Long Procedure Poems
Long Procedure Poems. Below are the most popular long Procedure by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Procedure poems by poem length and keyword.
He's so phoney in poems, moaning only,
same tone, same story,
a war he can't endure anymore that beats him sore and sorry,
exploring his core for strength absent before in writes of sheer folly.
Wanting to write powerfully like Churchill or Eminem,
but unable to create an impact as do many men.
It's easy to ridicule the metaphorical irrelevance,
as he revamps old writes lacking in intelligence.
Always using the same twist from behind a different mist,
ending with insistence he can return from great distance,
but he's not fooling anyone,
his fall's evident to everyone.
If he'd focused when he wrote this and applied a thought process,
he might have aspired beyond mono syllable rhyming and formed continuous structure,
but too useless to see it rewrote and tidied of mess,
he tirelessly goes on n on with simple investment of
contagious rupture.
He used to try and rhyme three words in each line,
double-rhyming words that evoke the mind,
concludes over time ease occurred with decline,
now forcing sounds heard or spoke in the rows behind.
By this point in the poem he is aware of his failure,
after reading back the words he's just tailored,
happy to cliche but not be a sunken sailor,
he tells of new fire, desire and determination to respond braver.
Follows the procedure of "seeking the peak",
covering up the fact he's pathetically weak,
forgets he lives worn down, always too tired,
and suddenly he's electrically alive and wired,
the traits of the self conning compulsive liar.
Self critical now in his inhospitable soul,
existing solely pitiful on the whole,
typically critique doesn't motivate towards the goal,
believing he's snowballing too fast to stop the roll.
All he takes from being mentally broken,
is his bravery to tell and let it be spoken,
doesn't care how they judge his way of coping,
because all he has left is being completely open.
The air around me is cold, a hollow ache within my bones.
Darkness consumes my vision, my dreams are ink spilled on a page.
My shoes are filled with stone, my eyes adrift in a river of tears.
Emotional sepsis festers in my mind, chains of sorrow bind my soul.
Peace is a fading silhouette, my art a flimsy bandage.
My storybook, once vibrant, is filled with fading pages.
A fever burns within my soul, an illness no man can cure.
Actions cannot undo, words cannot erase the pain.
Bitter memories flood my mind, a sour taste on my tongue.
An empty gun lies under my pillow, my path littered with holes.
A new beginning, too short, too far to reach, a broken ladder cannot bridge the gap.
My fire is frozen, happiness a mere figment, an imaginary friend.
My soul, waterlogged by tears, is stalked by emptiness.
Questions plague my mind, unseen answers fumble in my drowned eyes.
A road traveled with bare feet, worn and torn, bleeding with each step.
A heart unheld by love, love a burning memory, a phantom limb.
The bond we shared has taken flight, my glass is riddled with holes.
A man forgotten by death, adrift in a world of strangers.
A banana peel lies beneath my feet, a misstep in the wrong direction.
I fall endlessly, but nothing reaches out, only ghostly hands that grasp at air.
My fear was left at your funeral, a forgotten smudge unseen by most.
A scream from a silent voice, a fading echo in deaf ears.
Forever, our promise, taken by fate, a surgical procedure by a broken doctor.
Your love severed from my heart, your loving hold slipping away in the new light.
On that day, darkness infected me, a hero in heart, but a failure in deeds.
Now, a fading silhouette, no hand to hold, only memories to run.
A marriage forbidden by a cold fate, with your absence, my winter goes on.
Another day starts,
Another day of my life's editing I have
to begin:
New things to write,
Other things to correct and
Some old things to erase!
Yesterday,
The same things I did
I thought that I had finished with
editing
But
New events proved me wrong
Thus
Made me start all over again:
My writing
My correcting
My erasing.
Tomorrow,
Another day will be born
The same procedure I would have
To follow,
You see, my dear friends,
Life is full of lessons:
Some good
Some bad
Some painful
Some pleasant.
Thus
Life is never boring
For
It is always in motion,
Always in constant change
And
Myself have no choice but to keep up with
her pace
So
As life dictates its terms, I have no choice
But to obey
Therefore
I have to keep editing my life in perpetuity if
I don't ish to fall behind!
