Long Miasmic Poems
Long Miasmic Poems. Below are the most popular long Miasmic by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Miasmic poems by poem length and keyword.
The feeling of emotion is the beginning of dreams
The search for the meaning of emotion is their end
As they overlap seamlessly at the edge of my twilight time
My mind starts to sink in dusky obscurity, unexpressed.
After the futile walk through the miasmic day
The contours of the meandering garden path I’ve lost
Look now for a hand to guide and show me the way
To the unknown road destiny has paved, untraveled.
When the day’s last sunray begins to flash past me
Time turns to wasteland where my shadow lengthens
Falling on the frail footprints buried under the dust
While the road to the future fades away, uncharted.
In the cycles of good times and bad times I perceive
The cross-currents of contrast in skeptic mind’s confusion
That clears as the mist of ancient foreboding lifts
I discover a new trail laid down for me, undepressed.
The life story I write in time's tome of flowing continuum
Challenges me with dejection at the end of a sad chapter
To choose if I’ll keep on writing or close the yellow notebook
But the inner impulse inspires me to continue and be a writer.
Getting past the crossroads of degrading self-disregard
And after the afflicting shroud of aloneness silently crumbles
In the domain of dreams I write the last chapter of my life book
I’ll dedicate to you, the writer in me wants you to know.
August 4, 2021
Contest : The Writer In Me Wants You To Know
Sponsor : Mystic Rose Rose
Thrilled me—filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before
—Edgar Allen Poe, The Raven
Just a Minute Too Late
Those inky shadows, follow me,
cleverly devised in the corners
of my inhabitation, without
an invitation. They invest their
horrorfest, sinking into the midnight
hour, draining the color, blinding
the truth, bespeaking of consequences
of staying up just a minute too late.
Is it too late to make a run for it
or will the wall to wall rug,
be pulled out from under, revealing
the form of something alien,
one which my mind can’t fathom,
a phantom, miasmic apparition,
a trick, a trap, a rapparee of Poe?
A human silhouette, a living doll, a dark screen,
abominable creaks and “hoo”s, flickering
bulbs, a hidden troll…
More light, bright enough
to raise the dead, until
the catacomb-storm deadens the source
where you stand, or sit…don’t blink…
you’ve fallen asleep…again and again
waking up with a start,
then to a voice from an unrecognizable throat,
perhaps, the house speaks all by itself.
Silly me, I wake up. The rug’s been rolled back
in place. Only birds tweet, but nonetheless
that relentless silhouette’s still on the wall,
playing it straight…deceptively so.
Long past war’s fading drumbeats
And beyond the miasmic mists of time
Run undercurrents that displace peace
And fancied futures hoped sublime.
Once staccato beats of war drums abate
Far from war graves and their dead,
We find loved ones’ dismal fates
And lonely lives now filled with dread.
Soldier’s sojourn in the dash dividing
Dates on their eroding tombstones
Remind us that their lives, though exciting,
Ended not with hope but love unsown.
Once draftee’s dreams become forgotten
And their past romances are long since lost,
All that remains is what God left them
And scars they earned at frightful costs.
We too, wonder what will become of us
And we hope to pass our test divine
Once life’s abating hoofbeats leave us
And we’re enveloped by the fog of time.
Who will remember who we were?
Who will proclaim, “I KNEW THEM WELL?”
Who will stop and silently ponder
What our tombstone epitaphs fail to tell.
SPIN MASTERS SPINNING AWAY THE DAY
Every moment
I turn on the TV
What do I see
Nothing but liars laying down lies
Spin Masters spinning spam of deceit
Chanting
The truth will set you free
White is black
Black is white
Lies are true
Truth is a lie
Lies will set you free
I see nothing
But politicos
Dropping down lies
UN truths masquerading as the truth
Oh so sincerely
The lies spew forth so sweetly
From their corrupted lips
The toxic wastes
Spree out of my TV set
Infecting my soul
With paranoid distrust
And I vainly try
I do try
God do I try
To the find
The nugget of truth
Buried deep in the dark, dank, dangerous
Black, evil miasmic mists
Given off
By the talking heads on TV
So I leave my house
So full of doubt
And wander about
Looking for the truth
Some semblance of hope
And I look up
And see a solitary cherry tree
High up on a hill top street
Infusing the air
With its sweat ambrosia
And I smile
Knowing
Someday soon
The national nightmare
Will be pierced by the light
Of clarity and truth
And the evil ones
The body snatched aliens
Inhabiting our leaders
Will be banished
The moon is the compass to more than lunatics
the world shines forth on course to break the habits of Heretics
The void, the miasmic zone
The desert a monicker of mine to show
what on an empty canvas I can do, or to leave desolate as an epiphany to grow
Nomadic trackers seek me out in the signs
in the sands of
the
Mountains of the moon
they brave the desert to find, signs written in the dunes
Craters, calligraphy written of the Creator
the sands of time just rivulet capulet capitol letters
of loves endless sea where miracles are all the better
skylined wink of nursery bard story shine, on
the starlight makes the moon an adorned and pregnant bride, from the Sun
having a little me time as the nativity hears the tales
The sun, the moon and stars
they make nimbus across the sky as the Battle En tales
The stardust makes for night light, blink of the divine
to shine and shine and shine
the light of the stars, and fill the dark like fruit to the vine
Like star and moonglow on the desert snow
The moon and sun meet as two stars adjoined-to each other to know
in marriage,
one shines to, as the other beams, with child, aglow.
