Long Remoteness Poems
Long Remoteness Poems. Below are the most popular long Remoteness by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Remoteness poems by poem length and keyword.
Finally heading home,
going dowhill;
not being afraid
of a sudden fall...
The baseballfield
has the appearance
of a battlefield,
opponents teams fiercily compete;
I glance at them
with great admiration,
lauding their aspiration
as the gusty wind snatches
my blue cap...to find it
hanging from the top of the fence
that overlooks the rusty tracks
of a train that never went back...
The cheers and hurrays
of the applauding crowd
fill the autumn air with promise;
victory is,for certain,
for those enduring with boldness,
but joyful moments
are worthy more than a price...
despite the honor and pride!
Finally heading home from
an adventerous morning spent
exploring the depth of the forest;
where emotions become surprises,
not found in the glamorous cities
or the smallest towns...
Remoteness reconnects the lost soul
to the essential needs
of a-not-so-rapid
and dull existence!
A full-gorged moon opens its illumined glare.
Ghost lights flood the dens, burrows and nests
of all creatures,
a limpid dementia swirls blood-red clouds
in predatory eyes.
it enters bedrooms, cellars, attics
creeps beneath crawl-spaces.
It follows us into slumber
raises the bones of shipwrecked dreams,
dreams that none may speak of.
Magnetic glimmers pull together
all that stalk in shadow,
pale beams burgle darkened branches,
snare the unborn in unformed wombs,
seeds voices there before any egg is laid.
In the hearts of the desperate,
its creates an iridescence of last-hope poetry.
!t changes the stories that we told yesterday
into legends and tracks along moon paths,
then withdraws into the remoteness of
a reflected dust.
In daylight we commence to call out:
"Did you see that moon last night"?
while others reply:
"No, I must have missed it."
Nativity Bandhan
Stranger in a strange city.
Protect yourself.
Wear a mask.
Protect from whom?
One virus makes me foreign.
Unwanted, unnecessary and mean.
Suddenly I am an alien.
In the city alien, familiar city alien.
In my alien country.
An Island within the Country.
Feeling of shame, humiliation.
I realize the remoteness in me.
Muted, starved, exhausted.
My labour is what is wanted,
Not I.
Market-based labour market.
Daily wager, coolies,
Adhoc workers, contractual staff.
Long roads,
Sleeping rails
Killing fields.
Dancing death.
Fear of dying 'here'.
There should be four to carry.
'Why was I born?' feeling.
Blame poverty, blame the city.
Why don't 'they' suffer?
The rustic place which drove me out
builds the bandhan.
I know everyone.
No one will chase me out.
There or not there
I eat something all the time.
My mean labour earns me respect.
All are my bandhan
No man is foreign.
This is my nativity.
I will board a plane
and visit the grave
of that brave soldier
who left his country
to defend the principles of liberty
banned by a heartless dictator
who praised a pure race.
In ocean-washed Normandy
the fierce battle went on for days,
American and British
invaded the desolate beach,
here the Normans
called their home eventually,
and leaving Sweden
and the glaciers behind them in March,
their bellicose plans
were temporarily put on hold...
until they found free land
in a milder place called
Southern Italy.
I found the grave
of my buddy Albert
and my weeping might
wake him from his long sleep;
it's November and clouds seem like sheep
going to their pasture before winter sets in
with vengefulness, that'll make all graves shake...
no, it's not Resurrection Day, only an admonition.
No snow has fallen yet on the granite graves,
all the names of the fallen soldiers
can be read clearly, but doomed to silence
they aren't spoken and proclaimed heroes;
here, sorrow prevails with its essence...
is this a monument built to the bravery
of thousands, forgotten by memory,
but not by the ones who were saved
by the bravest warriors who ever lived?
Flowers left on this grave
will whiter and dispersed
by the frigid wind will have
the same fate of the leaves
floating and coming down to rest
on frosted meadows not yet
buried in glistening whiteness
and in a solitude bitterly awaited.
Who has never pondered death
in this sombrous and sorrowful place
separated by human remoteness,
has never reflected on his own; Albert's death
was a sacrifice for freedom to give others a chance
at being free when terror reigned through Europe...
only defeated by the courageous valor of soldiers
who is remembered by me in this poem of perennial hope!
Within the fragile frame of my fervent heart,
tinged with the tinsels of the amorous night,
my love gleamed with an enticing glow,
reflected in the sequins of your subtle grace.
In my psyche I felt the tempting touch
of your intangible mesmeric charisma,
but you sauntered away from my entranced sight
like the autumn cloud across my dream sky.
From the threshold of my desire reverie
your footprints disappeared, I didn’t know where.
With the turquoise thread of lingering longing,
I weaved the filigree of fantasy in my dream.
From the ebony edge of the night of despair
storm clouds surged with thunder of tearing strife,
splintered my dream, dispersed in debris,
as my valentine turned into a gory whirlwind.
I heard the squelch of submerging sorrow
nearing my heart stealthily once again,
resonated the lilt of lilac pulsation,
with the unheard echo in the sensory veins.
The miasma of melancholy enveloped
the shattered landscape of longing.
The sigh of its drifting desolation
trailed the dissenting resonance of remoteness.
