Long Rumination Poems
Long Rumination Poems. Below are the most popular long Rumination by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Rumination poems by poem length and keyword.
Inside my skull
there is a house
that never sleeps.
Its corridors are lined
with mirrors made of old wounds,
and every mirror
insists on showing me
a different version of myself.
In one room,
Guilt sits like a tailor,
measuring my mistakes
with a yellow tape
that stretches across decades.
In another,
Fear is a locksmith,
changing the shape of every door
just before I arrive.
Nothing fits.
Nothing opens.
Nothing stays.
Meanwhile,
Memory works in the basement,
a silent archivist
cataloguing forgotten afternoons,
preserving heartbreaks
in glass jars,
pinning dead conversations
like rare butterflies.
Sometimes
I hear them fluttering.
Psychologists call it rumination.
I call it
a graveyard teaching itself
how to sing.
The brain is strange.
It builds cathedrals
out of tiny accidents.
One careless sentence
can become a religion.
One abandonment
can become a climate.
One betrayal
can alter the migration route
of every future hope.
And still,
we continue.
What remarkable creatures we are—
walking ecosystems
of invisible weather.
Some people carry monsoons
behind their smiles.
Some carry droughts.
Some are entire oceans
pretending to be cups of tea.
For years,
I believed healing meant
demolishing this house.
Breaking every wall.
Silencing every ghost.
But grief,
that ancient architect,
whispered otherwise.
It said,
“The crack is not your enemy.
It is the window
through which tomorrow enters.”
So now,
when anxiety hangs its dark laundry
across my thoughts,
I do not fight it.
I simply open another window.
When loneliness arrives,
dragging its suitcase of echoes,
I make tea for both of us.
When sorrow plants its black garden,
I water it carefully,
for even suffering
contains seeds
that do not yet know
their own flowers.
And on certain nights,
when the moon rests
like a silver bandage
upon the forehead of the world,
I walk through the rooms
inside my skull
and discover
that I was never a broken house.
I was a lighthouse,
mistaking my own storms
for ruins.
Rumination.
Too long an elongation
Oblivion
Too easy a high five to see in freedom, in scope of Pentagon
The eternal fire, chest of drawer and homeland security
Almost a climax toward Bermuda triangle
A selfless supplication in the third act
Without writing how will you find meaning too , through abstraction?
I am an assonance
To odd a pain
In revision of torn pages
To forecast pills of nine
Will there be any benign?
To tell a tale , to cast a forecast
Gaze, maze, in audacity of courage
I love you, your heart beats in mine
I rub you, I feel your overcoat, the woolen layers
And I tell you, softly
Upper supper, look me in to the eyes
Familiarize a face
You have to give a speech
For a lost butterfly
On the twenty first floor
Of the tower.
“Did you say tailgating?” The question came
I replied, to do rely, almost a reply’s try,
A point of no return, I love you in supreme time
But how will I describe my rumination?
In odds of your twenty years
And ninth of mine?
April 21, 2023
step back from the cliff
your twenties' brain on the edge
change is not decline
age redraws the roads we know
changing the way your brain thinks
stress rattles the frame
old minds need to avoid storms
rumination rusts
stronger pathways bear the load
as the brain's framework evolves
inside ageing brains
new supporting pathways grow
forming a framework
where nerves trace what years reshape
building a resilient mind
ongoing support
is needed to sustain growth
keep damage away
the stronger the inner frame
the further collapse retreats
movement wakes the brain
trodden pathways branch and bind
feed the frame, not flame
less abuse and fewer harms
give the scaffold room to grow
let the mind wander
explore unfamiliar ground
build fresh connections
try some things you cannot do
strange pathways form as you go
a time traveler
looks back, looks here, dreams forward
builds mental contexts
adds layers to the framework
as time bridges connections
there may be no cliff
if the pathways are well used
framework stays alive
by building mental bridges
transforming decline to change
On a monotone Monday,
under grey skies with perpetual rain,
I became a devotee to your magnificence.
A poetic pilgrim wandering upon a path,
which would lead me to your embrace.
Intoxicated with your romantic reflection,
my ink is seduced in your rumination.
My passion is like the raging sea,
come feel my love, come satisfy me.
Oceans apart, I swim in sensual shores,
that would bring me to your door,
but alone, I drown in shallow streams.
I've become jealous of departing birds,
craving for the clouds to carry me
from lilac dusks to scarlet dawns,
so I can ascend like sunrise,
descend upon you like sunset.
You are the essence of nature,
I, a mighty tree bowing to it's mistress,
desiring your heart and soul,
not just your earthly existence,
Your love strengthens my roots,
as they spread rapidly to reach you.
My hands have become lonely,
without your fingers interlocked in-between.
Your aroma intoxicates my senses,
your persona like perfumed petals,
weaves poetry inside my mind,
which flows upon a seedless garden,
patiently waiting for soothing blossoms.
There is no remedy for my syndrome,
as each day without you,
I relapse,
without your rehabilitative scarlet lips.
Kiss me like poetry,
before I suffocate,
drain me into a steamy silence,
where there is no need for verses,
so we can merge in carnal mists.
Lust is an infatuated captive animal,
a starved beast frustratingly caged.
Set me free...
