Long Primitive Poems
Long Primitive Poems. Below are the most popular long Primitive by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Primitive poems by poem length and keyword.
Ott's (lots) chrysanthemums in bloom
Highland Manor Apartments
affords quick jaunt
veritable exotic getaway
scant miles away
Schwenksville establishment rooted
at least last half century
local tropical paradise beckons
passer(s)by to saunter
imbibe fragrant aroma,
espy splash of color on hillside
ease hilly draw painter with palette
photographer, musician, scrivener...
especially during dead of winter,
indoor botanical garden
bounteous, capacious, herbaceous...
topography exquisitely, heavenly,
incredibly... landscaped flora
to dazzle sense and sensibility,
inebriating, intoxicating, invigorating...
metaphorical cathartic ambrosia,
potent fragrant blend
wafting within englassed green acres
buzzfeeding, kickstarting, spellbinding
pollinating, germinating, birthing...
analogous natural stimulant,
holistic, magically therapeutic
without deleterious hallucinogenic,
nor harmful narcotic qualities,
also terrific soporific,
a soothing environment
to gravitate, meditate, ruminate...
healthy psychological restorative
hypothetical scenario to heal
mental, physical, and spiritual wounds
to strengthen body,
mind, and body triage
woke benumbed atavistic
primitive *****sapiens
nihilistic grim outlook (mine)
housing grim prognostication
foreboding bleak aggrievement
impossible submission toward
apocalyptic trend to escape.
Totems of What If
Can we ever escape
that which we create
but often choose to ignore
Like the mismatched rocks of a cairn
random choice is not an option
complimenting shapes and sizes
make up one's balance
one's direction
one's harmony
Yet some
Aspiring high rise urban dwellers
live a rock steel and glass totem life
stacking mismatched building blocks
like mutated animal lineage not of the fittest
unknowingly making unbalanced direction
even while gasping air to defy their self-made reality
Might they be destined to realize a primeval demise
like a surreal incarnation atop modern scaffold
where ghostly burial rites of Great Plains nomadic tribes
wait to happen
Can primitive wisdom ever penetrate assumed importance
before the inverted vortex of tumbling balance
consumes itself atop the rising funnel of ignorance
distilling the wrongs of misbegotten power
to but sand kernels of infinity's hourglass
Such might be the destiny of man's innate totems
the unique building blocks that make us the species we are
while stealthily we try desperately to become a species we are not
We exist for different purposes, perhaps 1 perhaps six
Forage food, mark trails and warnings of the enemy we echo
Sometimes, the unknown and uninvited guests, we query
Is our unison voice singular to a higher up?
Are our motions and interpretations of our universe just?
Maybe we will never know or we will find out in five
I imagine they are watching counting our progress, from the obsidian vastness, perhaps in series of five.
We assume their intelligence is higher, maybe of aeons six
Do they see us and think we are primitive just?
Or are they amazed by how far we seem to echo?
Our adaptations lead us on paths marked by contours going up
To search for meaning and ensure our surroundings we query
That one stridulation triggered a series we have to query.
Where it came from, why the palpitations of five?
Did wires that weren't supposed to touch there up?
It must have communicated something their six may not be our six.
We could try to mimic and that signal we echo
To the beyond and hope they understand us just
Up down we march to match our actions just
A rich medley, multi-terpene blend signals we are going to query
We march towards the stridulation, our sensilla seem to echo
A chain of unknowns multiplying in exponentials of six
The map we attempt to follow only goes up to five
We hope to convene the right message up
I'm sure the crows caught it, we felt the disturbance up
But that was not one of us just
Different temporal structures, I guess we close the voyage in six
Just for the moment as we recalibrate and make a new query
Signal predictability, yardstick useful for seconds five
To aid us try to understand the beyond that we echo
Our conquest to understand is only now an echo
The intensity we ought to have no longer stepped up
Hoping to cross paths again and know in five
What’s being said and signalled just
Atop a hill of questions we send out our last query
And hope the higher being catch it as we count to six
We map the numbers from six to five,
Hunting the crow's echo and cosmic query,
While up on the mound, we are just ants.
Have seen an utopian lane, amidst the thicket, latent In the abode of the clouds, in the lap of the tranquil wilderness, far far away from the mundane mist!
A wheezing sparsely inhabited hamlet, Khonoma, a centuries- old settlement, so green, so serene!
Its' pristine unsullied views, lush wilderness, verdant bushes, aromatic wild blooms, resplendent orchids, rippling rills, are untouched and sacred!
The Angami tribes, the thorpes' dwellers lead an uncustomary simple life, crammed with ancient, timeless traditions and practices, with nature's absolute accord!
