Long Recumbent Poems
Long Recumbent Poems. Below are the most popular long Recumbent by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Recumbent poems by poem length and keyword.
Astonishing power poised,
For the creature on the hilltop.
A sublime...robust arm reaches,
To a feebly...outstretched drooping limb.
A curve of force,
Outlines the arrival of God...as a cloud.
Opposed to the weary expressions of life,
And human lassitude of dust.
A lifeless hand rests on a youthful knee,
The body bent by its own weight,
The head and neck sunken within the shoulders,
A child-like face awaits glorious manifestation.
Upon the shoulders of the Cherubs,
The Creator grows nearer.
His fingertip extends a bit further.
Within an inch from one another,
The life-giving hand descends.
To the recumbent body of Man:
Mortal flesh...awakened by the divine breath.
________________________________
Inspired by The Creation of Man/Adam
By Michelangelo
I wave vaguely toward a boat in the distance, but
can't think of what I would say if they invited me on board.
"That seems excessive kindness," I say, but a voice laughs in my head,
"Yeah, but they'll never do that!" In its vacuum stare, a seagull
encourages me to think past my confusing options. I laugh pretty hard and
move on to the empty boardwalk overlooking the choppy waters, picking someone's trash as part of my civic duty, thinking "life's better in this barren habitat" and then am glued to a kite spinning wildly in the sky attached to a windsurfer riding the waves, suddenly disappearing and then resurfacing, has trouble unhooking the kite, saying to myself, "that's a good kite he should keep it" and then watch it fly like a free bird before crashing into the ocean. I walk past the sign that reads, "Sally was here today" wondering if she was blonde or brunette. I whisper in my head, "this place must do well in the Summer." Today it's silent, like our interior souls crushed by the disease. "We'll come ahead on this one. What made you look for water snake in this environment?" My father would have encouraged me that I was right, he was always delusional, always carried a small umbrella even in hot Summer days as a precaution. "You need to learn to manage your affairs better," his voice rings in my head. He loved his car and wanted to drive it to his own funeral. I see an old grill gummed up with ashes, wondering how many beachgoers it had pleased and all the stories it had to tell. "There was once a married couple who ate their burgers raw." The boardwalk turns into rocky sand, waiting to torture my bare feet, a seagull is looking purposefully at my predicament, perhaps chuckling,
"these helpless creatures."
Lend me the swiftness of your wings, so I can ride above
the foamy waves and sit on a humpback whale that lies still in
recumbent grace, sniffing you out. I am your maid and it does not take long
to try its patience. I hope you spare me your wet witching. You would have saved a squad of dolphins from their daily doldrum if you were game and
moved in their playful company.
Inaccessible solitude, I venture to conclude at random.
How is it that, come winter come spring,
in the wind and the sorrow, in the light and the dark,
when time passes and all sighs expire,
as the sun rises over all living things,
and the rivers flow into the bed of night,
while the stars splash light around the sky,
and the moon sighs over the sounding dusk,
still in every confluence of music and light,
in each footfall on the recumbent twilight,
the song of you, the song of you
unending, uninterrupted, unquenchable,
fills my heart with such precious memory
of everything and anything at all
that was ever you, that ever moved
through my life and filled my eyes:
always and forever, dear girl,
the miracle and mystery of you,
the song of love
the song of you.
Christopher M. Swan 2010
Time passed away in the dark,
the bedside clock fell silent
it was never much of a talker.
Below the curtained window
snow had numbed the night,
ill at ease my body stretched
as if seeking a way out of its mind
a place it inhabits
when there is only one room,
to turn around in.
Did the clock
die on the tic or the toc?
These are the sort of questions
to struggle with when it's too early
to actually struggle.
Switched on the lamp -
the one in my head.
Accumulations of amputated dreams
wriggled back into the shadows.
I shake the clock
some residual moments
slipped limply through cold fingers.
When the light freezes,
when dawn breaks its brittle shell,
snow humps (so far unseen),
will resemble the many recumbent hours,
but of course there's no way
to measure those hours now.
It could be days
before the snow melts
or until eyes unstick themselves
from all this rumpled mess
of being.