Long Re emerge Poems
Long Re emerge Poems. Below are the most popular long Re emerge by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Re emerge poems by poem length and keyword.
Who Broke It!
He finally broke, after hours of intense interrogation,
caved in, signed the confession stating that it was
he who broke poetry. It was not intentional.
He just strayed a little too far past the fence line,
looked deep enough to see the train tracks
re-emerge, cross in the distance and begin again.
It had seemed so inconsequential, words written in
the heat of passion, or pain, divulging the secrets
of the poet, dancing to a cadence of his own,
speaking in a voice newly reclaimed, a voice
unafraid of the rules or the rulers, a tone as clear
as thunder echoing through a distant valley.
Yet he was, is, guilty. He broke poetry. He
broke it into tiny pieces of his soul and fed the
ache he saw in others, the need of gentle words,
or purging passion, the roar of roiling seas crashing
on the rocks, giggling in retreat through sand filled
fissures. He had done it! Written without knowledge
of the structure, dared to skip a stone where none
had thrown, made love to words and phrases
feasting on the lustiness of same, knowing that
the penalty for breakage is to own it and then
to take it home. He is the glue that holds a broken
thing together, the strength that binds the words
with heart and fire, knowing it is not his job to
fix it - but to hold and love the pieces that he finds.
7/23/2013
submitted to – Broken – Poetry Contest
*I admit we're putting on quite a carnival for the world to see.
Putting our worst clown foot forward.
Fighting one another over rolls of toilet paper
Scorching our foundation, juggling our fragile humanity.
Because of an exception to the rule-
A tin star clown is looting the gold from our souls.
Putting one rotting apple on the windowsill,
For all the world to see.
We're putting on quite a show, aren't we?
Now you cock roaches come out of the woodwork
to kick us when we're down.
To lay our stars and stripes six feet underground.
We the people get our act together.
When we put our clown feet back in the closet.
When the smoke clears, and the stars re-emerge.
The mockers will come knocking on our door to get in.
Demanding things from the one they put down.
Hey mockers, even at our worst, we remain the shining model for the world.
The torch to light your dark caves, to show you the way out...
Democracy is a constant debriding-a molting of the soul.
We are in a painful molting phase right now.
The eagle is grounded temporarily.
This battered bird will come out lighter and stronger.
Fly higher than ever before.
Ask old King George or Adolph or Bin Laden.
Mockers like you will retreat into your dank holes.
Still yapping as your mental visas run their course.
As dawn breaks across the rugged land,
vague shapes begin to blurrily appear.
images of mythical creatures now seen
briefly then brushed away they dissolve.
Is it these images that give legends birth?
the tales of Unicorns and dragons?
The stories of three headed beasts
that wander through the mist shrouds?
Pea soup mists that you can almost push aside
abruptly vanishing as the sun burns them off.
Leaving the landscape we all know and accept
yet memories remain of fantastical things.
That re-emerge in our dreams
leaving us with uncertainty and
knowledge deep down within
that mist cloaks and blinds
what lies beyond the veils of time
Stump, stone, cones and mushroom
seeds that drill down to re-emerge
One mushroom's hat has already been seized
- a small piece of the forest's dish
In the blissful play of life
On a trust that falls randomly
With freedom, mystery,
silence and the qualities of silence
... a physical presence
The deepest meaning of life
must be, to seizing the moments
27/07/2021
Sun :) - A-L Andresen :)
Copyright © All Rights Reserved
His mind is dark,
like a night sky without stars.
Doubt sits upon his shoulders,
poking at his face,
irritating his mind,
interrupting his thoughts,
outrunning his words -
laughing at him hysterically.
Demons slay his self belief,
echoing like mountainous valleys.
Playing with his insecurities.
Manic voices vibrate in a percussion of shrieking,
like jesters juggling with his sanity.
Sweaty palms and heavy feet,
leave his tongue cemented,
like a block of concrete.
Curtains ascend slowly.
Microphone has no mercy.
Silence awaits,
as audience anticipate.
His petrified eyes attempt
to ignore hundreds of faces,
focusing at him.
He fumbles and mumbles
apologises and starts again.
Closes his eyes,
to find his special, sacred place.
His hidden spirit roars, as audience gasp.
His soul rises like king Arthur's sword,
releasing the thunder, trapped inside.
Doubt plummets to the ground.
His words strike like lightening,
defeating demons into silence.
Audience applaud in elation.
For a moment he smiles,
but then doubt and demons re-emerge.
Bullying his self esteem,
murdering his short lived joy.
He sits in silence,
wondering what is the point...
Simple Musing
Silent One
25 July 2020
All thought egoic, manifest by desire
Beginning with an identity urge
To expand, identity thus conspires
Spiralling in grooves, of narrow thought surge
Feeling separate from source, we diverge
Hypnotic illusions, attention mires
The clear light of truth, then begins to blur
All thought egoic, manifest by desire
Blissful consciousness, was our state prior
Before our deluded ego upsurge
Spark becoming flame, now raging fire
Beginning with an identity urge
Ego thought fed, it begins to infer
Floundering about, reflections admires
Silencing resonance, own thought prefers
To expand, identity thus conspires
Thinking a gift divine, we did acquire
Boon then bane; ego delusion a scourge
Bewildering illusions, thus does sire
Spiralling in grooves, of narrow thought surge
Liberation at hand, when we do merge
Choosing resonation with hearts love choir
Our childlike presence then does re-emerge
Save the love vibration, nothing inspires
All thought egoic
14-January-2021
There is a presence to a Sunday morning,
an ease. People waiting on line for their
coffee seem more animated, less agitated,
friendlier….almost chatty. The traffic seems
to get along better too. No schedules demand
cut throat tactics to beat the next red light.
