Long Mitochondria Poems
Long Mitochondria Poems. Below are the most popular long Mitochondria by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Mitochondria poems by poem length and keyword.
Circle in the sand could tell a story
of a lost world, where celestials and machines
were one.
A crafty place where symbiosis is tasted
on the tongue.
Chimera epoxies elysian forgeries,
ruins, blistered and urned
by the seasons and the sun.
Cogs turning in the Temple of
Desperidium.
Wraith of translucent heat layers, reeling as film,
screen of video player stealing the image
of vesselic seal.
Black wings covering the eye of the past in-echoed Artisan-
lens cap, loosed, by
gait of prose and print of boot.
But it won't, divulge its secret cache,
of high hand, poker face,
in sign language-of cornerstones plans
laid from.
Jacobs Ladder Inn-hiding,
drone wave form.
A fleeting glimpse of visage,
visitage of what will soon again re-spawn,
kit of kingdom come.
Masking, its schema in paved,
mapping in hum of ley-line amathema,
violet band in tardigrade.
Petrified rainbow relic in the strata,
its soil forgotten in mind shade.
Like black chute of night blooming mushroom,
bubbles up, defiant creation,
pharmakeia l.e.d balloon parabolic ort-asm,
phantifuge,
sailing its wave of rebellion in bloom.
Renaissance reconnaissance recognizance
frequency of insanity of fallen ones
that denies their death row doom.
Tower of Babel has one foot in the grave
and one lit up in stereo- fm,
in the netherealms of CERN/Hades
a portal seeking to pierce the veil,
as a mitochondria drill.
They seek to house themselves in your temple
and corrupt the windows to your soul.
In the depths of ancient time, where history intertwines,
Lies a tale of human roots, in mitochondrial lines.
Mitochondrial Eve, a mother to us all,
Her legacy in cells, where tiny powerhouses call.
She lived in Africa, some 200,000 years ago,
A matriarch whose lineage, through generations flow.
Not the only woman then, but her genes did survive,
Passed down through daughters’ daughters, keeping her lineage alive.
In mitochondria, those energy machines,
Her DNA resides, in all our human genes.
A tiny loop of code, in every cell we bear,
A link to our beginnings, a story we all share.
Through migrations vast and wide, her children spread afar,
From Africa to Asia, to lands where oceans are.
Her legacy is global, in every race and creed,
A testament to unity, in our genetic seed.
So when you ponder ancestry, and where you might belong,
Remember Mitochondrial Eve, and her enduring song.
A mother of us all, in science and in lore,
Her story in our cells, forever to explore.
Line of inquiry: “What is that awareness by which each body-mind feels alive and becomes aware?” : Unseeking Seeker
_______________________________
within mitochondria of every cell
in all forms exist reverential eye clear
pupil of ALL is sightless, soundless, spaceless
luminous is it
not fluid or corporeal is awareness
untainted, animated, transparent joy ~
lux connects beings in constant endeavour
equilibrious
in progressing silence Might communicates
signals, as mind releases its endless talk
intellect seconds to observe faculty
sense cosmic iris
underlying innocence moves, stillness proves
free from thought, effortlessly aligns context
outside of psychic perception of need-want
creates sensations
gifts directives precise, instant by instant
movement apprehended, perfect momentum
depends on subjection of mentality
temperature change
nervous system feels minute temperature
variations, as messages to perform
actions or remain inert, organs respond
synchronise lung-heart
as persona becomes tacit, Fashioner
harmonises mitochondria contents
vibrations resulting in moot wave functions
awareness arise
noble energy moves across density
grey brain matter, corpuscles, marrow, nerves, bone
containing cellular helixed coding, tones
transforms or spirals
regulated breathe carries electronic
intra and inter cosmic imperatives
Eye of eye will frequent atomic sequence
language translates waves
herein lies I's retina causality
relating to humans through infinity —
life-rotation-death cycles mystical grasp
Unrelenting vast
how humans utilise power effective
depends on maturity of crown to bow
processing acknowledgment of SourceLight
exculpate it is —
___________________________
Placed : 7th
Premier Contest
April 26
Amazon is my night penetrating
alert I sprung from branch tight
it is buck nutritious blood
observation stark from green-blue irises
beauty meets danger not looking away
lithe tongue saliva intestine surrender
Muscles sinewy, handsome black the Sky
claws ripping buck’s bones snap cracks
mitochondria leaps from atoms, stars dance
to splash spine fluid about sand wet soft
mirroring clear a rebirthing act
nature ascertains when to numb nerves to claws
no eluding life when hunger mud stalks
Iridescence watches flesh rip longing lick
buck relinquishing spirit ~ cannot groan
black fur transmuting flesh disappearing
leather into charcoal night appearing
her thickening her for next week’s killing
time folding ouroboros
Panther curls, tailing
_____________________________
[ Poet’s Note in Comments Section ]
The interviewer is watercolor...green.
