Long Miasma Poems
Long Miasma Poems. Below are the most popular long Miasma by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Miasma poems by poem length and keyword.
A humid day,
mosquito clouds swarm along
a red dirt road to the farm.
There are grimy rows of pig pens,
hazed dark by humming hordes
of black fly.
Bob (an old friend), chuckles.
“Man, you picked the wrong time of year
to come visit.”
The hogs grunt and squeal.
He waves,
“be with you soon.”
It’s slop-time - the air is turgid
with the many notes of a stale miasma,
everywhere there is the splatter
of slime and muck.
He carries smeared green buckets;
a deleterious, partly consumed gunk
that reeks of that semi-solid swill
hogs grow fat upon.
On the low walls
there are slick stains, layers of grime;
a smeared feculence
corrugated into noxious layers.
Even behind the stalls
there are a heaps
of sludge and slurry.
Bob flushes surfaces down
with his long hosepipe.
He bends to his tasks whistling happily
while I explain to my new wife
that he used to work for the C.I.A.
I can see she’s surprised,
maybe impressed.
Long pause…
watching Bob wade knee deep
into his labor of love.
“Yea”, I sighed,
“he got real tired of all that."
```````````````
an edit
Like many heroes of mysterious Marvel Comics,
Doctor Stephen Vincent Strange is a bolt of magic mix;
Spells of supernatural kinds he works, abundantly,
Crimsons, crystals, ice, rings, chains - in constant redundancy...!
Pile of pure pulverization and annihilation,
The Bolts of Balthakk has become eternal damnation;
On any stuff - solid or liquid - the bolt does explode,
Like iron-oxidation, all powers it does corrode...!
Bounds, rebounds, rings, winks, blows, boomerangs at its master's hands,
Swishes, swooshes; whizzes, whooshes like winds in desert sands;
None in heaven or hell could ever its gravity hold,
Like swift, sly electric current it does its force unfold...!
Is it terrible torch of fire? Or lake of lava?
Is it hydro-nitrogen bomb resembling baklava?
From hands of Doctor Strange, like gold dust they serenely fly,
Clapping, crashing, flashing, dazzling, booming, zooming they spry...!
Doctor Strange manipulates these bolts like liquid plasma,
For him, a magic-surgeon, it's mere mental miasma;
An awesome third eye adorns the forehead of Doctor Strange,
For mesmerized kids, these are, delightful amusement-range...!
30 August 2022
Doctor Strange Spells Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Robert James Liguori
The cascading stream leaps skyward in spate of swirling ebullience
over the dancing shadows of serenading trees swaying entranced.
The crystalline drops of dainty dew draping the glinting grass tips,
weave splendored lattice for me as I lie dreaming on my meadow.
The drizzling dust of descending moonbeam in satin sapphire night
adorns the pearl-laced waves of the rolling sea spread beguiled.
That is where I saunter alone, searching for my muse so elusive.
Up above the majestic mountain’s serenading supine slope,
stands high the sun-soaked summit of ecstasy I crave to climb.
Down the verdant valley’s slithering spine smoothly curved,
winds the emerald pathway on the pictorial plains I tread.
The rain-washed sky spreads the spectrum of my dreams
of chromatic imagery on the rainbow horizon beckoning me.
That is where I seek out my ingrained imagination concealed.
The surrealist sun rises in grandeur with the nascent dawn,
lifting the veil of miasma from the masked sense of unfeeling.
The winds of lyrical inspiration blows on the bland mindscape,
sweeping away the dust from dormant feelings flung unbound.
Turning the latent emotions to a surging storm of creative craving,
I fly on its fantasy wings in the cadenced air to the realm of afflatus.
That is where in search of the art of words I go as a poet profound.
November 27, 2020
Contest : Where Do We Poets Go?
Sponsor : Silent One
In the flushing garden’s garnet path
we walked entranced,
the scarlet sun with the spectrum of dulcet dawn
held us within the sequins of the sapphire sky.
You saw my heart contoured
by the crimson curves of climbing clouds,
but not for very long,
for the rainstorm melted the sky,
you disappeared beyond the rainbow arch.
