Long Reassemble Poems
Long Reassemble Poems. Below are the most popular long Reassemble by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Reassemble poems by poem length and keyword.
Where are you going?
Have you come from somewhere?
Are you in the Here and Now?
Three simple requests
antecedent of Nirvana
floating seamlessly
The darkness of nowhere sheds
its ancient light thundering conducting
on the background stage
Steady rainbows coalesce
where Source seems destiny
and dew drops rise above
High in the humble clouds
roots reflect condensation
of transcendent steady swirl
Tim marvels at the hourglass
descending from receding void
as moments pass and reassemble
Time calls for action but the deeds are
done as memories find soothing homes
in awareness of forthcoming anticipation
as he accepts that vivid life holds
fewer answers and the stony path
of wisdom is child’s play at its best
WITHOUT RHYME
Emptiness takes its leave,the symphony
becomes a solo.
From within a dream,euphony to carry
a poem beyond the norm on emotions stream.
Vapours of the morning dew,short lived,held
close,lasting just a moment,yet stay indelible.
I turn experience page, hestitate and dream,
the ephemeral conveying past times illume,
and enfold me in a panorama of stillness.
Fascinating impressions reassemble in
my eye.What can I see?
A literary treasure?
A novel verse?
Inspiration writ loud?
Images..without rhyme.
You may hear me recite this poem(and most of my PS poetry) on youtube under my pen name ichthyschiro.
Last season that ended in October
is now past, and something to remember.
The players are called the “boys of summer”
Here they reassemble in February’s winter.
Some of them report to training in Florida.
The others are on the fields in Arizona.
Why are they here? What is the reason?
They are getting ready for another baseball season.
The veterans are scraping the off season rust.
Rookies want to make the club hoping it’s not a bust.
Hitting and fielding; it’s time to get loose.
Muscles ache after they have not been in use.
It is cold now, but it will soon be hot.
Now is the time to show what the players have got.
In a late night, when stars are born in the mirror of the lake,
And the moon dances on the waters, silent and melancholic,
My thoughts unravel and reassemble,
In an unceasing flow of consciousness, like an endless river.
Many speak of their sorrows and scars,
Of loves that did not want them, of unfulfilled desires.
But I, who have neither of these,
Sing something else, a song of the heart dissolving into silence.
With me, a nightingale sings where
Existence itself relinquishes its will.
You hear it, ponder, and turn somber,
And my pain grows too, like a shadow stretching out.
Ah, if poetry were more than ink carved on paper,
It would be a portal to places where grass is taller than trees,
Where the blue sky lulls you to sleep,
And slow clouds beckon you to slumber.
In an absolute abandonment, I let myself drift,
With an intimate detachment, like a leaf floating on the river,
Far from the banks, unable to bear burdens and sorrows,
I dissolve into my own tears, in the silence of the night.
There, where forest dryads hide
Beyond mere imagination,
Leaving behind only shadows and whispers,
I find solace in the profound silence.
Ah, if you would open a window, you would see:
Endless green fields, where dreams take root,
And the moon mirrors the stars from your soul,
Dissolving you into your own tears.
With a tenderness like that of a leaf in the river,
I float, bearing no burdens, feeling no pain,
In a late night, when stars are born in the mirror of the lake,
And the moon dances on the waters, silent and melancholic.
Dear Donald John,
I could be wrong
yet you're not twitterish right
in singing Earth's happiless song.
What normal healthy
Left-Right wealthy
care most about
is what you continue
not responding to
And what we do not care to hear,
to become sufficiently LeftBrain clear,
is what you are reacting through.
Our cooperative cause is democratic health
and not at all
your further plutocratic
disempowering wealth.
We long to hear instead,
to prove you are not yet quite hopelessly dead,
your vision for healthy oceans
prairies
farmland
and forest,
mountains of wealthier days.
We long to hear
maturing love
from and for our co-arising depths
understudying
understories
understanding unhealthy ruins
left for right's decomposing salvage.
We ponder your,
as our own,
ZeroZone unknowns,
wending in wildless wilderness,
creolizing magic,
inviting WinWin cooperation games
and plays,
developmental programs
rather than reactionary pogroms.
We remain unmoved
resisting your ego's fundamental feckless fortune,
as we inductively reassemble
universe uniting one as also another
co-gravitation.
Cooperative systems
co-arise riskier integrity,
inductive reactionary Right
with responsive deductive Left,
potently synergetic,
resonantly seductive
sleek
wilder polypathic nurture configurations
of polyphonic cryptic resonance,
Secular Left twittering Western grateful diplomacy
with Right sacred co-redemption,
CoOperative Ego/Eco-Politics.
The distant flash of guns, like fireworks
in Yorkshire Dales, a November, long past;
soon followed by deep rumbling, thunder
that usually precedes rain, but not today.
