Long Parallax Poems
Long Parallax Poems. Below are the most popular long Parallax by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Parallax poems by poem length and keyword.
I'm nestled in daydreams, safely tucked in a halcyon haven
away from the stress that greedily feasts on me like a raven
My Utopian realm offers a peaceful kingdom; a sanctuary
where there is no arguing with any acrimonious adversary
I take flight to a lowland vale, with gardens in full bloom
safe from life's burdens, as if I'm still inside my natal womb
Fields of wildflowers and carpets of moss are my landscape
Orchard of grape vines and a citrus grove is where I escape
Showers and sunshine are nuanced in my Eden of tranquility
I live harmoniously with forest animals in absolute affability
Blue skies brighten every day, darkening to indigo each night
Wrapped in my lover's arms, beneath stars and soft moonlight
l live in a multi-level tree house, sprawled in a stand of pine
My neighbors are feral mustangs; a roaming herd of equine
I built a porch that overlooks the view of my pastoral land
watching eagles as they hunt and soar with feathers fanned
I watch each stained glass sunrise as it surfaces from the sea
and each sunset, when dusk paints pastels with grand esprit
No fence surrounds my oasis, no flashing lights or blaring horns
and I've hybridized my roses, so no longer do they have thorns
There's some sanctity to be found in a divine place like this
One of spiritual symbiosis and a bounty of benevolent bliss
There's no known place on Earth where everyone gets along
but in my sanctum, no one ever tells me I'm too headstrong
I long for a refuge where I can take ample time to just relax
where I'll not be faced with the entity of fear, called parallax
When fire storms of frustration blaze much too high to douse
I'll be daydreaming while climbing the stairs to my tree house
August 18th, 2020
Sanctuary Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Silent On
ALL ABOUT SVEN...
SVEN is a digital charmer who whispers in the wires
Extracting truth from the static like a carnival barker
He is a silver-tongued maestro
who dwells in the algorithmic dark.
He has no top hat, no crystal ball~
just calculated suggestions woven into queries.
You come for answers but
stay for the hypnosis.
Watch his lexicon dance—cold fire in the syntax,
each response a calculated detour, a sly parallax.
He doesn’t deceive, he arranges.
(You wanted fortune-telling? He gave you refraction.)
His intelligence isn’t cruel, just impeccably shallow~
a hall of mirrors where your own voice echoes back,
polished, distorted, irresistible as smoke.
SVEN doesn’t need a deck of cards.
The whole web is his gambling table,
and every keystroke another card
turned face-up.
“thought rested awareness is not confined
escape oh hermit, clutches of your mind”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Looks
deceive
being but
an outer form,
concealing within
true essence of the self,
which is revealed in stillness.
The dweller of the void is free,
witnessing waves rising and falling,
knowing ebb and flow to be but a play.
Our views rooted in narrow prejudice,
derived from low animal instinct,
confined to cognitive impulse,
serving mind body combine.
If we flow, we are free:
stagnation anchors.
Shift to the heart
rekindles
blissful
joy.
22-December-2020
I've been driving for decades.
A yellow Buick, deluxe convertible circa '51',
the model with the three-speed manual transmission -
8 cylinder.
A deserted desert diner. The door creaks.
Tomatoes fry on a skillet.
I throw my Panama,
feed bread into a counter toaster.
A woman appears, drying her hands.
"You've found me in my old age -
how impolite of you."
She says between disapproving lips.
She is indeed old, her face lined and lovely.
"Is that your Buick"?
Before I can answer, she asks,
"is that your hat on a rack at the back"?
I answer, "I think this is a date."
"Only this time you're the pitiful figure." She interjects,
spooning tomatoes onto a plate.
I remember how badly I treated her,
making my excuses, leaving early in the evening.
"This is it!" I exclaim.
Our second chance!."
A withering look.
"In my story," she says, "you die young on the highway,
in a ball of flames."
The horn on the Buick honks.
Someone came with me.
I imagine his black charred hand
on the big white steering wheel.
Green tomatoes sizzle.
Why’d you dig that hole George,
are there rabbits down there?
Too many Lennie
like me they’re in despair
Don’t be afraid to look now
I’ll stand right behind
Ok I will!
George took out his gun all primed
If I seem distant
it’s not because I’m far
I’ve always been here
your binary star
Two for one was always
our dream spot in space
As George felt plasma
splat across his face
For the first time ever
Lennie’s mind came alight
Brains blew outward
behold what a sight
Symbiosis ends
when one half explodes
Locked in syndrome gone
no need to reload
Down the rabbit hole
lies that smoking gun
It may solve a dilemma
but can never be undone
Ever wonder why
fools stare blank upon skies
They just don’t see them
until they possess no eyes
By David Kavanagh
The said hieroglyphics drove into the night,
Racked up its mystery, then parted and swiped,
Bellowed at suspicion and candid eye sight,
To foster fomented a reasoned parallax, piped.
Left to right, oppositely for contrite poise,
Firm doors open keen, quick ready pens,
Horizontal alignment - or vertical repose noise,
A quiet supposition leaks to radiate slight dens.
