Long Pockmarked Poems
Long Pockmarked Poems. Below are the most popular long Pockmarked by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Pockmarked poems by poem length and keyword.
I confess, no deliberate intent, yet often wonder
what spurs me to nudge, goad, coax, et cetera
despite modesty regarding
ably linkedin words for others to ponder
more often than not experiencing nonresponder.
Without lofty literary ambitions,
more so stream of consciousness abandonment
yours truly rests content
to cobble, gamble, noodle... courtesy
swifty tailored stylishly harried element
mild mannered modest gent
bumbling along boulevard of
broken (po' whet) dreams intent
far less superman than Clark Kent
exercising mental cogs and wheels meant
merely to liberate momentary overconfident
zealous spontaneous inspiration,
albeit ordinarily quiescent
ex post facto concluding
equals time most salient
direct object lesson learned
lame, insipid, feeble resultant
effort generates undercurrent
aghast how rapid (think lightspeed) went.
Yours truly his own worst critic aware
how avast mein kampf replete with bare
inducent to tap into latent fledgling clear
propensity to express creatively, I declare
bonafide potential to join pantheon excelsior
reserved for established authors within their
respective canon, genre, league...,
nonetheless an obvious flair
seemed evident perhaps coalesced
when in utero biological gear
yielded wiggly, ugly, scrawny,
quirky Harris heir
(sole son and second of three offspring)
an older and younger sister,
which introverted brother bullies
did constantly jeer
token scapegoat suffered
one after another kingly leer
pushing psychological state near
precipice off into dock side of moon,
who sought (wharf far art grim reaper) to pier
without naked qualm evincing
one very bony rear
without sympathy merely spells severely
pockmarked psyche therefore
impossible mission to set tattered self esteem
tacked toward in opposite direct where
dark shadow of doubt doth not veer
me into apathetic, horrific, pathetic...
suicidal mental state of yesteryear.
The horizon bleeds blood-red,
within which a marigold moon blooms with regal splendor.
Her pockmarked face aglow,
She slowly rises, like a Chinese lantern.
Dusk descends like a ghostly specter
falling ever so softly, inking ebony silhouettes.
Shadows of the night merge into one:
a collage of darkening shades of black.
And the heavens sparkle, as trillions of distant stars
tethered to reality, morph into fantasy.
The universe is breathtakingly mind-blowing,
inspiring artists and poets alike.
Yet hidden behind blinding city lights,
night's obscured in its totality;
to the many living in cities who have never seen stars.
What a pity!
Still and quiet.
What a joy it is to know nothing about my own nothingness.
Shelled in my own elaborate cave.
Hermetically sealed in a liquid paradise.
I revel in the nest of my own invention.
Or at least that is what I think it is.
But you’ll forgive my delusion for you have had it too.
Wrapped up in bed at night when all the tired slaves make their way.
Home at last to set an alarm to start another day of spectacular routines.
Comical disappointments and mundane miracles.
But I’ve always had it here, inside my fragile casing as pockmarked as
The moon yet smooth and luminous at a distance .
I wonder if I will see the light of day and I wonder, do I want to?
Break me, roll me over and crack me with a spoon? No.
I’ll hold still and quiet and not say a word.
Silence is my armour. A shield to wrap myself inside.
And bide my time for this journey I am going to take.
Listen. There is a clock ticking or is it sand trickling through an hourglass?
Is this the sound that makes the silence before the sound?
Trickling through a slender neck.
This is where I am, in between time when it is counted.
Just to make sure nothing happens twice or happens once again..
I am a yoke, a joke. But I am not not egging you on.
You wouldn’t believe what a song I have been singing.
And the music of the spheres that I have at my command makes me
Weep as if I heard Bach for the first time.
The dumb sense of infinity ringing in my ears that will create an ever expanding universe.
That is my ambition and nothing will hold me back from all the galaxies.
Rushing away from each other trying to be free, from me.
The singularity. The ineffable egg that I am. The same egg that is you.
Rolling towards the edge, the sun creeps up the sky.
Stars retreat to their slumbered beds and forget to ask why.
The midnight candle flickers and burns down to the wick.
The insect clock weaves a web, the spider makes it tick.
The earth makes its final turn and pillows its own head.
