Long Reinvented Poems
Long Reinvented Poems. Below are the most popular long Reinvented by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Reinvented poems by poem length and keyword.
Job lost. Marriage over.
No work, no love: no hope.
Yet none among us hates
like the font of fetid scorn
in your mind's abyss.
We are gargoyles
who blur and sharpen
in your suicidal eye.
But demons are fictions you've invented
as you you've reinvented yourself:
so often you can't find among your selves
the real one,
no trail of bread crumbs to your gingerbread heart.
Seeking truth in others' faces
is to court the eye of madness.
And if our one thought is to kill the pain,
we must be careful what we wish for
lest we kill ourselves, too.
Now you must walk backward through a hall of mirrors,
realizing in the jagged rush
there is little strength in scrutiny,
less for perseverance.
But persevere we must.
If you've no work, make you your job.
No love? Send yourself valentines.
And if there's no hope
tell yourself it's a lie, just as everyone hated you:
we've love you always,
only you didn't see.
Make peace with your enemy;
you share his heart, mind and bed.
In those gray hours
when you can't discern an image
in the shards of desperation
it is temporary;
if night is real
then so is morning.
For the contrived inducement
of the fixated being,
an aligned identity personified,
changes in self-devised palette
of metamorphosed color mélange,
while the conjured chameleon,
slyly cocooned,
paints surreptitiously
shape-shifted deception portrait.
In ostensible enactment
of life’s incredible drama,
performance perfected in one-act play
with obsessed passion parodied,
gilds the corollary crafted by alchemy,
an axiomatic designed drive
induces the wily shift
from one actor to another.
Out of the limelight,
the covert colors fade
on virtually made-up visage,
the pallid original face
morphs mystically into
veracity mirror of actuality,
reflects the real identity depiction,
painted in primal persona hues
of distinctive disposition,
epitomized once.
The spasm of pragmatic perception
splits the mirror,
shards of shattered pretence
willfully abandoned as discarded debris.
Transformation creates the eluding entity,
an alien in its own reinvented realm,
completes the illusory pattern,
designed by the paradigm of contrast.
Mamma Anna made the best Babba' al Rhum,
you should have seen me how it made me slightly drunk;
and jumping and screaming I danced to the beats of a drum...
then grandma joined in and she sang a classical song!
And the sweet cream was on my lips and cheeks,
the Babba' al Rhum was delicious and I topped it with chocolate;
everybody began shouting, "It came from Paris,
but we Neapolitans reinvented it by improving its shape and taste!"
Mamma Anna made the best Babba' al Rhum, soaking it in that liqueur much longer;
and Papa' always told me to eat more of it...saying with a suppressing laughter,
"It's a man's dessert, after you eat it, you'll be strong!"
Oh, did he really tell me the truth? No, he was wrong!
It's so very sad that they aren't here,
and I am eating pretzels and drink a beer,
the harmony that stirred their passion can't possibly return...
as they danced on the terrace to celebrate the day I was born!
Mamma Anna knew how to make the best Babba' al Rhum,
and I licked the dripping rum with my finger...not my tongue!
She spoke calmly...when she should have gotten mad and picked up a broom;
no, she was never mean and rude, or ever said to me, " Go to your room!"
Singing of love on a summer’s day
She decided it was stupid, and quickly said
Why do so many women think it’s the only way?
If they don’t have a man they want to be dead?
She packed up her sense of excitement and happy guitar.
Being her own person, she reinvented herself.
Her old friends were excited. “Lady Gaga is a star!”
Some feeling sad, they had settled for a spice rack and shelf.
She sang of her trial and tribulations, other people’s too.
Designing her own clothes, she showed a daring outrage.
She was upbeat and positive; her songs were sassy, not blue.
All other women should take out her book and study a page.
She does not settle, she blazes her own unique path.
Stupid love she sings at the top of her lungs, scaring men all around.
She does not wait for others, and cares not about their wrath.
Even her enemies have to admit she is the best entertainer in town!
He fought for glory
He fought to kill
Trained in battle
Broken rebuilt will
Once an innocent
Now a master
Following orders
No matter the disaster
Women , children
Clad all in black
Strange lands of sand
No plan of attack
Reinvent reality
Dreams are red
Blood splatters
Too many to count dead
Retreat go back
Set up the board again
Draw another map
Search for a different end
Once so young
Now so grown
Memories of yesterday all gone
but what you are told
Reinvented redesigned
Where did you go?
Life's' journey passed you
What have you to show?
Metals pinned on your chest
Hands raised high
Your a hero now young man
You did not die.
The first to arrive, the first to offer help, the first to say “I’m sorry.”
She is a tiny woman, half my weight, but mighty in the power department.
She is my mother, farm-born, one of ten children. Seven survived.
Born twenty years and eleven months before my twin and I arrived.
She is the last one to eat, but the one who brings the most food
To every family reunion or church picnic except her eightieth surprise party.