The unique panaromic cultivation practice, terrace farming, sprawling on the slopes makes the very sight elating!
Look, the remote richest biodiversity region is twirling with the endemic scented native flora and fauna, the boscage are cramming with untamed wild colourful fruits!
The revered cultural bird, the grey-billed Tragpon, is intoning from the bushes, making the milieu frolic!
Myriads of colourful birds are migrating to nestle in the sacred bushes of the mystic rills!
The pellucid drops from the misty mesas of nearby cascades are playing with the colourful pebbles!
Far from the pandemic, the cherubic hilly terrain is bustling with cerulean rills, shrouded by tropical rain forests and stepped paddy fields!
How finite are the rustic folks' wants and needs, the primitive shanties to dwell, the crystal cascades to quench, the crops of the golden fields to feed the mouths, the vibrant fiestas with nature's changing seasons to celebrate!
A paragon of men and nature in absolute harmony, is lying placidly, the transcendental picturesque tableland, Khonoma, the wheezing green hamlet, an utopia untrodden to bless the naive natives of the far flung highland!
" Sometimes in quest of no man's Utopia, we may miss the existing unleashed Utopia in proximity, yet untrodden " Quote by poet
November 11th 2021
Contest: " U" contest, New Poems Only
Sponsored by: Constane La France
Softly, starlight slippers through silver leaves,
salving slender branches where willows keep their weeping vigil.
A sighing wind weaves grief’s misty purple veils,
hesitantly floating before sweeping down;
valley tears, fern quivering, blend with those heavy clouds weep.
Moss in variegated green feathers, paves paths primitive,
moonlight lends gray gloved hand to guide faltering feet,
trembling on cliff-sharp edge of blackest night,
stumbling forward, tracking an unmapped grief labyrinth.
Heart of mine, spent by the merciless beat,
lean hard upon hoarded memories, bittersweet.
Life, after such sharp parting, shields her flame,
tended as a mother tends her sleeping dear,
softly repeating through the night one poignant name
that only she who bore the pain can hear
in accents of the heart so sweetly clear,
echoing faint chords from the heavenly sphere.
Perhaps time dulls the sadness, keen,
or drives it deeper to a place unseen.
Copyright, July 1, 2026
He is lost in the midst of an evergreen wood
turned around in a coffin of trees and of mist
while the faint light of day slowly drifts towards the night
and a fear grips his heart as his hopes fade away.
As the darkness approaches he knows he must act
find a way to stay warm to survive through the night
and while gathering wood he can hear a bear growl
and the rustling stir of a nocturnal cat.
But he beats his fears down as he makes a stick hut
then in feverish prayer he collapses to sleep
filled with tormented dreams and great terrors unknown
where dark demons are wrestling angelic hosts.
He is startled awake by a primitive howl
then a grueling attack and a ripping of flesh
but his pain melts away as his body ascends
to a place they call Paradise, lost but now found.
Written on 1/7/2018
Anapestic Tetrameter
Sea of such violent ideas,
why did you create the storms
and the winds... why are you shipwrecked
my time to navigate you...?
Why did you rip me from your
primitive womb?
oh wind, scornful of papers
and sticks... how could you expel
my crepe paper dreams by
pure snort display...?
How dare you breathe my joy
away from the eyes that
followed me...?
Earth, filthy planet
why did you deny the vulture
the glorious mission of
consume me... why did you transform
my meat in seeds
weed...?
Oh world, sinister world
mondo cane... why
you broke my rods
with your sinister claws...?
Oh life how did you make up
with these deleterious to
hurt me... why
you took away my lovers
favorites, to offer
to your favorite proselytes...
But infected...!?
revolted i verse me
against everyone and everything...
Against these damned
that made me come
of a poisoned pleasure...
Wanted platonic love, but you
gave me slice
of love...
remnants of leftovers...!
I OPENED A DOOR
TO A PRIMITIVE WORLD,
AT THE VERY SAME TIME,
SOME KIND OF A BURROW
IT'S HARD TO BELIEVE,
SUCH A PLACE COULD EXIST.
THIS WAS THE FUTURE,
WITH A PRIMITIVE TWIST.
THEY'RE REALLY NOT PEOPLE,
BUT A LOT MORE LIKE SLAVES.
CONTROLLED AND CONDITIONED
BY FREQUENCY WAVES.
WITH NO SENSE OF LOGIC,
AND NO SENSE OF REASON.
THEY LIVE ON THE STREETS
REGARDLESS OF SEASON.
