Long Obscure Poems
Long Obscure Poems. Below are the most popular long Obscure by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Obscure poems by poem length and keyword.
Someone,
Who will sit next to me.
Although begrudgingly.
Not friendly.
We still call each other sometimes.
She hangs up and I wonder…
Who was I talking to?
Someone who doesn’t even try to act friendly.
Obscure.
A decaying person.
Someone,
Who will sit next to me.
Must be in my head.
You can’t tell much from pictures.
She hates me.
Someone,
Who will sit next to me.
It hurts, even though she might hate me.
Finally, we are relaxing.
She is tapping her toes.
She hands me soup.
Like I am decaying.
She is,
Someone.
Soup.
Full of vapor.
She has work tomorrow.
So she leaves.
A pen that drips upon hesitating featherless wings
holds vented words that bleed of the music it sings,
longing for escape or some sense of sweet release
of a soul alone, lost in obscure hopes of peace.
Is it rhyme or reason that infiltrates
thrusts of blotted ink spots dripping feelings that titillate
where once free thought expressed joy, peace and rage
now comes the plunge of images dancing on the page.
What do you see in those images displayed
amidst every laugh and tear held in your throat
the visions ofsuffering you have portrayed,
what words and melody could the words emote?
Picture a flower, some red crimson scented rose
sketched clear in its simplest and majestic form
by ink, the pen, the page, the line disclosed
the rapture of this life to which we're born.
Let the pen ink flow, dripping in passionate poetry or prose
a combined expression by couplet, verse or quatrain spent.
flutters of the heart at rest released in quiet safe repose
with melodic imagery in words that sing again, with pens content.
Theme "The rapture of this life" 5/19/18
for Broken Wings contest on Let Your Pen Drip
Unmet expectations damage the dormant psyche,
unkept promises smother the rays of fading hope,
unkind words tear the lattice of the mangled mind,
life then turns into an urn of fabricated resentment.
The sane senses become the fast spreading wild fire,
uncontrolled, it boils the blood of intrinsic pride,
and as it flares up, it burns the gentle demeanor,
left undoused, its spite blazes the bonding chords.
As the bitterness smoke billows thick and intense,
upset conscience loses the equilibrium and crashes,
vile breath is charged with the acrimonious ashes,
and the patient facade of restraint they deface.
The discordant world and harsh times I take on,
entice them to create the last straw to clutch,
so, I don’t sink in the implacable stream of life,
but sail to the serene sea on the boat of clemency.
The sunburst horizon sheds gold dust on the sea,
the hued dawn lifts a new day of promise for me.
In unfurling sky on lilac wings the joyous clouds rise,
on them with the rhythm of rhapsody my mind flies.
On the beach of awareness the rapture waves roll,
carry away my livid footprints to the depth of oblivion
of the obscure sea with the uprooted anchor for rancour,
as I perceive my sublime soul exult within a new me.
I have searched hard and long to find a Christmas song, I have searched in the depth of the sea to find a rhythm that was compatible with thee.
I know your taste and the kind of rhythm that will make you move your waist; the rhythm is new and will make your dream come through.
There are many rhythms out there, rhythm that was created with a fork and a spear and the juke box used to be the epiphany of hope. The children used to crowd that shop and use all the money that they have got to play that special music in the jukebox.
Sometimes it sends my heart racing and increased my Adrenalin; it stirs up a familiar heat, it is the passion that is hard to find and it is that passion that makes love so divine I am searching for that rhythm for you.
I have listened to many Christmas tune composing of lyrics that will make everybody move, lyrics that send them dancing in the street and set fire to their lazy feet.
You have got to learn how to wave your hand to the Christmas song that was created with a hammer and a pan, it is the sound of the eighteen century and the Duke of York knows all about it.
Sometimes I have itchy ear and the sound sends missiles crashing in the air, it is the cross between two ages and the classical beat baked in modern vibes’ that rips up the charts and send some people wondering in th dark, it is the sounds that is new and embodied the prefect melody for me and you.
My Christmas song is embedded in my heart, my Christmas song has been there from the start, the myocardium is concealing it and the atrium and ventricles are releasing it.
The Sopranos and mezzo-soprano are in place and the alto will complete the musical phase but the bass is still running all over the place, the tenor is obscure and sooner or later it will go straight out the door.
I have that harmony in my head and the tenor and the baritone are already dead, I have the musical beat for the December Christmas treat. Come and join the group and sing this original Christmas song with me.
Panes of glass in my soul divide me from my past
Portals that serve as the windows into my future
Yet clearly distort the visions of my present tense
Frosty panes on the periphery of my vision ahead
Wavy, hazy rain streaked dusty and cracked obscure
Coats the window with grime from the road’s voyage
Mirror to the rear shows the receding ways taken
Those paths not chosen, not explored, detoured away
May suggest that the views now studied would differ
Is that better or worse or simply not the same as today?
But if we took another voyage down alternative highways
Would the panes show us the same in the mirror behind?
As water drops seek the same path from here to there
Newton’s laws joining the same river from diverse streams
Would I still see a similar vista as our paths converge?
Or is this expedition uniquely dependent upon our fate
Decorated with the dusty mud and stones of the road taken
Always different but the same as forever in its timely physics
Like a door passed through, does light pass in transiting a pane
Glass clear or hazy, bending the beams into prisms of color
Yesterday impacting on how I steer my life into tomorrow
Come along for the ride, sit next to me and call out the road signs
Enjoy your view and wipe away the frosted breath so I can see
Our vistas may not be the same, but I can still turn and see you
Sitting and gazing at the world through the window.
Silence is broken with whistles of wind,
rustling through lifeless leaves.
