Long Revisits Poems
Long Revisits Poems. Below are the most popular long Revisits by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Revisits poems by poem length and keyword.
(no matter extreme global
warming more dire,
then cursing me smoldering
infernal languishing spitfire.)
Shade did adolescent
facade drifts asunder
asper...a major emotional blunder
shielding sensitive myopic eyes
against quashed
then young life, never
ordinarily gathering rose buds,
now I always wonder.
No, never so much
as a feeble arc
unable to issue even a light bark
unresponsive as a
cold bunsen burner,
nor can Clark
Kent marshal superman,
thus vital willpower
bleak and dark
within thine body electric
as mine life
journey doth embark
completing protracted orbit
whar raging self against time
strikes into metaphorical abysmal pit
continuing charade of
existence or quit
before chronological demise
decrees death to be writ
once flickering enthusiastic
willpower to be alive
snuffed livingsocial esprit de corps
elan forcibly crushed,
sans kamikaze nose dive,
when psychological arc
tangentially crossed figurative bee hive
aswarm with countless
invisible poisonous stingers
pierced late mine boyhood
asper razor sharp cutting knives
brandished by figures
shrouded within dark hood
whar bent gnarled fingers
grabbed and wood
not let go stranglehold
of thine curse canst atone
weak prepubescent unlovely skeletal bone
sinister voices still faintly heard,
within me noggin drone
like angry thundering birds
as anorexic starved
flesh didst groan,
now that fragile adolescent
boy within me revisits
haunting this middle aged
married man, whose moan
more nsync with countless
stifled mailer daemons
entombed akin to rigor mortis,
viz complex Oedipus prone
a wander lost young lad,
who left every mouldering stone
unturned - fearing unleashing
def finning tone
even to this very dusky moment
of my damned charade
fresh with painted fore
sight groping blindly
within outer limits
of the twilight zone.
Who is that brave and noble one I have heard so much about? I saw you standing right next to him in a newspaper report about him. Do you know his agenda, his intentions, and his mission? Where is he, from where did he ascend, and to where is he going? I have heard that he fears neither man nor beast, but has great respect for 'Laws'. Clouds of doom, fear, and gloom hang over our world. So take me to your leader.
I sense that the quest for unity of the 'citizens of the world' is abolishing 'Soveignties'. May our prayers ascend to heaven and may God free us from so many inequities, boiling pots of greed, overflowing pools of political corruption, debaucheries that permeate the atmosphere, and human behavior that's becoming too toxic for habitation. One sign of a good man is that he views constitutions and laws as instruments of sacredness. Evil men loathe laws, and perceiving them as restrictive, change or abolish them at will. I would be so honored to meet and dine with a good man or woman.
So please take me to your leader.
There is so much I need to know about him. So I hope that you have not been sworn to secrecy. He gives all appearance of a giant of a man who longs to be at peace. I have heard that he believes in freedom, justice, and prosperity for all. I have heard he's a good seed, has no greed, and cannot be bought or sold. I have heard that you are close to him, giving him counsel and godly wisdom. It is said of him that he bravely revisits history without becoming a revisionist. The future shall be paved with those who are unafraid of neither today nor yesterday. It seems our world is spent and spineless, and in such demand for true leadership. So take me to your leader.
You are a dear friend of mine, kind and true. So I beg of you, take me to your leader. He need not be grandiose or a wearer of haloes, nor superhuman or unusually charismatic. He need not raise the dead nor walk on water, but perhaps he knows the one who does. Perhaps his ears, eyes, and heart are opened to genuineness and tightly closed to hypocrisy. Perhaps he holds secrets whose revealing time has come, so please take me to your leader.
08042018PSContest, Take Me To Your Leader, Caren Krutsinger, 1stPl.
I generally mean mine mien mental state
moost occasions heavily marinated stupor
long established as external trait
psychologically time tested trooper
impossible mission to kickstart sanity
doppelgänger regularly revisits his soul asylum
hellbent antimatter he cannot vitiate
despite therapeutic laxative merely exhausts
well bred literate smoking doobie brother
eliminating aforementioned pablum
witnessed courtesy one floundering grouper
among plenty of fish schooled
hyphenated (high finned haggled)
burn hushed scaled poem
courtesy one unionised rebellious party pooper.