Over the quartz waves of the desert dunes,
we trudged with rhythmic exuberance,
until you melted away like the migrating mirage.
You reached the verdant oasis,
sprawling with the pulse of my olive heart,
swept away by the desert storm of yearning,
lost in the opaque labyrinth of oblivion.
On the silver sands of the satin beach
we traced the entwined fervent footprints.
The rolling waves adorned
the pearly lattice on your ivory feet.
As the tide of time erased my trail,
you walked away with poignant impulse
through the miasma of cascading moonbeam,
dissolving my nocturnal craving.
The dazzling dawn of desire veneers now
my heart’s horizon with halcyon hues,
spreading the sunburst tinges
of my timeless longing for you.
I remember blushing aglow
your emotive epitome lost long time ago.
Wandering listless in the wasteland
of the waned memory of belonging,
my silent tear drops roll on the garden path,
wrapped with the bronze leaves of the fall.
Their rustle echoes your songs for me,
long lost beyond the still shore of silence.
When in the seraphic spring
you are embraced by the sparkle of a new life
you will never know
how much I miss your world
that does not remember me.
My child has a love of poetry
It is rare, for she is only nine.
In her bare mind, words are potpourri
floating, rhyming by stanza, by line.
Holding a book ever so tightly
(it relieves the raw ache in her chest),
my sweet Emma floats almost nightly
carried by puffins in a bird nest.
She paints her pictures lying in bed
dreaming up puffin activities.
Writing what's in the front of her head,
one of her common proclivities.
Her situation stems from asthma
of pet hair and seasonal rebirth.
She fancies ease from the miasma,
high above noxious coughing on earth.
Starting with nursery rhymes at three
we have read Silverstein and Dahl
both of us memorize easily.
Her choice today is Lewis Carroll.
My Emma lives in her Wonderland
especially with a nebulizer.
Her teachers all seem to understand
it's “down to earth” math that defies her.
August 23, 2021
Sponsor Regina McIntosh
Contest Name The One Who Touches My Heart
Silence streams spread
Defiance dares dread
Nude naked noise
Play plunders poise
Sweet succinct smile
Moves mangled miles
Big blooming boast
Coarse curling coast
Miasma melts mood
Ganache gifts good
Hurling hurts here
Sneaky side steers
Snatch subtle stare
Cover cold care
Room roasting rude
Crazy croons crude
Pick piquant plot
Live lasting lot
Trade tickles time
Clever cheer chimes
Observe odd orb
Feel funny flop
Drop deepens dream
Strange scary scheme
Aim apt aware
Bright blossoms bear
Feel floral form
Nurture nice norms
Tell thrilling tale
Mind moving mail
Broken bits break
Sense seeking stake
Leon Enriquez
25 May 2015
Singapore
I suppose
you've been wondering
Why your eyes don't smile anymore.
Why your once radiant optimism
has drowned in concrete mud.
Why the future, even tomorrow,
suddenly tastes so bitter
on your palate.
Why the rainbow is frowning
at you; all the colors,
besmirched.
Why your view of the horizon
and your mind has been shrouded
by a thick, blinding miasma.
Why the howl of the wind
leaves your skin
ice-cold,
frozen stiff,
even though winter has since
flown away with snow buntings.
Why your sunny days
have been superimposed
by the blackest umbra of twilight.
Why the sun seems so distant
that its rays no longer touch your face.
It's because...
I've stolen every scintilla
of your joy and happiness
I've trampled on
your spirit and high hopes.
Who am I?
I'm the enemy without mercy
I'm the cackling demon
gleefully clipping off
the brittle wings of hope
you're clutching onto.
