Long Millstones Poems
Long Millstones Poems. Below are the most popular long Millstones by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Millstones poems by poem length and keyword.
Love’s Sonnet
Tattered womb, shred by sharp blades of regret,
Weighed down by rough millstones, dark as shame,
Pale dawn stumbles from midnight to forget -
Stinging acids scar through showers of blame.
A whisper of consolation murmurs,
Infused with the incense of compassion,
A harbinger of enchanted grace demurs
Spellbound, purified enigmas refashioned
Love, like a lyric – a lady in waiting –
Steps out of ebony’s clinging shadows
Releasing hard night with nightmares abating
The pall of shrouds rent by empathy’s glow.
The chivalry of love – a silk caress –
Eternal perfection, fulfills love’s quest.
Coagulation Starter – 3-28-24
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Coagulation
Finally, my blood began to coagulate,
Flowing like insomnia
Between the wounds of dawn and dusk
When wounded memories drip pools of enigmas,
Fleeting gossamers of absolutes,
Drying into sticky puzzles.
Bloodied dreams wander labyrinths,
With no exits,
Leaving spatters of millstones
For ruminating relics to follow,
Thin images of wispy encounters
Fade
In lost chords of words,
Ghosts gel from gashes.
Impostors of reality
Spit rebellious clots into ruminating plateaus,
And phantoms,
To leave a crimson stain
On unwelcomed daylight and martyred Mondays
Stirring penance from clotting confessions.
Tourniquets unbound,
Veins transfused congeal in coalescence
As platelets and corpuscles gather yesterday
Into the flow, a cadence, blood pressure restored,
The pulse of reminiscence throbs
Memoirs course through venous vessels,
Then seek a place
To dream.
*Image of Excitement Unlocked giphy by Escape Hunt.
Time
Life millstones pressures creation to sort
through essential time, balms the albatross
over seasonable means, paid in court.
A past fraught in qualm, trading ourselves short,
wills the clock face, hands smile--it sates the loss...
life millstones pressures creation to sort,
from the moment that stretches to distort,
spoke present to a fresh reference, toss
over seasonable means, paid in court.
Seconds, minutes, hours ticking by, assort
cleft role of abled spread twinklings as moss.
Life millstones pressures creation to sort
that infinite future's schedule, escort
zealous flashes duly, that run across
over seasonable means, paid in court.
Shapes an hourglass, together, we support
an eternal measured us, reach across.
Life millstones pressures creation to sort
over seasonable means, paid in court.
2020 June 30
*1st Place*
A Brian Strand you choose
~~Brian Strand: Judged 2021 August 12
*1st Place*
Time- 8 Word Challenge
~~Constance La France: Judged 2020 July 06
My grandmother sure liked a good story,
so did her mother, and her mother Flori;
who settled in New France,
coming to take a chance.
These ancestors who built a wood gristmill,
down a rambling country road, still;
where a great turning wheel makes water spill.
Once, I went to see,
had lunch under a tree,
birds chirped as I drank tea.
It is now a historic site,
but oh- it took a fight;
happy, it was restored to my delight,
and now it stands proud in old charm glory.
I love the sound of water cascading,
with thoughts of civilization fading.
Once this mill was busy,
with hard work not easy.
Gosh, those huge millstones were really well made,
because all through the long years they have stayed.
Sad in time- the gristmill began to fade,
used as a chicken coop;
an art studio cute,
then, was forgotten and mute.
For years it was just falling down,
the wood going to muddy brown;
now, people visit the mill and the town,
all year long this glade of peace - invading.
________________________
May 23, 2018
Poetry/Rhyme/Stories of the Gristmill
Copyright Protected, ID 18-1025-448-01
All Rights Reserved. Written under Pseudonym.
Dreamer
In my boyhood I waded shoal creeks;
Veins of living waters swirling past my
Ankles; returning home, grinding stones.
I asked: How are rain drops like millstones?
I watched a stream of black ants scaling a tree
Through the crevices of bark; Antennae stiffened.
Above, a wily woodpecker whetted his long, nose plier.
I asked: How many ants to voice a flicker?
The grooves are worn, the needle no longer holds.
I station a toy soldier near the spindle, he turns
His post slowly. Deployed, his pace quickened,
Could not hold at the edge.
I asked: How far from the spindle before I fledge?
Awakenings
A huge arm snatched me back. Startled, affright,
By the sight of a man twice mine in height shouting
“Boy, don’t never be drinkin’ from theirs again.”
I asked: Does “colored” water not flow from the same vein?
Legs stiffen straight back when the BB
Entered the frog’s spine, each time. A boy hones
His skill for the man who would be sent to hunt men.
I asked: How many to pith before wars end?
Fear reverses relationships; opposites repel,
Likes attract. Tolerance, inclusion have no
Currency as long as pols pervert polarity.
I asked: Can we long survive the insularity?
Copyright 2018 Paul Thomson
Ideas, thoughts, feelings
inhabit space and time,
they come to mind .
