Long Reconstructed Poems
Long Reconstructed Poems. Below are the most popular long Reconstructed by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Reconstructed poems by poem length and keyword.
My Cousin Chaos
What cousin incest I am my own chaos
too much unpredictable prediction not to be cosmic
comical maybe the anarchy the drive for comprehension
and so much honest serious hilarious enjoyment
I am related to myself brother in arms mind and legs
on the journey to what where and because of
which fallacious fragmentation reconstructed
polar posited complementing contradictions
She or he who searches seeks the clown jester uncertain certainty
father mother sibling offspring un-othering completion
takes domination pseudo-science’s conjectures
concatenating refutations of the blinding path and vision
The butterfly who flaps the wings the roots to fly
propels the grounded theories of places times
in foresight hindsight blind-sight sentinel sensation
full of telling meaning narrative enlivened imperceptibility
Embraces cuddles rejects rejection rediscovers lost
and lonely loving horizontal longitude the lateral
collateral imprisonment of iron cages rational irrational
emotional confinement liberation freedom from and of
Enshrines in effervescent transcendental condensation
of what perspires inspires transpires in the illuminated
darkness boxes ignorant lamenting shallow high rise entities
makes love to sensual cognition consensual chaos
Or is it co-sin cuisine havoc’s Karma dishy chaperone
and chastised illusion disordered fusion fission
elemental monument harmonious disintegration musky
tall minuscule order rising falling standing firm
When thereafter now again before and yet again I loose
the plotting pot containing potty madness sane insanity
I ask my cousin and the loopy loops and square shaped circles
question the Universe that stays aloof precise and altogether mine
02nd June
he got up at bedtime stretched and gathered the sheets
shook up the pillows sorted the pages and went to his desk
thoughts and emotions dripped from fine ink on paper
looked at a day’s worth of poetry philosophy and reflection
laced with emotions intuition and balance to be embraced
when he stumbled on seeming inconsistencies and doubts
he tickled his fancy with a feathered quill and let out a sigh
arranged reconstructed and narrated what should have been
meanwhile the roof was leaking and the fireplace was in ashes
for he was poor and his writings would never pay the bills
a mouldy loaf starred at him when he opened the fridge
at least the electricity supply had not yet been disconnected
his heart warmed with pleasure at the sight of some pasta
no sauce and no cheese but a drop of milk for his thirst
food for thought would carry him through hours of hunger
metaphors happily mingled with synonyms and anagrams
states of subconscious flow enlightened transcendence
grammatical constraints had never been his strongest suit
and he was still in his nightgown exuding musk and dust
a lonely semicolon was confused as it looked for its place
cheap coffee and a few fags encouraged further creations
of a lost wonder world with dreams and mysterious events
he would shape his past and his future in fantasy and magic
shed normative pressures conventions and crude dogma
leave them in plain sight to remind him of his true calling
he sought independence and freedom rather than money
critiqued and portrayed the sad state of deceptive affairs
that surrounded him unless he dipped deep into the inkpot
scratched and scribbled prologues sequences and an epitaph
maybe one day he might be given kind posthumous acclaim
30th August 2020
Sponsor: William Kekaula
Contest: All In A Day
You come to me, again
in the midnight hours feigned
where only darkness and control reigns,
and life seems soured resignations
to unfulfilled expectations
that fill the nation with dissension and conflagrations,
some seek truth alone on which to rely,
others readily accept the lie
what conspiracies lay in disguise?
