Long Regurgitated Poems
Long Regurgitated Poems. Below are the most popular long Regurgitated by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Regurgitated poems by poem length and keyword.
Toothless Dragons
And so the toothless dragons roar
tepid flames of apathy staining the air
regurgitated realities revisited
picked at in search of sustenance.
Circling, they do the hating dance
feet spurred to movement by heat
applied by flaming puppeteers
protecting the strength of their strings.
Moving - the flaccid jaws of acquiescence
beholden to the controller of the strings
paralyzed by the power of weakness
voice-less orators forever pontificating.
Dragons – seeking victory’s defeat
pure fire stolen and defiled
truth’s roar relinquished to their “keeper”
free flight denied to vision’s quest.
There is no power in the grip of power
no freedom in the clutch of lies
no wisdom in the sight of “blinders”
no teeth required of the pabulum fed.
John G. Lawless
10/3/2015
Following the path of the righteousness
so I relate I asked this
This question to myself
where am I going and in this time
as I'm glowing I am
In my walk throughout life
I am a witness
This question I'm asking myself
where have I been in this race
that I walk I've already won
Where am I'm going, where I've been I already came I've gone
Mustn't not be laden nor should I become
Should be beaten
Eaten digestive yet regurgitated
I am where I'm going I am gone moving in the Lord
In my walk throughout life
I am a witness
This question I'm asking myself
where have I been in this race
that I walk I've already won Hallelujah
Where am I'm going, where I've been I already came I've gone
11/3/24
Written words by James Edward Lee Sr.2024
"Ennui Sets In”
Whenever pen is placed
Between purloined phalanges,
When my mind unfolds and tears along the seams,
I know it’s time to move my thoughts,
Through the underground;
That dark crusty void
Of dreary dreams diminished,
Where loose hell raisers floss and shine,
Comb and spray,
As drowning voices backwash yesterday’s histrionics,
Dark-eyed winches peek through the
Centers of dead doughnuts;
Bleacher seats rust and wallow
In half-moon emancipation,
Ennui sets in…
My bow tie knows all the answers.
I cry and beseech for all those tomorrows
To resurrect, to pontificate, to loose
The bowels of screaming sunsets, yet sutured.
I flinch. I sigh.
Force majeure got in the way.
Polka dot panacea,
Wretched weasels in the underbrush,
Prufrock is the metaphor to mangle, impugn, vivify,
And otherwise squeeze until the cows come home.
I’m a poet without a message.
My heart pumps vexations of vaseline,
I am dry and empty
Like the musty moans of sweet madness,
Emanating elusively
From the hollow of ancient days,
Amidst unanswered questions,
At the fork in the road,
Two blocks northwest of my last dying breath,
I am the last sunset!
Ennui sets in.
Twilight vivisection holds the door open this time.
There is no respite,
From Raphael’s regurgitated Renaissance.
He jumps backward,
Through the darkening dissonance,
Dissolved, dismayed, dumbfounded.
Skipper Frank lies dead in the glittering gutter.
The Pancake Man melts into the waxworks.
Madame Tussaud wonders why.
Ennui sets in.
Dead meat saliva feeding
The roses of Robespierre.
Little Lord Fauntleroy is mixing martinis, and
A dozen dainty dames are dancing
Past the midnight of my time.
A blue trumpet, buzzing in the steamy shadows.
Lapping corpses line the phosphoric hillsides;
It’s not what it appears to be.
Truth and beauty perceived in the morning mirror.
Ennui sets in.
The Monstrous Past
I try to put the past to bed and tuck it up so it can’t escape
I say goodnight and creep away, but it’s always by my side.
I try not to look and hope it disappears, but it lingers and loiters.
And looks up at me and points accusing fingers
The past travels without a ticket or invitation on my back
It weighs me down; and in my ear, whispers, nags and torments.
I want it to sleep and never wake, snooze while I survive
But I can’t prevent its vindictive tongue spewing the past
Its targets are various and hit indiscriminately with venom
Attacking my nearest and dearest, but no one agrees or consoles
The past bubbles to the surface with all my prejudices
All the things I hate helps to feed my insatiable paranoia.
I’ve been hurt by words and actions in the past - I’ve bled
I can’t deny that many times I’ve felt lost and alone
But there’s no excuse for digging like a manic archaeologist
Unearthing the finished past as if it’s scratching the lid
But I do- It boils and burns in my stomach like a sickness
Then its poisonous volcanic fire explodes upward
I can’t prevent misdemeanours, however slight, being regurgitated,
And relived. Until finally they are subdued and controlled.
David Cox 28/01/19
The unpopular
express
their popular strings
to the garrison, contained
within
safe boundaries, there,
their thoughts
pirouetting words
hung,
the black beetles
shine
like exotic
fresh water
pearls strung
waving like
green peas shelled
nonchalantly cast
into boiling pots
not of their own making
in the soup of
the fifth estate
boiled well,
swallowed
and regurgitated,
muses
the pods left wide open
floating in the nowhere
like emerald boats without sails
blinking
internal,
forever behind
the eternal fringes
Candide Diderot. ‘24
homonyms
The house is boiled cabbage
goose fat, gizzard stew, and beets.