To listen to the songs of dawn. No longer filled with dread.
I hold my breath but how can this be?
I have no tongue to say these things nor eyes that can even see.
Because a serpent is coiling round my shell.
Waiting to happen. Happy to wait.
Still and quiet, while the roar of the universe rages on.
Beyond the wave-sacked pebbles
lie the pockmarked dunes,
sea-wind swept heaps,
burrowed by the claws of scaly thrashers.
Here they huddle, the working class,
flogging grim pleasures,
wolfing eggy sandwiches,
dipping tea-stained teeth into beakers
as a chill summer drizzles on.
I am a brine-spattered small fry,
a boyhood caught in a swirl
and flounder, bare feet
skimming the slimy kelp, stalking
an ankle tugging surf.
Mother, her demeanor
soggy and sagging at last,
pleads to be led back
to the creaking camper.
Father smokes a plug of leathery shag,
grunts upright, walks toward the sea,
looks to see God knows what,
then turns to drag me away,
from our holiday day.
Day, and Night
by Michael R. Burch
The moon exposes pockmarked scars of craters;
her visage, veiled by willows, palely looms.
And we who rise each day to grind a living,
dream each scented night of such perfumes
as drew us to the window, to the moonlight,
when all the earth was steeped in cobalt blue?
an eerie vase of achromatic flowers
bled silver by pale starlight, losing hue.
The night begins her waltz to waiting sunrise?
adagio, the music she now hears;
and we who in the sunlight slave for succor,
dreaming, seek communion with the spheres.
And all around the night is in crescendo,
and everywhere the stars’ bright legions form,
and here we hear the sweet incriminations
of lovers we had once to keep us warm.
And also here we find, like bled carnations,
red lips that whitened, kisses drawn to lies,
that touched us once with fierce incantations
and taught us love was prettier than wise.
Keywords/Tags: day, night, love, rhyme, moon, moonlight, pockmarked, craters, window, vase, flower, flowers, fragrance, star, stars, starlight, music, spheres, communion, crescendo, lovers, kisses, lies, love, unwise
Chucko Is Dead
It was on Columbus Day, 1962
When Chucko the Birthday Clown
Sang in tones most glorious and free.
“I’m Chucko, I’m Chucko
I’m Chucko the Birthday Clown!”
I was comfortably ensconced on the couch.
A feigning 10 year old with a pseudo fever,
Sister Mary Daniel was probably making the sign of the cross,
Up the street at St. Mary’s,
When Chucko the Birthday Clown
Stared into the camera and saw me,
Insignificant me,
Just a freckled punk kid;
Hater of sadistic nuns and boring dry lessons
Of crowded sweaty stinky catholic classrooms
With crucifixes of a dead bloody Jesus.
And the sweet salvation of the universe was not yet apparent.
But Chucko knew all about that.
He knew the future and the past.
He knew about Kennedy and Kent State
He knew what was coming so imminently,
He looked into that camera at Channel 7
And saw the children of the 50’s
Coming home in body bags from
The jungles of hell,
From the other side of the world,
From the bloody backside
Where all things are vile and evil.
He saw fear, and an ocean of tears.
He saw ten thousand sunsets
And 50 thousand funerals of the crazy brave.
Even in 1962
When the country was still a damn good country,
He rode the highways and byways with a pockmarked grin.
But he knew he could never tell of what was coming,
Of the madness and corruption and the greed,
“I’m Chucko, I’m Chucko,
I’m Chucko the birthday clown!”
Mother! Please! Take my hand.
I’m afraid!
Chucko the Birthday Clown is dead.
I miss the electric hum of a landline.
Some long nights I could hear it listening to itself
as if plugged into several minds all at once.
It was sound without daylight,
night echo’s that lingered into the day.
The words were fragmented, but not garbled,
they were just degrading through space and time,
but all seemed so urgent to be heard
above the droning silence.
Smart phones, those handheld headstones,
so pockmarked with an un-nuanced gossip
that floats away from any precocity;
they lack the twilit conveyance of language,
the sense of passage and auditory peregrination.
Those old telephones had something else,
a kind of life beyond any address - a journeying
of oral acoustics.
There were always voices speaking
in a far background,
from a distant planet or from the past or the future?
