Long Rigidity Poems
Long Rigidity Poems. Below are the most popular long Rigidity by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Rigidity poems by poem length and keyword.
Line of inquiry from Unseeking Seeker:
"discarding narrow thought flow crutch
we learn directly by soft touch
and what we garner we relay
to the vast void in childlike play
entwined thus with the universe
we dance without need to rehearse"
_______________________________________________
Ahhh, Spontaneity! How wonderful it is.
It separates adults from children more often than not.
It’s that magical quality which often seems to me
that some people in their older age simply have forgot!
Spontaneity . . . Maybe it’s the essence of authenticity
when you can be yourself and say exactly what you think.
Maturity can keep us from being much too blunt,
yet spontaneity can be subtle like a winsome wink.
Spontaneity . . .Imagine yourself when young.
How easily you laughed; how happily you simply played.
Sadly, it’s not that way for kids from homes of terror,
yet I hope that most of us recall impulsiveness we once displayed.
Did you hop onto your bike, riding anywhere without a care?
Did you ever jump into a pond where tadpoles swam -
trying to catch them while cupping them in your small hands?
Did you grab an apple off a neighbor’s tree, then have to scram?
Did you play with tiny cars or trucks, causing them to crash?
Did you pretend your doll was you and then converse
with your best friend’s dolly as if that doll were her?
Did you make up little plays you never did rehearse?
I did all those things and more. It was a different time.
I could run, play ball, and all through town I’d roam
with friends or siblings. How we laughed and had such fun.
It was not till darkness fell we even would go home.
Today kids have to be more careful, yet I see them play
showing imagination like when as a child I did.
Were you like me, and do you ever dream about today
those fascinating things that you dreamed of as a kid?
Unfortunately as adults, we have a lot of rules.
Rule are necessary, but we must not let
the rigidity of them replace the joy of having fun.
The inner child in all of us we must not forget.
Spontaneity . . . Reclaim what you may have lost.
Calm your mind; lighten up; laugh and smile more.
Embrace creative thinking; be as honest as you can.
The child inside of you is one you never should ignore!
Colures transposed orbits closed whence derive the rains of rose?
Across million mileage magic and magnitude are striding
O'er holistic horizon svelteness and smoothness are sliding
Meridian framed parallax tamed whither swash the rains of rose?
Spray by spray, knuckle down to my mood pensive
From ethereal to real, from sparse to intensive
Soon drenched head o'er heels
I found the root of my romance's route
Under a bracing baptism bringing fine feels
From amazed to aplomb, from something uneasy to nothing moot
Memo peeped murmurs eavesdropped how to diagnose
My long-overdue romance syndrome, rain of rose?
Among infinitesimal traces palpating sentimental palpitations
And probing their pathetic derivations
Throughout infinite engrams pinpointing fugal focuses
And precluding their maudlin metamorphoses
Tender spot perceived hardened navel-gazing detected
Rain of rose, how to track and treat my vulnerable veins well-directed?
Self-moderating little by little
Instilling solace into me trickle by trickle
Yarn by yarn, untangle my yearns intricate
From aggressive to assimilable, from inquisitive to intimate
Rosy, rosy rain
Messenger from ineffable Cockayne
Where comet breeze fondles her finery of frieze
Into my laps leap swaths of her lusty ease
Rosy, rosy rain
Sharp switcher of memory lane
Where murk and melancholia of yore
Transfigure into present horoscopes and kaleidoscopes galore
Rosy,rosy rain
Recoverer from romance drain
Ripple by ripple streams into her likeness, lusciousness lacing limpidity
Alleviating my lovelorn insipidity and rigidity
Rosy, rosy rain
Precise pacesetter of telepathic vane
Wisp by wisp floats familiar fragrance and grace
My well-oriented paces in lockstep with her fairy trace
Rosy, rosy rain
Shuttle through sensorial chain
Calm inside, my premier ego as huddled as a musing esthete
Passion outgoing, the alter ego as loosened as an effusing synesthete
Rosy, rosy rain
Seamless scourer of sour and pain
Inch by inch rinses away blue waves of woes
Rousing the resting redolence of rose
Rosy, rosy rain
Merry melody with voluble refrains
Note by note, elicits dulcet endearments of old years
Fleeing from errant mindscape, destined to attentive ears.
Abstraction is an old story with the philosophers, but it has been like a new toy in the hands of the artists of our day. Why can't we have any one quality of poetry we choose by itself? We can have in thought. Then it will go hard if we can't in practice. Our lives for it.
