Long Regulated Poems
Long Regulated Poems. Below are the most popular long Regulated by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Regulated poems by poem length and keyword.
Pitching a leg across the nether
Of a pretty appaloosa or possibly
A chestnut bay who needs to know
That she’s being ridden by someone
Who will take her through the paces,
Strides both gentle and regulated
By a walk, a canter, a gallop, a sprint
Where she feels all her steps
Light, loose and limber as liquid love
That rains down from a heart who
Gives this mare the greatest rides
Through meadows, across hills
Into the kindness of life filled with
Delights, pleasures, sweetest bliss
Brought to life on the back end
Of a horse who listens to the kindness
Whispered through laughter, light
Chortles felt by the spirit who believes
“cowgirl up” brings plenty of dreams
To life on the back of a mount who needs
Only to be ridden without restriction
By a rider who knows the key to any heart
Is found at the end of a set of reins
Where equine love trots into command
Poetry In Motion Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Matt Caliri
December 23, 2022
The sand from the hourglass is slipping through the cracks between my fingers.
as I track my time in increments,
regulated, rhythmic, redundant.
the weekends coming,
it’s almost winter break.
I think, as I fail to realize that I am watching time pass me by
like I'm standing on the side of the road watching the cars drive by
instead of being in one,
controlling the wheel and pressing the gas.
I catch a glimpse of an empty car parked on the side of the road,
desperately scrambling towards it,
my hair whipping around my face,
obscuring my vision,
clouding my judgement.
I try and try and try to push it away—
but it keeps coming back.
drive, drive, drive,
a voice tells me.
as I steady my shivering, shaking hands grasping the wheel.
don't,
my hair hisses.
encircling my face with the grip of a vice
tighter, and tighter, then black.
After all these years,
is this poetry?
Words written down on paper,
sketched with ink and pen,
inching along a blank page,
exerting feeling and emotion,
sadness, laughter, tears
and even melancholia.
Prose and poetry cannot be regulated
by rules and guidelines and grammar.
The mind drifts in inner contemplation
circumspect with life lessons.
The heart beats with anticipation
cognizant of living life well.
The spirit wisps in the breeze
clutching, holding onto the wind.
The soul languishes
in search of meaning
and purpose
of futures yet to be
of pasts now lost
and recoverable.
Is this poetry?
Only the reader knows.
That’s what she calls herself
who boasts of the longest reigning monarchy in the world,
producing a short of one to twenty Nobel Prize winners
as only two colleagues beat her to global wealth.
Her buttocks sit on the red hot coal
of the deadly pacific ring of fire.
Her cultural and innovative influence,
already clinging on global corners with their webs.
The sushi, sashimi and the tempura;
the karate, judo, sumo and ninjutsa;
the Toyota, Sony, Nintendo, canon and Panasonic,
all testaments of her hands of influence.
She’s a home to over six thousand pieces
resting on large waters to stay as one.
Three-fourth of her landscape is forests or mountains
and so industrious to make possible the Asimo.
Her short poems have been globally popularized
with almost every of her citizens literate,
while some of her streets still remain nameless.
She must have acquired lots of black cats
to reach such a height of civilization and power;
Beauty comes with teeth not quite regular,
visiting the vending machine to satisfy ones need for a beer,
possessing the largest trade center for fish in the world
but publicly blowing the nose and tearing off a gift’s wrap
converts her cool countenance into a bad mood.
She has centers for drinking and taking alcoholic shots
so also for enjoying the fluid of lactation for adults.
Ironing a shirt with a speed of light
is her special craft and yardstick for a serious competition.
Population of pets outweigh that of children;
her appetite for Basashi and expenses for the melons
invite controversy to any form of human reasoning.
Immigration then is highly regulated
to give continuity to such traditional and economic history.
ping.
transitory hysteria—
just a check in
automated, fabricated,
robotic inhuman software
conscripted to, destitute
of mortal empathy.
nevermore your communication
yet condemned to hope.
reticence prolonged anew—
boundless, asystolic display,
pulseless heart
undesired, inconspicuous.
isochronous laxness stemmed
inconcurrent pure affection.
adoration inequitable,
hanging time itself
costing soul and morals
for your gratification.
ping.
amperages of delirium,
spasm of pleasure, cardiovert
mechanical thumping afresh
owing to invariable closure.
retina regulated to contact—
titillations unparalleled
abstract surpassing acumen.
ingenious mayday, wholly
for schooled minds,
lapses to neglect by all.
ablution, deterring loathing
of own stupidity, yet
detrimenting tranquil sanity.
personal beguilement, reiteratively,
“I love you,” an utterance
seldom transcribed from them,
devoid of inevitability.
edge pressed to tissue,
unseamed cephalic vessel
surges sanguine fluid
cruelly ironic, amassing atop
the very accessory
of inconversable love.
anaemically ascertaining
for anguishes and sorrows,
saline flaps flutter in irrevocability.
cadaverous repose,
unfettered.
ping.
ping.
ping.
ping.
ping.
