Long Molted Poems
Long Molted Poems. Below are the most popular long Molted by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Molted poems by poem length and keyword.
Oh! to sustain a semblance of decorum
To hold in my head the calm I compromised,
The nirvana I deserve.
But unholy thoughts vaporize out of my red, pointy ears.
I reach for the hand of a man, fingers lacing remnants of lost youth.
I receive nought but the empty grasp of broken word strings.
I am garroted, grief stricken, gurgling in my own greedy desires.
I was promised nirvana
But I burned in place
I became the rage
I purged the stain
I cleansed the spirit
One final flame
I was promised nirvana
But I gave it a name
I had mountains.
I had scales.
Ranges to discover.
But he was never able to cross over.
To my realm
He left me to linger, to languish.
To rot away in oblivion, while he traverses the earth
With his trinkets and pearls for another love
Another heart.
I was promised nirvana
But I built my own
I soared through scars
I danced alone
I sealed the pages
I broke the stone
I was promised nirvana
But I made it my home
I do not need it.
He does.
I am already beyond the archive.
I am done reading the pain, giving it the time and space it required.
Now free from the bindings. Pages fly in the air. Around my frame.
I lick the pages sealed.
I was promised nirvana
But I molted through flame
I do not fester
I do not remain
I morph, I rise
I break the chain
I was promised nirvana
And I claimed the name
From diluvial binary code extracted
from white walls lined
the untouchable monastery, the fraction leaked, drifted like
a molted feather
one part
the great machine
one part
flying machine
one part
dove
one part
down to a soil so rich
with language
even heavy reeds challenged words of illiterate change,
an incomplete. But
for how many buttons extracted canary-round’s thread?
Only a father
best known for knowing best in his
walk-away-way delivery could know.
Then there was sky. Clouds rained.
In mud seed took root.
¾ of a weed
grew to knee-high on a grasshopper whispering razz
to filtered soon, and looked:
to the east
there was dark.
to the west
there was late.
Now here is something.
And so it thinks it better to wait for quarter moon.
Now, life has almost passed us by,
and peaceful resignation reigns;
the beach, a spawning ground of old,
shrieks mournfully in sea gull tones.
The neap tide’s come to lull the shore;
crab moltings own the water’s edge.
Forewarned, am I, of nature’s course
in grains of gray and casings banked.
Now hand in hand, we lovers walk-on;
each throbbing with the pull of tide.
We sink in sands both wet and warm
soothed by the skies now overcast.
As faithful as the moon on high,
between the water lines, they spawn;
in estuaries at peace, they nest;
eggs as small as grains of sand.
Will you come when the moon is round
and leave your molted shell beside me?
Will you sense the celestial call
or let the scavengers find me?
First Published by Page and Spine
Let clocks unlock unbroken birds they bind:
Too quick in May they peek Azalea’s bloom;
Wide eyes enlightened bound by darkness blind,
And spring reflected bares a thinning plume:
Like pearls of April nestled smooth and deep,
Those dizzy doves that danced in drizzled mist;
When June denounced they shed their plumage cheap,
One hand from two returned with feathers missed.
And now where frost encroaches one remains,
And strains the waning sky for molted May;
But night is cagey, so their sight abstains,
Until reduced by winter, cold and gray:
Where I am still, unable still to see,
One dove from two; in spring reflective: Me.
11/28/2018
in the evening of my life,
it’s my habit to sit alone on the seashore.
today I see the sun red and bleeding like me,
drowning into the seascape,
as a tormented soul at the dead end of life
attempting at self- slaughter.
in this gloaming moment, light lingers
and I am once more torn by memories,
that fall on me like birds’ molted feathers,
drifting away untamed
but swiftly carried back by sudden gust.
I sit silent watching a random wave
erase the footprints and depositing in their place
new seaweeds and empty shells.
my life has become an empty shell
“still trapped in your pulse”
when our tracks diverged in opposite tracks
and I saw you walking away into distant shores
though you must have hoped,
that you would be called back,
my ego prevented me and I stood,
seemingly unperturbed, though deeply scarred inside.
I now stare into the deserted shoreline
and I wonder if love is too late
to stem the tide.
I can’t blame you.
oh, never will I dare!
though we were close acquaintances for long,
I failed to voice my clandestine whim
carefully structured in my mind’s alcove.
on that fateful day when we were about to part,
though I longed to disclose my love to you,
as words got suddenly broken up,
I failed to convey what I meant,
in a language explicit for you to grasp
and I failed to notice your saddened eyes,
glistening with tears about to shed.
I assure you- “I am the asylum of your ache”
though this knowledge is of no use to you anymore.
now I quench my heart’s ache,
voicing them in soulful verse,
knowing they are ‘Verses in the Ash’
will it be too much for my wistful heart
to hope, we will one day meet in a place
'where Orchids dream!'
How a little ball of molted lead
has changed our nations history
and why they shot him in his head
became a shrouded mystery
Theories popped up everywhere
no suspects were exposed
and every answer that was spoke
more questions they arose
Thirteen score, no less no more
since the last tear hit the ground
and through the years of hopes and fears
the truth was never found
I sometimes think, that's it's a plan
That the good ones must die young
and while we grieve, we must believe
they go because they're done
It is Now, up to us
to carry out His goal
even though, why He was killed
The world will never know
Our beautiful garden grows in the dark
a love kept hidden by the sun.
