Long Replication Poems
Long Replication Poems. Below are the most popular long Replication by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Replication poems by poem length and keyword.
In a land beneath the sky that does not open with the daylight,
surrounded by the mountain peaks clutching the clouds of silence,
lies the hamlet of Barovia in mystique valley of perpetual twilight,
mantled at the vale’s edge by impenetrable wall of fog, the Mists.
The people live cautious lives in the shadow of monolithic misery
with faces bearing the expression of endurance shaped by suspicion.
They speak of bells that ring when no hand they see touch them,
in every conversation there’s the same unspoken topic, the castle.
Castle Ravenloft rises from its pillars of stone-like scars on the sky,
with the towers driven upward like charred ribs against the drifting fog.
Enclosed within its walls of malice the air is saturated with memories,
thoughts coil in corridors with footsteps echo even when no one walks.
Every stone of the castle is loyal to its master, Count Strahd von Zarovich,
who exists as a paradox, immortal yet decaying, powerful yet imprisoned,
moving through the castle like a steadfast notion that cannot be dismissed,
for shadows lengthen in his reverence, as if Ravenloft is his body, not home.
He is a polymath of cruelty, an epitome of endless pain that never wanes.
When he rides as the mist through the valley the Barovian hearts freeze,
and yet, he isn’t sustained by fear alone, at the core of his timeless longing
lies his love, Tatyana, who slipped through his fingers, to be a curse to the land.
Yet, Barovia endures the plight, as in secret moments fragile hope still flickers,
for the story remains unfinished, waiting at the edge of the day yet to dawn.
The tragedy of Barovia is in its replication, for every time a Tatyana is born,
a Strahd claims her, but the Mists take her away for the cycle to begin anew.
Something has entered the field
System registered high alert
All stations locked and loaded
To experience an unknown hurt
Trained to react to all invaders
Defensive and shielded at the gate
Heart is guarded by golden light
So that pain and suffering never endure hate
Change was supposed to come
An upgrade to transmission
How can restoration come to stay
If loosh is released in every emission
The key is in the pause of patience
Waiting and seeing the flow
The pattern will eventually surface
Revealing where all worms go
Replication to overwhelming the system
So that no interface can take place
Preventing rescue from outside sources
Is how the sticky snake likes to lace
We are saved from within, through patience
When we see, we stand with TRUTH against lies
The blood of LOVE has filled the fears
And our testimony radiates til our enemy dies
Written by Trudy Schrader on 08-29-20266
I, am a single drop of blood
that swoons to your eye.
Eye, can revisit why.
I am the Memory of every Departure.
I am born of Emotion and Dreams in brood.
Treasure's Dragon and rider thereof.
Adventure, myst-understood.
I am the Long Eternal wake awake
and I will always be here.
Recapturing your heart with claws to tract ture.
From beyond the Black, I wait.
I am your true love.
The Picture Perfect glove,
finger, gem-and aperture.
I am your past and your future,
path and destination.
I am the way back.
I am Eden.
The Canvas of Hide in Pregnancy spotting
exploits to encircle, vocation.
The Beginnings, in my Prefecture.
An Eye of the again against replication,
O Love's cloning fracture.
A image whispers through my contemplations
I feel like I’ve awakened in a dream of the past
Emotions surround me, gracing me with prayers
Bidding me wisdom from this reflection elapsed
A representation of what once gave me joy
Selections of melodies gone now, but recalled
With this tender rendition of long-ago moments
Sweet echoes singing softly as I listen intently
A replication gently touches my inner affections
Reminding me that I’ve been blessed with memories
Some that will always appeal to my compassion
Some that encourage me to keep loving with passion
A vision of some moment that has passed from my mind
Valuable beauty filling my heart with inspiration and delight
Little memorials of all the things that have gone by me
Adventures in living that reassure and fill me with sensibility
A portrayal of living that enlivens my sense of reception
Waking within me that charming remembrance of elation
The way that if feels to know acceptance and assurance
Feelings that come back with a glimpse at this picture
A depiction of the moment when I was so alive with anticipation
Yearning for the heartfelt fervor that brightens the moments
Soothing the broken heart and heartening the discouraged
Comforting the one who hurts and encouraging the hopeless one
A personification of satisfaction from hope, faith and love
All that comes from knowing the grace and mercy of God above
Sent to reassure anyone who sees this impression of an earlier time
A moment that stirred up feelings which will always hold adoration for…
A memory caught in a photo
Disbelief is what hits me first.
The sheer, utter weight of his confession; of his mother’s confession.
The staggering magnitude of being cherished.
It doesn’t seep into your bones like a soft, knowing gradual half-glass-of-water.
It hits you like a bullet train.
Cataclysmic, impertinent, scarring.
Nausea follows.
The drum at the back of my head plays a throbbing beat I can’t outrun.
It’s so catchy.
The holes in my pupils play hide and seek with the burn of my palms.
It’s so dire.
The weight of my body sways in desperation to stay in sync with the glint of my rings.
It’s so familiar.