The artist, antiqued abstract.
He probes for her deepest sable secrets.
She offers pale nothings from her musky attic retreat-
He nibbles away with baby teeth.
She slugs him in his ochre gut.
With vague stone frogs croaking from
the cracks of black souled mountaintops.
Her being lies in the shadow of shadows.
Briefly exposing its oily head
From ancient mind scribbles and mayhem.
The path to her treasures is overgrown.
With the bluest bile and hungry thorn.
He's too soft -too green to ever see.
To bushwhack and bleed.
To seek the trailhead.
Like she slashed and bled
'til her soul was partly cleansed-
He's unable to see what she clearly saw.
So back and forth they go.
Into a see-saw nothingness...
Goddess of abstract - watercolor man
A dead end of a dance.
Her aurora left her long ago.
Seeping lovingly into her paintings.
An explosion of mental mitochondria.
Hanging from dingy gallery walls....
She places her wrinkled flower face.
Deep into her burnt sienna soul...
The interviewer has been flayed.
The interview is over.
You’d recreate a military hero?
Macarthur, maybe? Nimitz? Pershing? Sherman?
Or would you choose a leader from the past?
Suppose you went for Mussolini – Nero –
(I can’t remember what they called that German):
but stuff like this is happening today -
(the things that they can do with DNA!)
One rumour is, we’re getting Ethel Merman!
You’d vote for Conway Twitty? Not so fast!
My feeling is, they’ll hit us with a zero:
I think they’re resurrecting Peewee Herman!
From mitochondria they can remake a
Sean Connery, Kirk Douglas, Michael Caine
(the last one, stop the presses, isn’t dead).
You’ll never lose another LA Laker!
We’re dancing, once again, in purple rain!
For Clyde, revived, his object of devotion
(that’s Bonnie) doesn’t lie across the ocean –
she lives to rob anew! Should your disdain
extend to pets, we’ll soon have Mister Ed -
why shouldn’t we? Floyd Patterson, Ma Baker,
the Brady Bunch - George Harrison - John Wayne!
What bothers me is how can we survive it?
Reconstitute a monster from a husk?
Does nothing have importance any more?
They seize our human life and they deprive it
of all its worth. They take a mammoth’s tusk,
and somehow turn it into Lena Horne.
They tell us The Messiah isn’t born,
but next thing that you know, they’ve made Dean Rusk!
They won't bring back Rabindranath Tagore!
What’s next? you ask. They’ve managed to contrive it -
we’re stuck for ever more with Elon Musk!
He'd glimpse her, the peripheral life of her;
she lived in the corner of his eye.
She passed-by, her face and form - tidal,
a tug on his shore.
Perhaps she was salt for his blood, spice
for nomadic mitochondria
that carried her silks and perfumes,
salts to his earth
when flesh grew dry and dark?
He took a mind journey
within the coiling tendrils
of his pith and fiber.
Capillaries traced her imprints,
neuronal fingers tried to define her.
He'd gladly walk into her marrow,
metabolites clinging to her shifting shapes.
A camel-train of visions travels
his corded spine
bearing incidentals, trappings.
He plants glances among ganglia,
feeds on a returning musk,
until she walks among his thoughts.
She is no longer a fantasy, no longer
a salt lick of moth-threads and rain,
but what she is - he could not say.
In the quiet cathedral of the cell
where spirals of instruction hum like prayer,
we release our smallest surgeons—
bright motes of intention,
no larger than a whisper.
They enter like starlight through the bloodstream,
sailing red rivers and branching veins,
reading the language of damage
written in torn proteins,
misfolded memories,
and broken code.
They know where to go.
