Long Retraction Poems
Long Retraction Poems. Below are the most popular long Retraction by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Retraction poems by poem length and keyword.
I look out there
With a curious stare
An informative world conference experience
Should be attended if serious
No one can be seen
What could it mean?
Except for a gentlemen
A message the individual wanted to send
Holding a nation flag, notebook, and pen
A voice he wanted to lend
“I have a question
If we are in recession?
Have you heard of the triangle?
An international tangle
Displaying a thoughtful right angle
Culture, education, and health care
Are being challenged and dared
Need protection
Thoughtful interjection
Important academic schools
With lifelong skillful tools
For once learned
Decisions made are firm
Finding the right track
Not handled like a hack
I took the inquiry to heart
Swirling the Idea, I did start
Peacefully inserted in my mind
A concept I did not decline
Today we are competing in games
Warriors are athletic names
Many view sports as culture
Winning addiction turns someone into a vulture
Accepting the call
Try breaking down a destructive wall
Blocking interaction
Military might form a written retraction
On letterhead
This is better than counting the dead
If participants are not on stage
No matter the age
A surgical mask is worn
Due to health care virus that has torn
Creating a battlefield scene displaying those in mourn
Hopefully studying these two lessons
Creating a socially accepted confession
Commanding clean up the angry mess in
After grading egotistical testing
Minus violent arresting
Funny no spectators in the seats
Pondering the Olympic flame heat
Just like my speech
Where only one person I did reach
Was that lone soldier enough?
To release the peaceful white dove
Flying above
Filled with love
Getting things straight
‘We live in a world that should not encounter hate’
Remember only an audience that has one
Can get the real job done
Since the spoken word directly would be understood
Masses not tinkering under the hood
Engine conversation perfectly sounding purr
Warming the ice-cold burr
Leaving positive talk in the pot to stir
Honestly defeating any army, endured
Have You ever felt so isolated you die inside yet face it as you reach out to places mates stood now just spaces and your cries echo far and wide empty scenes fill your eyes still you fight for your pride even though you know you’ll slide to an inevitable defeat still off your backside you compete and never hide with every interaction there’s a sinking down reaction all you can do is act strong with will in retraction and not through negativity but just too much activity wearing you to shreds no reflecting no relaxing your head hectic and collapsing the pressure gets the better and you wonder what’s happening
Prayer talks
reflective love passion
Meditation walks
responsive life pleasure
Prayer is meditation
as cognitive life images intuitive love
Sometimes reduced to words
attempting to define
purposeful reality
Sometimes induced without awkward words
refining organic life's creation
of meaningful relationships
Reforming
disorganizing death's abortion
of meaningless non-relationship.
Reducing inductive meditations
to produce deductive reflections
may lead to seductive mystic paradox
Redacting
distracting
retraction
The silent Muse
may deeply feel
desecrating death's inevitable cause
remains organic life
While the prayerful Sage
may profoundly believe
organic life's unavoidable effect
portends desecrating death.
Life's absence
does not always provoke beating hearts
to grow fonder
Yet love's presence
is always necessary,
and yet insufficient,
to avoid life's organic losses.
Natural life's spiritual love
feels like something healthier
than unnatural death's desecrating lovelessness.
If "lovelessness" is not a proper prayerful word,
could this be because loveless meditations
remain so relentlessly still
abortively unspoken,
Earth life's integrity denied?
Sage prayers acknowledge personal
and environmental
trauma
causing disturbingly dissonant effects
while
Meditating muses recognize longer-term personal
and climate-aborting political
silencing systems
of deadly desecrating disgrace.
So too,
we may sagely anticipate personal redemptive
blessed events
and also amusing longer-term environmental
and deeper bred political
salvific climate wealth systems
loving sacred living grace.
No Luck For The Masses
Reversed into a corner where there is no way out
Rehearsed by a performer who likes to scream and shout
Inverses like a reformer who doesn’t know what he’s talking about
A curse that comes from former earnings not to go without
Multinational corporations that occupy the economic terrain
Unilateral conflagrations that teach you best of all to abstain
Collateral in the conversations that leave you grimacing in pain
Bilateral renunciations that leave the desert drenched in rain
Devastations that demand solutions in order to comply to convention
Remonstrations of absolution that deny the condescension
Aberrations of convolution that are a bone of mass contention
Admirations of the communions of the divine Ressurection
Profoundly seeking absolution from a person bound by grief
Resounding personal solutions that require the blessing of a chief
Confounding immolations that imply the working of a thief
Impounding the convolutions that you want to remain brief
Stupefaction of the masses staring at their screens
Abstraction comes in flashes of animations, adverts and memes
Extraction of the molasses as they’re diluting your dreams
Retraction of the colossus that invokes a high pitched scream
No luck for the poor the broken the tired the vulnerable or maimed
A truck of sure defiance that protesting will remain
The stuck realm of more reliance is a place of unhealthy terrain
While the crux that bore all of this violence leaves you back out in that desert rain.