The ecliptic a carriage and around we go.
Family, children, Husband, Wife, Creator, its written in the stars.
Heaven a front row seat in a vast ampetheatre.
God has his actors His scripts and His laws, that plan for the Future.
They say their lines without flaw, learn to love!
The main attractions and the special features.
IT'S NOT TOO LATE
God gave me a blank diary, its pages numbered,
and in the hand of destiny a pencil for my take
when I came in this beautiful world enamored
to write the distinctive story of my life I’d make.
I traveled a winding path, destination unreached,
couldn’t get niche in many hearts, I tried in vain,
In storm strife found the bridges I built breached,
a lone drifter in desolate wasteland I did remain.
On the pages of my diary I truly wrote my story,
turning its leaves now I don’t find it charismatic.
I wonder if it is what in life I was destined to be,
a futile anecdote so very mundane and miasmic.
I don’t know why thus far life utterly failed me,
I ask God for second chance an eraser can I get
to erase the old narrative, construct new story.
The sun hasn’t set, maybe it’s not too late yet.
January 19, 2019
Emotion is the designer of dream
Search for the meaning of feeling is futile
As they mingle totally in my twilight time
My mind sinks in dusky obscurity
Impulses unexpressed.
After the wasted walk in the miasmic day
The meandering garden path I’ve lost
Look now for a guide to show me the way
To the unknown end after the journey
Story untold.
The cycle of good times and bad times
Shrouds the skeptic mind with confusion
That clears as the mist of foreboding lifts
I discover a new door open for me
Yet unentered.
When the day’s last sunrays flash past me
Under the chromatic sky I sing my song
You all go your way, don’t ever hear
The lyric of my soul I then write
For I’m unlistened.
I write for time's tome of eluding continuum
Although unfulfilled at the end of each chapter
When unsure if I should stop or keep on writing
The latent urge stimulates me to scribe for self
Even if unread.
____________
August 30, 2022
Contest : I Write Because
Sponsored by : Anoucheka Gangabissoon
The charcoal cloud miasmic,
melts in the ashen scorched sky,
summer drizzle descends
with the fascinating flotilla
that floats in the arid air.
The seeping spectrum
of the setting scarlet sun
sparkles on the slanting splash
of the rain drops,
soaking the singed malachite meadow,
exudes pervasive petrichor,
saturating the blazing ambiance.
From the moistened crack
of the desiccated soil
sprouts an olivine sapling
after waiting a long while,
spreads tender emerald leaves,
cradling a cute bud,
glistened by the touch
of the rhapsodic rain,
the pink petals unfurl,
draped with twilight tinge.
They dance in summer breeze
with the radiant rain drops,
turning into pearls,
reflecting the rainbow hues.
With the falling sultry dusk
the sprinkling sky sinks,
wavers with the cadence
of the serenading rain drops,
cascading with soft musical torrent
on the misty pane
of my dripping window.
The rain of nostalgic joy,
that beguiled the lost youth
returns innately inspired
to morph into meandering rows
in the ballet of dancing rills,
I feel roll with silent symphony
in the euphoric sanctum of my soul.
I hear my mesmerized heart
sing the rain song,
captivating for a while
the memory of the melodic youth,
that wanders in the rhythm of splatter
with the downpour of delight
beyond the arch of rainbow ecstasy
in the clement days
of raining in summer.
A fragment of matted stone breaks surface,
it is already colonized
by moss and fungi factories.
Eventually all will churn
green spawns to green lawns,
not yet of course, ‘yet’ has to wait
for the rain and the blood to settle.
Stone must be crushed
by the weight of circumstance,
a microscopic slime
pushed up above a miasmic mud
to become our living graveyards.
The Shawnee come and go
their last battles a war dance
passing like fireflies
on a summers night.
Layers of settlers add calcium to forest roots.
Time seeds towns,
industry turns rough hands
over mind-made wheels.
Worms grow fat.
Tornadoes of antique shops
emerge out of a storied history.
Abandoned Mills evolve
into art galleries.
Old railway lines end
where they began.
The moss returns,
blight creeps as it levels.
The larger the urban sprouting,
the more the moss and lichen flourish.
Eventually though, Ohio
will leave its foliate forest temples
to be discovered
by incipient microbes
that even now
live on the underside of rocks,
as codified plans and veined blueprints.
of a future expansion.
SHORT VERSION
Deep, in the voids of scattered bones,
in the dare
of the miasmic zone- lies a
mischief- bright,
in the depths of darkness,
where shadows bloom
their blight and stone.
There,
a little messenger
dares to rise,
defying the gloom and enchanting the realm.
~With fragile petals,
kissed by rays of inner light,
she brings a glimmer-dance of hope like a
Saintly paradite.
Her peridot heart jots a tiny plot to hit the spot on,
where sorrows dwell.
Sways incandescently humbles essenely.
mumbling a fluouric prayer.
The little flower stands fertile,
casting an audacity spell
of good nature
and unity.
It is there! Just look at it well,
well it is sitting there like a living gold!
Crystal on burning aspire,
molting fluora feather wing
has become in her maturity like
a desert rose.
With paragonic scent of petracore,
like whispers of forgotten dreams,
of innocence,
imbue of love's alien soil.
Seeds innuendo, in a dojo of love.
A transplant of the great
transparent sea, of hope-
beneath a starlit sky above,
where dreams seed in,
where the universe whispers,
she reminds us to "Believe."
In wishes beyond the stars.