THEY MUMBLE AND GRUNT,
THEY'RE NOT UNDERSTOOD.
FROM MY POINT OF VIEW
THIS IS THEIR HOOD.
SKY SCRAPING BUILDINGS
ONE BLOCK AWAY.
THE DIFFERENCE BETWEEN,
WAS LIKE NITE AND DAY.
WITH THE PALM OF THEIR HAND ,
THEY'RE OPENING DOORS.
THEY ENTER AN ERA,
WHERE THEY COMPETE TO DO CHORES.
IT REALLY MAKES SENSE,
WHY THEY WON'T SPEAK A WORD.
EVERY SOUND
AND THOUGHT CAN BE HEARD.
THEY SUBMIT TO THE MASTERS,
AND NEVER COMPLAIN.
DO WHAT THEY'RE TOLD
BY THE MENTALLY INSANE.
PHYSICALLY ABUSED,
MENTALLY AS WELL.
APPEARS TO ME
THEY'RE LIVING IN HELL.
WHEN LEAVING THE OFFICE
THEY TAKE THEIR PRESCRIPTION.
WHAT TAKES PLACE AT THE OFFICE
HAS RULES AND RESTRICTIONS.
THEY'LL RETURN TOMORROW,
AS IF NOTHING IS WRONG.
BETWEEN THE HOURS,
THEIR MINDS ARE GONE.
THEY'RE LIVING IN HELL
ON THE COLD STREETS.
JUST ONE BLOCK AWAY ,
THEY'RE FEELING HELLS HEAT.
TWO DIFFERENT WORLDS.
LIKE NITE AND DAY.
WHEN THE OFFICES CLOSE
THE STREET PEOPLE PLAY.
OUT OF THEIR MINDS.
OUT ON THE STREETS.
REACHING NEW HIGHS,
AND INCREDIBLE FEATS.
WHEN THE MEDS WEAR OFF
AND THEY'RE READY TO SLEEP.
THEY MAKE THEIR WAY BACK,
TO THEIR SPOT ON THE STREET.
THIS IS A WORLD
THAT YOU'LL NEVER FORGET.
A FEW PEOPLE LIVE
MOST LIVE TO REGRET.
Michael E. Harris
11192022
Quyeer times emit blazing signs..And some ex-boy friends?
Is this karma divine? mi5 say its Putin..' a prime topic for
Them...And its taken a fortnight with henceforth..No why
Where or whens..From them.' Yet it seems rather sloppy to
Be (a Russian affair?) And arson too primitive.' I think thats
Quite fair.? Just an ass-umption.' To try to open the door.'
Of secrecy thats been holding karmas secret deposits oh
Dear..I guessed such was er?? Coming..Hmm?? I wrote a
Poem before.!! Now its been shat-tered all over the world
And whats more.' Theres an outcome to happen.' Once the
Lube is applied.' As it was maybe in the beginning.?? Or
Will this turn upon lies? Maybe death? Well of the
Truth.' Will be the out-come? Lets await the putrid offerings
Of ( some media bums.?)
Imagine they find your bones
in a boggy field -
it happens all the time,
speaking of which,
time is your pocket handkerchief,
your wristwatch,
and your best evening pants
all reduced to insect dust.
Only a fragment
(a rust-addled skimpy second hand)
remains to be picked up
by the pale flesh
of a much more efficient brain
than you or your many cousins
ever had.
The rest of you is much scattered,
much distributed among the small
bog dwelling children of lesser gods.
Ten or a hundred years later they may find
a distant tooth with its crown intact,
later still, a being reports your broken jaw
unearthed by the sludging rain.
Will they then have enough of your head
to commence a plaster likeness of your
drunken grin after a cocktail party,
or will they find the rest of your skull
in a deeper layer of dirt
with an old crack across its dome.
Perhaps they will assume you died
at the hands of an axe wielding foe,
never guessing
you fell heavily off your girlfriends Honda
practicing one last incautious wheelie
on a minor road in darkest Derbyshire?
Will the few decimated parts of that Honda
be thought to be a primitive metallic skeleton
of an ancient sacrificial temple?
When the elements finally reveal
more fractured bits of you
will an artificial intelligence
reassemble your last moments
while misinterpreting
the age and time of your mediocre your life?
Will they solidify your that life
the way we reconstruct diorama’s
of mastodon herds grazing in tall grass,
while illustrating for dramatic effect,
menacingly concealed packs
of saber tooth tigers lying in wait.
Be very sure to care of your wrist watch,
for they who excavate your posterity
will probably misplace your existence
by at least ten thousand years,
not that you, like the mastodons, will care,
but they might.