Clear your mind, open wide your heart
this was not the plan at the very start
of a free republic to be set apart
from acceptance and stagnant dependent rule
recalling historic lessons from school
now changed and reconstructed to fool
actions quite the mystery
as the past becomes rewritten history
extinguishes the dream that only becomes trickery.
no I am not merchandise
I'm not a tool a piece of furniture
I am awakened I am a thought
I am humanities process I am covered in filth and shame
I am dirty yet I remain
a flickering flame an encased rock
one of the breath of God a spark
from his mouth a tittle a flowing raindrop
from his heart I ference I am detained
I am a human being
though I am a vessel
A vase a pottery a clay full of the spirit of God
made whole born with a soul
I have fallen until the ground
and as I am broken
God removed me He puts the pieces back together
so I'm fine to be the chosen vessel
to be reconstructed to be learned a lesson
I am a blessing I am a stone
made of dirt and clay a rock
with the Breath of God in Me
I am shorn busted up put back together by my Father
I am not a slave nor was I made to be auctioned off
I cannot be bought I am not sold
I am made wonderfully made birth
kissed of God the breath that air of life
from his mouth flows through my nostrils
into my lungs as I become... a living Rock
8/21/21
Written words by James Edward Lee Sr © 2021
I used to write like
Jack Kerouac.
Words
crumbling down
paper.
Stark thoughts
marked
by dots
and dashes.
Flashes of schoolyard brilliance
The hill I would
climb over
to be
someone different.
I never saw life
through a dot.
LSD.
My father
was on mushrooms,
when he and my mother
created me.
Psychedelic sperm
meets
bitter weed
infested ovum.
BANGED
into existence.
Transient spirit
sloughing off
afterbirth long
after I hit
the cold.
I have chased
paper
ever since.
Dipping my bones
in ink.
To paint a
masterpiece
of you.
Broken, homeless, loveless,
privileged, safe, warm,
sheltered, shattered
reconstructed.
All in a backdrop
of perfection.
An abundant Earth
housing an
ungrateful patient.
Most of us,
doctored
unconscious
sedated.
Waiting for
something
to wake us
up.
My own words
often
broken and
falling off.
Leaving only
snapshots.
I get ties and
sketches
along the
road.
I would bargain
my dreams
for pious acceptance
and my revelations
for wicked
indulgent
self
flagellation.
I have been
bound to my
vision
of exclusion
behind an
iron fence of
history.
Trapped
in pages.
Tapped and
wasted.
I used to write
as if I didn't
I would die.
On my knees
shattered
under
that perfect
silent sky.
Head bowed
shoulders cowed
frail and pasty.
Screaming
raging
breaking pages
with my pen.
Attempting to bring
black and white
to color.
Now I write,
because
I die.
A thousand times
with you.
Its glorious!
Over your
unfinished portraits.
Your shortcuts
your detours
your ache
your lust,
and your mindless
wandering.
Beautiful
and championed.
I pray to make
my prose like
a Sistine Chapel
after all,
you deserve
it!
Only to fall
very far from
grace.
At the
Inadequacy
I have
at coloring
your face.
I used to write
like Jack Kerouac,
jotting a shot
of you
in between
heaven.
But I figured out
that I would
rather capture
my own
splinter.
And be satisfied with
a sliver of you,
than die like him
at forty-seven.
When I was child I remember thinking the flu shot was a cure.
Boy was I wrong.
The Flu Shot is meant to prepare your immune system by allowing a version of the virus inside to prepare for a potentially deadly virus in the future.
God is great. He blessed us with nothing less or more than we can handle.
Personally, I think God planned for me and her to meet.
She was my flu shot.
God knew how much I believed in "True Love".
He also knew my Faith in "love" could potentially break me.
And so, his plan was set in motion.
He was to put forth a woman so beautiful to me, I would believe in Angels.
A woman with such a beautiful soul I would not only look past her imperfections, but fall in love with them.
A woman so lovely she would make my dreams become reality.
But only a dream it was, and soon to be nightmare.
I almost did not have the strength to climb out of the love pit I sank in.
It was not my broken heart that was holding me back from moving on.
It was my broken foundation of existence.
It took many rain falls for me to realize my foundation was not broken.
It was not even shaken.
It was reconstructed.
God gave me a choice. I could believe she was the right one or she was the right one to learn from.
I decided to choose the later...and thanked God for my flu shot.
We’d like to think some angel smiling down
will watch him as his arm bleeds in the yard,
ripped off by dogs, will guide his tipsy steps,
his doddering progress through the scarlet house
to tell his mommy “boo-boo!,” only two.