To the scar that never healed.
To the joint that burns like rusted hinges.
To the neuron dimming at the edge of forgetting.
To the tumor that learned the wrong grammar of life.
They listen for chemical distress calls,
follow heat and inflammation,
dock at the gates of injured cells
like astronomers landing on wounded planets.
They carry medicine on their backs—
enzymes, repair kits, gene editors,
anti-inflammatory lullabies,
painkillers measured in mercy.
They stitch torn membranes.
Sweep plaque from arteries.
Clear debris from synapses.
Coach mitochondria back into motion.
Rewrite errors before disease can speak its name.
And pain—
pain becomes a signal, not a sentence.
A flare, not a verdict.
The nanobots cradle the nerve,
dampen the scream,
teach the body how to breathe again.
They work in millions,
in quiet cooperation,
never tiring,
never forgetting their task.
And when the work is done,
when the cell stands whole again,
when inflammation lowers its flag,
they unlock their final instruction:
Dissolve.
Some exit through the kidneys
as harmless mineral ghosts.
Some are reclaimed by the liver
and folded back into chemistry.
Some simply disassemble,
returning to atoms and silence.
No scars.
No residue.
No trace but health.
This is not conquest of nature—
this is partnership.
This is learning the alphabet of the body
and writing it more gently.
Longer lives.
Stronger hearts.
Clearer minds.
Less suffering.
More time.
We are not replacing the human story.
We are editing its tragedy.
And in the bloodstream tonight,
a billion tiny physicians
are already on their way.
Mother of us all
Powerhouse of all life
Goddess of the gods
She is the Bird of birds
The Beast of beasts
The Fish of fish
The Amphibian of amphibians
The Reptile of reptiles
The Bug of bugs
Looking out of all our eyes
She sees everything
There’s no hiding from Her
Our gift from Mother Earth
She is Woman
She is the Old Religion
Before all religions
Before any books were written
Before the Word
Before any words were spoken
Before language itself
She is the unspoken word spoken
She is the mysterious, the magical
The wonder in wonderful
She is my muse
She lives in all our dreams
She is the Dreamer
There is no escaping Her
Without her, we don’t exist
She is everywhere
She is our energy bomb
She is the architect of mitosis
She is the Womb of wombs
Reborn in us all
She is the Great Scientist
The DNA of dna
She is the epitome of Eveolution
She is pure, untouched by All
Totally evolved
Life opens the door for Her
Death closes it behind
She is the wind in the forest
Her voice is the song
That echos throughout the Ages
She is fire, air and water
She soars within the clouds
She erupts from volcanos
She laughs and the earth quakes
We are nothing, without Her
She is the Queen of queens
All kings bow before Her
Her only commandment is
To love one another
-Blessed Be
Inside Out
The mighty mitochondria make ATP,
Without which there’d be no you or no me.
From glucose, bonds break and energy flows,
Through various molecules, energy goes.
From foods that you once eventually ate,
ADP gets another phosphate.
It can reproduce when only one,
(But all by itself, that can’t be much fun.)
The round DNA in them that is found,
Is the same as bacteria that today are around.
But it still retains its original way,
And replicates with its own DNA.
Ribosomes also, like bacteria’s of course.
Of their proteins, they are the source.
The ribosomes that it uses to make its protein,
Are just like bacteria’s, when close up are seen.
And these proteins, they are very old,
Like those of bacteria, so we are told.
Two membranes it has and the problems that posed,
Until the thought, it was once phagocytosed.
The bacterium was phagocytized, no lysosome engaged,
They started living together with no one enraged.
And because at the start, the lysosome did fail,
Now two membranes remain to suggest this tale.
And so it is true,
With chloroplasts too.
The same type of tale,
Just not being pale.
These are plain green,
And easily seen.
From sunlight and carbon they make a compound,
That their mitochondria can then break down.
For their mitochondria work just the same,
To make ATP, the name of the game.
Endosymbiosis is the name of the game,
Many people don’t get it and that’s a real shame.
It’s more than just two things living together,
It made them both quite different and better.
A few billion years past, both were living,
A cell and bacterium, each one giving.
What does it matter, why do we care?
Because with endosymbiosis, evolution does share.
The bacterium had talent in making ATP,
And became mitochondria in both you and me.