Long Percolated Poems
Long Percolated Poems. Below are the most popular long Percolated by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Percolated poems by poem length and keyword.
When sleep deserted me,
I crawled out of my bed unseen
to delve into the crevices of the dark
with the curiosity of an explorer
and the near comatose of a somnambulist.
I walked up and down the steep slopes of the night,
like a night watchman, without a lantern in hand.
When my legs grew weary
I sat on a rock covered with moss and lichen.
Looking into the dark pockets of the night,
I thought of human mind, a deep gorge,
with many an uninhabitable corner
where serpent desires lie coiled
scorpions crawl with toxic pincers
and predators roam to prey upon helpless victims
The mystery of the night absorbed me
her muffled sounds, her dark beauty
her elusive charm, like thick night fog,
percolated deep into my consciousness
and I floundered in a fathomless sea,
swirling in her eddies and currents.
It whisked me away to lands far…far!
But on being washed ashore,
I was in a creative delirium
I am now in 'No Man’s Land'
where everything is in a coma of stillness
where no light glimmers, no door ajar and no one in sight!
Here the poet in me breaks open,
the somnambulistic comatose
and down way flow my thoughts in indelible ink.
Like a night bird roosting on a tree,
I sing of my heart aches, of my yearnings and longings.
In the barely audible whispers of the night,
my song reverberates in the eyeless abyss down,
and the dark desolate valleys below.
People say, ghosts walk the earth at night.
Oh! I am not scared!
I am not eager for the dawn to break,
nor want to put my pen down!
When sleep deserted me
I crawled out of my bed unseen
To delve into the crevices of the dark
With the curiosity of an explorer
And the near comatose of a somnambulist
I walked up and down the steep slopes of the night
Like a night watchman
Without a lantern in hand.
When my legs grew weary
I sat on a rock
Covered with moss and lichen
Staring into the dark night sky
With no constellation of fireflies
Flashing their torches anywhere
Sitting there, in that bewitching night,
I listened to the song of night birds,
The rustle of leaves,
The howl of wolves,
And the night wind’s rave.
Looking into the dark pockets of the night,
I thought of human mind, a deep gorge
With many an uninhabitable corner
Where serpent desires lie coiled,
Scorpions crawl with toxic pincers
And predators roam to prey upon helpless victims.
The mystery of the night absorbed me,
Her muffled sounds, her dark beauty
And her elusive charm, like thick night fog,
Percolated deep into my consciousness,
And I floundered in a fathomless sea,
Swirling in her eddies and currents.
It whisked me away to lands far…far!
But on being washed ashore,
I was in a creative delirium.
I am now in No Man’s Land,
Where everything is in a coma of stillness,
Where no light glimmers,
No door ajar
And no one in sight!
Here the poet in me breaks open,
The somnambulistic comatose,
And down way flow my thoughts in indelible ink
Which only I can read.
Like a night bird,
Roosting among the branches of a tree,
I sing of my heart aches,
Of my yearnings and longings.
In the barely audible whispers of the night,
My song reverberates in the eyeless abyss down,
And in the dark desolate valleys below.
People say, ghosts walk the earth at night.
Oh! I am not scared!
I am not eager for the dawn to break,
Nor want to put my pen down!
The kettle whistles its approval
As Felicity listens attentively
To how I'd been out first thing,
To climb to the top of the Malvern's,
Hoping to find the hills peaceful and still
But finding the beacon fizzy and busy,
Percolated and punctuated with purposeful people.
The grippy shoes of Mr North Face
As he woos Cath Kidson,
Practical in her polka dots with her secret pockets
Where hope springs eternal.
He is her tonic, makes her complete -
I pun how she dreams
To be schwept off her feet.
I pour out the tea,
“Well, well, well,”
I tell Felicity,
“The Malvern's - what an enigma!
A bare bald hill without pomp or circumstance,
Famed for water that contains,
Nothing.
Felicity gazes over and agrees as I sip my tea
“How wonderful to be the outdoors,
Always live-streamed as ‘great’.
‘The great outdoors’,
Never disappoints, never mediocre!”
Felicity though not a fan of dry humour
Goes with the flow
and gazes out of the window at the view.
Come late evening as shadows
Chase out and lengthen,
We transform into giants.
The lit windows of the villages in miniature below
Form an advent calendar of not yet Christmas -
A twinkling forever Narnia.
I light the log burner.
Felicity and I settle
On the worn, brushed cotton cushions
Of our cottage.
Felicity cleans her tricolour fur,
And purrs.
While I muse, how lucky we both are.
She Wanted More!
He shut the car door with a hush;
she closed her side of the car with a statement.
He slipped into his seat belt in a measured sense;
she slapped-snapped her seat belt on.. in relief.
He stroked the gear lever, a reflection of lifestyle;
she touched the automatic lever, as if a passenger.
The passenger in a car; a passenger in their marriage.
They were opposites that were attracted.
Initially, their ying-yang was balanced, a tightrope,
promoting harmony in a romantic relationship,
ebbing and flowing depending on their needs
until the ebb flowed away and all was stagnant.
The divorce papers were soon signed;
the relationship filed under no longer viable.
She started her engine with an electric whisper
turning for a last look at the house,
he crept forward checking the road was clear.
They both left in different directions.
She drove off first, and fast, to a new country,
he just drove off in a car which underlined personality,
solid, stable and economical; poached eggs for tea!
She needed and wanted more!
Her daily luggage had been full of
frustration, resentment, percolated sadness.
So from the silence of anonymity
she had shouted and was heard.
Three months later, she hoped her new suitcase
would be packed with excitement, variety and style.