Windows steam and simmer,
you can write your name on the glass
winter or summer.
If you can live among rutabaga
or borscht; if pickled eggs haunt your palate
then this house becomes air in your lungs.
The landlady was Polish or Russian;
she spoke with a burly churlish tongue,
she moved like a Turk, her walking cane
was a scimitar. She supped a tarry tea
from a Serbian samovar.
We shared a toilet with a slim man
who was slinky and still in the closet,
he would saucily wink over strong drink.
His lips were rosy not pink. He washed
argyle socks in the kitchen sink.
There were others, they left early
riding pushbikes into the grey streets.
The lady groused, patrolled perimeters,
barged prying hands into private matters.
Hairclips and rubber bands fell from her curlers
as forewarnings and threats.
The Bulgarian or Croatian crone
had broad bad hips and liked me not
for back then
I used a substance to ease my mind.
I would smoke in the shared toilet
leaning my thin mouth through
a small slanty window,
she absolutely knew, and threw
passing daggers
with tightly curled Estonian lips.
We stayed like that for months
until the city regurgitated our lives
once more.
Once more seeking low rent rooms,
from those cosmopolitan guardians
of small city spaces.
I've been served lots of unappetizing things
that simply did not please my palette.
Being force fed with bitter or insincere words
is unappealing presented as a crisp green salad.
I would rather be underfed and malnourished
than to feast on something too briny or cheesy.
I won't feast on a buffet of regurgitated foods,
like dill pickles offered as sour grapes... sleazy.
Nothing has more stench to me than rotten food.
As an example, mold spores inside blue roquefort,
and don't ask me to swallow one bite of sarcasm.
That would take far too much of my time and effort.
I'd spit out a spoon of any soup if in it swims a fly,
or if the spices were added by the hand of a hypocrite.
A warm peach cobbler would make a scrumptious dish
as long as inside there'd not be left on purpose... a pit.
I heard about God
In a church full of strangers
Who dutifully regurgitated words
Before enthusiastically adjourning to the bar.
I whispered to God
"Can you hear? Are you real?"
I opened my ears, expecting His reply
But my ears failed, like my memorized prayers.
I reached up to God
Desperate for the touch of His hand.
But it came back empty . . .
As empty, I thought, as my destiny, my future, my purpose.
I shouted at God
"Where is the Father I long for?
The One who doesn't hurt His children;
Who knows what it's like to be in pain, persecuted, alone?"
I surrendered to God.
I was silent, still, open.
He spoke to my heart, saying:
"At last, my child. Distraction is the enemy of relationship. Now we begin."
I walked with God.
Baby steps, falls, bruises.
Some ahead on the road laughed.
"Judgment is the enemy of growth," my Father said.
I shied from God.
"I don't belong here!
"I am not good enough to walk with you."
"And now, you are mine," and He took my place. "Arrogance is the enemy of love."
I trusted in God.
I walked on, striving to improve my gait.
Sometimes I fell behind, caught up . . .
Not seeking to advance beyond the
reach of those who were lost or fallen.
I thanked my God.
For a drop of forgiveness
In a life parched with guilt and shame.
I drank in His goodness, and hoped to overflow to a dehydrated world.
10/25/2015
With Fond Memories, we'll all say Goodnight.
Goodbye, for now, maybe we'll get a Bite?
The thrill that we "Hoped," we'd see on the Screen,
Was "SO PREDICTABLE" from Scene to Scene!
Every "Horror Flick," is just like the Last!
Same Boring Plot, same Boring Cast!
The "Cinema's," are Over-Refrigerated,
And the "Dialogue," is only Regurgitated!
Half-hour in, you glance at your "Swatch,"
It doesn't Matter which Movie you Watch!
The "Kid" behind you...keeps Kicking! your Seat,
Your Popcorn Box...is Stuck to your Feet!
The Speaker's So Loud, it's Blowing your Mind...
And SOMETHING smells..."Rank,"...Right from Behind!
Pungence, not "Floral," is assaulting your "Beak,"
Your Eyes..."Dart Around...for the "Exit" you Seek!
Yes, it's "Fond" memories, like walking in "Clover,"
We MISS all those movies, watched Over and Over!
Till you "SHINE" the "LIGHT" on those "GEMS" that we SPEAK,
I'll be "DAMNED" if I'M coming "BACK HERE!" next WEEK!!!
The pedestrian kettle steams on to the Capitol pyre
With a weight watcher tonic; more lean legislators to sire
The Grand Old Party a taste of the aromatic brew doth require
Medicinal tonic blended to alleviate bloating gout of every Democratic squire
Preferring their watered-down, generic brand, constipated digestive tracts go haywire
The savy financiers sit on the sidelines in their cozy markets ignoring the taste test flier
The partisan grit clogs the filter producing a quagmire
The vitriolic ingredients boil over causing a rancid fire
The billowing smoke rises and streams to the patrician choir
The generic master brewer in his white house stews in the demagogic mire
Commercial winds sweep in fanning the flames causing the heat to reach dome's spire
The regurgitated grounds spewed forth to every intoxicated shire
Democratic gainsayers scare the elderly that the side effects are so dire
The rest of the squeamish plebians in their depleted hovels continue to sip their Common Roast with ire