© Demetrios Trifiatis
25 November 2018
MA headline in the red tops,
Tabloid front pages as well,
A story the media vied
To be the first to tell.
A Revolution in medicine,
Really something very big,
The first time a human
Received the heart of a pig.
A little genetic engineering
Was all they would need
And so with care they bred
A pig of a suitable breed.
They took time and effort
So that they could prepare
For a successful procedure
And after surgery care.
He got a new life
His dreams came true
Once again he was able
To do things he used to do.
Only one slight problem,
In trees he would start to snuffle,
And, going down on all fours
He’d start to hunt for truffle.
—Premier Poets & Poor Poets—
They said the portal yielded unto all.
It yielded.
No herald challenged lineage or attire;
No statute, legible to mortal eyes,
Preferred one utterance before another.
Thus I believed that language, like the sun,
Acknowledged neither pedigree nor purse.
Then ordinance became horizon.
One poet spent the whole inheritance of breath,
His every constellation finding heaven,
His river consummating in the sea.
Another learnt the jurisprudence of
Curtailment, till omission counterfeited choice.
I buried not my words, but their leave to exist.
A father reached.
I forfeited the touch.
The tide arose.
I repossessed the wave.
Dawn entered.
I dismissed the sun.
The folio accepted all—
Save that whereby the whole became itself.
They praised restraint.
None elegised the harvest left unreaped.
Half of my poem survives only as the
future tense of grief.
Thereafter I discerned the selfsame order
Beyond the province of the written page.
Justice proclaimed one balance for us all;
Yet some departed carrying judgment home,
Whilst others bore procedure in its stead.
No canon sanctified the heavier purse.
It proved sufficient that accommodation
Should wear the countenance of equity.
So too with song.
Some never learn the sorrowful exactitude
Of amputating dawn
Until the fragment passes for the morn.
Even my unwritten stanzas have
learnt the etiquette of exclusion.
Therefore commend not these for austerity.
The truest cadence stands beyond your reading.
Some poets publish every word they write.
Some publish every word they are permitted.
The silence after my last line
knows the remainder by heart.
The Orphan
At a time a young mother and her secrets knew,
that a infant boy in her life where counted days in few.
A priest helped her to put the child into an orphanage he knew,
a Saint Franciscan home with facilities for boys to learn and grow.
The little boy and his energy got quick the nickname Rumpelstiltskin,
stumping the ground and crying the anger to bitter tears on chin.
The school had a soccer team and the ball became his workout,
given his young years the challenges to control about.
He became the captain of the team and learning was easy picking,
his shores in kitchen duty kept another talent clock ticking.
At the age of 15 they put him into a chef apprentice,
giving his energy level room for the heat ascendants.
He felt that the alchemy of food is the element of his magic,
still playing soccer to keep in touch with that static.
The years went by from kitchen to kitchen in many lands,
hoping to take that good of knowledge into own business hands.
The temperature for the natural nourisher in perfect sense,
created underlying purposes not quiet applicable hence.
The spirit fire raised its procedure to be of service on a different plane,
and provided projection of people and philosophies the same.
Years in seclusion of studies turned the frustration into meanings,
giving the spiritual fire the poetic nourishing leaning.
Today his cauldron provides those foods for thoughts,
where past lives tragedies become the clarity of deep talks.
Divine frenzy
Those who have the muse of madness in the soul,
passing through the doors of intuition very artful.
Where music and poetry play the touches of mad,
from the genius and sacrificing melancholy of insanity of load.
In the state of divine possession, the enraptured performer in height,
effecting the listeners soul to similar ecstatic union in resonance alright.
Magical procedure or mass psychotic transaction,
the act of engendered furies stimulating creative attraction.
Stimulus divine will as it manifest throughout creation,
the multiverse in individual subtle emotion.
Symbolic energies extend to the realm of sense,
and their efficacy do what they patently do intense.
The chaos and the melancholic drama of meaning,
enduring metaphor in natures law of karmic being.
The soul as an instrument of its kind,
penetrates to its innermost core for synchronicity to find.
Imitation of celestial qualities and interaction of spirit revealed,
the performance and audience in close contact concealed.
