless motion,
unfolding to laws deaf
to the pleas of mercy, revenge
or want. Even the cry
of a hungry child dissipates
in the distances of space.
It is us who bear the burden,
weighted with a sense
of right and wrong, bound
by compassion, torn by
doubt and despair, we, born
into the tumult of evolution,
are endowed with the gift
to transcend our station
through love, dissolving
into the infinite.
What lies between the ticks of time?
The pause between heart beats pulse?
The eye sight missed when you blink?
The still moments when you are breathing neither in nor out?
Our body's attempt to keep pace is flawed
by the mechanics we deploy to defeat entropy's cost
to defray the inevitable decay
of the material universe
to maximum disorder, randomness and uncertainty.
To keep up, to stay alive,
to build and maintain
structure and order is costly,
as it defeats for a faction of time,
the universe's purpose
which is inevitable continuous decay to disorder
without pause,
without hesitation
without disruption or interruption.
It is within the momentary pauses
that we, the incessant, get our way,
animating an innate vibrancy
to resist the decay all living things face,
and struggle against,
to a totally disordered state,
lifeless and decayed, on doomsday.
São Paulo is a
long street that
crosses Brazil
with its "trade"
infernal...
Rio is a stage
lit where
the popcorn maker of
corner, it's handle
of samba and the madam
from Barra, she owns
of gafieira in Lapa...
Belo is a farm
modern...but its
horses are mechanics...
There you breathe the air of
in the ancient days...
The Northeast that was once
fiction plays functions, left
to be illusion and mirage
to be a consumption pole...
The north, still lies down
asleep in wonder
of the green... as planes
traffic their saps...and the
Uncle Sam still eludes
the natives...
From the Central Plateau,
or from the green heart
from the homeland will arise a
resounding cry that
will dislodge the Court
castled...
So the South that still
thinks it is Cisplatin
or argentine gaucho
will untie the triple alliance
and it will be truly believed
Brazilian...!
Oh my Brazil...manly...!
Early start
East Coast Ferry Terminal;
Sleepy journey
Trip for two
Getaway spa resort;
Rest and recuperate
Mystic moments:
Retreat into void --
Battery recharging
To re-jig sense
Spur sensorial feel;
Find and anchor
Getaway mode
Three days of rest;
Tropical idyll
Sing a song
Joy floods again;
Refresh soiled templates
Doing nothing
Can heal you wholesome;
Empty cups need refill
So there you go:
Two lovers
Playing catchup
Take your trip,
Embrace emptiness;
Rest weary wiles
Here by this bench
Watch people passing;
Wit humours worry
Driver's hot seat:
Fast luxury car
Speeding away
Now for a pit stop
Mechanics of motion;
Preventive maintenance
Bus trip homewards
Observe fellow passengers;
Flashy mobile devices
We flood the bus
Private thoughts lurk;
Ready to unleash
Air-con bus ride
Morning masquerade;
Chameleons in-transit
Glare of morning
Sun in my eyes;
Drowsy dreamy crazy
Missing the point
Stray words dislodge;
Meaning decapitated
Drowsy movement
Blurry sensations;
Graveyard shift starts
Report and lodge
Complaint that cuts;
Fire a loose cannon
Moody mindset
Uneasy dawn;
Distant tremors
Exit the start
Enter the end;
Roundabout lurks
Highway song
Go fast within limits;
Speedy Gonzales!
Follow the signs:
Deliver me
From my slavery
Illumination saves
Ignorance and blame;
Choice rewards freedom
Morning story
Sleep put on hold;
Awareness now grooms
Leon Enriquez
25 Feb 2014
Singapore
He awoke, though he could not tell
if it was the middle of a long night
or the middle of his life.
The years before were sodden with autumnal leaves
and so he remembered much.
The mechanics had laid down their tools.
Social engineers played harmonic slogans
to the tone deaf.
A burdensome truth has been put down,
and few dared to pick it up again.
Then there are the girls; they have waited so long
for his kisses, and he now so aware and
no longer sleep-walking cannot undress them
with those velvet infatuations
he had saved just for this moment.
He recalls meadow larks and strong apple cider,
walks paused in the glow of painted lips.
Dark movie theaters, hands on white thighs.
Mountains and the ways around them,
the freedom of real choices.
A muffled pillow speaks to him
of what was once and what could have been.
Again he feels in the middle of both
watching time and circumstance
pull themselves apart.
He thought: How old do you have to be
to be in the middle?
Even now when the evening is closing
virgins easily birth new mornings,
he feels the wetness of their
coming and going.
He was a rough lad,
and he did what roughness can do,
now the melting has left him gentle
and in love with ghosts.
He must move without moving
drift soundless to where a world is suspended
in a timeless amber, an irreducible middle.