Granted no one but a humanist much cares how sound a poem is if it is only a sound. The sound is the gold in the ore. Then we will have the sound out alone and dispense with the inessential. We do till we make the discovery that the object in writing poetry is to make all poems sound as different as possible from each other, and the resources for that of vowels, consonants, punctuation, syntax, words, sentences, metre are not enough. We need the help of context- meaning-subject matter. That is the greatest help towards variety. All that can be done with words is soon told. So also with metres-particularly in our language where there are virtually but two, strict iambic and loose iambic. The ancients with many were still poor if they depended on metres for all tune. It is painful to watch our sprung-rhythmists straining at the point of omitting one short from a foot for relief from monotony. The possibilities for tune from the dramatic tones of meaning struck across the rigidity of a limited metre are endless. And we are back in poetry as merely one more art of having something to say, sound or unsound. Probably better if sound, because deeper and from wider experience.
Then there is this wildness whereof it is spoken. Granted again that it has an equal claim with sound to being a poem's better half. If it is a wild tune, it is a Poem. Our problem then is, as modern abstractionists, to have the wildness pure; to be wild with nothing to be wild about. We bring up as aberrationists, giving way to undirected associations and kicking ourselves from one chance suggestion to another in all directions as of a hot afternoon in the life of a grasshopper. Theme alone can steady us down. just as the first mystery was how a poem could have a tune in such a straightness as metre, so the second mystery is how a poem can have wildness and at the same time a subject that shall be fulfilled.
It is the unsettling feeling of uneasiness, the unseen
Presence that quickens your pulse rate, are you being
Watched, what lies in the darkened hallows of the
Black shadows?
Why does the whispering wind scream beware, into
My inner ears consciousness, making the blood
Within mine veins run icy cold, light to the touch
Invisible finger tips brush against my bare exposed
Neck, yet no one is there, just the chill in the night’s air.
Then in the hushed silence every sound stops dead,
There is absolutely no breeze, nature seems frozen in
A complete quite stasis freeze of stillness, a rigidity
I’ve never experienced before.
I’m a human statue paralyzed in place, motionless
Just waiting for something to happen, should I
Flee or stay, my mind races with a stood cold’s
Adrenaline's rush, but for God’s sake I’m completely
Unable to move!
What is the definition of reality, as the lights
Flickering, and my four walls of living shelter
Shudder, I’m forced to question sanity vs.
Insanity, thin grows the line of realism!
Dualities cabinet doors swing wide open,
As the plates of life’s routine smash, against
The walls of ethereal existence.
A trickster’s spirit is this wild raw force, of angers
Power unleashed, this poltergeist whom lashes
Out me, from his deadly zones terrorizing abyss.
In fears screaming, I yell what do you want
From me, and It responds in a terrifying
Voice, Get out this is my house!
In a flashes rude awaking, the spell of motionlessness,
Is broken, the captive hostage is released, I’m free
At last to run, and I do so without questioning’s
Reasoning, never to look back, never to challenge
My decision, for it is his house, this poltergeist,
May he dwell in his own living hell forever?
Do you not believe my story, for I care not?
For I’m sound in both mind and of body,
Once a none believer now a born again
Spiritual being, who realizes the other side
Does exist, and it has touched my life
With voracitie's true evil.
