Long Residuals Poems
Long Residuals Poems. Below are the most popular long Residuals by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Residuals poems by poem length and keyword.
So, so lyrical,
yet logical,
it's certainly atypical;
and not proverbial,
but integral
and oh, most controversial!
But is it topical,
optical,
even for the intellectual
to see the actual
pragmatical
to its theoretical?
So casual, gradual,
and implausible,
it’s almost incomprehensible
were it not for the owner’s manual.
It, too, appears eternal,—
not temporal.
Never mind paradoxical.
Damn! it’s infernal...
Alas, it'll be too “illogical”
for the head magisterial,
whose financial
committee might find it problematical.
Still, the crux is perennial:
it’s too pivotal
to not state the irrefutable
with extra audible mega-decibels
if the funding residuals
for scientific experimentals
like the quantum mechanical
are incommensurable,
which is thus deplorable,
intolerable, insufferable,
disagreeable, horrible,
and most unsupportable
(in my view as a professional)!
They laid and built a new road;
in the heat of the day it looks
like a stretched curved spine
along which newly planted trees
grow their skimpy wishbones
as they file along the verge.
There is no shade to be had
just the thin oatmeal stalks of the trees,
their skinless stiff shadows
penciling in a marching sun
as it carves out graphite periods.
Somebody thought to put a fountain
in a bald space by the road
close to a beige housing lots.
Each new home is tantamount to the other.
Apparently beige will not offend
the eyes of any colorblind buyer.
It’s not a good fountain, not decorative,
it’s the kind of fountain to be found
fronting small industrial units;
the bone road circles it,
as if those who walk its arid path
will pause to admire the utilitarian art,
the listless spray of water.
In the heat of the day
it looks like a burst fire hydrant,
the sun does not paint it,
for the font is too sterile to reflect
any kind of rainbow illusion.
A little further on, the road
pauses to die next to some hardscrabble.
At roads end there is a scattering
of broken and splintered bones,
concreted residuals
of the suns dominion.
There is only one route home now,
back along the lane
to the head of the spine
where the colors of the world
were abandoned for the bland tones
of white and beige.
At the dark intersection of convergent shadows
There lies an orphan thumb tack,
A silent menace to unshod feet,
Waiting to jolt me awake from the dream.
And it wouldn’t come as an unwelcome surprise.
I’ve been experiencing life in syndication.
Living off the residuals of tired plots
And oft quoted tag lines:
"To the moon, Alice!"
“Lucy, I’m home!”
“Son of a gun!”
“Dyno-mite!”
How many re-runs does it take
Till you run out of reasons for watching?
My publicist was admitted to rehab.
My agent never returns my calls.
The last time I walked the red carpet
Was in a black and white photograph.
But I did look stunning!
Naiveté wraps the child
until the chills slowly
begin to snuggle in,
smothering the illusions leaving
the residuals of sickness
and disappointment
that is man.
-------------------------------------------------------------------
Contest: Fallen
Sponsor: Nette Onclaud
Entrant: Rob Carmack
Written: 11.29.15
Word Count: 25
My person was the entire human race. As a child, I viewed adults as ethically advanced and emotionally stable. Thought of world as an Utopia – the best trip I ever had. From this disappointment, I was given the contrast to appreciate forgiveness and those I found that are advanced.
