Long Mica Poems
Long Mica Poems. Below are the most popular long Mica by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Mica poems by poem length and keyword.
Memory Lane
There was a time eons ago,
when peanut butter and jelly did it for me.
When the best sound in the whole world was
the sound of the recess bell!
Even the ground beneath my feet was fascinating
full of sparkly bits, I thought were gold!
Sheets of mica peels into silvery layers...
delighting the eye, reflecting the sun of August.
There was a time, I still remember when,
lacing lanyards was a high skill
and flicking cat-eye marbles well
gave even the most bullying boys a thrill.
I remember then, when plump blackberries
were a prize and green apples stolen from the farmer
filled my spaghetti strapped one piece suit,
for certainly no nubile breasts had sprouted yet!
Fond memories, seldom visited but lingering...
on the fringe of end time.
Date: 9/4/12
The sky bathes the harbor in cyan turquoise
cadet-blue sea foam bubbles the only gorget one has
versus the flamingos and canaries absconding littoral mire
the gashes on my feet, the burn in my gracilis
have returned me yet again to
sanctum:
la vie en rose,
where
lips breathe lunarias into drift bottles
love songs the only tune in our ears,
lilac mica on denim morpho
is the heart in my chest,
and the color of your hair
when the sun decides
its inevitable rest
everything must come to an end,
but the feeling I get
when you scrunch your nose
and shake wisteria dust
off raven plumes
eclipsing spinel
opals
and if describing them is the one thing I can do,
then the paint in my mouth may go stale
fingertips now pruney, lazy, tired
vision indispensable falling pallid
the paper of my visage a
wrinkly,
sallow
pity
but the young wish of a besotted soul
to grow old with your puling orbs
granted
ink sinks the coral lens
your darling hands
have fixed over my head
but my legs are torn,
and my teeth broken
aching
for another laugh
rumbling through
your vibrating back
that my cheek is pressed into,
and I drown
willing
smile
wistful
hush
still.
I am an enthusiastic rainbow chameleon
until I am a cumbersome ox
Wait! Hold up! Stop!
I meant I am a excited spotted lizard
mercurial and fast moving
I slide from granite rock to mica rock
slithering in wetness, shaking my rattlers
Watch out world! I am dangerous!
I find myself flying high in the azure sky
with heart and confidence of the American bald eagle
you had better not shoot me, Arkansas!
There is a ten thousand dollar fine, you know
In but minutes I fall from the peace of the clouds,
landing in refreshingly cool lake water
I swim around in here, with the joy of a golden retriever
finding some natural springs
life is an adventure, and I mean to taste it all
You cannot catch me. I’m the gingerbread man.
Warm and hot from the oven.
Sliding down the hill in a white rabbit lined parka.
I live my truth, spouting it into my art and my poems.
I remember when I found myself; I was twenty-eight.
I knew the only opinion that mattered any more was my own.
Most freeing moment of my life!
What is a moth?
I only know flitting shadows
Magnified upon my wall.
In closets and in chests of drawers,
Despite balls that smell of hospitals,
Holes in clothes where they once were.
They dance around my lantern
Made by Coleman, forest green,
To a deep sea diver breathing kerosene.
They’re drawn to candles too.
One misses a beat
And in diaphanous tragedy
Falls to my table top,
A crushed, tropical cocktail umbrella,
Match sticks and news paper mâché.
Its carcass dusts
My hand with mica shininess
As soft as talc.
If everything is wings
And flame, what need
Does this one insect feed?
The mica-flecked granite outcroppings loom,
releasing bits of themselves randomly
sparkling, as they fall, in felted-light they bloom.
Blasted cliffs, yet brazen, they rise without decree,
unconcerned with the maples, and the birch,
releasing bits of themselves randomly.
An ashen, sulking, sky hides the eagle's perch
and softens all the jagged edges of the scene
unconcerned with the maples, and the birch.
A collage of layers blends all color in between
each angle decomposing in the rain,
and softens all the jagged edges of the scene.
Within the fog the distant mountain's strain
bruised in shades of lavender and forest green,
each angle decomposing in the rain.
A watercolor tableau where, unforeseen,
the mica-flecked granite outcroppings loom,
bruised in shades of lavender and forest green
sparkling as they fall, in felted-light they bloom.
