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.
Line of enquiry:
"We look for that that does not come and go
it cannot be organic form, subject to decay
thoughts and beliefs are fickle, how little we know
yet come what may, our inner child continues to play."
Souls search for the eternal, silently casting their gaze,
pondering about what remains untouched by fading days.
What are we but primitive forms, easily led astray.
Upon a quest for the timeless that will forever stay.
Thoughts and beliefs are fragile like whispers in the wind.
Volatile and flowing in a dance that can easily rescind.
How little some know about their inner cosmic aspect,
yet onward we journey, undeterred by the prospect.
In the theatre of life our inner child takes the stage.
A playful spirit immune to the true wisdom of age.
Through tribulations and triumphs our characters change.
Laughing in innocence, youth cares not how the storms engage.
We are mere guests to travellers we meet on the highway,
each one with a lesson but most never really stay.
Our spirits flourish when we search for sincere meaning,
so if we do not question, then life can be demeaning.
For in seeking the eternal in a world of ebb and flow,
we find comfort in the constant, where inner treasures grow,
so, let my heart ignite in intimate fields where dreams remain.
To embrace tomorrow, regardless to what hopes we attain.
There I stood, flushed: gripping
a diaphanous pelvis of his guitar,
he rips a pulpy drool of velvet notes…
glossy under a roulette of lights,
saucy on the parquet floor upon
an artist's feet :his body movement
resembling a twisted weave; the
bossa nova of high timbre frothing scales
of primitive jungle moans,
while Latin hands roll with dizzy
Carribean beats as if Santana
and Jobim grooved with him.
Oh he aches, shakes like a livid soul,
more ravished than refined
in his groping music, my night's balm.
Streams of ‘Oye Como Va’ entice a trance
rippling down my spine, ready
to tug with the accompaniment of
drums and sax; till the last rhapsodic groan
prolongs a dazed jiggle for hips
to leap unto the heat of the sky.
My flesh perspires as I whirl,
unmindful of the exotic rhythm
prancing like a black magic woman!
-------
10/17/2015
Trashed Poem #3 Contest
Sponsor: Broken Wings
By nette onclaud
We started a move,
With Mwalimu Julius,
The move to paradise,
a promised land,
Full of wine and vineyard.
We declared Arusha,
As symbol of movement,
Unifying poor and richer,
To live as one forever,
And build the nation together.
Challenges started,
When some dislike the policy,
Socialism is an attitude of mind!
They wanted free market,
To exploit their fellow brethren,
They sabotaged and plundered,
Public Industries and companies,
As the preparation towards drunken walk.
We are drunken, yes we are!
Moving two steps forward and three back,
Spurting tobacco on left,
But covering the land on right,
And this is our move,
A move towards development.
We are fifty three years old,
As the old man with white hairs,
But lacks wisdom by talking the same thing,
Kilimo on morning day and night,
As the backbone of the economy,
And now with amplified sound,
Named kilimo kwanza,
To bring about development,
And changes peoples life,
That we previously failed,
But this is our song,
A song of the digital world.
Listen comrades,
I also agree,
And let us resume our failure,
For we dare again fail,
In a country like ours,
Where policy is importation,
Of everything except soldiers
What movement do we speak?
Or movement towards primitive!
19/02/2014
Life started in darkness,
in earlier attempts of creation,
with the purpose to consume
and be.
Smell was the seeking sense,
the only one. other senses came
later. This primitive sense is at the core
of existence.
Aroma of fresh coffee is one trigger,
that sparks that primeval instinct,
born millions of years ago,
to light up.
Eyes brighten and the tongue twitches,
the stomach rumbles a consent,
as the divine soul seeks the potion,
for inner bliss.
no vision is needed, hearing muffled,
the longing of the taste buds,
is the deep desire of the soul,
for product of the beans.
known to us humans only during
the last two centuries of our lives,
coffee is a brew that drives the spirit,
to higher levels of consciousness.
Day starts with the morning steaming cup,
negotiations, love, arbitrations are done,
under its esteemed presence.
It is God’s drink.
You may choose to meditate crosslegged,
or do penance on one leg on Everest,
but for real spiritual enlightenment,
just try coffee!
Line of inquiry:
“God within me is the enjoyer of the aroma
As also this dopamine boosting flavour I taste
I surrender all pleasures to the dweller of my heart
Breath by breath thus that my soul presence be chaste”
In the ethereal domain
Ascended masters we revere are seen
Thus soul’s ascension seems endless
Is the clear knowing from this that we glean
We are as yet in a primitive stage
Myriad fears and desires still bemuse
Awareness stuporous, we flounder in darkness
Falling prey every time, to ego’s ruse
Of what use are scriptures, if we heed them not
All that’s asked of us is we learn to love
The path too has been clearly mapped out
Let head meld with heart, acting hand in glove
We are ignorant, knowing not who we are
We’re fearful to let go of lower mind
Tragic it is, we know not we’re living light
To glory of our soul, we remain blind
22-July-2022
Dance Nocturne
August night, is an abyss hotter than the day
and the wind the blows was born in hell.
