Long Recoils Poems
Long Recoils Poems. Below are the most popular long Recoils by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Recoils poems by poem length and keyword.
Love's sacrificed on the altar of pride,
when you dismissed any feelings of pain.
For your arrogance denied love had died,
convincing yourself I'm acting insane.
The truth lies buried, hiding your intent,
as you ignore the anguish in my cries.
And the stain of deceit marked love's descent;
as flattery and lies clouded my eyes.
Naive about the status of love's fate,
innocence had me pursuing a dream.
And jumping ahead, unwilling to wait,
I naively took trust to the extreme.
A promise grown old when hope was still young,
love, isn't always forever, as fabled.
For when lies get spun by a silver tongue,
feelings are seldom correctly labeled.
As the depths of despair contort my mood;
my ego, no longer rejects the truth.
And my heart recoils, for sex, becomes lewd,
contrary to the delusions of youth.
If I will talk to myself, well I will
And I do,
As the spring of my mattress
Recoils; I get up
Put on my shoes
Left,right,left,right
Tight they march
At my words
O my word
Three-hundred and,
and sixty-five
The tears held back
What is the point
To talking to you
When the peas
Deep dived, from the oversized
Can, leaving just enough
For the salad and ashes
Left, right, left, right
Five months go
And dark circles appear
In the corners
And the morning smothers
Early Hallow-
een, and March
brings screams
If I will talk to myself, well I will
And I do,
As the spring of my mattress
Recoils
And I get up…and I get up
5/11/2022
PUPPETMASTER
I am not the hat on the white face clown,
nor the leather from my boots screaming in quarantine.
The ancient maize recoils with thoughts of its collusion.
Nowhere in the scriptures does it say…follow me, and your
path will be strewn with water in flames.
Faces in stone grin beneath the midnight sun,
a pallor cast over the frozen words of our fathers.
Jugglers in the bazaar disappear, the weight of their
burdens turn to ashes.
The past lies littered with soiled heroes, warnings
echoed from deep within the walls of shame.
In daylight, even laughter fails to lift the rock that crushes
the morning sun….forever blind.
Still, the birds sing from tree to tree, their songs
a reminder of goodness that never dies.
In this late hour, the sun returns to set, sunshine bows in
grand gesture to the darkness, as my strings are forever cut.
11/15/10
9:22pm
© All Rights Reserved
The murmur of voices rises to a cacophony
The start of the walk is imminent
Boots laced, sticks at the ready, rucksacks on backs
The human train heads for the hills
The ascent begins along a rocky track
Poles in ones and twos offer support to experienced legs
Step by step, breath by breath
Ever upward they climb
The viewpoint beckons the leader to stop
Birdsong competes with the drone of traffic far below
The invisible elastic stretched to the limit
Recoils as the back marker arrives
An organic modern art display
On the golf links’ mown grass canvas
Slate soldiers stand to attention
Patrolling boundaries between field and heath
At the Druid circle café lunch is free
A hare freezes on seeing the newcomers before speeding away
A sheep baas its resentment of the intrusion
Refuelled the human train regroups for the onward trek
Nature’s palette of wildflowers announces spring
The coconut aroma of gorse confuses the mind
Yet out at sea the mechanical springtime is permanent
Windfarms harvest the invisible crop
Buzzards, skylarks and house martins fly the moorland airspace
While curlews, wagtails and oystercatchers hug the water’s edge
Wild ponies roam the moors, foals shadowing their mothers
A bleating lamb separated from its maternal security is reunited
Red shell markers turn to blue
Coastal route goes shoreline
Manicured lawn paths morph into a paving slab jigsaw
As walkers reach the finale
And then finishing line crossed
Weary satisfaction after eighteen thousand steps
Boots off – that moment of ecstasy
The long walk achieved
Whose “image and likeness”
I ache as my spirit recoils, denies
the truth of what we have become.
…in his image and likeness..
surely there could not be
a “god” so disfigured, so ugly
as to hate its offspring,
send assassins into our midst,
fill our “prayers” with doubt and distress
sicken our spirits with the apathy of acquiescence,
abandon us to our acceptance of evil.
I grieve all death as it depletes
the fullness of our entwined spirits
drains the sap from our tree of life
denies a never formed branch existence
depletes the chorus of its fullness.