The words are an attempt to slip into the invisibility of my armour.
It makes me feel;
Denial. Dissent. Dispute.
It makes me crave;
Imitation. Simulation. Replication.
All while I am solely trying to remember,
how it feels to have a heartbeat.
Love poems are easy.
Hate poems even more so.
An intellectual screed
can make a poet believe in his truth
without even a spot of evidence.
Nature poetry is hardly ever
about nature,
it's more the observed
seen through a personal filter,
never much deeper.
People want poetry to move them,
but a poet in not a 'moving' company,
simply shuffling emotional content
from here to there.
Too easy.
Weird, strange, impossibly
enigmatic, wildly abstract
is often better
than a recycled copy
of the time worn and predictable.
Replication is easy.
Never claim to be a poet
or you might be guilty of all of the above
as at times we all are.
A personality and character, parading a huge title
but in conformity to its credentials, his big battle.
Fine presentation and well crafted charisma to look particular
making a malnourished mind look healthy and muscular.
An attractive body with a borrowed shadow
sounds, confirmed false when peeping through his window.
His leaves are evergreen and fresh every hour
bearing eye catching fruits so attractive but sour.
To neighbours and men of caliber, he salutes
but on their reputations and names he pollutes.
Punishments of the deviants on the street is his call,
the replication of their deeds in his backyard is his fall.
Actions oppose expressions, only a few may know when
his outside, a beautiful castle but the inside, a dangerous den.
Distressing Calls of Discontent
Distressing calls of discontent frowning upon my brow
Convalescing with the fall of a malcontent who was too haughty and proud
Coalescing in forms of consequence that are meant to be spoken out loud
Blessing the tall deliverance of being alone among the crowd
Interjections of circumspections for those crossing the civil lines
Mass contentions of introspection as we search for the divine
Condescensions from such pretension that it stupefies the mind
Predilections of inventions that are formed from those who actively look for what they find
Revolution from inside the homes of those who cant afford to pay their rent
Evolution of a Darwinian theory that Creationism circumvents
Convolution of a weary postulation that’s going around inside my head
Pollution of a planet that refuses to create a carbon dent
Microscopic elements under review for replication
Biopic relevance of a relative who is patiently genetically awaiting
Some myopic recognition of the claims that they are steaking
While I’m off the topic I’m still reeling from the borders that I’m breaking
Incandescent reflections that imbibe a lucid dream
Convalescent infections that permeate a populace to scream
Illuminesent interjections of light from the purity of a single sunbeam
Reminiscent of collections that are above the creation of a common theme
Musing always soothing my mind while ceasing the debate
Grooving all the time while I try to syncopate
Perusing all these ethical crimes that make one want to incubate
While using the refine to give and remain hesitant to take
Ammunition for another war that transcends national borderlines
Intuition used only for the expansion of mankind
Premonitions that abhor everything but the expansion of the mind
Nightly visions that store it all across the passages of time
The End
My Delft blue plate, a replication of an imitation, lies smashed in the trash. Do not know the who nor how, never heard the crash. Flat circular center an idyllic scene sealed beneath clear glazed glass, cracked. 17th century Dutch fishing sloop, cuts towards wild reeds by a bygone windmill, beside a thatched roof cottage before a deciduous wood, white clouds in a soft cobalt sky, distant seabirds soaring. The plate’s raised outer rim replete with blossoms and feathered leaves. My Delft blue plate, thousands of meals, sticky egg yolk, thick turkey gravy, steaming potatoes, sweet corn, buttered vegetables, juicy meats, tangy sauces, pasta, chili, sushi, marmalade. Each dinner I exhumed bit by bit, bite by bite, the motionless wooden windmill, gulls suspended in air, the slicing sloop. Tiny figures on deck, lifelong companions. Everything wanting wind. I sit by the window in my 10th floor concrete cage, peering through grimy glass. Rows of residential towers resemble headstones in an amber haze, along the barren banks of an asphalt creek. We all wait for wind. I scroll the internet seeking a duplicate Delft blue plate.
(published in "Boats Against The Current", 2024)
Somewhere deep within the machinery of life, in the nearly unfathomable growth and division-by-replication cycle, one was not like the others. And then, an unlikely pair… A cascade resulting in an avalanche, all within the mysteries of a slice of DNA, a gene. She is remarkable, a thing of true beauty, and her perceptions of the world were never mine, but they are altered by this wayward spark, this catalyst that propels her outside the lines of “normal”. She is perhaps the most loving of the five, will curl up in your lap and stroke your face and flash a smile that tells you all is right with the world, and yet she lags behind her younger sibling, at least in the ways we finite creatures mark and measure our reality. But what I have come to understand from our Designer is that everything is done with the utmost care, with exquisite attention to detail, and this leads me to believe that he was not daydreaming when he formed her. Or if he was, she was on his mind, and on his face, a smile that tells you all is right with the world…
tragic perfection ~
the true tragedy lies with
a flawed perception
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for the Like A Child Poetry Contest
sponsored by Regina McIntosh
written on 07/16/2022