Baggage one carries throughout life is but an evil spirit,
it kills, slowly, the soul, is the enemy that keeps one
from being free, is the bondage – like Bob Marley’s chain -
that is dragged across one’s subconscious memories,
upon life’s experiences, weighing down one’s brain
like millstones, from long ago, wrapped around the throat,
forced to carry around the neck until drowned
- for those not strong enough – in the waters of living.
These pieces of a past – be it yesterday, today, tomorrow
or from yesteryear – drive down the spirit, the soul of women,
of men into the depths of an abyss, a hell, and into the rivers
of a life best left in the gloomy darkness of the past
from whence they came, after being brought to life,
into the light, into sight, to be touched,
to be acknowledged and understood,
to release the heart from being wood.
They, these shadowy pieces, should be given wing,
set free after having spoken their piece, letting the heart sing
of their passing, as they pass into the darkness, into the either,
from whence they creped, like a snake, so that neither
the experiencer nor experienced need handle that baggage,
- live out their troubled lives in a cage, full of rage -
nor carry that baggage, but once, to some waiting train
or given wings, leaving the shattered soul and this plane.
Give that baggage a well-deserved vacation!
Walk away – forever – never again set foot in that station!
B. J. “A ” 2
May 3rd 2002
Forever Young
David J Walker
No
I should have said
I knew you when we
Were both brand new
And we knew
nothing of life
And not a single thing
of each other
Except the unquestioned attraction
And the sad redaction
of the entanglement we thought of
as love
And what I know is
the resolution stands
fast in the past
and cannot be
undone
locked in the lockets hung
round our necks
like cherished millstones
made into clocks
I know you from another
Place and time
When I was yours
And you were mine
Another century
another millennium
Where
We will both be
Forever young
Spontaneity 2-28-24
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Spontaneity
Arthritic inertia,
Absent of the Prime Mover,
Bursts into astral fireflies of serendipity
Coloring outside deliberate
Past ebony links in tangerine comets
In outbursts of the unplanned ad-lib
Flicks of incandescent glory
And slivers of glee,
Like dolphins leaping or whales breaching
Into the spontaneous’ ephemeral sparkle,
Ignite gusts of rumbling grace
Rushing past anxious spirals,
Sneaking past solemn's gates,
In explosions of uncontained whimsy -
As springs of roiling combustions
Split life draining millstones,
And rock musty routines that shuffle
Bathing the unsmiling dower dirge
With thunder dancing across sullen waters
To christen spontaneity’s godchild
With new robes of unrehearsed mirth
And a dedicated named -
Laughter!
No acknowledgement could be
commensurate nar e'er
equivalent to countless years (scores of orbitz
of unexplored wonder) – left...
(with millstones around neck)
to atrophy on severe truncated
limb mitts, now cause
for silent lachrymose as this
brother doth brook a wake
his pained self actualization
(particularly predicated on
decade number six
unavoidably approaching) uptake
analogous to 2001 A Space Odyssey,
when closing scene
of the film - image of embryonic
"Starchild" left a slake
king unshakable reverberation
Also Sprach Zarathustra
echoing in me noggin since
opening soundtrack did quake
of a much younger self, when seeing
the movie did overtake
puzzlement until I read the book
"aha" awareness did make
that minor mystery resolved, and
now childhood's end keepsake
recalled as the time thy vulnerable
psychological state did intake
pelting asteroid storm cratering a boy
who shied away, to forsake
growing up, and now haunted (akin
to ghost of Marley) not "FAKE"
shackled to an un freed spirit, that
got squelched as if a sudden brake
got jammed propelling this then puny
body electric...now doth ache.
A tilting lurch, a sudden frantic spin,
A jump to almost catch the edge of lightning,
An unlived memory of a forgotten house
restrains in broken bondage,
Closing my fist, I let the beguiling bolt drop.
My boot heels clatter madly on the boards,
a dizzy, breathless waltz with near disaster.
The room spins out in a manic wheel of gold,
curtains snapping like sails in a sudden gale,
Futures not yet realised now rewritten,
Pain once known never suffered, bright and radical glory.
No weeping halls. No empty, hollowed rooms.
No renounced hearts left bleeding on the stairs.
This is a riot of sound and light,
CHAOS,
A flash where the curtains tear wide open,
Your true colours splash across this bold new world,
fresh scarlet paint, sharp as a neon sign.
I see the trap door.
I see the warning flare,
and laugh right into the teeth of the storm.
A stumble, a catch, a wild and swinging recovery.
The gravity of a world where lessons learned snaps into place,
and I hit the ground with both feet running.
The drama stays, though mellow shadows burn away.
The burden of hauling millstones formed through marbled deceit rescinded,
The phantom heart once locked in rhythmic tempo with my own
Flatlines.
Ceases beating,
To be replaced with the thrill of the pivot,
The euphoric rush of escape.
I shake the dust from my trail weathered coat,
Grinning at the sky:
unscratched, untamed,
A heart completely unbroken.