The boy, marching, singing with his pals
moving ever further from Tipperary.
Wherever that was.
Soon, ragged men start passing,
arriving from where he's going.
The boy thinks he sees a friend
it's hard to tell;
there's just a gaping hole below the eyes
the man groping for a dangling mandible
trying to reassemble a face;
dying questioning eyes meet.
A growling sergeant moves them on,
"forward, boys."
The singing stops
eyes dart from side to side
the proud upright march
becoming a bowed, furtive walk.
Tomorrow, the boy will take his gun
and march across
as un-yet fields of scarlet poppies
towards the enemy;
or so he's told.
He will never pull the trigger,
he will not have time.
GUNS Poetry Contest: Placed 1st.
Sponsored by: Anthony Biaanco
Date wrote: 25-04-2021
crushed at rock bottom he gathered the fragments of descent
slow motion agony that started at a plateau of deluded deceit
free falling sadness spiraling out of control beyond fast repair
the black dog on his shoulder had survived the fall and barked
another round of sadness an insurmountable sorrow cheered on
‘you are useless and even void and oblivion are having a laugh’
a tunnel with no light and the canary asphyxiated in the mine shaft
another panic attack unable to ease the landing of a scarred mind
scared and confused he gathered the pieces and stabbing shards
with broken bones and un-abating accusations he collected his guilt
fears and shame about yet another defeat at the foundation of evil
demons and miserable clairvoyants spoke in bifurcated obsessions
possessed by the mother of all depressions he reached for a glimmer
of hope he searched for a message from science deities and reason
yet unable to guide his emotions all efforts crashed without rescue
the rope had twisted once more and he dangled helpless face down
just enough slack to disfigure his angry face that featured disgust
and yet as the blood flooded his brain he surrendered his objections
one final attempt and he severed the noose with the open fracture of
the razor sharp dislocation sticking out just below the palm of his hand
with a further snap of his wrist and life line he surrendered lost dreams
if life gave you hemlock but the vessel had cracked on the impact
of the smash and grab of lifeless cycle of disassociated insanity he
resolved to drink his own blood and call upon autoimmune response
after all the medication had been useless and hours on Freud’s couch
had only imprinted more festering pressure sores on purulent skin
cognitive explorations had only dragged him further down self-denial
religion mantras and science had failed to invoke sanity and healing
levitation would not emerge when he fell from the edge of madness
the cross lay in pieces and nails had lacerated his heart and resolve
just when he felt the pulse getting weaker and with delirious gaze
he succumbed to a last ditch attempt to reassemble a piece of his soul
wrote an ultimate will on the wall and vowed to hand over let go and live
15th June 2020
Erector sets and wooden blocks
Dominoes and house of cards
Built way up to be knocked down
Scattered all across the ground
Model cars and airplane kits
Making sure each piece will fit
Snapped together without glue
Just to fall apart on you
Puzzles without all the pieces
Will not work and it decreases
The fun and joy of finishing
A picture without it's full scene
All these things can fall apart
Or not be finished from the start
Like a love without the trust
Which is a necessary must
So it doesn't break and tremble
And you have to reassemble
Two hearts with a solid glue
So it doesn't fall on you
From a height that is too high
To complete---you let it die
From a lack of love and care
Broken too much for repair
My father died when I was seven.
Like a girl in a museum I'm drawn to his pictures - those inadequate reproductions hypnotize me
What can pictures give? Coal-blue eyes, a knowing look. They exist, for me, like Cassandra of Troy, full of endless secrets that can never be told.
A snowy, ice slickened, twilight-blue rush hour parade - hundreds of grimy cars rushing, rushing ... somewhere.
Why do the details I can't remember haunt me so?
A flash of light, the tearing of metal like the screaming of dogs in a reeling, devouring dance of energy.
The nuclear family detonating with death inches away.
Everyone was asking, "What do you remember?"
"I don't know," 7 year old me said.
Sometimes, as I fall asleep, memories of him - which I hold dear - come to me like the ghosts of departed friends. Image after image in the embracing dark.
Why is it the further away you get, the more I need you?
Those images and that voice are strangely silent in the morning as I'm, once again, awakened to a world I'd rather reassemble.
#13: Close One, & Cigars
To the accords of The Book of Life ... cheers,
loose ends of the created stoic string
crisscross a heedless sea of empty tears.
In the facade of guilt, all seems trifling.
Metallica Horizons all are round,
languages changing from their Mother Tongues,
World Clock, reassemble to Zero down.
New tastes, new sounds ... The Song of Flower Drums
from Southerners, not quite, the cowboy type.
Bowls bleed of beets, ... have fun chow from Macao.
Americans, ... where? ... flagless world, all hype ...
Russians, Chinese, there ... steak, Mindanao.
Ex-lives work as one, building their Starships,
human chain meant Starman ... breathing room trips.