Long Residual Poems
Long Residual Poems. Below are the most popular long Residual by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Residual poems by poem length and keyword.
*Image of Shattered Time by dreamstime
Broken Time
Its hands went frozen a warm summer June,
Bought it new when cool though it waned since then,
Days were young and fresh loved e'er so oft loom,
Vivid hues displayed stills toured page again.
Surged wave tickles feet, residual foams,
A swept updraft breaths as white floats thither,
A thoughtless lapse inside watery zones,
Checked, still ticking, stoppage, not a whisper.
An off-Broadway show, we took the backstreet,
Save being noted, the maddening crowd,
Numbers by one less the proper count sheet,
I look, it is time, lifts the curtained shroud.
Crumpled real, keepsake be, not a myth,
My minuteman whose Father Time, kept with.
2019 September 23
*2nd Place*
In the backstreets of my mind
~~Silent One: Judged 2019 September 26
Dictionary describes the word “dactylion”
As the tip of your middle finger
So if someone gives you the dactylion
They're giving you a zinger!
Have you ever been subjected to “gargalesis”
It's described as heavy tickling
Love being gargalesis in certain areas
Might even involve some licking
Do you know a word that accurately describes
Incessant or idiotic laughter
The dictionary describes it as “abderian”
Shaking the room to the rafters
When someone's eyes start to “oculoplania”
They're assessing someone's charms
I've always called it just plain old ogling
Not meant to cause any harm
The dictionary describes “slubberdegullion”
As a filthy slobbering individual
Known a few of these guys in my time
They leave a quite nasty residual
A person who hates smelling tobacco smoke
Is called a “misocapnist”
That's me for sure I'm surely a misocapnist
Probably number one on the list
And now to end with something distasteful
It's the word “krukolibidinous”
It's the act of staring at someone's crotch
What say you, had enough?
© Jack Ellison 2013
A door made from the haphazard weaving
of wood, rust, and ivy.
Smudged newspapers flap their wings
in a wayward wind. Bird feathers
emerge from wet claw prints. Faded condoms
spill to feed the mouths of empty cans.
The garden has no house,
rubble and broken verges limn a floorplan.
Weeds grapple, roots maul residual slabs of concrete.
Black bags regurgitate desiccated bacon rinds.
A boy finds treasures,
a nickel can opener,
a pen with a lady, whose clothes fall off
when turned upside-down,
a dog-chewed superman doll.
That night with dreaming eyes
he flew over the city with a half-naked lady.
while a can-opener
slowly opened up his adulthood.
Dampen talk in a hesitant time
Uncertainties of a procrastinating hour
Where life goes on … and on...and on
With some obvious happenings of the inevitable
Blemish talk only highlights the stigma of a stagnation
Where neither you nor I are able to be someone
Other than only living in a life of necessity
Those pernicious happenings go on with
the description of a disaster. With a lot of
Repetition of a traverse, repentant mind
Where we are blocked with
A roadblock and a sentry,
Always alternating,
Always calculating
The ingredients of laughter
Ambivalence is a residual reality
of the heavily guarded possibility
Still, there is love, there is a poem,
And there is a visage of heavenly affection
With an astral temptation of life,
Garnishing more and more along with;
Perhaps an enterprise of goodliness. With the
Threatening math multiplying the powerful zero.
Embraced by the Night
as it falls slowly onto my lap,
its face loses warmth,
the cold overtakes the residual
heat as it leaves its system,
abandoned by its devoted
owls of city life,
waveless emotions fill
the tattered streets of
forgotten memories.
The shadows remember
imprinting every visitor
of each generation,
cursed to loneliness
and the unfriendly
familiarity of flashing
synthetic lights carved
alongside each street
corner advertising
its owner's utopia.
The air fills with delectable
treats,
salty and sweet fleeting
away in a cloud
huffing and puffing,
the smoke blazes
through tone-deaf
voices of drunkards
passed out by the trash
bins living and breathing
on the sounds of past
regrets wandering through
painstaking artistry,
only a smoke and a sip
can endure the frost
in this City’s jagged
itinerary
someone asked and so we revealed
112 meditations that heart be healed
essentially there are three categories
to these beautiful meditation stories
and as of inclination we can so choose
stillness resonating as of soul’s muse
the first part deals with divine energy
bringing head and heart into synergy
that kundalini, chi or Holy Spirit may rise
bliss in permanence being offered prize
wherein we imbibe wisdom from heaven
through and within in-form chakras seven
the next sections urge us to choose silence
we rest in awareness sans thought violence
becoming empty within, our ego recedes
residual will we hold onto, doership concedes
nonchalant to outcomes, free from desire
fears too disappear and our soul is all afire
in the third level, we completely disappear
sense of separation ends, we feel God appear
we behold our true Self as God’s living light
ineffable peace in within, gift of clear sight
bilocating between crystallised form and space
each breath we take partakes of God’s grace
He watched his kite,her, snap
her tail rises
in the sky
in the deep blue sky
i keep imagining of her
my eyes don't rest and lie,
my mind's eye,
of her with a bird in hand,
the one she waved off …
that i dont imagine
i keep watching her tail
so majestic
and buoyant
... as if she were dancing,
dancing
with herself,
in the deep blue sky,
her carriage
model perfect
of blemishes
with the sun shining
off her inner beauty,
she would flutter
... flutter
to the right and left,
bounce, bounce
up and down
as i continue watching,
watching ...heartbroken
for the last time,
Of life passing by,
Her,
my eyes moisten
as she distances herself
away from me
the burdens of my life
Heartaches, heartaches that
always kept suppressed in me
i say, i wish i could have stopped her flight
and see her come alive
with me,
... me with
one fleeting chance
a chance
of a snowball of goodness for once
but hoping realistically
for just that one snowflake of a chance
one little snowflake that never dropped
... i keep watching
the once beautiful kite
so lifelike, vibrant
especially her tail and direction
up in the blue sky,
a small dot now
... sucking the air out of me
as it became smaller
• i reminiscence
of the past of how our love nosedived
into an avalanche
before it started
... nosediving into sorrow and regrets
the residual of a piece of string not tying
not tying a loop...