I weep in sorrow for the body of man
bleeding slowly from self inflicted wounds
blinded by the horror that it sees
unable to fulfill life’s simplest need
consumed with petty enmity and hate
children the sacrificial lambs of fate.
I am angry with this “disfiguring” god
enraged that he would tar us with this brush
paint caricatures of our souls
default dominion - this worlds debauchery.
I am appalled that men can do to men
such that the soul would favor hell
over living in the squalor of despair
seeking mercy from a god who’s disappeared.
John G. Lawless
6/19/2015
You are King of the Hill!
A full eight years done with teachers in a private school!
You are not foul-mouthed nor spoiled.
Everyone you meet, thinks the world of you, nobody recoils!
You are not going to an ordinary high school,
Where you have to apologize for being white nor step down
academically, too.
Nor will you study the destruction
of the American flag or be taught new, faux, history.
Nor is your sex a mystery, you know you are, a boy, to which I
I am ever grateful, there is no mystery!
An immense star in Little League you proved to be!
Not only for the a ball you throw at 80 miles per hour, we see.
But your amicability and friendships with many,as welcome as
fresh, Spring flowers be.
You will be no moron, Grandson, in a nutty high school.
But one of the best and brightest!
Why?
You only honor and play by God's rules.
The Bible, being your life's tool!
I miss that little boy I once held in my arms.
That's the blessing of being a Nana, who still feels your warmth..
The most blessed~experiencing her grandsons's Linfinite charms.
With all my respect and love, dearest Edward!
Nana Pangie
~Thank you for coming into my life~
I have lived my entire life suppressing squeamish hurls.
My cringe that never ends startles, falters and recoils.
I would like people's internal body substances properly contained
but cannot even escape vile as piled by family and pets in upsets.
Slithering, slimy reptiles are so very, entirely ugly
their looks even hurt the feelings of their mommy's.
Televised close-ups of intrusive surgeries are so yucky
I must close my eyes to keep funky from my tummy.
Someone screaming terror, alive and sobbing in a coffin,
puts my sanity through a horrendous, endless haunting.
In public I cringe straight to furious seething when
an adult fist threatens an innocent little her or him.
Flinching happens, sometimes accompanied by a scream
and while it's not great, it at least validates my heart rate.
Listless, languid, bridled heart
Saddled with yesterday's sorrows
Shackling stirrups hold my feet in drowning quicksand
Monotonous misery holds the reins of my fate
Haltered by grief; lassoed by suffering
Struggling as every bit of pain pulsates through my mind
Each rope, each strand pulls tighter the yarns of pricked spirit
Choked by the collar of despondency around my swollen glands
The trail is spliced with calamitous lifemarks
Fragile fronds of suffocating twine bind my steps
Asphyxiating plumes of acid flood my wounded soul
Dissonant chords warp senses; sounding melancholy chime
Body recoils as oppressive memories torture my psche
My restive thoughts are bound by the unforgiving chains of time
Pending doom wraps it's coils around my inner being
Smothering the promise of a brighter tomorrow
A shadow walks where silence bends,
With whispering ghosts that call as friends.
The mirror lies with fractured grace,
A thousand eyes behind one face.
He hums a song that no one hears,
Drowning doubt in static fears.
Clocks melt slow, then race ahead—
Each second stitched with ancient dread.
A prophet’s tongue in twisted speech,
Reaches truths we cannot reach.
Reality’s thread, too thin to bind,
Unravels slow inside his mind.
What cage could hold a world so wide?
What map could chart the rift inside?
The crowd recoils, they do not see
The cost of fractured clarity.
He laughs. He weeps. He disappears.
And dreams alone for all our fears.
I never thought I would write about a virus,
A pandemic turning the world into a circus.
They say great events cast their shadows before,
I tend to agree as coronavirus assumed the fore.
Not by accident, as most world leaders declared,
But by design to set the stage for what was made.
And give the world a different shape; another face!
Some names will fade and disappear from every race.
Some names will rise, and some will fall,
To set the world at their beck and call.
They say, ‘Evil recoils upon evil doers’
Be them individuals, or super powers.
Their lives shall never be beds of roses,
As man proposes, and God disposes.