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.
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.
now to try to re-formulate; that...
previous hour and a half; which...
ended with a power-off; that...
erased a brew of words; which...
mirrored both context and content; that...
was poetic meaning of a moment; which...
echoed perceived and perceiver as time; that...
had been slowed to an image of symbols; which...
illustrated an embedment of space and time; that...
reflected as a background; which...
cast spells of words from a point; that...
defined a perspective on time as the container; which...
served recipes for any matter; that...
was some form from a concept mechanics; witch...
who worried the power might shut off again; that...
once more all will be lost but the perceiver; witch...
left with nothing but ideas; that...
were a recipe for a context-content objective; witch...
stan sand
The Amnesic Liturgy of Nomadic Gestures
we keep on our foreheads impatience sharp as a lunar scythe
the mulatto day laid its tired body on the cold flagstone
in the transparent eye of the horse the velvet raven startles
beneath bear furs we carry the three bodies of morning
the thornbush remembers the ceremony on the yellow millstone of newspaper
three crystal wings for each nomad with their mechanics
the tree inventories our voice when its trembling crown
gathers sensations in a translucent orbit of smile
we inaugurate the hour of love on the collarbone when green sky collapses
how we transform the bent knee into severe balance
the die with glowing numbers rolls the player's palms
fertile whisper slows the burning tongue of the white thigh
silence unties its deep wells I hear the sky with fingers
the transparent clarity of the eyelid signs the violet evening's pupil
great monuments fall drowsy in their fanatic dream leaning
you keep the red apple on your head the error of foreseen arrow
the prey has hidden in the hunter's ankle without dangers
I with mouth full of seaweed with nostril snowed by ice
unprotected by fear I dig with the comb's teeth the exile of names
on the bell in its monotonous beating remains the golden pollen
on the rough bark of words a hoary forgotten breeze
weathered by rains at the radiant dwelling of lightning
slow multiplication pulverizes meaning and about this
your nape brings back the penumbra of serpents discus throwers
you throw the umbrella of echoes far like a liquid miracle
proportional trunks for the almost confluent sleep
advisory restlessness has left us for the silent ball
with its hay mask stuck to cheeks paled by moon
tomorrow anyway you'll resume the journey across green plains
in the shrill acclamations of the grasshopper the forgotten lamp
the fork twists itself toward velvety darkness
the warm wax of the kiss protects us from dizzy grass
we breathe deeply listening to the memory of drowned waters
Sheila stepped out of the mechanized gear-filled lab with her robotic dog.
her lace blouse a contrast to her steam-powered eighteenth-century hog.
Another inventor looked up gave her a quick friendly boy-next-door wave.
His invention would make robotic airships flow and cascade.
Is that another automaton? Sheila yelled at her childhood friend of forever.
He did not divulge secrets, for Sheila was exceedingly clever.
She tucked her auburn hair into a helmet from Leagues under the sea.
But she was not fooled by his quick answer, not by any degree.
these rival inventors had been steampunk friendly since twenty-twenty.
She had phenomenal forthcoming mechanics almost ready; he had plenty.
Nothing frilly or fancy about her robotics, she intended they be the best.
Jim understood this, but he still wanted to carve out for them a love nest.
Sheila had avenues to conquer, airships to build too.
Eventually he planned to make a move, for without her, life would be blue.
Sheila congratulated herself for her coolness as she rode her hog away.
She planned to make him fall in love with her, tomorrow might be the day.
18
I know there are no answers in Saint Germain des Prés
Or in Copacabana, nor on the top of Everest,
That’s why we’re listening to Albert Camus,
That we eat frog legs,
There is no response from teachers or mechanics
Or The stewards,
That’s why we walk to calm down,
There are no answers in love,
That’s why we wear masks everywhere,
We know that there are no answers at Jean Jacques Goldmann,
That’s why we kiss in the night,
We are crossing California on foot,
I know, darling, that our love is the only answer we have to breathe,
To avoid the bites of the rattlesnakes,
We know there are no answers in supermarkets,
Neither in Nietzsche, nor in the doctors,
That’s why we read Rimbaud and Baudelaire,
Whether we play the piano Debussy, or Fauré,
To make the world still bearable tomorrow.
PS a write without pretension, I hold no truth, I do not have any answer either
Why do mechanics need manuals when they’ve fixed it before?
Answer my question or I’ll walk out the door!
Didn’t they attend trade schools or get OJT?
Why need repair manuals? That what gets me.
I just want a mechanic who won’t refer to a book.
Just fix my car already, don’t give it a second look!
Why do pilots run checklists and reference their charts?
Just push the dang button and hope the plane starts!
Didn’t they go to flight school and pass all the tests?
Pilots fly most days, so who needs all the mess?
I want a pilot who knows without referencing a chart.
Just get on with the flying and prove that you’re smart!
What about the doctors who are practicing still?
Why can’t they get it right? And that includes the bill!
They’re always researching new studies in journals
When time’s better spent attending patients’ internals.
I just want a Marcus Welby, Ben Casey or Kildare
Instead of keeping up to date, I just want them to care.
Why do lawyers review case studies and legal decisions?
Such antics in my book leave them open to derision.
All that studying in law school should have been more than enough.
After passing the bar they should already know their stuff.
I just want an attorney who’s a know-it-all ace,
Not a book worm mouthpiece to plead my case.