School buses, along with their riders, are
tucked away for the weekend. The hum of
the tires on the pavement seems almost
musical, soothing, in a movingstillness
kind of way. Joggers seem more relaxed,
their dogs less pressured to “get it done”.
Ducks idly talk to their shadows. Church
bells chime more jubilantly echoing over
the breaking day. We sit. Two old men
sipping hot coffee. Reveling in the present,
reminiscing about the past, in no hurry
for the future. An elderly woman ambles
past, smiling at the blowing leaves,
shuffling her feet in mock childhood frolic.
Cyclists relax into a near traffic-less rhythm
of wheels, spokes, gears - grinning into the
chill breeze of November. The firehouse
doors are open, the firefighters resting
between rounds, trucks sitting idle in
the bays, hoses rolled and ready. Two
squirrels play tag in front of a blue house
disappearing into piles of leaves only
to re-emerge atop a fence post. A grey
and white cat lays motionless nearby.
There is no rush to the cadence of the
churchgoers. It appears they may have
already entered into the day’s prayer.
A gentle sense of unanticipated hope
pervades the subtleties of life.
There is a presence to a Sunday morning.
John g. Lawless
11/8/2015
Do you
too
grow tired?
Feeling no sufficient vacation
from your sacred
ponderous vocation
as this endless day's resilient
wise Elder generation
Constantly longing for recognition,
faithfully
hopefully loving
InBetween a cognitive
emotive place
Impatient
for cooperative understanding
while curiously seeking co-empathic appreciation
for sufficient win/win resolutions
to slowly re-emerge EarthTribe's thriving integrity
Spiraling betwixt EarthMother's healthy
vibrant green-blue ecology
and SunFather's wealthy
pantheistic theology
Growing tired
from feeling no sufficient vacation
from my sacred monotheistic
ponderously responsible
unconditionally self/other regarded
ego/eco-systemic convocation.
EMBLEMS
exhilarating
renowned
themes
to hand
patches
of
light
the
curious
hung together
to
evoke&
perhaps
appropriately
encountering
harbingers
of beloved
modern art
in exploded
versions
saved
from
obscurity
to re-emerge
deploying
the immediate
&
simultaneously
ensuring
a virtuosity
conscious
of all
the intricate
shimmering
&
adorned
replicated
in
the
memorable
NOTE:THIS IS AN OPEN(organic) FORM VERSE using spaces&breaks without grammatical symbols ,the ' open' relies upon 'the one breath limitation' & so inherently requires the 'reader' (reciter) to input and responds thus making this enigmatic form a two way interplay & interpretatIon unique to the moment& changing according to mood is inherently variable.
Copyright © Brian Strand
A body abandoned
needs to mourns its last breath in death
a heart cast aside
still aches to meet its last beat
and a free spirit yearns for a winged monarch moment
to fly in the spirit of freedom…
opportunity
flares a tongue
snaky and bittersweet.. a flicker
grows flames that twist passion’s kiss with kismet
a chance
to escape on a breath of air
an exhalation;
warm incense offered to vesper -
the wish of a scent to slip through the keyhole
above the hiss of heat
and gasps of air
rushing combustion to a roar
airy mystics spoke in the eerie smoke
w h i s p e r s
urge the purge of perishable pain
unclasping lonely-linger’s grasping fingers
soft-spun knit and purl unravels
as vintage yarn twined with sun and rain unties -
aging rays fail to stave Winter’s grays
and the ethereal thread of an earthly creation
releases its tendril
from the spinning wheel’s weave of circular seasons
from seed to harvest and warmth to chill
vestiges of sisterly hands cup a ceded sigh
chrysalis celebrates destined to re-emerge a butterfly
terminal tremble of a twilight trill is hushed
vulnerability swaddled
cradled by clouds of silver and gold
a mortal’s surrender consummates upon the pyre -
cinders cleansed of tears and cries and vices
but never the dreamy intrinsic colors
of the opal’s unfurling blaze
she ascends
a flash of embers relieved of ash
taking fire to the skies with a tigress torch igniting
molten pools spooning the spine of the western shadow
heralding an awakened afterglow to the afterlife -
lamplight gilds mare’s tails hooking heavens
pathways adrift from the burning thurible
of a trinity on the cusp of rebirth...
incense rises upon a heated atmosphere
riding the riddle of the four winds
beyond realms of soil and salt - reason and logic
yonder the profound truth of the-not-humanly-known
seeing past reflections within mere margins of a mind’s mirror
accepting the enlightening throb of the enigmatic pulse of creation
becoming one with the ultimate mystery
the wish of a scent to slip through the keyhole
fulfilled with exchange of gifts -
the offering of her sunset shroud
for the white mantle of sunrise