For you hold the key.
Time cries for you, reluctantly moving,
with each beat of our hearts.
In darkness I supplicate with the stars,
with your name on the tip of my tongue.
Devotion is a unity of parts,
only we can piece it together.
With you I want Sunday mornings,
where our eyes meet in rousing raptures
with your lips as my nourishing nutrient.
Love is not just an emotion,
it's a whimsical fluctuating journey -
and you are my final resting place.
Maybe she won’t think so hard next time
I ask her if I’m real
Maybe if she told me the truth
I wouldn’t have to lie so much
Maybe if she brought me plastic flowers
The bees wouldn’t die like the birds did
Maybe if uncertainty was promised
I could say she kept her side
Maybe if she didn’t look so nice
I could see myself in her
Maybe if she didn’t keep so tidy
The cadaver dogs could smell her closet
But maybe if so much was undone
She could feel as if there was hope
But maybe if they were more thoughtful
She could have a thought of childhood
But maybe if she loved herself
As much as I love her
You could know it’s all for you
Oh! To wish of a far-away land,
Where flowers of all colours bloom without fear,
The colours that our eyes can meet,
Of all the dreams we left unseen.
Oh! To wish of a serene icy lake,
Where the ice sparkles at the morning rays,
The rays of sunshine we beseeched,
Of all the people we left behind in memories.
Oh! To wish of a majestic forest,
Where the canopies are taller than our hopes,
The leaves protecting our inner souls,
Of all the rumination we cannot forsee.
Oh! To be so wishful in existence,
Where the whims of emotions rush a breeze,
The wind reminding us of our liveliness,
Of all in this world we can imagine and be.
To Royal Prince George and Royal Princess Charlotte
How to save a Royal etiquette explainable when loyal rumination is not?
In a supplicating interlocking prayer
I witnessed so many times , simplicity
Ode to divinity.
After all those are left, one by one
after asking me, "What we may do, for a room-u?"
I remained silent, as God speaks in hands, often.
We, muslims, supplicate with concave hands, and through yearning
Once the interlocking prayers are accepted we all will go "Home"
Even beyond homeland security
MFA class in PM time, that often in competition with God
Godsay and God say are in "issueroom" for a "room-u" reason.
To troubleshoot you need an origin, method and mannerism that piled up, through all these years, as cumulous clouds clutter and declutter, in a poem, "The stranger", or a magnum "The stranger,"
If I see them ever again, back in my life
I will ask a policeman to have a wishful sleep
so that the acro climbs up the royal Tajweed
The Boldest and True.
And so on...
1-19-2024
Tonight you step outside.
Out where the fireflies alight
on unseen eddies of air;
out to where the stars lend their light
and a breeze caresses your hair.
You sit on the step and you wonder
how a time so dark ever seems so bright;
you drift in reverie and you ponder
just where our souls go at night.
Not while your dreams take flight
behind eyes closed and blankets warm;
but while your sleep loses the fight
to the muse's ceaseless storm.
Where do our spirits flee to
when the sun is long out of sight;
why does rumination find its cue
after most have said goodnight?
Why does this hour make thoughts unite
and scrutiny of life reach full speed;
why is it so much easier to feel and write
when the moon from its daily chains is freed?
Do not shy away from the pensive mind,
for in its depths some peace you may finally find;
don't be afraid of the soul filled with thoughts,
rumination one of the few cures for the heart's toughest knots.
Sometimes one must just sit, and let themselves . . feel
what's coursing through them, what's going on, what's real;
situational awareness is never enough for what's inside –
pay attention to the self, if you ever wish to turn the tide.
One must let the strains of thoughts run wild,
to the fields of pain where your woes lay piled;
on these expeditions of the spirit, to put them to rest,
one may find with tranquility they suddenly are blessed.
Let the heart your mind's eye fill,
with what now means, what's come before, and what will;
with the images of your true self - the memories of yesterday,
events of today, and projections of tomorrow; with your way.
Do all this, that has been writ,
and so may your path be lit.
There is no promise, in this, of calm, of peace,
but you'll forever know true emotion - life's sweet release.
In my ecotherapeutic world view,
right brain and left stratosphere friendly,
I know two interdependent types of people,
Mushy Meditators
and Prickly Performers.
These two, together, help all of us win,
democratically and multiculturally,
when Performers
listen to
and read more compassion remediating Meditators'
performance medications.
And,
frankly, it would also help shape up
and encourage peak experience resilience
if Meditators
would Perform with more cooperative co-investments
and ecopolitical win/win compassion
where dutiful Truth actively celebrates joyful Beauty
when neuro-sensory bliss
explodes into throbbing wonder
and climaxing awe.
We need,
(or is it just me?)
compassionate integrity
more LeftBrain high
and deep learning RightBrain bicameral
transregenerative win/win joy communion,
local community
and national nonviolent communication
and globally not stern PatriarchalCapitalist competitions
Better resilient resistance
through ecofeminist
multicultural LeftBrain OverPerformance Cancellers
Counselors for patriarchal Performance addiction
cancelling further capital competitive investment
in dark rumination
rather than win/win mushy Meditation
medication
Inducing my ecotherapeutic world view,
right brain and left ecopolitically friendly.