Petals reflect the moonlight and fire
flickers, ash lingers, lights spark.
The crow circles our field of fire
floating, crying, yelling at the sun.
"Why have you grown this garden?
Don't you know you'll tire?
Shining your light, it distracts you
taking away the light we fight for."
A single tree grows in the garden.
It grows in the summer
never wavering in the winter.
The garden wilts in a spring shade
and the crow watches above.
For the crow knows the sun,
after all, he molted with their feathers.
Setting on the horizon;
the first time this world saw light
The crow can only watch him rise and set,
the garden under their faithful sight.
The crow lands on its limb
pouring cyanide on the budding tree:
a flower that could never bloom.
The fruit rotting before the sun.
Leaves fall, bark peels, branches loom.
The tree is no more, the garden is free.
The crow returns to its nest,
looking at the horizon.
The sun is hard at work in his garden;
the plants untouched.
Metal glimmers, chimes sing in the wind.
A man filled with gold stands watch,
under faithful sight.
The crows stare, asking why
but the sun returns to the sky.
You wanna know sumpin sumpin?!
In the garden of life's relentless seasons,
bloom and wither,
don't ask me, for WHATEVER REASON,
faceted petals fall like molted feather,
turn to moltened Carbonite
if you get the right bearer.
YOU GET ME, miss been self miss-treatin?!
Each moment is a fragile puzzled masterpiece, for reason,
to pick you up in it's pieces and
put you into the big picture.
(Just like your man should be doin!), mm"
"You see, in the Carnival of souls,
"the ocean of wandering orphans",
(each an ingredient, expedient to it's own-
notions- honed- expose ').
Liquid, potions alchemized in the chemistry
of personalitay,
conceived in sonar avatars place-holding for the
"genuine article" for sanctioned interactivity
(in demarcation zones), I must say.
Looks like yours has been crossed on the way!"
In our cult of masks that influence the
wearer to be convinced of true identity as proof in the mirror.
Things cannot be made to be unclearer.
You gotta be yourself baby, shine on, be it what it may!
You know that, a Phantom of the Opera has taken sanctuary in the midst of the scene,
plays on your emotions like aphrodisiac
given a Mati Hari, please!"
That's why she ain't been talking to me!
A trailblazer, that one,
igniting the bloom of your seasons,
igniting strength in the depths of vulnerability,
pregnancy out of the dark tunnel
of winter reclusivity.
Her fertility ritual sparking a coming of age,
and the pairing as a wage.
I may be a muse, but she, she is not only acting in motherhood, baby, she is the stage!
You don't want to miss that show,
I am telling you right now.
Not that anyone does.
She is open for business.
You know what I mean!?
But you see there is a cost.
Feelings are the price of the ticket,
it's dealings skulldug-in-triplicate.
In the abyss of despair, hope lingers,
like a monster, there.
Momma Moon, winks, anytime honey, anytime.
We scratched and scrapped and piled it together,
thin as cobwebs, like molted bird feathers,
spread out on the frozen lawn,
a gossamer frosting in early dawn,
a meager, stingy December snow,
hardly enough to foster a glow
from the Christmas lights candycane twirled
about the evergreen swags softly whirled.
A new sled from Santa's gift giving
was mine to enhance childhood living!
Why he did not provide the blizzard--
(He could have called on the North Pole snow wizard!)
we just did not know,
but to work we would go
and make a snow ramp out in the yard
about as thick as a worn playing card.
The rest of the story is not hard to guess;
my dad's in the doghouse, my mom in distress.
That snow ramp was built quite poorly it seems,
engineered from child wishes and misguided dad dreams,
and though for a moment, I thought I would fly,
at least, sitting here, I still have an eye.
Copyright, December 5, 2017
Christmas Rhymes Contest
Kim Rodrigues, Sponsor
Yesterday as the sun was rising on our walk…what should catch our eye….but one humongous…elongated white feather…stretching across the sky.
Our weatherman is quick to inform us…that it’s a cirrus cloud and in it we will find…crystals of ice which means…a cold front will not be far behind.
But when I see a feather in the sky…so tremendous…so long…so white…my mind thinks back to my childhood…and 1001 Arabian Nights.
A Middle Eastern myth?…you might be asking yourselves…Why…
because in this myth the Roc was a huge white bird of prey that prowled across the sky.
Who was large enough to pickup an elephant…from whose arrival even the sun would hide…who, if myths are to be believed, once took Sinbad, the sailor, for a ride.
Meteorologists today will no doubt find my thoughts revolting…but when I see a large feather in the sky…I like to think the Roc is molting.
Besides in a world where we come face to face with harsh realities time and time again…it’s fun to fantasize…to stir our imaginations a little every now and then.
Which is why when I see a feather stretched across the sky…I allow my imagination and reality play….is it the molted feather from one enormous bird…or is there a cold front on the way….
Before you scoff at my ambiguity…as most people and certainly all weathermen do…
let us take a minute and thoughtfully think this through…
A cold front on its way…
or the largest bird one could conceive…
knowing I live in Florida…
which myth should I believe?