From open windows in their dark interior
the primal scream of lovemaking,
wriggling bodies trying to produce a child
that like them soon will die, but first, it must
go to through the ritual called love, which is but a primitive
urge to copulate the planting of seed before sinking
underground spent and forgotten in the mass graves
of boredom, decorated with flowers
that radiates death to come.
The Tasmanian tiger howls to the moon and
forever vanishes into an ancient forest, while werewolves
sway to a Mexican dirge.
"D"~DAY (TH' DAY COMETH...)
JUST AS PEACE,SEEMED TO EASE US OF MISERY...
DOUBT N' CONTEMPT ARISES,YET 'GAIN TO GREETETH OUR CONTENTMENT
TH' WORLD'S REQUIRING OF INTRICACY,RESOUNDS DINS OF DISDAIN
PLUCKING AT OUR SANITY'S STRINGS,THIS IGNORANCE REWARDS US MOROSE
TO TH' POINT OF BREAK,OUR TOLERANCE IS STRETCHED TAUGHT
REASONING NOW DOUSED OF DEBAUCHERY,OUR EMPATHY WAXES FUTILE
WHEN 'TIS FULFILLED,WRATH WILL RESTORETH SIGHT OF TH' OBLIVIOUS
FOR TH' TRUTH OF THEIR PRURIENCE,SHALL PROVE THEMSELVES PRIMITIVE
TH' PERVERSION OF KNOWLEDGE,ONCE MORE AFFIRMS DESECRATION
BY ADORNING OF GRACE WE WERE REDEEMED...NOW LOOMS DEATH OF DIGNITY
LUXURY SPREADS IT'S ROOTAGE,SO OF IT'S VINES WE ARE ENTANGLED
EXPEL TO HELL THEIR WANTONESS,N' THEIR EGOSTIC DESIRES OF GAIN
ABORTED FROM OUR WOMBS OF PIETY,THEY NOURISHED NO REMORSE
ROES OF REPRISAL THEY HATH CONCEIVED,OF PROFITOUS FORNICATIONS
THEIR SURETY IN AFFLUENCE,SHALL CERTAIN THEIR CONCLUSION
WHEN DULY ACHIEVED COMETH...
...THEIR DAY OF DESTINATION!
~AZAZA~'09
There he stood up on that hill with constituents on each side
Oh what strength and will for what this certain democrat tried
Speaking of the Unborn and their right in making Them an issue
But in for such a fight in his companions thinking it was just tissue
But there he did stand in sincerely expressing his viewpoint
All life is so grand and who were you to be the one to anoint
He pointed out science and it's faults and even their own being
Saying it's not to whom one exalts but just a matter of seeing
He pointed to all of nature and how we are the most primitive
Death is not the cure for everyone deserves the chance to live
He told Our story right there on the floor for all of them to see
Maybe for CNN it was too gory more like they just didn't agree
Yet soon this session was adjourned everyone now resort bound
What has anybody learned but maybe this guy isn't too sound
Any democrat can be pro-choice but to fight for the other side
Make's The Heavens Above Rejoice as for Them he will be tried
Romans 9:11
For the children being not yet born, neither having done any good or evil,
that the purpose of God according to election might stand, not of works,
but of him that calleth;
This is a land of metronome duality.
We’re cowed by sun, then huddle in the dark.
Here shrubs and lizards eke, with bleak frugality,
a living that’s both passionless and stark.
But I’m from England. When parched cyclones rake
white dust in sterile spirals, I delight
in half-remembered rainclouds, and I ache
to bathe again in subtle, muted light.
She’s of this place. Her personality
is elemental, primitive, opaque.
At first, this strangeness, far from seeming trite,
is what caused fierce attraction to ignite.
But now I doubt her crude tonality
transcends the cold hypnosis of the snake.
"Who are they, anyway..."?
My father would say. I could have argued,
there are different, many theys:
they might shape you with the delusional screams of their hatred through their words,
the language of their body;
they might mold a bi-ped shade of night colors.
Joyce Carol Oates entitled one of her novels "Them", written in 1969.
A saga that begins in the 1930s.
That ends in 1969, with the infamous, historic riot in New York whose sparks lit a sense of injustice, righteousness in the participants/victims.
The novel's characters propel forward
with their primitive need to survive,
and they are white, poor.
They have uncrontrollable, external forces poking, sometimes punching them,
for their poverty.
The violence of others cuts into the segments, the fragments of their lives.
As if one or others are piecing together a jigsaw puzzle that is of a person and all his traits.
The violence of a man who abandons
his family, instilling anger in the children.
They despise their father,
who helped their mother nurture them.
Their inner flames become ashes
that settle and cling, unable to be loosened
and shed. It is as if they are breathing chalk,
when they remember, a portrait of a family
in a deep dark blend of acrylic tints.
The desperation in the wife,
so she has to bend to the Earth
to grapple..with her body.
Her son grows up, battling
through scenes of injustices, his stoked, simmering rage erupting with the fires,
the burning of the 1969 riot.
Their anger was tossed to torch their homes,
reflected in the dusky sky,
the orange-red-gold blaze of the Sun
a blood clot bursting over a Community
that will bleed throughout the next several generations..
another Sunset, really...
"Who are they, anyway"?