Long Minefields Poems
Long Minefields Poems. Below are the most popular long Minefields by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Minefields poems by poem length and keyword.
a flustered tango of Gypsy moths
drumming the porchlight; chalk artists;
the endemic disappearance of farms—silos lost
in unkempt fields; space stations; the sunlit-scent of lemon
oil on cherry wood; birth; the chasm between cultural
appropriation & cultural appreciation; the history in our dust;
loneliness & heartbreak; trivia; funky funerals;
climate change, hurricanes, earthquakes & neglected
victims; heirloom charm bracelets, homemade
wind chimes & the homing sound made by a singing bowl;
masquerade balls; cityscapes hidden in ant hills; fly
fishing; serendipitous skinny dipping; missing children,
teddy bear memorials, forensic identification, monsters
never found in sleepy towns; the horrors of zoos—
elephants gone mad, lions robbed of their pride;
book reviews; civil unrest, bad cops & good cops & young men
gunned down; brand new fire stations; cancer survivors who wear
baldness so beautifully; my favourite pair of jeans; river rocks
found by dearest hands; a letter that can never be
received; joyful celebrations; incandescent dragonfly
dreams; twenty million at risk of starving to death;
wildflowers shaking pretty little heads;
misogyny disguised as religion; forgotten veterans who die
a bit more inside every day; the rainforest, shrinking;
saintly stoners & postulant prostitutes; toxic smog;
madmen with warheads; cheese cake & ice wine;
every personalized Kama sutra move & the God-given
ecstasy of body on body language; holding hands;
why one giggle can change everything; Thanksgiving
prayers; abandoned minefields, boy soldiers & devastating
amputations; the songs of the working poor; lightning
over the lake; his timely phone calls; brotherhood & sisterhood;
love in its every form; old maps; twenty-one gun salutes;
the extinction of the Galapagos Giant Tortoise; being
five, being twenty five, being ninety-five; kites; dogs chawing
on ragged rawhide; church-like museums on a Sunday
afternoon; make-shift picnics; deja vu; thrift store
wedding dresses; long drives with comfortable silences;
fading freedoms; censorship; seamless moonlight;
introspective dalliances with self-acceptance; the power
of purpose; how to be the bigger person; how to go
in a new direction; how to rise above . . .
The 1AC is a shot in the dark.
When we use interrogative strategies
we create zones of visibility and possibility.
The potentiality for deliberation
towards a new politic.
The study of bare life signals
radical transformations;
The constitutive ambiguity of theory
is never clear-- is always double
Thinking of thinking;
A reflection that interrogates
the link between life and politics.
The relation between power
is complicated to consider.
The most authentic paradigm:
Sovereignty corresponds to ability
And ability not to be: a state of exception.
An act is sovereign when it realizes itself.
Bodies are made intelligible
through visibility and value.
When these components
are removed, what is left?
Operating in the shadows,
the truth often stays hidden
Fights break out like
“walking on minefields.”
Silently governed interests
implement policy which
silently neglect populations
further into the margins.
The bodies of the victims
emphasize this state of
exception making it more difficult
to identify, articulate and critique.
There are rare but significant attempts
to conceive the indistinguishably
between law and life.
Debate helps curtail individual power:
to shape behaviors and attitudes,
to be made visible and speak to the
systemic character of American injustice.
The possibility to fill the void
and mitigate impact of fighting.
Education can have a
dramatic impact. Mental
stimulation and meaningful
human interaction cause
social connection,
Zones of indistinction
regain the meaning they lost.
The key is to create alternative
conceptualizations of self
in relationship to others.
With broad political and social
movements standing behind,
uniting the call on the part of
democratic transformations.
Any radical change will be
more than cosmetic.
Young people now carry the banner
of struggle. Of democratic life.
A variety of discourses developed
to avert stemming the flow--
reverting to secrets we do not know.
Claiming that debaters can “solve”
by repeatedly rejecting and interrogating
the tradition is a key strategy in creating
new modes of being the secret to every exception.
How it unfolds remains to be seen.
Born a Christian in the fertile womb of a blessed land,
A paradisiacal genesis for a continent chained to imperialism.
Genocides cascading beneath the crumbling altar of human rights.
They crucified my humanity
With demonic chimeras.
I have dragged my zinc coffin since birth
Across the minefields of these greedy philanthropists.
I carry the age-old weight of curses
Of my zombified people since the slave trades.
They do not want me to sanctify my traumatized Africanness
With the blessings of liberty, equality, and fraternity.
I am guilty like Jesus Christ
And innocent like the soiled hands of a child soldier.
I have never enjoyed the riches of my partitioned continent.
These scavengers have spread hatred in my people’s hearts for centuries.
My tormented mind is the vault of horrors
That the West has perpetrated in the cradle of my ancestors.
These criminals want me to curse Lucifer
As if he were responsible for centuries of dehumanization
Of my forebears in the Americas.
The devil will never be my enemy,
I have never met him.
Human savagery has nothing metaphysical about it.