We’d like to think his reconstructed face
will be as good as new, will often smile,
that baseball’s just as fun with just one arm,
that God is always Just, that girls will smile,
not frown down at his thousand livid scars,
that Life is always Just, that Love is Just.
We just don’t want to hear that he will shave
at six, to raze the leg hairs from his cheeks,
that lips aren’t easily fashioned, that his smile’s
lopsided, oafish, snaggle-toothed, that each
new operation costs a billion tears,
when tears are out of fashion. O, beseech
some poet with more skill with words than tears
to find some happy ending, to believe
that God is Just, that Love is Just, that these
are Parables we live, Life’s Mysteries . . .
Or look inside his courage, as he ties
his shoelaces one-handed, as he throws
no-hitters on the first-place team, and goes
on dates, looks in the mirror undeceived
and smiling says, “It’s me I see. Just me.”
He smiles, if life is Just, or lacking cures,
Your pity is the worst cut he endures.
But hack him down and still he’ll always rise,
lifting his smile to the sun or the star-filled skies.
Published by Lucid Rhythms, The Eclectic Muse and Victorian Violet Press, then nominated by the latter for the Pushcart Prize
I’ve mastered the art of the double knot
forgotten most of what I’ve been taught
my cuffs are frayed by elbows worn
my favorite jacket sewed where torn
the holes in my jeans – work put them there.
I didn’t pay extra for a fashionista tear
The words that I speak are simple and true
yet those that will listen are distant and few
now sadly it seems that in moments pensive
“someone” finds what I said “somehow” offensive
to someone who lives in a past “reconstructed”
or worse in a world that’s been “self” destructed.
I’ve worked for the planet – forever recycled
and before it was “fashionable” – yes! I bi-cycled
through traffic and pot holes in sunshine and rains
over crisscrossing tracks of ever late trains
through the streets of the city, the suburbs – for fun
cuz my knees hurt so much I could no longer run.
I drove tiny cars that strained on hills steep
no activist here – I was just cheap
So after you rant and rave and shout
Gather your sneakers and throw them all out
John G. Lawless
©12/15/2021
THE CONDITION WE LIVING IN:Part 1:
The condition we living in,
Kindly ponder over it…?
Hello, Isn`t it intriguing to see the nation loss of hope?
The powers of oneness is no more in existence,
The spirit of patriotism is cast under sections of canalizations,
And everyone seems to put on bright eyes enforced by a grin on a face?
In fact, that’s just a mirage of uncertainties.
The individual heart is yoked with disappointments and depression.
It seems the nation have given up on her benchmark,
Only to pursue paganism as a solution.
Truth is lost in the mouth of our ignorant leaders.
Yet, they come to spit words of promises to propagate relief.
The nation is now reconstructed with deceptions, favoritism and jeopardy.
This is causing millions to be poverty-stricken,
And also plaguing livelihoods with extreme maleficence.
Indeed, this is the condition we living in.
History books rewritten,
pages turned, truths overturned.
Past reconstructed.
Memories are planted like seeds,
carefully cultivated.
Reality harvested.
Leaders cast long shadows,
dark spots conveniently erased.
Selective illumination.
Monuments rise and fall,
stone faces weather time.
Legacies carved in flux.
Archives are sealed tight,
skeletons locked in national closets.
Dust settles on truth.
Oral traditions whisper
voices echo through generations.
Unwritten resistance.
Media spins its web,
catching minds in sticky narratives.
Information trapped.
Textbooks sanitised,
rough edges smoothed away.
Comfortable fictions.
Anniversaries observed,
some celebrated, others buried.
Time's biased march.
Nostalgia is a rose-tinted lens,
focusing on the golden ages.
Present found wanting.
Trauma is passed down,
And cellular memory encoded.
Inherited burdens.
Collective amnesia spreads,
Convenient forgetfulness is contagious.
Society's blind spots.
Memory becomes a battlefield,
mind's eye the spoils of war.
Consciousness colonised.
Yet, truth persists,
stubborn seeds in concrete cracks.
Remembrance rebels.