As specks of rain trickle down panes of glass,
charcoal clouds add to the misery of memories,
slowly drifting away, like trees losing leaves.
Petals of roses, you have forgotten,
float along the garden path, you no longer know.
A garage full of tools collecting dust,
your cabriolet seems lost in stillness.
Like me, they are things you used to love,
but we are all obscure, as you seem secure in your bubble
I try to show you light, but all you see is darkness.
Forever we wander in the mist.
My affection for you still lingers, as I look at you,
but your blank expression looks through me.
My intimate aroma remains anonymous,
familiarity of my voice triggers no response.
I would give up everything for you to recognise me,
turn and look at me in your own special way,
embrace me in your arms, watch me whilst I sleep
but all your senses have become a stranger to me.
Helplessly I watch, you waste away,
as dementia gradually erases our memories.
The pain burns a hole in my heart,
which will never heal.
If only you would turn around one last time,
with an impression of love and smile at me,
so I could see that special glint in your eyes
and for you to tell me that you love me.
The Silent One
19 January 2020
Seven half-naked men gather around the table
For a meal that is to me only foreign
They speak in tones of joy
Tones nearly obscure to my ears
But oh, so near
My eyes avert from my glance
Picking up a dish from the sink
I scrub the grime away
The laughter grows in a masculine crescendo
And the tone is nourished into vibrancy
My curiosity is but a dull pan
Awaiting a wash and rinse
Stuck into the sticky filth of envy
I envy the joyous expression
Yet I welcome insipid depression
Happiness and content so far from me
But merely. . .across the way
No embarrassment of their exteriors
By far their lives feel superior
The language they speak is nothing to me
But tones and emotion I can never reach
Oh, how far you are
The motivation; the nourished vibrancy
From me you are clean
As the guck collects within
Somehow I cannot hide from the light of their words
The distant, alien joy
My sense of inner unity is so coy
Compared to these gathered strangers—my neighbors
The brotherhood—that I can only discreetly witness
I can only pick myself up
Like this lonely, dirty cup
And glance at the seven half-naked men
Across the way
Dear Park Lake enchanted a quiet serenity,
In the middle lay a waltzing fountain, free.
We rushed ahead, our echoes scouring the air,
Sat awhile till the dazzling rain showered everywhere.
Hid our fortune—phones safe in pocket,
Heard the scowls, vague and unbound.
Was it fun, or a trap’s warning out loud?
I should have run; might end the haunt.
Reached the top, our feet began to slip,
Arms crossed, hearts passionate in race.
We giggled while spinning in tranquil delight,
Laughter howled, tears began to rise.
Oh my lord, what a day it was!
I smiled… but then a hidden misery crept,
Ambiguous, mesmerizing, obscure,
Fading, sparkling moments—a deceitful lie.
A fragile mask I wore with quiet grace,
The discovery of lust—an obscene trace,
A dissident scratch upon my soul’s flesh,
The only spark that kept him there.
He is . . . so out of my reach
And his words are like royalty to my eyes
He cradles them like he’s dealing delicate roses
Spreading them out on a dirtied, lightly lit street
Obscure words. . .that make my spine tingle
In a certain. . .pleasure, I find me back again
Crawling into the crevices of his luminous lines
Only to fall under them, holding onto the words
That I am able to. . .reeeeach!
My heart is filled with comfort when I return
He neither catches me nor harms me
But allows me to hang on each time
Using my own strength. . . my own passion to twine
But against the odds, I willingly fall
Upon even more piles of words
Words I have come to relate to deeply
And words that have conquered me oh so completely
The wars of my mind cease to fight as I read
The first lines, till the end—I feed
I willingly eat and consume fire and earthy nutrients
Engorging like a lion on its prey
Never really getting enough…nor leaving enough
I take all in and wither away. . .
Reaching for the lines soon to come
Once upon a woeful early December night nigh,
Who am I, in this fateful time of scry’s reprise?
Over many a quaint reminisce of my ghostly past,
Suddenly, feel eyes piercing again, with no end.
I looked around, to no avail; my time has end.
I turned and saw darkness cast.
As I went out in the dreary night, I felt peace,
Oddly enough, the crickets chirp, and the wind speaks.
I walk along the road, and yet I felt uneasy.
Again, those piercing eyes sunk deep into my griefs.
“Where are you?" I call out. "Can you hear my pleas?”
Again, I turned to dark seas.
Strolling about, footsteps echo, though path’s untrod.
I falter back home, but it's inconvenient fraud.
Back to the untrod path of what could be or not,
I look around, to no avail; I feel this facade.
Eagerly, I call out; now there are piercing prods.
I seek out the darkness's fraud.
I see no evil, hear no evil. What are you?
I gently crept all about with no sound; I’m bound
Bound to seek you and end this childish game you play.
How come I have heard no sound? Are you not profound?
Thy hide an enigmatic like bound that surrounds.
Are you in the darkness bound?
Come out from hiding; I know thy eyes follow thee.
Why won’t you listen to me? Do you speak in threes?
I know you are out there; why do not you reveal?
How do I convince thee speak to me? Please, please, please?
I wait for an answer, but only I say, “Pleas.”
I spoke to you in threes; do you need some more pleas?
The wind blows against my ear, and I hear nothing obscure.
A distant echo runs into my ear; I call, “Who is there?”
Echo no more; the sound is clear, I call out again.
Footsteps follow; finally, it emerges from darkness’ air.
It has appeared. Who is there? Make me aware!
It calls out, but not clear.
I got a glimpse of the figure that finally answered my call,
A wraith that seems to haunt my memory.
Its eyes, like embers, cold, dead, and deep,
And though the form looked cloaked in dread,
A ghostly echo of what’s dead,
A past that whispers in my sleep.