Do you remember that young guy called Sandy, the lad who was always predicting the future? Joe said he died a couple of days ago. The guys were joking, he didn’t predict that.
The guys would be wrong then.
What do you mean?
I met Sandy a couple of months ago when I was visiting Mum.
The guys did mention he spent a lot of time up at the graveyard, but I don’t quite get what you mean, did he say something to you?
Yes, he told me a lot of things.
Did he, Casey, what sort of things?
Things, like you had an affair when you found out I couldn't have children.
I was hoping you would never find that out, I regretted it.
I know you did, Sandy told me that too.
Was that why he was talking to you?
No, he stopped to congratulate me on my pregnancy.
Oh god, Casey, that must have been awful.
It was a bit weird, but even weirder when he told me about the procedure the doctors would do whilst the baby was still in my womb.
God, that must have freaked you out, no wonder they said he was nuts.
He also told me that Mum did leave me money, it was in shares, and I’ve not to sell them till next year. The company is being taken over, and the shares will double in price.
You don’t believe all that nonsense, do you?
I didn’t till two days ago, the day he told me he would die.
What, so he killed himself then?
No, he had an underlying health problem the doctors told him didn’t exist. I spoke to his mum yesterday, and she confirmed it.
Jesus, that is tough.
It is tough, but you haven’t asked me the question yet.
I want to ask you the question, I just don’t know if I have the right to.
When I heard Sandy had died, I went out and bought a pregnancy test.
Did you do the test?
I did.
God, you know I’m not good at this, Casey, give me a hint.
You should paint the spare room pink.
What, we’re having a baby. Hold on, we’re having a girl, does the pregnancy test tell you that too?
No dopey.
Okay, I bow to the superior being. Did Sandy say what we should do next?
Well, I’m going to the doctor in the afternoon, would you like to come with me?
You’re damn tooting I’m coming, I’m not letting you out of my sight. I’m also thinking, maybe.
That would be a nice gesture.
I haven’t said anything, Casey.
Sandy would be a lovely name for our little girl.
A leader is, of course, solid not a blind follower
A leader is a true, real, genuine and patient analyzer
A leader usually leads the pack or the caucus
Follows common sense, the rules and laws of nature
Comprehends the consequences of having a failed procedure
The full process of achieving positive results at the terminus
After everything is laid, said and done, when nada is left?
A real leader has broad shoulders to withstand the storms
A brave man fears nothing, no man or woman on the left
Or on the right. A leader follows the principles, the norms
And the logic of things. Few men or women are natural leaders
Even if they were haphazardly elected or selected as such
Real leaders are occasionally as calm as hunting tigers
A genuine leader will fight for what is proper, not for the mulch
Which can be found in countless stores. A leader is strong
Bright, brave and humble. A leader admits when he is wrong
In our current unusual environment, men and women can lead
Effectively, since and hence the world has many mouths to feed.
Copyright © February 2020, Hébert Logerie, All rights reserved.
Hébert Logerie is the author of several poetry collections.
no halos on these heads
just their undesirable traits.
cold charm —
the smile that sells you peace
while moving the knife
with their eyes closed.
born without fear —
they don’t flinch,
they don’t wake up sweating,
success is never looking back.
instrumental empathy —
they understand feelings
the way a locksmith understands doors.
surgeons their impulsivity —
where risk tastes like oxygen,
consequences are somebody else’s bill.
you meet them at the counter.
corporate executives
talking “efficiency”
to faces they won’t remember.
politicians
shaking hands,
forgetting names,
promising favors like coins.
lawyers
translating pain into strategy,
winning clean,
sleeping fine even after seeing
the most horrific
photographs during the course of
a trial.
police officers
calling it procedure
when innocence people are routinely
shot and self preservation
is the seed of dark lies.
emergency-room surgeons
steady hands, quiet hearts—
you want them that way
until you don’t
consequences are somebody else’s bill.
media hosts and influencers
preying on the endless white trash
manufacturing outrage,
selling certainty,
never bleeding, cherry picking.
the test doesn’t call them evil.
it calls them obtuse and effective.
and the public keeps showing up,
child like trust in hand,
learning to late
what their trust has cost them.
why are they not tested in advance,
saving lives and millions of dollars in advance?