Lithesome steps lead me to an ancient
temple
Perched across a bay, weeds and
hyacinths curl between my feet,
Where mist refills bowl of cotton clouds
As rustling breeze ascends on skyline's ladder.
In stillness, I lounge on the pew to whisper unsaid psalmic devotions
for a world which aches for calmer
retreat--
That I reach a peak where the mind
becomes absent--
Then I hear them , a medley of peals
Lifting me higher in regulated tempo from gong
rhythms,
A music swelling in warm temperance Until warm kiln of light and radiant
fireflies stir my kundalini.
On this treasured moment, a sentient
energy
Cleanses my beingness from past sins -- mortal and venial-
That I listen to the clang of my inner child's soft echoes entering my veins:
Somewhere in blank spaces, bells swing of
innocent laughter...a treble,
a clap
bringing me to the kindness of youth,
And my body stays quiet, welcoming this rite of
passage on days when the spirit calls for an
interlude's break...a meditative
connection with
the self--
without the need to speak.
Schools, drive-byes, and churches shooting is this really what man is doing.
Pig livers, baboon hearts, Rowe v. Wade is this medical progress who is to say.
Physician assistance terminally ill is this murder or humane and good will.
Addicts, gays and lesbian ways ignorance created the disease called aids.
Family values, Murphy Brown Political issues so renown.
Nuclear power, atomic bombs it is a wonder man has survived this long.
Black men, Jews and Japanese all races have suffered similar tragedies.
Devastation, revelation man has created his own damnation.
Martin Luther's, JFK's and Gondi's views might be why they were put away.
Segregated, regulated no one is the same all must become as one under god's domain
Just because I'm working on my mental health
Doesn't mean I think I'm better than a person who chooses to stay unwell
It just means
I'm working on my internal dialog daily, and I'm not perfect, at the very least, well.
I'm working on making myself content with knowing the past versions of myself
For instance,
Today, I had to set a 5-minute timer to allow myself to wallow in my own guilt surrounding yesterday's choices
This my sweet little psyche always chooses to think and ruminate on during the worst times and hours of the following day
90% dramatized, I guess I should say
Apparently, I really need to feel that sharp impale during the 5 minutes of living today's moments with yesterday's guilt and shame, during
that timeout period
I chose to take today with yesterday's pain that is actually 10% real
This I realize when I am out of my anxiety driven panic state because
let's face it, when we're in it
Time's just an illusion; the world is ending and
The sky is falling yet still
I am stopping to focus on
Yesterday's spilled milk? Haha
Guilt...
I hate you
You make me lose moments in days
Focusing on hours you already claimed
To re-live feelings that were derived from
False impersonations of the characters those
past versions of me played
Why the heck am I still walking onto this unappealing, applaud lacking stage
Only to draw center to all things I wished I could reclaim
Guilt, you are the main villain in this play
Still, you, too, have a significant role to play
So yeah, I'm working daily on myself
The thing is guilt, regret, and shame are just reoccurring roles
I sometimes get in costume to play and recreate, for those 5-minute timeouts I need to take
In those moments, I feel unwell
I think it's a way to keep me regulated and on the forever path to improving wellness within myself
It's more a timed woe is me opportunity
As I still have to take a bow out and do a few oh hell no's
To save my sanity
He was a desperate man but no desperado
Desperate to keep his secrets, and his life to himself.
He needed help, but refused to ask.
Pride kept him from revealing his truth.
He had been taught to not share feelings.
He kept quiet and his own counsel.
He had stopped eating, but that was his business.
He did not sleep any more, he kept this to himself also.
Cancelled doctor’s appointments and stopped going to church.
Kept himself at home, becoming reclusive and silent.
Did not answer the phone any more
His best friend came over a few times, but he pretended he was not home.
Depression had taken over, adding to his pain and his desperation.
Alone and in pain, he took a combination of self-regulated pills.
Some should have never been mixed.
He took his cancer out the only way he knew how
Making his own path to heaven.
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