BY: CHERYL ANNA DUNN
Face framed ornate, or curl corner blu tacked up
Childhood fanciful daring must softly be contained
Dispicable hovers inside cherub cheeked adorable
Challenge for enamoured to create correct shape
Administer discipline with compassion entangled
Potential beckons infant innately curious
Toddler discovery meshed with messiness
Woven with wonderment routine can't limit
Succumbed mother disowns justifiable furious
Besotted witness, sure estate for mischief
Nudging daughters towards beings approved
Beyond old rigidity, modern option multiples
Youth spoken forums we're foreigners to
Images of genuine and fake indiscernible
Listened to lunacy delivers messages askew
Duty to daughters reflect our similarity
Penciled declarations stuck to fridge
Devotedness focussed on child precious
Inflated effort, parents' universal currency
Whether meagre expenditure, or excess
Snippets of your prosper are written in me
Lawyer loads clothes into washing machine
Submerged both classes in a world severe
Puppets of striving in fast passed society
Consumer boom boldly commandeered
Disparity reveals parental symmetry amazing
Faithfully accommodating girls' shifting needs
Working mothers, each of us 'unaccompanied'
Various sized resources serve child raising
Sacrifice made by dedicated souls equally
Providing guidance, friendship gripes quieten
Line of latitude curved by desire to control
Old school wisdom bolsters brains susceptible
Dramatised screen infused new century children
Content quickly spirals into unacceptable
Desperately hoping, we Mother soldiers
Shield children from future provocation
Hold fort, nest feathered dedication
Thrusted comfort, reluctant scolders
Admist mixed rails, reliable station
Within swayed pre teen trajectory
Sturdy parenting depots journey
Home stands firm from outside duress
Finances overshadowed by reliability
Partnered peers approve sole success
17th July 2020
‘ We and They Saw … ’
(or) A Testament To A Holy-Helper
My Beloved, God … Most High
Creator Of Celestial, Heavenly Skies
And The Earth and Wind-Blown Seas
And All That Lives and Moves and Breathes
and Every Magnitude Thereof …
Bless You and Your Son , Because:
That Day, I Saw Your Hand, God … ------ Ps. 109: 27 , 28
That Night, I Saw Your Might
‘ You ’ Moved Everything In Motion
And Brought It To The Light
‘ You ‘ Wanted Them To Know
‘ You ‘ Made Sure They Saw
and when ‘Caught’, They Know … ‘ I Knew ’
when ‘ You ‘ Cracked Them, On Their Jaw …
… So Wide-Opened, Gasping Like A Fish
‘ I ‘ Heard Their Misery, Intense
They Fumed in Rage and Ignorance
‘Cause My God, Fought For Me ! “I'm Convinced” …
I Tried To Warn Them, Holy Father
Tried To Help Set Them Free
But, They ‘ Kept (and Keep) On ’ Acting Evil
… They Know What and Who They Be !
… Playing Name-Games … Should Be Ashamed !
of Their Jealousy … and Trying To Mess With Me
Their Deceit, will be Their Defeat
in Their Lies and yeah,‘ I Heard ’ Their Cries !
… and Their Own Sick-Stupidity
May Set ‘em 666 Feet-Down-Rigidity …
And All … This Was Uncalled For !
‘ Lord ’ Knows, I Don’t Bring Harm … No More !
But, ‘ You ’ Are The Judge, Holy One
Yes … ‘ You ’ Are: Final Say and The Law …
And ‘ You ’ Showed Me … ‘ You ’ Wanted Them To Know
What ‘ We ’ and ‘ They ’ All Saw !
(The Day I Wrote This …
I Mean, Right After I Wrote This
I Opened Up The Bible …
And There It Was ...
My Ok-Heavenly, Confirmation …
Everything Is Alright Still
... Psalms 109: 27, 28 )
God, Save Us 'All' From Sin ...
Amen
MoonBee
As young children, we were happy
but as adults, most of us not.
why so? Cause ideas what's thought
as right, differs -none takes gladly.
Adult unhappiness derives
from rigidity as stuck in
own ways though always wish to win
often leads to failure in lives.
While our routine ways of thinking,
acting may be useful, bringing
comfort in our lives in some ways
but prevents from growing always;
may lead to despair, beginning
of stress with negative thinking.
~X~X~X~
Sonondilla or Sardine Sonnet
Quote :: “This is a form invented by Charles L. Weatherford.
In his own word Charles explains that he developed to form to
play to his own particular strengths:
Creating the “sonondilla, I actually used two existing forms.
First was the Petrarchan sonnet; second was the redondilla,
a purely syllabic Spanish quatrain with envelope rhyme scheme (abba).
Based on this mixing, I came up with a fourteen lines form that
was syllabic, but was also tougher to rhyme than other sonnets.
So, the sonondilla’s predominant rhyme scheme is abbaabbaccddcc,
which is even more difficult than the Petrarchan sonnet."
Redondilla, a Spanish stanza form consisting of four
trochaic lines, usually of eight syllables each, with a rhyme
scheme of abba. Quatrains in this form with a rhyme scheme of
abab, sometimes also called redondillas, are more commonly
known as serventesios.
( Ref:: https://www.britannica.com/art/redondilla)
In the Sonondilla or Sardine Sonnet it should be written in octosyllabic lines.
Meter either iambic or trochaic
Rhyme scheme: Rhyme: abbacddceeffee or abbaabbaccddcc
Volta to appear at line 9.” Unquote
Pasted from http://poetscollective.org/everysonnet/sonondilla/
Thanks to Mr Lawrence Eberhart for the resource at Poets COLLECTIVE Site.
Two hearts in an awesome communication
but covered by bodies which are worshipers of denial.
She adores him, he cherishes her
but such feelings are molded into the formality of colleagues.
