Long Saran Poems
Long Saran Poems. Below are the most popular long Saran by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Saran poems by poem length and keyword.
We’re monopolized by the Saran-wrapped food,
the plastic cutlery,
absorbed by the clutter of the food tray.
Numbed by hours of jiggling,
the carting of torpid bodies through interminable distance,
we’re wedged now into boredom, uncomfortably numb.
Anesthetized – we fear nothing.
If the aircraft stalls, few will scream.
We’ll keep decanting small bottles of vin de table,
butter buns.
As the aircraft plummets
and drops like a stone to certain death
we’ll still be struggling with condiment sachets,
coffee creamers, with small, molded cruets
oblivious now to anything less important.
In the void of my transitional mind,
the aimless scatter-shots of snapshot in kind
finding itheir way.through pokes in the brine.
Saran wrap bindings of biased memories, invent orys,
and tupper-ware leftovers tidings of dreams, kept palatable for the aroaming beasts.
I find the manipulations stirring like mercurial-gravy,
sardonical Last Suppers of my humanity at
the toppings station, insulting.
Where's the variety, where's the if there
is a will there's a way?
Where's the frikkin beef?
I heard that commercial say- (I agree,
where's our defense against the dark arts Teacher
or our non f'd with bandwith to have our say?
;My Atriuk-Consultants,
disappearing, through a buffet line
of suitors for my gun hand-as treason's malignant mercenary gland.
Stranger in a strange clan.
Now every thought is like a remembrance, a
severance to pay for it all.The tying to-me
in Gordian crossroads mocked silverly
by multi directional unabaiting winds
blowing adversarily.
Each pointing "this way you fail !"
"Every which way a noose !"
"This way you fall !"
Of on the loose this way dungeon echoes
a calling as dark corridor Shades
with no true form to call.
The past haunts, the future calls,
lost in the chaos urn, as time falls-
in diminished return,
for the base is nearly full to lay
as a squandored mound of time.
Like shooting stars across the sky,
my dreams flicker, then fade and die?
Searching for purpose, to see what sticks.
I fire all of my rounds at once
In this endless maze of day and night I pace
these walls, like those Demonic Shades,
who chant "hey Jude" and perform "Jude Law"
in Shakespearean play, "There's something about Mary...
whomever target to sway. Come wicked this way s.
But in the darkness, I find a kin-spark
guide in my self defense,
of cheerlead everence in reference to
hope belonging to everyone the same.
A torch in the deepening dark
to saber heroicly for my good name.
Iwill rise from the sullen ashes,
strong and brilliantly bright, aiimless no more,
faith in my sights.
Pull !
Let the scatter shot fall where it may,
I'll carve my path, come what may.
For in the chaos, I see the arts of strength,
the part I play,
I find beauty's confidence and vision
in the facets of my jaded heart,
that maybe I can help the World in some small but
contrite way.
She has gone shopping for chicken stock.
I miss the vichyssoise of this potpourri season.
The unexpected earliness of most happenings
are so easy to miss.
My friend will soon return with a carton of broth,
plus, a Saran wrapped pre-prepared roaster.
I miss the plucking and the slimy fingered
dressing of a fresh plump bird,
the cleaning and chopping, the spatchcock,
the ‘mise en place’.
Today I will cook only with missing ingredients.
Everything is in order,
all is a hunger surrounded
by the soft anticipation of open lips.
I do miss the mélange and medley,
the consommé of fat times.
I will miss cracking chicken bones,
scraping out their boiled gelatinous marrow,
miss the suety brewing of bouillon,
the simmering potage.
My friend returns from the store.
She miles at the look
of childish relief on my face.
If I am left alone too long, I tend to make lists,
I become a Saran wrapped emptiness -
I disappear for a while.
(now for thumb sing completely different.
to offset global warming debacle.)
Tis routine sleep simply, aye
refer, and absolutely necessary
if ye decry
and/or beg to differ
with this “NON FAKE”
knows worthy guy!
though i sheepishly attest
NOT tubby a
medical practitioner expert,
this beastie boy
doth his body electric best
nonetheless, ah chest
wanna draw (figuratively)
to allude when
the wave of fatigue doth crest
with heaviness finds
these folding flaps
of skin depressed
no peak king
as temple mount
rolls from one to another side
before succumbing to everest,
how the never seen sandman
thankfully doth sally forth,
and ride as
welcome wagon guest
sprinkling tell tale granules
in corners of eyes
(near nose bridge)
no matter this
function recurs night,
and/or day find
ding unbounded energy
suddenly stunned
with an invisible
stun gun an instantaneous zap
with nary any strength
oddly, NOT to
even exercise yap
requiring strenuous effort
to stay awake nope,
not even saran wrap
pulled tight over
'oculus uterque' orbs
as if eyelids linkedin
to a spring loaded steel trap
impossible to force open
without experiencing
a sharp snap,
hence no recourse, but
relinquish fight
to stay a wake
surrendering control to automatic
slumbering inexplicable
rapid eye click
king movement flight inherent
defying convincing explanation,
sans how dreamscape flick
becomes manifest within
lickitysplit time frame,
quite an in trick
kit process, yet propensity
for average person to explain,
(yup even me) also baffling
any one named Ulrich.