i keep looking up into the sky
my mind oscillating, correlating
i see, clearly
her inner beauty capturing me
even from a distance
and now how ... i'm resigned to watching
so sadden
life unravel,
how can this be
or is that the line ... unraveling
again, how can this be
... the kite kept
distancing itself
fluttering itself ...
further away ...
just like myself
... the wind howling
its sharp teeth of injustice, life
grabbing me
i guess
i guess i was bad, unworthy
For her
for i hear ...
voices in my head
the once little birds in her hand crying,
crying
for not finding warmth
i hear a snap
is that for real?
i look,
in the deep blue sky
turning over, turning shades of red
she's gone
and the voice of cruelty just laughing
just laughing at me
for there is an absence, now
of that little tail fluttering
with goodness,
with unattainable borders
that i missed and missed
connie pachecho
3/3/17
The yonder blue hills from the hazy horizon
cascaded gently down the alluring landscape,
carving the contours of the charming hamlet,
where my endearing home was once cradled.
The pristine panorama of clouds sliding silently
across the curved canvas of the cerulean sky,
where my childhood joy soared to great height
with the colorful paper airplanes I loved to fly.
The wide-winged paper airplanes soared high
in uncharted winding flight with birds in the sky.
As they nose-dived to land in a faraway field,
I jumped in delight with the arms thrown up.
On these I deemed I flew to distant dreamland
with exploring mind filled with teenage fantasy.
The planes disappeared with the tide of time,
but in lonely hours they fly the childhood to me.
On some sunny days in scented air of spring,
I still fly paper airplanes in the blue sky bright,
and before the sun sets at the end of my time,
I try to reach the dreamland I am yet to find.
I marvel at my residual aviation skill not lost,
and wish I could fly my life on paper airplanes,
as I did with my imagination in my childhood,
never letting the child hidden within leave me.
________________
August 19, 2022
Contest : Paper Airplanes
Sponsored by : John Lawless
Just Around the Bend…
by Odin Roark
Make-believe knows
Hand in hand
Guardian and child
Never ceases to be
As words meet words
Sentences find paragraphs
Pages turn new discovery
Begetting chapter upon chapter
And then…
Often faith’s endurance knows no end
Like a turkey too numb
To know its head is gone
Or a truck forever stuck in relentless mud
Even the mind’s conscience ratchets its continuous drone
Long past heart’s flickering pictures
Have jumped off sprocket
Coiling images’ remains upon a floor
Always willing to catch the fallen
Knowing restarting is always possible
Yet
In the house
That might have been a home
The phone continues to ring off the hook
Like a metronome gone berserk
Bent on satiating rhythm’s appetite
Past the inevitable wind down
With eyes closed…
Survival holds firm one’s make-believe castle
The house now empty
Save for whispers from the past
Knowing well the drafts of loneliness
Shiver the drifting dust
Becoming the only skin left to touch
Unknowingly
The residual past
Moves through unneeded locks
Once securing doors leading to
Now forgotten passions of privacy
Images rendered blind
By keyhole mockery
Remaining…
The heart’s keyboard
Once delivering its voice of hope and trust
Now accelerating words no longer noticed
Meaning hurtling past yesterday and tomorrow
Like a bullet train screeching off its rails
Ricocheting off walls once holding secure
Now speeding toward a boarded-up station
Once of hourly expectation
A platform crowded with promise
Giving back a passing ghostly blur
So travel hearts in linguistic search
Myth makers pursuing beautiful language
Knowing delivery never guarantees
Anyone waiting to hear the words
Save perhaps the make-believe child
Walking hand in hand
Believing along with the writer
That just around the bend…
It being crystal clear
we self block the divine current
owing to hidden fear
thus insentient to the love scent
The limitation in peaked fullness
of the divine electricity
owing to in-form energy conduits
constrained by identity
Surrender conditional
attempting steering by doership
as long as mind active
our ego spirals in oneupmanship
Whilst flowing in a calm tranquil
self aware awareness
vaporising into the heart spacial
in a sea of blissfulness
Time & tide do flow on
as we are reshaped on the anvil
we rest in staid silence
surrendering residual egoic will
30-September-2020