The new world order is off-kilter
bare-faced and inclined to decline,
its jellyfish arms glom onto
the frail and unwitting.
He will not leap forward with it,
he will abide now
where the past and future dream his dreams,
stay there at that halcyon center
where the air in his lungs is still sweet.
Henry Haven Windsor has published his magazine for ten years
This photo of his family was taken two months after the Atlantic sank
Wife is voting for Roosevelt in the upcoming election, his biggest fears.
He is stumping for Wilson, who he thinks is a lot like his cousin Frank.
The children are picture perfect, yet aware of the tension, of course.
They borrowed the neighbor’s dog for the photos, glad it was not horse.
Daughter Emily has joined the young new Progressive Party in town.
She does not share this with her father, who would probably frown.
Mother is reading a book about Guggenheim who died on the Titanic.
It makes her feel uncomfortable about their ocean vacation, a little frantic.
Henry is smiling for the photo, but his mind is planning his next lay out.
He has published Popular Mechanics for ten years, his family shouts.
My oath, a word, a mission, a law,
to walk the sacred path of being human—
fierce, and yet profoundly kind.
My soul, a compass, divinely aligned.
I heal with a thousand salient balms—
words, deeds, and quiet thought.
For wounds unseen and histories unsaid,
a constant, quiet redemption I've sought.
I am a living truth of mercy's deep mechanics.
A quiet hand that mends the broken, a boundless sea of grace.
If my silence disturbs you,
know I am choosing health
over hollow greatness, over loud display,
and the fleeting shimmer of cheap grace.
My strength is born in stillness,
a vow my heart will keep.
I am good, not merely nice.
See me in the arc where Priest, Prophet, and King
bend toward justice.
In quantum mechanics particles remain entangled
And connected over huge distances.
So that actions performed on one particle
Still affect the others in the web or wave.
Einstein called entanglement "Spooky at a distance"
Because he couldn't explain the fate of Schrödinger's cat.
In a strange twist of fate, scientists
Discovered a new phenomenon called 'rhyme'
Which was related to 'strangeness' of quarks.
Rhyme was the missing link between entropy and entanglement.
Rhyme was what kept particles entangled by strong reason.
But the law of entropy ensures that ordered entangled particles that rhyme
Must dissociate fast to maximum disorder, releasing huge amounts of energy.
The breakthrough came when NASA employed poets to entwine reason and rhyme
To create Rhyme Drive, a quantum ion drive engine beyond belief,
Which was capable of getting a spacecraft to Mars in 42 minutes flat.
Speed of light shattered by rhyme and reason, science and poetry enwrapped in strangeness.
So it was dawn at Cape Canaveral for launch of Rhyme 1 to Mars,
With gaggle of poets and scientists on board the first flight,
Ready to prime and prompt Rhyme Drive to cite and perform.
No need for sandwiches, as this touch and go return flight, would be back before lunch.
Hawking and Branson embraced, and cheered the lift off Rhyme 1
Waving a banner "Rhyme Warps Time, See You Soon"
I went to the Frankfurt Book Fair the other day.
It was mind-boggling..
Books! There were fat books, thin books,
White books, black books, tawny books,
Paperbacks, hardbacks, beautifully bound books,
Pure books, lax books, learned books, lay books,
Plain books, books of many colours,
Books on every subject under the sun,
Not to mention other books on
Distant galaxies, pulsars, quasars, black holes,
Books on any theme you can think of,
Or on themes you can’t even pronounce, from:
Art to Arthropods,
Bees to Biochemistry,
Cats to Catastrophes
Drugs to Decadence,
Energy to Ergonomics,
French Cooking to Frescos,
Guns to Gout,
History to Hippopotami,
Internal Medicine to Icebergs,
Julius Caesar to Justification,
Kulturkampf to Kinetics
Lace to Logogriphs,
Man to Manchuria,
Nietzsche to Nonsense Rhymes,
Opera to Ophthalmoscopes,
Poodles to Pollution,
Quantum Mechanics to Queen Victoria,
Russell to Rabbits,
Shaw to Shingles,
Tao to Torts,
Urdu to Ultimatums,
Virgil to Vivisection,
Whales to Witchcraft,
X-rays to Xylographs,
Yoga to Youth Hostels,
Zen to Zola,..
By closing-time my legs were giving out.
A voice, it seemed, was saying:
“Of more than is taught by these, my son, take care.
Of making many books there is no end,
And much study is weariness of the flesh.”
I don’t know about making them, I thought,
As I commenced my get-away from the Penguin stand,
But it takes something of an athlete just to glance at them.
I felt crushed, not only by the crowds
but also by the weight of my appalling ignorance.