Long Refashioned Poems
Long Refashioned Poems. Below are the most popular long Refashioned by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Refashioned poems by poem length and keyword.
Love’s Sonnet
Tattered womb, shred by sharp blades of regret,
Weighed down by rough millstones, dark as shame,
Pale dawn stumbles from midnight to forget -
Stinging acids scar through showers of blame.
A whisper of consolation murmurs,
Infused with the incense of compassion,
A harbinger of enchanted grace demurs
Spellbound, purified enigmas refashioned
Love, like a lyric – a lady in waiting –
Steps out of ebony’s clinging shadows
Releasing hard night with nightmares abating
The pall of shrouds rent by empathy’s glow.
The chivalry of love – a silk caress –
Eternal perfection, fulfills love’s quest.
When this cold, broken world is healed of its sins,
and flooded with light and the warmth of your grace,
When all is reborn and remade for forever,
and time's paralyzing fear is erased from reality,
When you raise my humble body for an endless celebration -
a dance, a song, a heart-bursting Hosanna -
When you make all things right ...
Will I still wear my scars?
My scalded flesh ... it is all I have known.
Shall it be refashioned into flawless skin?
What age will I be? How skinny? How fat?
I have been many things, and there is more I could be ...
Forgive my curiosity, for I know it matters little.
Better to focus on shepherding the fragile soul you gave me.
I leave my future body to your hands.
It, as all else, is your gift to give.
4 February 2024
when everyone has nothing
we will fight for scraps of bread
while the dogs are eating gourmet food
our school kids dine on things long dead
when all of “us” are equal
except the ones on top
we’ll eat the roots and spit the dirt
while “they” consume the crop
when all the words are “numbered”
with a level of “perception”
the talking heads and asses
will use mathematical deception
when the minds of children
are constrained by “liars” truth
and street corner rantings
the lonely voice of youth
there will be a rebellion
not of weapons but of words
refashioned into ploughshares
the uprising - tongues as swords
when everyone has nothing
something must cease to be
when everyone has closed their eyes
only the blind will see
John G. Lawless
©3/14/2018
He ranked as de facto semiprecious,
tremulous and unanimous scapegoat
bullied by a bumptious, callous,
disputatious hippopotamus of a brat
infamous bruiser later in his life to become
forty fifth president of UnIted States.
Though documentation incomplete, the un
named subject referred within torn shred
recovered included signatory couching
ambiguous references to a tenebrous,
unscrupulous, and vicious wiseass initials.
Dee Tee quickly intuitively assessed
as one inhumane specimen, whose pugnacious,
pretentious, and pestiferous, persona characterized
impetuous, adulterous apprenticeship appetite
for erecting phallic skyscrapers.
This once pacific pilloried pupil, whose grown
son (myself), now recalls father's misty eyed
anecdotes dripping with acrimonious, curmudgeonly
grouchy, grizzly and crotchety old sorries,
viz refashioned abominable kamikaze
psychological sorties.
I can vividly recall (how painful unto his old age)
oft daddy's repeated quotidian taunts, whereby
that bad ass, acidulous, avaricious, contemptuous,
enormous, and grievous big boy trumpeting
bruiser exuded devious, heinous, libelous, and
parsimonious tightwad, though born into wealth.
What If There Was No Tomorrow? - The Polar Ice ‘Cap’
- this time it’s burnt and curled upon a new head. The
sweet smoke of his sugarloaf effigy black as night,
surrounded by a material red trim, below Parliament houses
blows political greed into fiery smouldering smithereens –
then it floated and landed after years, drifting, onto
the crown of a man: a business man portraying
wealth and class; here it sat above suit and below sun. The
American dream swirled with scotch and the tip of a bowler,
only for the same piece (restyled of coursed) to later sell for
pounds to make the pupils of any impoverished person pop:
his Hamburg with a knowing dent in back, how it span and
spun from black to grey and back again around Hill’s peak
to be dyed again and tilted just so. Now it’s pillbox pink and a knitted
O of a name/shape-sake that covers her head where her husband
had a target upon his. Watermelon-pink colour dye actually: the very
same fruit palette of brain cradled in her hands at high speed.
This latest star attraction of Burgdorf’s no doubt was, decades
prior, nothing but a mix of lifeless green and sludge brown from
grass and cud - metallic dead daises ducking over No Man’s
Land. A Brodie: styled on a not-yet-pulled pin grenade atop
beads of sparkling sweat, dripping slipping salt where now
a pedal controlled sewing machine stabs and pins sequins into
veils that hide brides with (it must be said) the same success
that protected Fawkes’ Plot or Churchill’s reputation or
Jackie’s husband and the slaughtered soldiers’ skulls - but
still the accessories twist into fascinators fancy enough for
mothers to weep below, only to find the box dish or bow
to be knocked akilter during the traditional bouquet mad
dash - then up – up – up! into the air before landing anew,
refreshed as a Gatsby or Hijab, perhaps a Trilby or Zucchetto;
better yet, the Boater or Sailor we’ll need when the hat that covers
all our heads smoulders and peaks when next dented and melted: a
loose grenade we can’t be veiled from, nor refashioned nor restyled
when the next season’s must have
will be a copper and bolt
protective Diving Mask
for the drowning tomorrow
from The Polar Ice 'Cap'.