Suffused with the diffused drizzle
of my fading love at somber sunset,
you disappeared beyond the gloomy garden,
once a desire den of our delightful days.
Your departing kiss turned into a nibble,
as like a vampire you stinged my emotive rose.
Its purple petals of bloody pain made a wreath
for the wreckage of my broken heart.
Due to a lack of inspiration,
even this weary pen won't flow...
thoughts freeze and allow confusion...
when stillness seems a wind that doesn't blow.
By letting the mind rest, will it restore itself to wholesomeness
and usefulness? Isn't it like our body that refuses to perform well,
when it's exhausted and needs to escape from unbearable tiredness?
Tomorrow awakening, we'll take that challenge by promising a story to tell!
If idleness perseveres, all the honorable glories
we've accumulated will be lost to remoteness and time,
our ideals will fall into oblivion and entirely forgotten by others...
then should we let the mind rest, to stop the writing process in its prime?
I suggest perseverance over needless deprivation;
expressing oneself freely and honestly is effective and worth pursuing,
it provides against profound silence and dull stagnation...
will we let the mind rest and not discover something worth seeing?
" I Smote Thy Heart"
by~ Richard Pickett
Upon the morrow, I shall take aim
with this slender feathered shaft at the heart of thee,
it shall pierce thee in the coldest of manners. Thou shalt
know from whence it came. From my sorrow, said sorrow
left upon me by the daggers of thy withered soul.
Beguiled by thy mask of innocence,that thee wore
as brilliantly as the Barrister, pleading before the magistrate.
Thou shalt plead mercy of passion, I once possessed only for thee,
that I remove the bolt from thy heart. Yet... I shall smite thee,till
thy blood runs as cold as the stone upon whence thy lie.
by~ Poet Destroyer
Strike on whom my ears deceive,
your sadness pierce ye 3 times therefore.
Straight liketh dagger of dragon teeth under thy heart.
A grace alone thou sprouted in remoteness ways.
If it ware not thy heart, ye fancy, into thy face
I have besidis all thy pain
No thing to want if it ware not Mad
Hold on to all things even as ye see, in every angle.
Nothing doth matter; thy aim shall endeth all sorrow
I have founded but makis me happiest thou ever was,
Thou shall not beggeth, taketh the dagger
Now thou its to late, smote thee very slowly
Thee hath my heart in deep shallow waters ;
Bloody lips do what ye list and dredge thee not
Smote thy heart, I care not,
Love whom ye forget, my sweet innocence.
Wherefore I pray mercy or shall not.
But love whom ye fear no God,
Do what must,
My tears shed thousands of grains of sand.
Morrow, will soon cometh, shall I hold
as you taketh away, from your
~ Femme' Fatal ~
A collaboration with * Richard Pickett
Caves are dark, dank, sinister havens for rising damp
Mere cavities in the ground, veiled from light of day
Yet caves are heralded, admired and cherished
For a swarm of reasons, just mind the bats
Caves are drop inns
Hikers and natives welcome finding a cave
They provide shelter from wind and rain
A great place to stay the night, light a fire
To enjoy the cosy charm of safe seclusion
Caves are art galleries
The walls are dotted with new and ancient graffiti
Hand-prints, paintings, scribbles and scenes
Made by artists with no where else to hang their stuff
Revealed by flickering flames and dim filtered beams of light
Caves are museums and dumps
Visitors leave their junk in caves
Animals topple in and get trapped
Caves are a great place for animals to die
These dumps are bliss to archaeologists
Who drool over skeletons, artefacts and such old-time junk
Caves are cathedrals and awe-catches
Endless aeons of dirty drips yield fabulous
On floor and ceiling displays of
Glistening stalactites and stalagmites
The cavernous space, silence and eerie dankness
Makes visitors gasp with adoration and awe
Highlighted by the uniqueness, isolation and remoteness of caves
So duck-in to a cave when you pass one by
and you'll discover the ins and outs of caves
Caves are awesome and strangely welcoming
Despite their darkness, dampness and malevolence
Sweet fantasies of the imagination,
be the source of serene meditation
steeped in realism without dreaming;
surrender all to the senses awakening!
Sweet fantasies of the imagination,
draw each soul to self-illumination;
allow it to find places of remoteness,
there serenity will revive gladness!
Sweet fantasies of the imagination,
do dreams spark the same ambition
when they are crushed by unfairness?
Could they be brought to wholeness?
Sweet fantasies of the imagination,
wandering thoughts seek revelation;
let them capture the logical knowledge
before it's entirely lost to battles of rage!
Elisa is very beautiful and young,
but her silly mind isn't that strong;
yesterday she marked age thirty
on her calendar not feeling gritty.
In a lively garden with blooming April flowers,
she blows big bubbles that float low and high
inducing much gladness much in her sigh...
will they clash with those intruding butterflies?
" No, they surely won't, "she whispers looking as far
as her eyes can see, imagining one that resembles a star
which she can look upon in her loneliness when moonlight
brightens her room and desire for kisses take away all fright.
Elisa watches her fragile bubbles burst at the sun's brightness,
but surprisingly one doesn't...soaring further into remoteness.
Written on 4/5/2015