Finally, the poets, being wordsmiths their art
You won’t see them referencing a checklist or chart
But look, in their hands, just what can that be?
A dictionary? Thesaurus? Are those what I see?
A real poet never needs help reading Shakespeare or Keats
Using Webster and Roget would make all of us cheats!
If a poet is real, the words should just flow
I think that all poets should automatically know
The right words to use, and literary crutches forgo
How dare they try better vocabulary to hone
They should come up with good things to say on their own.
I’m looking for poets who’ll just know what to say
Like Lewis Carroll’s poems in his heyday:
“Twas brillig, and the slithy toves, Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:
All mimsy were the borogroves, And the mome raths outgrabe.”
Don’t bother looking up his words, for that would be a dumb thing.
Using a dictionary or thesaurus, you might actually learn something!
Looking out past the cryptic crystal glass
into the busy rain-slick Street
I feel the sovereignty of this world
pass slowly like a shadow beneath my feet
I sit and watch the passing machine
the mechanics of the unknown design...
Humanity.
Every one a different shade size or Identity.
The world we know as a fragile shell
of what is real and surreal the world
we know is but a shadowed illusion
of the story of you…
Just below our senses behind our feelings
& our lives.
I sit and watch a feeling
of the underworld turn
in its quite dark orbit
in my inner eye.
He will pass through not knowing
the truth or observe the inner world & burn
the sovereignty of night I feel it just beyond,
just beyond my grasp,
my reasoning...
My intellectual reality is hidden
in a veil looking past the
crystal clear glass cryptic sky.
Into the world unknown
never shown watching the moving…
Mechanics of the machine known as humanity
viewing the sovereignty of none.
No one in the outer spheres turns,
yearning to wait for what is coming…
(Revelation 22:15)
Outside are the dogs, those who practice magic arts, the sexually immoral,
The murderers, the idolaters and everyone who loves and practices falsehood.
I, Jesus, have sent my angel to give you this testimony for the churches.
I am the Root and the Offspring of David, and the bright Morning Star.
"I read these verses, and my heart grows desperately earnest."
Lord, please let my runaway cat return safely to me.
Even if she wants to come back, the world outside is a minefield;
She dares not take a step.
My cat, who was like my own alter ego,
Now cowers in fear before another cat—her niece-like kin whom she once gave sweet milk.
Chased away frantically, she vanishes into the shroud of darkness.
Lord, I pray to You with all my broken heart,
Let my cat, who has been missing for three months, come back to me!
And the Lord, at last, heard my weeping voice,
And briefly sent that sweet cat back to my arms.
Exhausted, worn out, she crawled back to me,
Finding her way to the secretive, weathered kitchen window.
As I fed her in frantic haste, I whispered:
"Hurry, eat up. They might catch your scent and attack you."
And so, I frantically smoke my familiar Dunhill cigarettes.
For filling the air with my own scent is the only way left
To shield you and hide your tracks.
"Hurry, please!"
With my tear-stained window, I finally closed the view
Of those eyes that gazed back at me endlessly.
That beautiful history of yours
Will now never return again.
History?
No, it is Herstory.
It must be rewritten that way.
Even today, I open that kitchen window,
Waiting for my alter ego.
"I am the Alpha and the Omega, the First and the Last,
The Beginning and the End."
A season passes,
The door opens and closes,
And though I desperately exhale my cigarette smoke into the air,
She never returns.
That cat was a cat of quantum mechanics.
When I open my eyes, she is nowhere to be seen,
But the moment I close my eyes, she truly exists.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Traitors in the midst, well, what would you know,
you're part of the group picture, you're not them,
more lineups, pickups, more back-and-forth, foe,
that possesses some of those sorts, slides scum.
Convention through advanced development. [University]
Shared pattern breed designer armed forces. [Sociology]
Containers through our Physics department. [Physics]
Tis from Psychologist's: prey/mark, glasses. [Psychology]Operation Pied Piper, in sequence
'Tis a route of modern technology
'Tis naturally forfeit consequence
Designation Twenty-First century
Open fire on Aunt Sally's rose bushes!
Why so brutal, so vicious, and so you?
Oh po Mis'E Nuke isles just for pushes.
Captain, The Admiral did see his crew.
Joystick Joe, midst, Jolly Charlie--graves moot,
Sunrise hindrance, leaders, deaf-rooster, mute.
[Theologians: Thomas's Test Typo?]
Auto Mechanics questions smithereens
Mechanics cracked' Theologians quote
Happily, leaders and roosters convenes
Ballet pirouette two amused scapegoat
Happily, they'd discovered the light, this
of two long on our side, the two IDs twist
Her mind accumulates oddments and curios,
contrivances with strange linkages,
attachments that bolt unlikely parts together;
the mechanics of metaphysics.
Pieces of something she is sculpting or
assembling, or just waiting for,
a glimpse of a word-picture
too intricate to be entirely recalled
as a whole canvas.
She discovers these odd figments
on the leeched rim of vision,
where shapes are nameless.
Part of her mind
burns with the light of a kerosene lamp,
the other blazes too brightly.
Slowly she feels the inconceivable
creep upon her, imagines discovering
the last transcendental piece
of a scattered poem, the keystone.
Senses reach for a nexus
there are endless connections,
too many to grasp.
She realizes that her whole life
she has been building images
that can only be seen once,
once before their time, after that
they are just
writing.