Excitement, no matter how little, is suppressed,
appreciation rendered from a falling heart but by casual lips;
attraction, pressures the borders of the mind through its swell
but yet restricted by the protective bunkers of pretense.
When the time for absence to ease the saga comes,
anticipation drafts out a time table
for expectation to put every event on alarm
in both souls which cling to the thoughts of the next reunion.
Ego strips to perform a show on affectionate longing;
he becomes the gold standard to her new lifestyle
while she becomes the detergent to which his actions are washed.
Time once again takes a shift from itself,
internal body signals responding to a meeting, soon to occur.
Face to face, the physical acquaintance is once more blessed
but the corresponding fever has now began to snore,
weakening the whiskers of attraction to stay down.
Executive in the outside, voracious in the inside
with longing spirits towards each other
but confined by dramatized strictness.
Static and fixed concentration but away from her from the guy
with concrete rigidity lasting for long-long minutes.
Expert carefulness and planned accuracy in body movements from the lady
with continuous episodes of deep exhales
coming out of tension’s internal burning sticks.
Avoiding each other’s gazes with admiration’s lips tightly sealed
epitomizing an atmosphere of two minds in one likeness,
yet standing as agents of discomfort to each other.
Heat has unnecessarily been added to a delicacy so spicy
and nothing can blow it out unless someone says something.
Started out with the calendar’s first cold months, started a year with some new reservations.
Ending now with the last cold months, ending the year with some old sense of resignation.
I’ll be yelling out about my dreams and my peace; I’ll be yelling out that ‘I want it that way’,
But I’ll be bailing out on all my plans again, thinking about today turning into yesterday.
Don’t blame me for being a sloth,
For my cold mind producing these lazy thoughts.
Of course, this sweater weather will make me lazy,
When the lights and the nights are dim and hazy.
In a movie with cheap visual effects, I saw a fat anaconda wrapping its prey, taking its life minute by minute,
This blanket is making me snug, wrapping around like I’m a helpless slug. That anaconda, this blanket seems to mimic it.
So how can I fulfil my year end goals, as each page of the calendar unfolds, as I’m stuck in this blanket?
If my motivation was a prototype of the Titanic, this blanket would surely be the glacier that sank it.
I look outside at the winter sky of my city; it ain’t that bright and lively but it still looks pretty, clouds sketched and painted with wintry shades of grey.
I look outside at the cold streets, people walking with cold feet, finding it hard to breathe, wearing pollution masks cosplaying as a Jain monk/Batman’s Bane.
2 hours later, I’m still trapped in this anaconda, filled with heat of a hundred thermonuclear bombs,
I’m low now but still I pray to the high powers, that this winter, everyone gets a blanket to be warm, even the poor stray dogs.
Laziness and hopelessness, rigidity and frigidity take the best of me, as the temperature and the sun go down,
As Santa Claus comes around, as my college shuts down, as smoke and fog make a cold cocktail and engulf my Indian town.
It was a midsummer night; heat pervaded the season;
Mosquitoes and flies moved around as though hatching treason;
Cool breeze verily tried to pierce through the humidity,
Failed; as it was like hearts of humans with rigidity...!
It took hours of turning and churning before sleep entered,
Mosquitoes tried to for a few drops of blood, self-centered;
Dreams! Nay, nightmares I'd say, hovered over my empty mind,
Bringing in devils, phantoms and fiends of every kind...!
It's toward morning, like an angel opening the door,
Entered a dream, may not be magical, like a rain-pour;
I witnessed my intimate friend's newly built house sinking,
Like the Titanic, gradually, its whole shape shrinking...!
Merry crows, eagles and vultures were flying all around,
As though, as on an earthquake, mountains of carcasses found;
Noises, cries, screams and screeches filled the entire atmosphere,
Like which I had never heard during my long yester-year...!
I couldn't wait for the morning; Before dawn I set out,
What could be? How? And why? Filled in my mind many a doubt;
I found his house (newly built) standing firm and unshaken,
Relieved, yet, wanted to find what misery has broken...!
Debts, he said; ashamed of telling you; loans of construction!
I might need to sell-out the house; or find my destruction;
I was perplexed as I was not very rich person too,
As friend true, I must reach out to him at his time of woe...!
Other friends and companions I instantly collected,
To him, like heart-beats, each one's compassion got connected;
We soon sold out, whatever is sellable, for his sake,
Saved him, forthwith, from his agonizingly cancerous ache...!
26 September 2022
The Mystical Dream Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Anoucheka Gangabissoon