People love to make her laugh, because she has a keen sense of humor.
She has taught Sunday school for over sixty years; she does this weekly.
She has exercise classes for the “old people” where she lives.
They are ninety-seven, and ninety-two. She is only eighty-eight.
She and my dad were a formidable pair; they always had a united front.
Backing each other up in every situation. He has been gone nine years.
She reinvented herself, got rid of her astronomically large home,
Moved into a small one bedroom apartment, and began a new life.
She acts as an assistant manager, bingo caller, and social chairman.
Weirdly enough, she has never played Bingo in her life.
Her calendar has six to eight things to do a day.
She delivers packages in her building, and Meals on Wheels.
She volunteers all over the county. Almost everyone knows her.
She is a whirlwind, a wonder, a woman of God, my mother.
We’ve left behind orphans, you and I,
a gaggle of memories like street urchins
left to starve and die in the
city of self-imposed amnesia.
We’ve staged our own deaths,
reciting happy obituaries of our former selves,
birth announcements of our new incarnations,
everyone duly notified of fissure and closure.
So that those troublesome orphans,
believing us dead,
homeless, unattended,
are left forever behind;
memories unremembered,
past disowned by present.
But they know where we are,
and they come,
knock on the doors behind which
we’re safely ensconced in new lives.
We let them knock,
cringing and waiting
with furtive glances
from behind closed curtains
until they finally recede into the night.
They are unconcerned, these little orphans.
The camouflage of our reinvented selves
don’t hide us.
They will be back.
In the labyrinth of time, where truth and lies dance,
I wander among the shadows of thoughts, seeking wisdom's light,
Wondering why, in recent centuries, the learned have lost their way in the mist,
While the simple have carried the flicker of truth in their palms.
I see around me puppets of knowledge, moved by invisible strings,
Institutions like sandcastles, built on the foundation of illusion,
Where elites weave their web of power, wrapping the world in propaganda's silk,
And we, blind and deaf, dance to their rhythm, not knowing that we don't know.
I float on waves of collective memory, among fragments of distorted reality,
Where ideas are born mutilated, where truth is sanitized in sterile laboratories,
Where gender and identity are color splotches in a chaotic kaleidoscope,
And science bows to ideology, like an old oak in a storm.
I hear the echo of voices from outside the walls of academia,
Organic intellectuals, wild flowers in the garden of conformity,
They are the seeds of thought revolution, the germ of change,
But who listens to them in the din of prefabricated information?
I wonder, with a heavy heart and a foggy mind,
How long until the mask falls,
Until we see that the king is naked, that the emperor has no clothes,
That the institutions we've pinned our hopes on are houses of cards?
I see educated people believing in chimeras, in ghosts of progress,
Fifty-eight genders dancing on the edge of absurdity,
Marriages reinvented, science decolonized, a world upside down,
And I think of the wise words: "Only intellectuals can believe such nonsense."
In this night of consciousness, under the starry sky of unanswered questions,
I pray it's not too late when the veil falls,
When educated and uneducated realize they've been fooled,
That the hearts of those in power beat to the rhythm of money, not compassion.
So I wander further in the labyrinth of thoughts,
Seeking not answers, but better questions,
Hoping that somewhere, in the mist of the future,
Truth will rise like a new sun, illuminating the minds and hearts of all.
when industry
stood on this soil
with chimneys that
spewed sweat and toil
the furnace fires
relied on mines
through arteries
of railway lines.
now looking back
to charcoal skies
through rosy mists
of childhood eyes
a line of trucks
each filled with rocks
crawled slowly past
a signal box.
the building formed
a silhouette
that framed a scene
I wont forget:
the dying of
that worldly light
was captured there
in black and white.
I'm standing now
where true art stood:
in a 'reinvented'
neighbourhood
where sleepers sleep
beneath the grass
where once those engines
used to pass.
For the contrived inducement
of the fixated being,
an aligned identity personified,
changes in self-devised palette
of metamorphosed color mélange,
while the conjured chameleon,
slyly cocooned,
paints surreptitiously
the shape-shifted portrait
d e c e p t i v e.
In ostensible enactment
of life’s incredible drama,
performance perfected in one-act play
with obsessed passion parodied,
gilds the corollary crafted by alchemy,
an axiomatic designed drive
induces the wily shift
from one actor to another
c o n t r i v e d.
Out of the limelight,
the covert colors fade
on virtually made-up visage,
the pallid original face
morphs mystically into
veracity mirror of actuality,
reflects the real identity depiction,
painted by primal hues of facade
of distinctive disposition
e p i t o m i z e d.
The spasm of pragmatic perception
splits the mirror,
the shards of shattered pretence
in the debris of demolished conceit
disappears in the crypt of obscurity
d i s c a r d e d.
The transformation creates the eluding entity,
an alien in its reinvented realm,
completes the illusory pattern
designed by the paradigm of contrast
ingrained in symbolized persona
d i v er g e n t.