I could hear them
as if they were communing through the conduits
of some invisible travelling machinery.
Sometimes it seemed that they were in my ears,
my mind, like a dead vocabulary
that only I could read upon the air,
words wanting to enter me, make me hear
the nearness of them,
on those occasions
I wondered if it was actually
my voice answering my onw thoughts,
calling me,
demanding I bear witness
to everything I was ignoring -
including myself.
Old Zack Adams sits a slouch’n so sloppy drunk on a bar-room stool,
Wear’n his cheap-threaded cowboy suit and a stained satin shirt.
All the while a peek’n and a leer’n at women like an old poor fool,
But think’n man tonight—Oh Boy, I’m really gonna hit the pay dirt!
Old Zack in this small Texas town is reputed to be quite a lecherous hoot,
As he raucously and recklessly rolls old worn quarters into the slot
Of the old bar-room Wurlitzer while snicker’n and smil’n to boot,
And plays his tearful and twangy jerk-water music while smil’n a lot!
Old Zack is this town’s “Jukebox Gigolo,” a real lover boy—Oh Boy!
He wears his patched cowboy hat and his scuffed silver-studded boots,
Meant to impress young girls and bar-fly floozies who have the Joy!
Of being with this bewildering, withered, weathered man and his boots.
Old Zack has a fad’n recollection of events and a silver mane of hair,
With a cigarette in his hand and cuss’n like a nasty little stable boy,
He downs whiskey shots and tequila seconds like no tomorrow on a dare,
While chas’n whiskey glass ice cubes and the tequila worm—being so coy.
Old Zack while a swigg’n down his whiskey mucho fast and direct,
He has now that blind courage to fight or to love—whichever is first,
While the old Wurlitzer resonates a rueful hick song for a teary effect,
But Old Zack can’t move now for this song has him sobb’n the very worst.
Old Zack with his nicotine-whiskey breath and his pockmarked face,
Personifies the image of an ideal loser of a man—with problems all,
While fight’n, scream’n, and punch’n others to gain some precious space,
He’s a showcas’n his reservoir of manly prowess—with problems all.
Old Zack was young once and not so wild, withered, weathered like now,
And he thought he was a really smart dude—all right moves and all,
But was really a man act’n far above his funny fake smart brow,
And now a cry’n on his bar-room stool and act’n like a fool before a fall.
Old Zack Adams—alcoholic as he truly is and sly and slick as a Texas fox,
Is not really so good with his women friends nowadays—for his real talent
Is in roll’n those old worn quarters pieces one-by-one into the old Jukebox,
Sing’n—“I’m the Jukebox Gigolo”—“a Drunk and a Delight,” that’s real talent!
Gary Bateman, Copyright © All Rights Reserved (October 7, 2014)
(Rhymed Quatrain)
A pockmarked plane atop the wooden box
tilts as it dips in the Syrian void,
its hollow compartment lining the faults like
a silver ball which never rests but always
rolls, always weary those worrisome holes
that chisel the quarry to calcified clumps.
Six years spent fighting, flushing freedom
from his nepotistic keep, have rendered al-Assad
a face full of age, nights free of sleep,
and lucid dreams of an Arab Spring
flooding the fields his brother plowed.
There he stands, slaying the wakened womb
that would bury its own for stable graves, aware
there’s a million more marching outside his door.
5/25/17
Good n plenti riches abound
unreachable to gentle
hermit while aboveground,
human ship of state
fore'er stranded aground
only thru death do him part will
his grievous soul get spirited airbound
chokehold sensation ceased when freedom
against debtor's prison unshackled
humongous human corporeal being all around
to little monetary largesse
arrived too late to astound
pipe dream eternally left within background
jackass kippered, milquetoast pockmarked,
Goliath scarred, voodoo battleground
visible near completely bloody lovely bones
partly denuded flesh
buried shallow belowground
scouting, scenting, scrabbling
one after another bloodhound
clamors leaps and doth bound
nosing, trumpeting, yelping...
despite snout muzzled reinforced brassbound,
no deterrent grisly bared, limp, lifeless body
sacrificed at skull and bones campground,
despite decay tell tale
hunch unearthed mound
picked over remains evince sound