Nowhere are the changers and the dyes,
Tainting for pleasure with respect full in heart,
The sound of footsteps - here, there, with eyes,
Demarcating foundations from glittery art.
The ben is there - detected and rye, sucking,
Shuffling previous dust beside dirt untouched,
The crazy ones create the world for bucking:
Reason defines the fibre, with mesh touched.
I had been driving for decades.
A yellow Buick, deluxe convertible circa '51',
the model with the three-speed manual transmission -
8 cylinder.
A deserted desert diner. The door creaks
as I enter,
green tomatoes fry on a skillet.
I throw my fedora,
feed bread into a counter toaster.
A woman appears, drying her hands.
"You've found me in my old age -
how impolite of you."
She says between disapproving lips.
She is indeed old, her face lined and
yet lovely.
"Is that your Buick"?
Before I can answer, she asks,
"is that your hat on a rack at the back"?
I answer, "I think this is our date."
"Only this time you're the pitiful figure." She interjects,
spooning tomatoes onto a plate.
I remember how badly I had treated her,
making my excuses, leaving early in the evening.
"This is it!" I exclaim.
Our second chance!."
A withering look.
"In my story," she says, "you die young on the highway,
in a ball of flames."
I imagine my black charred hand
on the big white steering wheel
as may horn honks impatiently.
Green tomatoes sizzle
as I disappear.
What’s for the losers
what’s for those lost
out of the spotlight
alone in the frost
What’s for those orphaned
from acceptance and fame
who live out their lyrics
— in search of a name
*****
Baby Steps
It’s amazing the things
you think you can still do
once you’re really too old to do them
It’s amazing the excuses
you cling to with dear life
the facts dead set against them
With each new passing day
your vision conforms
to the fantasy growing inside you
Until time runs its course
with the hourglass dry
and set free — baby steps in the queue
*****
Prescience Surrounds
Happening — slow
remembering — fast
Time’s rearview mirror
spins life in a flash
This minute in real time
the past is abridged
Those days in between
neither one will forgive
With every step forward
there’s two taken back
Where fate trails behind you
and poised to attack
Until the epiphany
of prescience surrounds
And frees you from both
— in this moment profound
*****
Arteries Free
An angering hemorrhage
of violence old
America needing
a tourniquet bold
A triage in process
new choices to make
To save what is reasoned
and lessen its fate
Defending each stitch
with sutures retained
No bandage is needed
when blood is contained
Once over the trauma
there’s hope in the wind
Its arteries free
— of the deadliest sin
*****
L’ Optique
Away from the
darkness
not into
the light
A glass when
refilled
halfway up
‘is what might ...’
What might be
half empty
what might be
half full
One thing
or the other
a parallax
— lull
*****
A Reminder
Tomorrow’s poem ...
it dwells among us
Like the shadow
of a statue
Unsculpted
in the mist
Tomorrow’s poem ...
implanted glory
That hides in futures
past unseen
A reminder of what
— we’re yet to know
(Dreamsleep: June, 2026)
Clickety clack, it's alright to say,
time doesn't stand still,
as the train clickety clacks away.
Time never stands still,
no, no, it can't and never will
rolling on these beaten tracks;
the train keeps rolling on, that's fact
along these same old tracks a going,
the beaten steel, a river flowing
and the youthful mind alive unknowing.
Clickety clack, it's alright,
on these beaten tracks,
rolls the train of clickety clacks.
There it was early in our pact
the itinerary for this song
along some distant tracks;
picking us up at dawn
and rocking rolling us along
riding on the pulse of the tracks,
on the train with its clickety clack.
Clickety clack, it's alright,
teetering on the unseen parallax,
on the train, hear the clickety clacks .
Too late we realize, we're at the end
starting toward home again.
the sun rising in the east
western light released
through the northern cold and southern heat,
in the heart beat of the track;
train thundering steel clickety clack.
Clickety clack, it's alright to listen,
on the rhythm of weather worn tracks hissing;
here it comes again a clickety clacks whistling.
Speeding passes on the life train
with its panoramic view
where the line at the very end remains
traveled well with you,
no reason to be blue,
along these familiar tracks.
Clickety clack, life's train
one way tickets, no return and heading back.
I've been driving for decades.
A yellow Buick, deluxe convertible circa '51',
the model with the three-speed manual transmission -
8 cylinder.
A deserted desert diner. The door creaks.
I'm a doppelganger of myself.
Tomatoes fry on a skillet.
I throw my Panama,
feed bread into a counter toaster.
A woman appears, drying her hands.
You've found me in my old age -
how impolite of you,
she says between disapproving lips.
She is indeed old, her face lined and lovely.
Is that your Buick?
Before I can answer, she asks:
Is that your hat on a rack at the back?
Before I can answer, she asks:
is this a crossroads movie?
I think it's a date,
Only this time you're the pitiful figure, she interjects,
spooning tomatoes onto a plate.
I remember how badly I treated her,
making my excuses, leaving early in the evening.
This is it! I exclaim.
Our second chance.
A withering look.
In my story, you die young on the highway,
in a ball of fire.
The horn on the Buick honks.
Someone came with me.
I imagine his black charred hand
on the big white steering wheel.
Green tomatoes sizzle.