My indelible scars are not fictitious remnants.
He called me a filthy *****,
He discovered the face of my love.
He will no longer have the courage to insult my genetic code.
I scourged him with the laws of the Code Noir
Of the Republic of slaveholding Enlightenment.
I share the same skin color as Osiris,
The same beauty as those colored pharaohs.
The journey is scarred,
The traumas, too silent.
I fight in the death row corridor
To remain a man of integrity.
To write the darkness of my feelings,
A liberating outlet for my demons.
I chose integrity in the meanders of precarity.
In another life, I would wield guitars
To escape the whims of misery.
Serenity, my only solution in this dimension.
I think of the reaper every day,
Like a man condemned to death.
this time together has been
conceived by liquid starlight
and bound by terrestrial moonlight
an experience of bombardment by proxy
elemental and eternal are the binds
which we have finally succumbed to
with earnest intentions without
anticipation of outcomes
our trajectory points in all directions
while headed toward its ultimate destination:
unified theories in which
we are indeed unified
the juxtaposition of moonglow upon
the suntan of your flesh
exhibits the vulnerability of naked
power and aggression that is
tempered with
a tenderness that warms the spirit
and then i see the light of ages in your eyes
upon waking
some just stare blankly
unwilling to behold
content for the status quo
and delving deeply is simply not an option
but for those with unclean hands and minds,
who cross minefields daily,
there is still time enough...
expunge the demons
with the soft stroke,
hand within a hand
and cheek to cheek we will
slide our bodies into the chute
have you ever wanted to be
a cannonball of flesh and bone
fired out to sea from a pirate ship?
nourishment of the heart
will get the most iron
from a human sacrifice...
we lose bits of ourselves and souls everyday
so why not?
let our desires be self-fulfilling
let us not misrepresent our desire
let us desire our own reality to stave off mortality
while we move, dodge, dance, wriggle and writhe
making moves which ebb, connect and dive
i am both the promise and the dissolution of
the paradigms that hold us to our words
when action takes a passenger's seat to
drives which inspire our ignominy
opaque is our mind's eye
yet we can still see the crystalline
transitory fireflies that flit, fly and
shed light in the
smallest expanse of our
secret places.
Between spacetime ripples
lurk dark energy waves,
emanating from the void
strange forces hold me slave
I mean! What type of creature/
flies a kite in thunderstorms
One searching for answers
carrying Cain’s multiple forms?
Left to roam earth’s surface,
blind man at the controls,
Free will: a human delusion,
designed for plugging holes
Filling up wishing wells
that possess no walls or gold,
If angels once flew here,
torn scapulas failed to hold
Inconsequence yields potential
for those without aim,
Living in guilty dreamland,
faking the conscience game
Fate’s not predestined,
broken paths bifurcate the way;
Either side are minefields,
where decimal points blow astray
Catatonic medication
seeps into my mind
Light speed slows down
bringing stability of a kind
I stare at open ripples,
stretching ever far apart,
reflecting chronic heartbeats,
flatlining from the start
Can barely make an effort
to clear my cluttered desk;
paperweights grow heavy,
the inkwell more grotesque
Time — time is endless
when prepping a final letter.
No sense quoting scriptures;
makes the flood outside seem wetter
To hell cast this world,
gamble away life’s coffers
Nothing left but truth
that only entropy offers
Chip the tip off a bullet,
Russian roulette my head
Peep inside the hole dum-dum,
you can always bank on red
Question marks hang over Cain;
mine has proven true
Decimal point erred again,
later resurfaced askew
Left to bear its blunder,
I send my kite into a storm tonight,
To hear the heavens rage,
“That decimal point was always right”
By
David Kavanagh
The Man in the Street
Watch out, watch out for the man in the street
Who is finding a voice that you don’t want to hear.
Before, they were always the sheep that don’t bleat
And for too long, too long, you have turned a deaf ear.
The man in the street is finding a voice
And if you don’t sit up, take notice and listen
Your world will be hit by the force of his choice
Like a violent outburst of nuclear fission.
For too long, too long, the ruling elite
Have looked down averted and myopic noses.
They’ve taken for granted the man in the street
And this time they won’t come up smelling of roses.
It might take a while, things take time to grow,
But sprouting young acorns will turn into oaks.
The man in the street is getting to know
That your claims to democracy are just a hoax.
Because even if you have the best of intention
The Office for This and the Qango for That
Are minefields that exercise powers of prevention
To ensure even mildest reforms all fall flat.
You promise us this and you promise us that,
We vote in good faith but, whoever should win,
We might as well pull a name out of a hat.
Your fine manifesto goes straight in the bin
And you do things that you never told us about,
That you kept under wraps and didn’t reveal
And bind us with laws we’d be better without
And give us no chance to object or appeal.
But the man in the street has woken at last,
His silent consent is a thing of the past.
His apathy’s gone, he is finding his feet;
Watch out, watch out for the man in the street.