REVELATION OF A STALKER
my daughter brought her stalker date
i watched him closely...my eyes penetrate
like a bloodhound, my nose to heels
he feels my presence in the revolving door
he’d call when she wasn’t home
just to hear my voice upon the phone
i told her to make it very clear
to cut him loose without a tear
he tried to penetrate her heart
to fill the chambers with goosebump art
with saran wrap clarity a mama knows
she follows each precarious footfall
he crept into our night with his stalker coat
the leather long, foreboding weaponry
a stalker tells his tale straight up
“Some people are scared of me”
with a heart of gold, my daughter hearkened
to this mother’s knowledge of good and evil
we stomped out the fire, until it was cold
removed the ash, buried it, eyes shut tight
11/10/2017
Silent One’s Stalker Contest
My friend has gone shopping for chicken stock.
I miss her so much.
The drapes are drawn
I have to see, cannot be closed in
I miss my outer side so much.
Outside, last winter’s trees are clutching a few leaves,
I miss their bare bodies so very much,
I miss the broth of green, its absolute greenness,
where did that color go?
The turtles of May are here early,
I have missed their wet-eyed sleepiness,
missed them, for they arrived early.
The unexpected earliness of most happenings
is so easy to miss.
The May blossoms arrived in secret,
were daubed quickly by wood elves,
soon they will run out of pink and white paint.
My friend will come back with the chicken stock
and a Saran wrapped pre-prepared roaster.
I miss thanking and dispatching a live chicken,
miss the plucking and the slimy fingered
dressing of the plump bird,
the cleaning and chopping, the spatchcock
the mise en place of coq au vin
miss the taste of past meals.
Today I will cook some missing ingredients.
Dandruff clouds on the rim of my spectacles,
I miss the clarity,
miss the glossy curls of middle-aged poetry.
It’s almost unbearable to have missing teeth;
the stars have full gleaming sets
they are surrounded by mouths
everything is in order,
everything is hungry and surrounded by mouths
the perfection is unbearable.
I miss the farm-wise cat,
the sheepish dog and his waggish ways,
the strange speech of men looking for women.
the mélange and medley of fat times.
Nobody settles for consommé anymore.
I will miss cracking chicken bones today
scraping out their boiled gelatinous marrow,
miss the suety brewing of bouillon,
the simmering potage.
My friend rushes back from the shops
just so she will not miss seeing me.
If I am left alone too long I tend to make lists,
get too empty
and disappear for a while.
We’re absorbed
by the Saran-wrapped food,
the plastic cutlery,
tired brains monopolized
by the clutter of the meal tray,
numbed by hours of jiggling -
the carting of torpid bodies
through interminable distance,
wedged into
a restricted boredom.
Anesthetized – we fear nothing.
If the aircraft stalls,
if an engine fails
few will find the strength to panic,
we’ll keep decanting small bottles
of vin de table,
studiously apply hard butter
to soft buns.
As the aircraft plummets earthward
we’ll continue to struggle
with condiment sachets,
coffee creamers,
with small, molded cruets,
glad to be occupied
and totally blanked out
to what comes next -
or whatever.
An ornamental doe and fawn,
suddenly move. Tails wave, noses nuzzle –
I have mistaken an actuality,
and now am thrown out of my skin.
I’m a millipede of fractal awareness.
I sniff the body-odor of the planet
take inward, then sift out
Australia and Africa.
I pause to dip my face in the River Liffey,
odoriferous waters foam over septum and cranium.
I’m a teaming acre of feelers and heads. Until
an atom of disbelief re-enters its exoskeleton.
The next moment is inevitable;
it is a concrete bunker of inevitability.
I am a stone goblin with a blunt chisel.
Nerve buds are again Saran wrapped.
Oddly, I’m carrying a large red kangaroo
on my shoulders;
it’s demanding to be sent back,
and I would send it back – if I knew how.
The obscenely convincing,
have arrived in their stealth mobiles.
We are made to unmake-belief,
to regurgitate Saran wrapped words.
Wide-eyed we watch the spreading creep
of windowless thought-factories.
Druids rage for the loss of their tongues.
Magic dragons puff obesely
and cannot now climb their spines.
Combative batmen tussle
with spitting cats.
It all makes no-sense, and yet
we know the fantasy is built
on self-destructing concrete,
we see now how red lipstick
smothers us with a smirk
in the dark.
Too late to run for cover.
Even as we slumber
the mother of all bombs
gives birth to yet more
pre-packaged fictions.