Long Roils Poems
Long Roils Poems. Below are the most popular long Roils by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Roils poems by poem length and keyword.
Sad news
whence somber church bells peal n pews
packed tight to pay homage to Graham Dixon while each mourner doth rues
in due time exits the sepulchral chamber in ones or twos.
an untimely death
tis like a whip that stings naked flesh
unimaginable by this papa
of two lovely teenage daughters fresh
into throes of young adulthood,
where world (wide web) at fingertips and skein of community. family
and illustrious lower merion
principled staff wrought mental health network
that purportedly serves as a mesh...
how and/or why (this father doth ask himself)
did one life slip thru this intricate weave
where tell tale signs of personal turmoil
usually writ larger than any pet peeve
roils inside (attested by mailer daemons) and doth leave
family, friends and strangers dumbstruck
and stunned into sorrow per priceless youth did heave
himself against premature years of his mortality,
whereby even i (a passerby per cyberspace) grieve
the permanent loss of promises untold -
thus tis death impossible to believe?
no words can salve this pain
yet, a vicarious impact felt like daggers
into my heart they reign
while whisking soul of loved
indelibly etched against logic, this tragedy doth stain
thee entire being of me,
an anonymous transient virtual wayfarer
before the sands of time for mein kempf will wane.
damn
helplessness prevails
at how to console even a milligram
what can this soul offer - when such a brutal slam
bangs against the consciousness -
where psyche rent asunder -
with a wicked WHAM!
"Hear your fate, O high-dwellers of the airy, wide open
Spaces and fertile plain, your rugged and enclosed
Lands, Sparta, untouched by that of hard-grinding war".
Thus, the fraught Oracle of Delphi had so spoken.
Now only I alone am left to ponder on all that was before...
And, which, wrongly, ignorant peoples should all suppose.
But Sparta should lose in victory -- whilst noble Athens
Would become more wondrous than any could ever
Have imagined! And although I am of Sparta...I think of her
As home. For I have hunted in the sprawling woodlands
Of Phelloe, dallied with the plodding tortoise in coy Arcadia;
Alalcomenae's giant oaks offering shelter from inclement weather.
I gave up tears when listening to ancient, groaning pines
On the sandy coast of Elis, marveled at white Blackbirds
In Cyllene, ate the dates of Aulis, tasted olive oils
From Tithorea; when sat at the table of the Gods dined
Upon wild strawberries from Helicon! The flashing roils
Of Saronic dolphins. The Six Caverns that none dares disturb.
Alas, in my distress I am more troubled than Menelaus;
And have known a hundred-fold more greater a jealous pride...
All his murderous heartaches. Same, sudden, gut-wrenching blow
At first encounter; this which serves no man any good cause...
Apart to live in melancholy. Skin as perfect as untouched snow.
A wilful deceit that can hide behind an unemotive woman's eyes.
Forgive me, Pausanias -- there is beautiful poetry in your words my friend!!
O acid! How you slither soft upon the skin and melt the marrow deep within,
but better that my bones are lost than my will,
which you seem to have such a strange interest in.
Where did you hail from, o acid?
What fiendish land spawned you and why did you depart
to assault my sharpest senses and constrict my paling heart?
Before you, I thought that conviction was the ease,
though now the very thought of it roils my stomach.
Control, in truth, the burden, for in short time one who keeps
secure lock upon themself will surely triumph
no matter the task;
this I surely know.
And if that, then I know you too, o fiend.
Acid drawn from the deepest pits of my own unchecked appetite.
The collapse comes from within,
and, from without, you return again.
26 April 2018
I contemplate the bobber on the water.
It is as still as a friend’s prayer at meeting.
Connected to this moment by monofilament
I sit as if I were asleep.
A gust of north wind roils the surface
into ridges. In the furrow
the bobber dances, dances,
dropping its seed into the darkness
perhaps to lure forth one more wish,
one more harvest from the mystery
before I lose the day’s last light.
As suddenly as the wind came upon me
it dies. Placidity prevails, a perfect crust
of ice on new fallen snow at dawn
untouched by even an insect’s wing.
The bobber is still again
as still as prayer again
Retrieve. . . retrieve . . . a small voice
urges me, unfed need dueling with sense,
to cast again, to cast again.
but I am wearier than I thought
and it is accident time, accident time.
The uncast line is better, much better.
There is something hungry in the water.
Fast as an atomic banshee, he roils sacred halls
of White House clutches levers with brass balls
American powers remain unrestrained when he calls
Armada to exorcise imagine aery dragons,
he inarticulately falls
non-communicative, faux eruditely generative,
and heartily galls
toward this introspective kickstarter male,
and most likely others he appalls.
-------------------------------------------------
My inner guru hankers to share voice
amidst increasing din
and clamors in reaction to insidious machinations fin
hushed via Machiavellian offal prince,
who unleashes clout with Cheshire grin
unconcerned about population, chaste,
from their wells Fargo wing.