Spellbound with colossal mental grippe
(i.e. all-consuming figurative cerebral
obsessive compulsive forced membership)
magnetic resonance imagine indicated jagged blip
and/or nsync microscopy
showed telltale genetic authorship
regarding above stated mental health crisis,
whereby Sigmund Freud analyst did flip
lid freeing leeches imported courtesy Philip
Hansel and Gretel a mere slip
o' lass whose nose she always did turnip.
folklore suggests that one more than just one
constitutes a party because small can be good
fewer can merit merrier times than congestion
and thus enforced Corona not denying its hardships
can bring an overdue smile to wrinkles and frowns
as isolation unmasks virtues values and meaning
and the veil of Christmas descends into truth
Santa Claus’ reindeers engage in social distancing
from each other and disperse the post-modern myth
that incalculable strength resides in inflated numbers
less driving power for uncountable gift-wrapped
revisits love caring compassion and kindness
and breathless animals stop for an intimate word
before they spread a message of souls over matter
some lights on the tree have not been replaced for
the sake of lock down and tinsel looks threadbare
unless cherished and untangled of imminent beauty
we who have a log on the fire and roof over heads
food and passion in our hearts fortunate and blessed
only require one candle and a match to see the light
may the reflection condense and grow in our minds
looking into a Yule Tide mirror without distraction
false face and persona reveal without any makeup
what has been there all along the disguised masquerade
that there is strength and resolve under flawed makeup
for we are not alone as we give thanks to our beauty
06th December 2020
INTO THE WOODS
A wolf entered the woods with waning sun.
The thick of forest green and food besides.
Before the moon fades out his life be done.
For now the creature lurks where man resides.
Out of the house, into the deep dark space,
A young woman will meet her tearful fate —
Teen’s milky white smile with a hairy face.
Oh, she was charmed earlier by her date.
But now the woods, its limbs and bark, so wrong.
She turns to run. He howls and tears her dress.
Another smile and sneer - her father strong -
This pretty girl reclaimed...out of this mess.
The moon revisits haunt of wolf’s dark plot
and ivy shoes scold girl — dad keeps them taut.
1/7/2019
Silent One - sponsor
Vogon ReVisited—
Voltage elect potential energy tween two points ver vnit vharged;
Visible referring light spectrum intergalactic, electromagnetic,
vadiation that has a wavelength tween vanometers;
Can be seen by the human eye.
Invasions, implosions humanity asks WHY?
wazz!!!vitellogenesis b gruntions of diverse dumberly dew vibertarian;
Volume the amount of space objects subvance occupies encloses velocity;
Rates of change position vogaon’s willing to salvage respect to time;
Vapor a substance in gaseous,
phases at substance’s critical temperature;
Volatility vaporize given temperate vogonized;
Look at em, better recognized…
Vacuum space that is absent of matter,
wazz!!!vitellogenesis b gruntions of diverse dumberly dew vibertarian;
Verify ...
Vortex Valence to electrons,
the electrons atom’s outermost shell;
Vectorized quantity viscositized fluid’s resistance to flow;
Vacuole a membrane waste, in vogon molecules;
Vesicle organelle fluid Volartarian vocal valetudinarian, Value!!!
Vocha!! Vasodilatations as they gooberly glues clues choice boast;
Volartarian vocal humanitarian lizards;
valetudinaries vogonians manure smelly be gross locket;
See them evil vandalizations those gobblesr warts grumbles the host rocket;
See the visiting valiens vogonians reaching earth;
Imagine with me what's a vogon worth;
As once again they revisits earth…
Vocha!! wazz!!!vitellogenesis b gruntions of diverse dumberly dew vibertarian;
RUN SAVE YOURSLEVES THOSE Vogon’s are here on earth…
7/24/19
Written words by James Edward Lee Sr. 2019©
Written for project North Omaha Writer’s Group assignment 2019©
The curtain hangs half-open, welcoming daybreak.
Outside—a rooster screams the day open, reciting yesternight’s moans.
A lizard on my window nods, as if he knows our sins.
He’s seen lovers before—
& he knows fire does not forgive the log it loves.
The sheets lie still, like elders sipping a story
too sacred for the young.
Your scent kneels in the unholy authority of my room,
like a prayer mat after dawn.
It refuses to leave, for it knows—
last night, like others, had no long-term goal.