Was she excited or frightened?
she was neither, she was both!
Ian Souter
A Saturday morning in June on a sunny day,
three hundred villagers were in the town square today.
For two hours, all the children, each man and his wife,
made a choice amongst themselves to sacrifice a life
While the grass was growing green with the flowers in bloom,
one person in town would soon be encountering doom.
Some big piles of stones were gathered up by every boy;
Bobby Martin, the Jones boys, and Dickie Delacroy.
As mixed conversations percolated all around,
Mr. Summers and the black box were soon to be found.
This object was very old and showed much splintering,
after being used many years for this offering
Mr. Summers asked the town for a new edition.
They turned him down, not wanting to break with tradition.
With much of the ritual forgotten and not clear,
little slips of paper were placed in the box each year
Old Man Warner, the senior citizen living here
said to Mr. Adams who was standing very near:
“Seventy-seven years I’ve been participating
in this lottery for which everyone is waiting!
I tell you there’s no other way; it’s needed in June.
We sacrifice life for the corn to be heavy soon”.
Mr. Summers called by name, heads of each family;
all in alphabetical order from A to Z.
Every head of household chose individually;
beginning with Adams, and ending with Zanini.
When every man had a slip of paper in his hand,
“Open up” said Mr. Summers with modest demand.
“The paper with a black pencil mark will indicate
its holder is the sacrifice we all designate”
Along came Bill Hutchinson’s wife Tessie running late;
shocked to see her husband holding the paper of fate.
Mr. Summers asked “How many in the family?
Bill replied “Five. Three children, my wife Tessie, and me.”
Mr. Summers took the slip and put in four blanks more;
back into the black box after opening its door.
Then each of the Hutchinsons was told to reach inside.
The one holding the paper with the mark would decide.
Mr. Summers checked the papers and said with his voice:
“We have our sacrifice! Tessie Hutchinson’s our choice!”
“It isn’t fair!” Yelled Tessie, crying loud and frantic.
The people grabbed stones with Tessie running in panic.
They all caught up with her in the middle of a field,
and stoned her to death without any apparent yield!
Based on the short story "The Lottery" by the late Shirley Jackson
Herman Wenzell 1863--1944
My classical alarm channel
--98.5 Block Island—
Cues me this morning
to a parlor-piano tune
percolated over
forgotten days
and the sweetness
of possibility.
You were there, I think
somewhere across
the clean smelling linen,
and there was breakfast,
unhurried and savored,
“O golden dream of youth”
That was the name of the piece, and
Wenzell—a name as obscure as my own
My Must-Feet hit
the Necessary-Floor
in the
reflex of Business.
The cat stretches
and jumps
from the bed
She has all day
with the radio
left on
to watch the gold
fish swim by
in glass
from her sill perch
The flowers of love
That you gave to me
Have blossomed, have blossomed
And under the flaming sky
And in the impalpable sunlight
Pieces of me
Percolated from far edges of the universe
And together merged into love.
For when I say
That I love
The meaning is this:
That my heart is fire.
That my mouth is parched.
That my hands are full of bruises.
That my eyes burn holes in the walls.
Love me.
Love me like cloud loves lightning
Love me like tenderness loves intensity
Love me like galaxy loves the quasar
Love me like orchid loves rain.
Feel my fire
Running through you
Feel my fire
Without end or beginning
Feel my fire
As I burn for you
Feel my fire
Feel my fire.
We can't be together
But I burn for you
You love me from afar
But I burn for you
There are miles between us
But I burn for you
But I burn for you day and night.
The flowers of love
Can be seen
Sometimes in meadows
Sometimes in vases
And sometimes near people's gravestones
And sometimes someone would water them
Hoping to keep them around for a while.
So do not mind me
No, do not mind me
As I water
The flowers
Of love
That you gave to me
With something extraordinary
With something red and viscous
With something that carries nutrients
With the very blood
Of
My
Heart.
“The Monk Windows, Ravens, Angels and Embryos Forming”
Dawn arrives
in the black and white
misunderstood in the abstract
you can see the
embryos of thought forming
always inside us
the children
white angel wings
cover sleeping pages
where raven wings
spread like evensong
in storm clouds cutting
through the dissolving glass
lighter things
are never as they appear
like windows forming
where black monks stand
commanding their understanding
and the ghosts of the future
call the fallen years back in
holding court
staring back with their
vacant hollow faces
waiting for some repetitive
tiring confession from
the yawning windows
before their irreverent blessing
you listen for the sound
that follows the lightening
but all you hear is
the loud beating
of your heart
falling through
the soul’s hourglass
it’s over-percolated dripping
lighter things
are never as they appear
like windows forming
where black monks stand
commanding their understanding
Dawn arrives
in the black and white
misunderstood in the abstract
you can see the
embryos of thought forming
always inside us
the children
the message
sealed for breaking
through the glass house
and its never-ending ceilings
(LadyLabyrinth / 2022)
gvlm
“Window” / HVOB
https://youtu.be/rDNGrBY512w
Every morning at close to four
She made the coffee, percolated
Poured it into cups with saucers
And they each would have a cup
Pouring the potent black liquid
Into the saucers before drinking
The cooling solution from them
This was only one more glimpse
Into the heart of Appalachian living
A day by day extravaganza of insights
Carried down from the Irish ancestors
Who’d come to this land in America
Realizing it reminded them of the
Wonders that were once their Ireland
As the coffee moved from the percolator
To a Mr. Coffee that sat on the sink
The children began to drink from their cups
But Granny and Pa still used their saucers
A reminder of all that had come before
And the things that were past that would
Forever remain ingrained in their hearts