The powers that be, undefined, ruthless, opaque authority
Shapeless, bodiless, upstanding folk, coercing the majority
Overseeing applications, supplications, ensuring conformity
Specialists in quagmires, minefields, esoteric bureaucracy.
The powers that be, model citizens, high ranking royalty
Peerless above the law, protected from a droned society
Scratching each other’s back, freeloaders, freemasonry
Funny hand shakes, codes, wink wink nudge nudge faculty.
The powers that be, puppet masters, answering to nobody
Church going pagans, planted within god fearing laities
Penchants for young hookers, high class swinging orgies
Masters of the universe, demigods, self serving deities.
The powers that be, off the radar, shirking accountability
Magnates, judges, ministers, businessmen, your attorneys
The A listed, elite, endemic, prevalent, shrouded in mystery
Wrong side of these people, you’ll disappear no conspiracy
The powers that be, yet another victim, where’s Khashoggi,
Are his killers really in prison, more likely given new identity
Some ask too many questions, Maltese journalist Daphne,
Blown up in a car, getting too close, unsettling the fraternity
The powers that be, its not possible I’m losing it completely
Because I believe a certain ilk, walk amongst us with impunity
Live behind walled estates, big donations for political parties
In return, yes sir three bags full sir, here’s to your anonymity.
By
David kavanagh
Menu A or Menu B ? oh dear! quite a dilemma really. ha
Tadpoles induced symphonies in a bowl of custard cued. But cued is neither curd nor carved caverns catering cafés. Cafés cage craterous carefully created considerate cream crêpes and deepest are the deepest diamond drills whose echoes fall amongst lone sheep and geese and tigers and pilau rice. But it is imperative to catch out the mirrored eel and mirrored eels are neither beaming brilliant beautiful business beans or ordered orchards. X minefields mind minders mingling manicured mania manifesting minks. Fashionable cited curving cue of a diamond backed whale. Arriving. It is imperative to be prompt when arriving at the junction stop. Particularly when travelling with a seventy seven on stilts, a little diner with a giggling fifty foot donut hat, a wiggling cheesecake in a see-through dress, a wand, half an acre of corn, a placemat, a window ledge with eighteen species of flies, and of course the ladle in the trousers. Number that then numerically form a curtain ounce. But ounces Are neither octagonal octagons ordering offers and neither are they otters ogling organically officialised odd obelisks. Ha a worm is catching the person up and is hiding because the person wants to put him on a hook to catch a big fish. Ha the early eating was getting bored and fed up waiting for the machines to cook bread. Xxxxx virtualization of a cubic measure. Z at eleven eagles to thirteen billabongs booming. Z
Form:
Nowadays I find myself
In church windows reflected
By the surface of my tea,
Too hot to drink.
I try anyway,
My nose against a brick wall,
(This Jasmine is my sledgehammer)
I burn my tongue,
(This Jasmine is a non-factor)
I set it back down.
I see the fractured, colored glass shimmer in my mug.
Am I like the image of the lamp in the tea?
Glowing for no reason?
Nowadays I rarely find myself.
I take orders.
If I did find myself,
I wouldn’t recognize me, anyway.
It’s just these fractured lights I remember.
Beaming like living lanterns shining towards the way to goodness.
Like I use to.
Like I use to be.
But now I think life is a quantifiable bucket,
The bucket half-empty, half-over and me completely stir-fried,
Gazing over what I see as minefields.
Nowadays I go back-and-forth.
As it suits me,
As it suits the occasion,
I wrangle and ramble, dribbling and babbling
Staggering through empty suburban warfare.
Nowadays I thank God for the emptiness.
The minutiae, the random acts of silence
Can send shock-waves through the spirits made of light,
Secretly keeping them in rhythm for the rest of their lives.
One day I will drop my post as the Barbarian Guardian of Willy-Nilly.
One day I will remember what all the colors mean.
One day I will remember what all the glowing was about.
One day I will skip lousy repetition,
And never repeat a mistake again.
Well it is a must say
that you make me feel alive
with your smile
that brings a smile to my face
and a giggle in my heart
You make me feel,
that it is a must say to tell you
that you make me feel alive
and you make me choke on my words
and make my mind race
my brain numb
and my heart warm while skipping beats
whenever we meet.
Tired but when I am with you,
that it is a must say
to tell you that you make me feel
Careful with my life
and you make me watch my step
as I walk through the minefields of life.
Love is too soon to say,
but it is a must say
that you make me feel like the month of may,
to tired to say,
but my heart tells by the way it feels
and I must say that you make me feel Loved.
Calm and careful
and soon I'll show you that love is just around the corner
with time, my dear,
with time and questions
jokes passed back and forth,
as you flip your hair
and giggle innocently away
and their is a way
to say
I must say,
that one day
I'll not only tell you
but I'll show you,
love in a notebook of dedication of romance
and love,
and I know you have fears
and phobias,
but soon I will heal those pests in life
and show you love in a hand basket.
This is a must say
that you make me feel alive,
and you make me want to thrive
and crave for life a bit more.