Copyright The End Elizabeth Moroz
Be mine, oh please, love my heart, soul and gut
Your meanness is sexy, my darling ____
Oh, my dear AG
Turn your fury on me
Scream insults at me as I swat your _____
by Robert Gorelick
Rants and raves at congress, she’s domineering
Attorney General’s reputation smearing
Unlike humble Ghandi
She's Mean-Girl Bondi
A maniac, hard-hearted and hard-of-hearing
by I Am Anaya
Happy Valentine's Day!
2/14/26
Luscious librarian in lingerie lifting lemons on her laceration
Curiously classified texts are deemed completely conniving with affirmation.
Euphoric ergonomics easing established efficiency expert’s excitement.
Reluctant research rabbit is reminiscing about respectable replacement.
Culpable coalition is curiously creative yet cautious.
Tinkering tattle tales trust readily researched missives as responsible
Dramatic assessment of library’s assets leads to rebate of raspberry series.
Librarian’s granite faced boss demands retraction from newspaper
After news story of luscious lingerie-loving librarian living in library breaks.
(if only they could float)
And when the day wakes up from slumber
Sleep pushed on by memory of angry waves
Crashed over surfaces overcome by age
Forced to acknowledge shadows in the shallows
Tides remember every stone laid down in sand
Down to their souls as smooth as glass as clean
Rocks come alive at sunrise jagged black
Foaming at the mouth of beach retraction
Shores recede with seagulls laughing
Sandbanks fill up their limits to the dunes
Screeching noise through hollow shells come forth
Hovers over lands as loud as something manufactured
But only nature makes such sounds
Seaweed simply dangles there in deeper green
Like ugly mops forgotten how to clean the seas
And when the day begins to think of stones
Where waves lap happily over time with tides
Rocks and stones can’t lick themselves you know
When they wake up to take a walk
How they watch the curvature of the Earth together
Wishing they too could step away in style
But sadly stones have no feet or legs to speak of
And nowhere to go this time of day
A HUNGER UNFED
I now demand retribution, at least recompense
It’s like a pain in my stomach, a hunger unfed
Get the fullest apology for all that’s been said
When first shared online, it made me see red
Those nasty perpetrators deserve no defence
Evil false stories, spread just because they can
My desire for some justice burns in my gut
I wish they had a power line that I could cut
Or that their fancy vehicle gets stuck in a rut
If only one could just impose a worldwide ban
It’s the press you know, they’re above the law
Spying on people, and printing some awful lies
All those newspaper organisations I do despise
Just to sell more papers despite all of the cries
It feels just like they are rubbing a painful sore
But my hunger for retraction will be ignored
The impact on myself and my life is now dire
As deep down inside, it really burns like a fire
My everything now embers on a funeral pyre
Yet they still expect me to fall on my sword
Some slimy reporter, always keen for a scoop
Truth is the regular victim of his daily crimes
No standards are left in these worrying times
They call it an expose, but nothing rhymes
I wish all were permanently out of the loop
Looking back helplessly
at every foible like Epimetheus.
Born like a weed in the steamy morning,
I was an aimless, crude creature spinning
flamboyant cobwebs like a confident fool.
I slathered prismatic patterns, grinning like a jester.
Then, civilization impounded the measures of my dreams.
I became an embarrassed, lying chowderhead, concealing
my crayons.
I lacked language, locution, or parlance.
I sat absent, a prisoner in rote computation.
My night dreams merged with day-dreams.
My solo island became a continent.
I tried phoning out with phony phonetic fumbles
but everyone could see.
So, I slipped away, deserting, fleeing,
riding the rails in boxcars.
My passage through nocturnal town and village
untraceable, uncertain, preoccupied with the pigments
of my polyscope.
Later, I reappeared, reconsidered, and revised,
replicating the decorations of acuity, imitating
profundity like P. T. Barnum.
My spectacle drew crowds until I was discovered.
My retreat and retraction now heavy with
fatigue, I know not the lens of my psyche.
In sobriety, I recall all my splinters and ruptures.
But my rearranged reissues of adornments
will persist until I am expelled.
Published: The Opiate Journal, July 2020
the ladder is metallic
a shiny gun metal blue
light weight and telescopic
14ft tall or nearest the sod
as high or as low as i like it
i will displace myself upon it
i can lean it where and when
i need it, it's light and portable
ascending or descending on its antislip pedals
i do not climb the ladder
the ladder feels cold or hot
it teeters and is stead fast
my footing is lifted on it
i can mount it high
or as low as it will go
step down on it and heavenward again
the ladder makes a clatter
it clanks a rhythmic sound
three six nine rungs at a time
keeping a tempo on its firm board
one button retraction with multi positions
on this ladder i see all possible horizons
i do not climb the ladder
a practice in perspective
a soaring dismount while clutching the handrails
cascades and escalades
out of the forest, above the trees
the ladder is a step stool platform
extendable or collapsible
i do not climb the ladder
come to me what i do not want
drop on ascend, raise the fall
do it with confidence and poise
the ladder is unpredictable
it suggests a cautious advance
leading to somewhere never gone before
the ladder makes authenticity blossom
taking all devices in stride
it neither confines nor defines
i do not climb the ladder