It was a beautifully laid path of moram stones
minuscule ice dust seated on my pink hands
holding yours covered with a three-quarter
thick cotton high neck navy blue t-shirt
Our lips forgot their role as the eyes
got hooked in looking at rows of
the orange yellow pyramids lined
on both sides of the reddish brown path
In a dazzling grandeur autumn in a pose
mild fragrance wafting in the flowing wind
That the tragic hues could be so loud
one wouldn't believe without witnessing
Used gourd skins with Halloween residuals
sunlight seated on a pile of harvested straw
dimples on our cheeks we exchanged our eyes
two bodies rested for a while in a soul
Flapping wings in their southern flight
We look for a charcoal glow from each other
____________________________________________________
October 22, 2020
Still-Life Autumn Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Eve Roper
Lock up your guns and count the cost
Carve up the soul, buy back debts still foaming with froth
Blank stares for the logic so deep as the sea can see
Second handed stories crisp on ends that flutter up from flames through trees
Dog pile into the ashes of hometown sweethearts turned inward, and downward
Spiraled lives intertwined, dinner for schmucks lit by neon flights
Relentless ego pulses for a breath of fresh air, despising the days with small beginnings
Future proof that fatal attractions have come and gone
And all that's left is the cynic bound on endless holidays
We cut our teeth in the hollows of garages damp with the death and life of the funeral ancestry
Fresh blood to be spilled against foundational methods of aura farming
Foundlings of ghosts that circle the lighthouses torn down in panic
Now adrift on hostile waters, while hosting this season's drowning parties
Loaded on shock rock and rotting junk
Fishing for certainty in a sea we can't afford to be
Souls who owe too much to stay above the piss and vinegar drink we serve to thee
Absent deaths in hollow identical musings
Deny any parts unknown gathers the residuals
Bite that tongue, hollow out your words
Friendlier fires come through here every now and then
Shadows remind of you
These grey black deep shallow hues
Beneath the eaves beside the big trees
They almost silently whisper
As I want to kiss her
She disappears
As we come and go here and there
Red or green or blue or grey or a combination
Shadows always roam with us everywhere every time
Sometimes latent some other time
Eloquently reminding
‘We were’
We shudder
Some men and women all on a sudden
Turn shadowy, tall short huge slender shadows
Time robs them of their existence
Just the shadows wander
Man makes friend with man
Shadow-person makes friends with shadow-person
By the side of your smiling face
Beside your crimson and golden fireplace
The shadows appear and sadden our thoughts
Apples turn pale damp and rot
In our lonely reverie
Assembly of dark spots
We cannot do without
Our dear shadows
Today or tomorrow
Residuals of our bone marrow
Look there at the two fondling larks
Do they know
One may be shadow tomorrow
Fondling is life
Shadow, a knife
_______________________________________
15/11/2016
"Red Hearts"
In black and white,
openings
and dead ends abound;
Words read.
Hearts read.
What matter the colours
of skin and minds now?
The best of us
sat in hell.
Take consolation in that -
He made His way out,
for us, for Himself.
A Poet-Prophet - no doubt,
lessons in complexity,
embedded deep,
forgotten by most of such belief.
Isolated and removed, we try hard,
we try our best to follow
like hungry sheep.
You’re in good company now.
Aren’t you?
You’re in good company now?
The best of us
has sat in hell,
He,
made His way out.
We look inward daily
at our self-imposed rituals,
each word hung on a line -
dissolving into a wall, we're just residuals.
Our reflections mirrored in the all-seeing power,
the paler shadows cast outward
from our removed selves, where –
Love casts its spells.
Love will always cast its spells.
Blind eyes turn away,
laughing it all out loud
like simple jokes needing to be expelled.
Blind eyes turn away.
What is past is forgotten here,
in the mostly untarnished always.
Hearts hearing truth
will tell it as it is –
always.
Without hesitation, without doubt,
they cast their spells out loud.
Their words speak truth, bleeding,
swimming like salmon upstream,
just as they are –
alone, unclouded, would-be poets
with muddled hearts up in the clouds,
watching for their Shining North Star
amongst all the falling stars.
We look inward, some of us,
for the meaning of who we truly are.
It seems so close, yet removed, so far;
We make our way out,
in the end, somehow.
Words read.
Hearts read.
Love
has the strongest power,
somehow.
Love
is what is needed most.
When delivered without proof –
unconditional,
Love will always save us.
This could hurt…
pierced hearts are read here,
bleeding strong power.
Candide Diderot. ‘26
every face has a thought hidden behind the visage of visuals
like the beating of the ear drum listening to compound residuals
the beating of the heart, adreneline rush, push past the point of strain
mental structure whinding spiraling downawrd thinning the blood of the brain
eyelids like shutters flapping violently through the moonlit breeze
frosted visual enchanting on a crystal island while lakes of airs swim through trees
if ear drums had sight would the sound carry what they see?
would it penetrate your retna emitting impossible screems?
fragmented sentences with words sharp as shards of glass
shoots up your esophagus slicing up your tingue as it pass
plasma painted teeth swimming in saliva stained blood
the smile of innocent kidnapped torchered and hid in mud
the darkness of a corner with a child beckoning appraoch
taken from the day light shadowed by the adult like reproach
epervescent ponds violently errupting through surface tension
the remains of a dilapidated lake of acidity the mind chooses not to mention
the head of a serpent a product of whinding smoke creation
burning the air and ground from the genesis of its foundation
A good mote,
something to imagine upon
with sin in mind.
Near strangers in the same office,
clothed only by levels and walls.
From two floors up
she let her dark hair down.
Hour after hour
he running fingers through strands,
twisting ropes of sensuality.
A married mote,
a thought made flesh
that grew too large for eyes.
A bad mote,
a succubus in the den of being,
a succulence of dark desires.
Time-worn, and weary it waned,
it cooled
leaving only residuals,
flavors good and bad.
A clearer youth
un-imagined her utterly out,
deleted that mote,
gone and forgot forever,
until now.