Long Refractive Poems
Long Refractive Poems. Below are the most popular long Refractive by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Refractive poems by poem length and keyword.
his lean equine face with dust-brown eyes
defines hardship
a gaunt frame
undernourished
he squats on city pavement
there in the crook of his neck and shoulder
a white bird
cradled, stroked
cooing
"I bought the dove with my can money when the pet store
closed."
he shakes his can of coins at me like keys jingling
at locked doors
a delicate coarseness
this vagabond
human haven
for a white dove
something sacred
that's he's obliged to care for
that spikes sustainable
refractive light at how we view others
cut by luck decomposing
as sunlight squeezes into city hatchways
into stories we don't own
into a soiled world that sometimes
falls away like hands from a piano
Poem composed July 3, 2023
When you stare at a full moon,
does it map a heart distracted?
does it bear grief-thoughts
caught by light refractive?
does it shred a net of self protection?
is it a lunar mirror of your own reflection?
A glow to seize the brass ring of one's attention
Tell me, does your settled glance kick start
solumn meditation?
Do you ponder a kneeling peace of enviable salvation?
Is a world in fractions a baffling link, distraction?
Or is a stare uncharted, simply wonder drifting?
A gaze that softly moulds your face in night.
Lumbering moments to close the buzzing chords
of blight
Questions unanswered that seal the wounded
light
Poem revised: February 15, 2021
Strikingly Naked
By Odin Roark
Voicing the reflection one sees insures
the facade really is,
was,
must have been.
Time passes…
How smoky the reflection,
this aging identity of accumulated distortion,
where once perception played innocently,
found disguises to hide behind,
who now past the age of innocence,
sees the exposed abyss of shadowed deceptions.
Such awareness knows well the mirror,
where cognizance of the make-believe
beckons the right light,
the flattering shade,
the required eye-sparkle of denial,
no matter the reality.
At some point…
Behind the rehearsed and performed persona,
we raise the inner window
revealing the self-of-fact,
that place where we gulp
what air is left,
sucking up any reserved willingness
blowing in from subterranean shores
to help beat back our self-imposed exile.
One surges forward…
Pulls open the only door
the entrance we feared opening,
an opening your inner monologue
always whispered was there
but you chose to remain imprisoned
by the mirror.
Revelation…
The door now open,
leads to other doors,
so small they seem
as you bend, crawl,
find other rooms,
windowless cubbyholes,
where night sweats
and endless reprieves
once kept you breathing,
albeit your own recycled dead air.
How rewarding…
To see for the first time,
your own recidivist delusions
reverberating like shattered emulations,
blinding your eyes with its refractive light,
burning through regrettable behavior imprisoned,
where no steel bars were ever necessary,
where a place of truth awaited,
a wilderness you are finally ready to explore.
Such is the manifest moment…
When you couldn't be so strikingly naked,
had you not kept yourself so carefully dressed
all those years.
F l y i n g
a sailing tailwind
through cerulean streams
and creamsicle colored beams—
are wings reflective
of the turquoise truth
and white purity
of Autumn’s ether
he aviates
a clear troposphere
riding an unbridled
capricious and combative
boreas
on the cusp
of a new season
with a plumage infusion
of shifting Cape Cod skies
the blue jay mixes hues
with the Northern azure
that fades to shades
of turmoil
to the South and East—
becoming lost
in its milky breadth
its lilting light
its dimming depths
where the edge of rustic rural
meets the sandy ridge of conifers—crooked
twisted and back-bent
from gales
of salt-sprayed sorcery
Canadian bluster-gusts
leading the charge
of a cold sapphire crest
is bedeviled
offshore
by the raw
tongue-lashing spin
of a brooding onshore flow
twirling
a brewing brawl
whirling
in slate pearlescent space
s w i r l i n g
with the dusky feistiness
of stormy petrels…
mobs of darkening fog
growing fatter
on summer’s fainty surrender—
leftover tints of tender cornflower
and hints of dainty dove
there’s a sparkle
in the eye of the storm…
his mischievous black gaze
mirrors
the harsh harbinger
of commotion
clash and change—
his piercing “jay-jay” jabs
the maddening mayhem
of menacing air
with an emerald-needled sharpness
of wind-weary pitch pines
anchoring
the beige of coastal dunes
where his refractive blues
take cover
in colorful contrast
ahead
of the bruising
October nor’easter
Perceptions
What will the story be ?
Into the mysteries of the observing mind
one has to ponder, wonder just what kind
of tales, stories, beliefs will we see unfold
as the projections, the perceptions are told.
Will they be of nights, Knights on great white steeds ?
- of selfless acts, acts of compassion, understanding, of good deeds ?,
or will we see that they are black, cold, indifferent and cruel –
or just a man, - dressed as a mule – an aged, age old fool.
Will these Knightly images come at you in fierce
black storm clouds – thunder, the ears doth pierce.
Will your visions be of that great orb ?, and Helios’ steeds
bringing fire, passion, light – healing , filling your needs.
What will come across the impassioned – sky lit night ?,
that just might impress that third eye with insight.
Could all this be but an old, foolish man’s thought ?,
that in the final analysis, in the end, will come to not
for no one ?, will remember nor will they care,
nor will they be concerned about what is fare.
Down these rocky roads, some of us will go,
what we learn, will it be what we really know ?
Is the light – coming from within ? – to show
us, down life’s rough roads, alone we must go ?
Will a black hole become our future ?
Will shadows creep in from the past ?,
give us glimpses of - in refractive light - the present.
Will losses, changes, renewals be our guides towards the end ?
Will all this be guided by the hands of fate ?, will karma send
us on journeys, adventures ? education of the soul to mend ?
B. J. “A” 2
August 19th 2004