* * * * * * * * * * * *
Most every citizen banker, and kin
stared down vis a vis fierce-some intimations
catapult escalating, spin
laughing at rigged voting outlook
gratefully inflicts populace with monstrous win
doomsday soldiers -
art of the deal book not writ by said urchin.
-------------------------------------------------
Though regularly affiliated with top notch
kudos to virtual soapbox platform
re: all poetry to express Bing averse
toward ill feted Barron settlement
of United States government tossed like scotch
on thar hocks, thus an uneasy angst
also invisibly grabs me by the crotch
cuz das Trump power monger,
I fear rubric of democracy, he will botch!
-------------------------------------------------
This poem alternately titled -
harbinger of political debacle wolf find antipode
where toxic brew at crack of 12 a.m.
January 20th 2017 doth bode
doctored pregnant swollen tidal anarchistic military toad
deeds sheepishly shape into battalions
in tandem - fraternal order of police erode
Civilian protesters unite with ordinary citizen bankers
crowdsource sing metallic ca clash to goad
Form:
........jiggle clumsily; post halter-
behind braids- busy in evacuation of the cool pool water,
like a carefree bull in the field.
Her eyes sharp and cruel, unyielding to the faulter.
Fixating on a fool,
one caught looking,
looking around in a house of slaughter.
Baiting fingers thread the hook at the back of the neck.
Electric eel, slippery Brook,
Devil's daughter-sees her slithering tool- He, electrically awestruck like
A fist magnetic, en route to the face spilling drool onto Tesla spool archway portal of open space.
Strings attached, loose and taught,
drawstring and shortest lot of toothpick drawn from maw aftermeal twisting twirl, say ahhh.
Umbrella, sundress, undressed girl, with dimple and curls, Salem's lot,
lizard kind of you're in trouble.
You are aftermath wreckage, rubble.
Thrown into a dancing fire.
Inn-keeping-with something to visualize and desire.
He becomes her familiar,
one that roils in a mire.
The catch of the day
hung out to dry, for the letting.
To bleed, into the night.
Like a stain setting.
Sniffing helplessly like a hound
in the open airs entrails- in the dew of it's misting device of shroud.
Hellbound
In a twisting abyss of chance -romance,
in advance of death in a trance.
Hade's Siren smirks at the arrow holes of Eros bow.
Marksmanship, gamesmanship, act 3 underwaymanship, with an encore and a show, and a tip.
She takes a bow in mocking disrespect-
turned about face in splay.
O the feel of the steal.
The flash of a blade.
The flash of ages, gone to seasons
of gray.
Cursing in looks of kill, of a dialect universally known but unnamed.
Of that wet and silvery feel.
See the gardener’s open hand bring seed to soil,
into the creases beginnings, love, and endings fill.
Each of us bloom in the doing of this most holy toil,
see the gardener’s open hand.
On dark days when shadows bring tearful regret,
let shades of green jade and emerald play foil,
show the hues of blue, in morning glory and violets,
see the gardener’s open hand.
Hear the subtle song of the wood-bee working, coil
about your senses as, each to each, some pollen gets?
Man: the breeze, the sun, the seed, the rain, life roils,
see the gardener’s open hand.
First Published in Mused: Bella on Line 2015
The silent woman watches,
Shifting in the cold.
Holding coffee in hand,
Watching over the land.
Swiftly through the falling leaves,
Laying in the water.
Boats carving gashes,
Froth burbling up,
In their wake.
The silent woman watches,
As the dock begins to shake.
Glimpses of egrets,
Scream their distaste.
The waves wash up.
Sea oats fall down.
Debris is scattered all around.
The silent woman watches,
Mud roils in the water.
Fish can't breathe,
No more river otter.
The silent woman watches,
The no wake zone.
She moans as the river groans,
Beauty chiseled away.
War roars above
~ a hemisphere
gone coal black,
blasted with skin
~ned ash, soot
~scores the sky
and rubble roils; blood can not travel on the
wind. Lines cross, posts cross, peace cru~
cified. Food thought, wry humor displayed
in fields of grain from sea to sea. Commun~
nication cut-off
deafened by the
omnipresent gale.
Fenced in safety
a jest. The gold~
en fuel, isolation
will not save us.
War roars above
~ a hemisphere
gone coal black
blasted with skin
~ned ash, soot
scores the sky
and rubble roils
Blood can not
travel the wind.
An Ekphastic written in the Shape Form
After: Gray and Gold by John Rogers Cox, 1943.
GYPSY TANGO
The Gypsy Tango roils his Portuguese blood
Fires of passion leap into his brown eyes.
He asks, pulling at his collar, knees in bend,
“What were you listening to…”
Ah...caught him in vulnerable freeze.
A kaleidoscopic spin of a voluptuous skirt,
Hypnotic swirl of hair and beads -
The music stoked by a cyclonic pulse.
I reel in my most prized faithful husband.
The years keep him coming back
To the same fishing spot -
This is no sordid affair...
It is the cave of wonders.
May we never escape its chase
He’s got the hots for his Hungarian bride.
A szerelem egyszeruen csak szerelem. Ez egy leírhatatlan érzés.*
7/19/2019
*Love is just love. It can never be explained.