Long Metallic Poems
Long Metallic Poems. Below are the most popular long Metallic by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Metallic poems by poem length and keyword.
The air shifts.
Not colder, just wrong.
Like the room exhales without me,
Like it knows something now
It didn’t want to know.
The cushion beneath me feels damp,
Though I haven’t moved.
My skin prickles but
Not from shame, but
From exposure,
Like I’ve peeled something back
That was never meant to be touched.
Your eyes don’t widen.
They narrow in calculation.
Scanning for cracks,
Maybe for signs of weakness.
Not searching for me, but for damage.
I smell the faint trace of your shampoo
Sweet, clean, familiar and suddenly
It makes me nauseous.
Too gentle for this moment.
Too far from where I am.
My mouth tastes like copper.
The words I said still sit on my tongue
Like blood from a bitten lip.
I swallow hard and it doesn't help.
The taste stays,
Metallic and sour, like regret that’s already curdled.
I want to rinse it out, but it’s inside me now.
The silence isn’t quiet. It hums.
Like the inside of a car after the engine cuts,
When everything feels too loud and too still
All at once.
I hear your breath
Too measured, Too careful,
Like you’re afraid even your exhale might shatter me.
It’s caution, not kindness.
My shirt sticks to my back,
The sweat being watched like a specimen.
Like I’ve become a case study in grief.
I feel the fabric cling like a second skin
I didn’t choose.
I feel my body betray me.
I see your posture shift.
Not away yet not toward.
The shift Just enough to make me feel like I’ve changed shape
And you’re recalibrating.
A half-inch of hesitation that says everything.
Like you’re trying to decide if I’m still the same person you sat down with.
There’s no comfort here and
No warmth.
Just the echo of what I said bouncing off walls that
Used to feel safe.
Now they feel like mirrors, reflecting back a version of me
I didn’t mean to show.
And you’re looking at her
Like she’s someone else.
~~~
There’s a constant hammering
Alongside my bedroom window
Repercussions of a corrupt gutter
The maddening drain
Obstinately and persistently has refused
All rehabilitation efforts
There are no
drip drip drips
Only
Pound Pound Pounds
As water clashes with wood and metal
The clangor must be amplified
By a loudspeaker
To make such minute water drops
Sound like a crazed gongsman
Locked in a metallic chamber with a battle mace
With no distinct pattern
The piercing pattering
Thwack Thwack Thwacks
Proclaiming,
“You will find no peace here!”
And yet
Its constant monotone irritation
Somehow
Lulls me to sleep
SURVEYOR OF THE STORM
Today’s early afternoon is somber-gray.
Red, white, blue, cherry willow, stars.
A single lightning bolt, in downward zigzag,
striking, alongside the bark of a crépe myrtle.*
Loose leaves sliding down oil-slicked street.
Goodnight skies rise into the light.
Verve-quake of thunder. I saw clouds rise and fall,
flutter by. Chimes and metallic owls, mirrors and bells
keep those pesky ‘peckers at bay, but will they survive
if the wind takes them away? (They did)
Yesterday’s moonlight
will be drenched behind midnight-clouds.
Spectacular sun-days orchestrate Spring hues
as wings splish-splosh in flooding bath tubs.
Well, I imagine so…
as faith remains.
3/25/2021
Non-rhyming couplets
*striking used as adj. here
Trustworthy cane, beside me rests so near,
A steadfast friend, in every weather clear.
Through rain or shine, it lights my way,
A loyal guide, night and day.
In corners sometimes it may reside,
Forgotten when life's tides collide.
Yet, with a stare, its help it extends,
A true reminder of a faithful friend.
From birth's first breath, we learned to crawl,
Exploring places, both big and small.
Now in old age, a different grace we glean,
Walking with a cane, hope's newfound scene.
In your polished wood or metallic frame, a history resides,
A witness to moments where life collides.
Lean on you I may, but stand tall I do,
For you are the friend that helps me push through.
Embracing change, we stride hand in hand,
Traversing the landscapes of shifting sand.
Oh, walking cane, you're more than a prop,
You're a symbol of strength, never to stop.
Your eyes swollen from the tears no one sees,
Your throat is dry from screaming to a god who doesn't listen,
Your legs tremble from running after something that doesn't exist,
You bleed but the blood is on your own hands for it.
You bask and twirl, showing grace,
Your dress flows along, designed with lace,
A pretty white, pearls and beads,
Your hair put up, face unseen,
You dance a show, elegant and nice
You change your makeup, once or twice,
Or should I call it a disguise?
A pretty face to hide the vice.
The white turns red,
Your fingers drip,
Still you dance, and screaming begins,
The curtains fall, your mask melts,
The lilies replaced with a rotten smell
You perform for others, maybe even yourself,
Maybe that's why you can't seem to love yourself,
The metallic scent will fill the air
Until no one will wanna be around you,
The white lillies stained red
The curtains torn, stage a wreck,
Glass on the floor, barefoot you.
Still you'll dance, twirl and jump.
Ashes will fall, along with fire,
You'll hold it close for warmth you want
Your arms will swell, turn red and burn
Still you'll hold on, until there's nothing left.
No stage, no audience, not even you.
Alone and hungry
left leg aches like a broken peg
in the mugginess of its left slipper.
Not a good day for fixing anything
but the sealed and over salted,
the quickly warmed and spooned
that can be mixed into a taste-less medley
with other sundry comestibles.
The pantry,
(a recessed place with shelf-space),
is a dimly lit store for long kept canned products,
a once carelessly gathered and undated harvest,,
a compulsive cartload
that should never have been bought
opened, and cooked
in any company but strictly my own.
In that larder molders a canned fodder;
here anemic asparagus stalks wrapped in tin
are jammed together with diced jalapenos,
or glossily illustrated kidney beans.