1/4/15
Impossible mission to pinpoint present
such fleeting moment instantaneously spent
according to yours truly i.e. this gent
mind boggled, intrigued, stymied...
courtesy unseen minute
(mine hoot, minoot, my newt...) agent
provocateur stealing every precious second,
whether or not satisfactorily spent
time thief absconds with
most treasured commodity
nary tell tale sign,
where he/she went
allegedly, inscrutably, seemingly...
robbing in plain sight fervent
as greased lightning
ramping, stepping, ticking up
blithely skedaddling across firmament
ratcheting frenzied temperament
upon psyche – regarding current
temporary soul searching resident
unstoppably speeding, jetting, barreling...
trigonometrically calculating tangent
severely distorted against
turbulent kaleidoscopic hallucinatory
backdrop – centripetal/centrifugal adjacent
forces compressing body electric
elongating flesh beyond infinity
diaphanous corporeal essence rent
asunder obviously self evident
Ahab bin to theorize
Pequod now to thee extent
overactive imagination lent
allows, enables, and provides
poetic license allotment
extemporizing this entire extent
stretching corpus callosum
to breaking point as well cogent
continuity fractured no different
than usual literary pablum
wariness cautionary brief adage,
when traipsing thru apparent
gobbledygook on par with
puttering around greenacres,
vis vis equivalent
ensnared within wide
webbed whirled sand trap event
chilly eroded Earth's landmasses
made of rocks and minerals
bajillion years metamorphosis refulgent
glistening silicon dioxide
in form of quartz
feldspar and mica supplement
granules ergo timeless saga never ends
or begins analogous
to Möbius strip lambent.
What are you looking for? This voice was cracking.
I looked up to see two crows. Which one had spoken?
I am searching for mica, I told them. It’s found in granite.
Is it sparkly? They looked interested.
I nodded, and they hopped around in the water, helping me look.
Next I stumbled upon a fawn, hidden in a glade, under a fallen oak.
How are you? I asked her. She was trembling too hard to speak.
A rabbit who had been guarding her hopped over to say
“nothing to see here,” so I moved on.
The forest is interesting when you cannot speak the language,
but when you can, it opens up new possibilities.
An aggressive wolf spoke to me next.
“I am going to howl tonight like you have never heard before."
I have no idea why he told me that,
maybe because I am a rival howler at night?
We have traveled to thirty-seven states, the youngster told me.
He is only eight, so this is quite the accomplishment.
I collect one rock from each state, want to see them?
His mother rolls her eyes, as if it is no big deal.
It is a big deal to me; I am also a rock collector.
Sure!
He takes me into his room and pulls a box out from under his bed.
I imagine mica, feldspar, gypsum, glitters of bloodstone and the like.
He opens the lid. The rocks are gray, chalky, and gravel.
“Which one came from Tennessee?” I ask him.
He says “I have absolutely no idea, but aren’t they amazing?”
I think I’ll get him a bag of gravel for his birthday.
Are we less superior to ourselves than realization?
Our temporary shell, our salt, our generation.
Our streamers flutter like snow in Antarctica.
longing and valid expansion, made of mica.
Striving to liberate us, it rips apart its body.
Once again, envisaging us embody.
Systole, diastole, adventure indiscriminately.
The wide open oozes a scent of love imminently.
Shimmering between each of the drumbeats.
Summer, you are the windlessness of such feats.
We ate, kissed, cuddled, and then supped food.
A day's total is a unit of measure for what you lewd.
Need and desire exist in an interdependent reality.
We bury our bodies as a sign of our mortality.
The fate of our remains while wearing the shell
The land utters us the title of a spare body smell.
Synapses are memories, and we are waiting.
In order to cross its boundary, there is no gating.
Written: August 09, 2022
In my garden sits a large granite rock,
flecked with traces of quartz, mica, and spar.
A juggernaut, juxtaposed with shamrock,
and flowers of yellow and cinnabar.
Time and weather exposed its hidden faults,
riffled with colors of every hue.
And butterflies visit it for its salts;
today, I spied one of indigo blue.
It stood poised on that rock, with folded wing,
edged in gold filigree fit for a king.
Shadows lengthen across the garden floor,
as cooling breezes sweep the quiet air.
And the blue butterfly took flight once more,
leaving the silent giant waiting there.