Written: August 5, 2026, for a contest by Brian Strand
*******************
Artist Synopsis: Inspired by Edvard Munch, this ekphrastic work explores "The Sick Child," depicting a mother at her bedridden daughter's bedside.
her pallor smolders with fever
ethereal star ensnared
flickering amidst orbs
in hospital harsh haunted husk
her mother's vigil-worn hands
charting the astral lattice
each breath a star-shivered
seraphic benison—
soft-spun in starry status
ceiling cannot c o n s o l e
painter stands at the threshold
brush astral-shivered presciently
nebula silhouette of imminence
his sister's silence
moon-murmur mantled in mind mist
mother ministering miasma
mirrored in her mute mothering
blue room breathes its borrowed time—
but no hours borne in benediction
but layers brittle... blooming...
memory manifold memory
until astral air—
harbors hard-to-handle hazy halo
painter revisits bedside vigil
consecrating grief in cobalt
then cerulean
then ultramarine,
until silence found its color—
until blue could bear
what blood could not
child tilts toward our blue hush
pale as fledgling frostlight
her gaze a frail... flickering... frontier
fetching farewell & forever
between earth and art
behind her... mother bends
like a prayer half-remembered—
pale benediction blooming in the blue hush
everything falling—
time... breath... hope...
blooming downward
like frost-born f e a t h e r s
this is how grief becomes light—
not healed... nor forgiven...
but given enduring form,
a luminous presence
that outlives the hour
outlives its own pale hush
blue room bears witness
bright with buried breath
bereavement becomes blessing
& flame forbids forgetting
a fathomless... fire-forged haven
where ephemeral... evanescent eternity
embarked on an eternal expedition
summoned silently... sketched in stillness...
where silence
found its forever in g l o w
Beneath the surface of the perceptive mortal senses
the mind nestles the buds of dreams it desires to see bloom.
Allured by avid aspirations into insipid ignorance,
it suffers wandering in the wilderness of discontent.
Under the convoluted layers of the mangled mind
languishes the servile soul at the impervious inner depth,
until enlightenment dawns with the light of the eternal truth,
building with dedicated spirit the holy linkage with the absolute.
Travelling on the enlightened pathway of devout life,
an inward journey to the sacred sanctum of spirituality,
takes the soul to the ultimate destination of liberation,
where realization perceives the meaning of emotions.
The swirling currents of the vagrant mind
find the current course of intuitive introspection
through the layers of consciousness,
dissipate in the shade beneath the divine lamp
that illumines the swathe of the dark acuity.
The soul then shines in the heavenly glow,
reflecting the patina of the perception lotus,
as the self-searching comprehensive odyssey ends
at the sanctified altar of supreme mindfulness.
Distanced from the thought-swamped past
the merger configures awareness in the realm of now.
In the onyx night, the drizzle of argentine stardust,
symbolizing the sequins of sensual epithet
of the vibrant existential melodic essence,
adorns the pearl-laced waves of the rolling psychic sea,
that spreads seamlessly to the baroque emotive shore
though the bay of bliss of the musical mind,
echoing the tune of the soulful symphony.
The rain-washed sparkling sky of the new day,
enwrapped in the chromatic trellis of the rising sun,
spreads the spectrum of corporeal perception,
fabricated by the fascinating sense of the vibrato of life,
weaved as the tapestry of transient feelings
with the lattice of self-drawn imagery of kaleidoscopic now.
The congenial current of contemporary time,
defused in the miasma of the marooned mind,
turns the indented poignant impulses
into lyrical crescendo of consciousness concerto.
On its sonorous serenading wings,
the awakened awareness flies in the sky of sensual sonata
to the harmonic realm of euphoria,
realizes the nicety of the unequivocal notion
that life is a song to be sung in now continuum.
There is Nothing to Say About It
There is nothing to say about it
No words to describe it at all
There are no words at all to describe
the mass slaughter of innocents,
the relentless malignant progressions of
the evil black-moving cloud of terminations,
the toxic metastasizing ooze of outright annihilations,
the blood-gurgling regurgitations, and
the blood-spurting decapitations.
There is nothing to say about it.
Nothing to say at all.
No words to describe
the hopeless piercing cries of the infidels
the whimpering terrified pleadings of the condemned
the silent gasping inhalations of the dying
There is nothing to say about it.
No words to describe it at all!
My heart at 62 years has not seen anything like this at all!
Never anything like this at all!
I have not seen this outrageous slaughter before at all!
There is nothing to say, except…
These are the days!
The days of this unkind hour;
the days before the great onslaught!
Before this massive earthly descent to the lowest places,
the smelly dank places,
the rotting miasma of the dead places.
There are no words to describe it!
There is nothing to say at all!