My mind revisits episodes of last night,
like two birds wrestling in a cloud.
Our wings were tied by the string of want.
One fell; the other followed on top,
because even falling can be fellowship.
My ex once said silence grows teeth
when you keep feeding it memory.
So my teeth reach into Jericho,
before you whispered,
“don’t wake the river inside me—
it still dreams of rain.”
But I was already drifting,
too far for salvation,
as I stared at Jericho like an open wound
that refuses to bleed.
You moaned for morning glory,
and the security dog barked—a note of disbelief.
Somewhere, the sun began to burn the world.
But in here, my lust turned into bread—
you, the yeast.
Each second hammered in like a clout nail
into the dark and quiet.
This river will never forget
this mouth that drank from it.
In the middle of my own weather,
I paused—watching raindrops that never touched the ground.
I’m done, and tired.
Even wisdom grows weary of being right.
My pillow has folded itself
into the shape of your head,
writing the psalms of this event.
The day yawns wide,
as if to say softly: you are a fool of warmth.
I press my lips to the cup you used.
It is cold now.
The taste of coffee and presence
sits at the bottom like truth—
truth that I am a fool of warmth.
...after Gwendolyn Brooks & Terrance Hayes
In this dim-lit hall, gathered close, we
Chalk our cues, faces worn but real.
Eight-ball in the corner, staying cool,
Brothers in the game, that's who we
Are. Schoolyard dreams we long since left,
Traded books for pool cues after school.
In this smoky haven loitering, here we
Find our place, amongst shadows we lurk
Quiet-like. Clock ticking, hour grows late,
But time don't matter much when we
Line up shots, aiming for that strike,
Playing it cool, playing it straight.
'Round the table, huddled close, we
Share our stories, raspy voices sing
Of life's hard knocks, fleeting joy, hidden sin.
In felt-green world, for now we're free, we
Hold on tight, though hope grows thin.
Raise our glasses, cheap whiskey, no gin,
To friendship lasting. Together, we
Make our music, spinning pool hall jazz.
Summer's ending, farewell to June,
We play on still, knowing in short time, we
Might not be here, where dreams can die,
Our final game coming too soon.
Of course, art is always somewhat
subjective, breaking established rules: the artist
intuitively adding imaginary inches to a canvas;
a work in progress, riding waves, finding depth
both on and off the easel, creatively flowing – a
vision on the loose –
(paused, but never finished...a true birth
having voice and life beyond the parent's release,
like a child going out into the world alone...
a must, for the painter to keep fluid a moistening eye:
that mysterious exorcism by his instruments...a true descriptor
ultimately not bound by the Catechism of Lines nor a Page's
World-edges;
no mural out of the soul, seeking spectacular release
is ever entirely confined to interior walls nor the sides of buildings~
that is why certain poems are read over and over, as if catching up
with an old friend~filled-in on what is new, an evolutionary rapport...
or one revisits The Museum of Modern Art – finding aged modern
in the old modern, the past meeting perhaps a cloudy moment and
today a day of awakening transparency – each vintage, an individualized
spirit-manifest,
a motivating shade of scentful-color~of brightness and overcast,
with searchable, unseen dimensions, the spaces science
has yet to fill,
the private domains of both
experimenting student and seasoned mystic...
the limits of what we
know, transformed by the revelation of what we dream,
the artist, and not the scientist, life's true conjurer of miracles,
only bound, when at all, by his own restricted conceptions of
time transforming space.
A once proud and busy place
built to help the daily race,
railway tracks, like welcoming arms
always there day or night.
Stationmaster always busy
sweeping the platforms, picking up litter,
tending to the flower gardens
oh so proud of all his creations.
Came the day such sad news,
no longer needed what would he do.
Looking up and down the tracks
no sounds of approaching trains,
birds still sang no changes for them
station would become a memory.
Grass and weeds take over a once loved place
no humans no trains such a lonely state.
Windows like eyes peered into space
why me, why me, winds sang imaginary sounds
changes called progress, sweeping the land,
railway stations joining history.
Dead of night, the wind pays a visit
imagination like the sound of lost souls.
Stationmaster revisits his domain,
broken glass, rusted gutters
hanging down like tears of disaster.
He imagines all the scenes gone by
he falls asleep in the peaceful scene
never to wake from his wonderful dreams.