Tomato and noodle soups are haphazardly piled
atop of various loosely defined
stewed meat offerings, including canned Spam
naturally.
After the so-called cooking
(more a revealing of a much mushed-up
mixture of misnamed contents),
I sit down with the steaming plate
allowing the metallic aroma to entice
peckish yet suspicious taste buds.
Fed now with the quickly chewed-over
I’m both glad and grateful
that this ten minute feast
can be wolfed down in so much less time.
SHIELDED FROM THE TERROR OF THE NIGHT
Prism at twilight
Multifaceted skyline
Blushing countenance
Lapis lazuli’s untoward release:
Slides of amber, magenta, crimson
Like a longsuffering firework fleece
Underneath the metallic sky
Forests darken and hide
Fortress doors locked tight
Shades shield us from the fierce unrest
From nightmare beasts and howling winds
Cradled baby eyes
Comforted with quilted care
Sleep rebukes child’s fear
Squeal of delight squelches the terror of the night
Flicker of sunlight peaks through satin sheets
Kim Rodrigues © 2017
Weeping Demon
Beautiful old and magnetic antic cemetery
So nice, old, silent walk. Old monuments
Names. Dates. Old stones. Old cards
Hmm. Just walk on the path. I walked. Sad
Yeah. This way. In life. In my alone
Just walk. Emptiness. Deeply in the land
A cemetery. Love of death. Dark wine
Of my life. My soul here smells like
Graveyard. Tombstones life cards
I am just watching them. Old friends
Hmm. Or I'm laughing at life. Is this?
Stones, monuments are dancing
Just dancing around me. Lives of death
I don’t know my life. Mortal? Immortal?
Still alive? Or just walking dead? Hmm
“Hmm. You are not alone”, said a voice.
A deep, metallic, like ore, a friendly, sad voice.
I turned around to find the origin of this sound.
A demon sat on an old, beautiful gravestone
A man. A demon man. Around four meters high
Wise, aristocratic, noble old face. Sad wings
Unearthly gaze, all-seeing eyes. Demonic intelligence
“Yes, your fate is not a serial case.”, he said
“Nice to meet you. Why are you saying this?, I asked
“Because I am immortal. And your sad life is my all the time.
I live here always, in this cemetery; the human world is not my life.”
He answered. He just cried and cried. I had a wine in my bag
I always keep a wine when I am walking. We drank together
We toasted. The glasses were cemetery vases. Blood wine
Hmm. Reel blood. Oporto. My grandfather has this grape
Oh, yes. I loved. I like this wine. My grandfather made wine
We drank in this English cemetery the memory of this blood
Demon said, “ I love this noble wine. Good friend.” Oh, yes
I love to remember my grandfather. “ He was a good man.”
Demon said. Hmm. Yes. But he is in another cemetery.
“Not here. In Hungary. Then you visit Hungary. Flower. Please.”
I will do. I said. “Okay.” I don’t understand this friendship
A good, hearty demon. And I. “Look, we can’t accept humans.”
“Are you a human?”
“Look for that.”
“Bodily”
“Soul
Is
Demon
Like”
I am
Laughing
Smiling
Now
Demon
Is
Heart
I attended a large gathering and took some time
to observe the great assortment of shoes stacked on the racks
I saw new shoes, pricey shoes, and shoes not worth a dime
and shoes that seemed to have crossed many paths and tracks.
I saw dainty sandals and flighty high heeled ones too
I saw sporty sneakers and rough and tough trainers
I saw both the laced and the leathery buckled shoe
Then I saw the humble yet hardy pair of slippers.
I saw pointy shoes, furry shoes and flatties as well
I saw flowery ones and those studded with trinket gems
Some stacked neatly in pairs, others thrown about pell mell
Some recently repaired, some coming off at the hems.
I saw long boots, rubber boots and
there were glittery Indian styled stilettoes
I spotted fragile glass sandals and metallic brass sandals
and soft comfy ones for comfort of feet 'n' toes.
And while I was thus lost and engrossed
in watching the great assortment of footwear
The old caretaker, to me, a cheap pair tossed
saying, ' here's an extra pair if you've lost your shoes.
She was too busy and distracted to be in my shoes of muse
So I'd to slip out thinking of some quick excuse
She didn't even notice I wasn't actually barefoot
So I had to take them elsewhere, both my muse and my boot!
Ah, and long ago when once we could afford only a 'shoestring' budget
I once hadn't enough bucks to replace a worn out pair of shoes
I was sad for not having even a good goody two shoes
Then God showed me a wayfarer's shoeless pair of barefeet
and then one hapless one with no feet at all!
So I could imagine life being in their missing shoes.
(Footnote*
Wonderin where I saw so many shoes off peoples feet? Well, in our religious gatherings say for prayers in the mosque hall or even the religious lecture hall, we've to enter barefooted and sit down crosslegged. So that's where you come across all kinds of shoes on racks provided in the cubicle.
Actually in the Disney movie, 'THE PRINCE OF EGYPT', i marked that even Moses took off his shoes before talking to God.)
From beneath a veil,
A shroud itself hidden,
Anonymity It's masquerade.
Tired secrets languish,
Benighted by nature,
Emerald, to pale green and white, from jade.
A sough in the head,
Of their tepid maker,
Whispers nothing, wholly unaware.
Crafty camouflage,
For the crafter of secrets,
Who never knew they were there.
The irony aroma,
Stagnant blood without pressure,
Metallic, unmoved, unaffected.
Averse to sense,
Illusory marionette's,
Clear strings, turbid skeins undetected.
And the irony lies,
With an off thirst disguised,
By the growing pines of set minds thought unique.
And as trite as the urges,
Desperate purges,
Like mewls of the sheep seeking shade from critique.