Long Scaffolds Poems
Long Scaffolds Poems. Below are the most popular long Scaffolds by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Scaffolds poems by poem length and keyword.
One must imagine Sisyphus’s
boulder, marble-sized these days
And Ozymandias’ plaque,
spinning despair into praise
Look on, ye hypocrites,
and sneer at my undoing
Your universe is a giant sandpit,
entropy accruing
Their legacies long crumbled,
eroded by rust
Gods built the wrong way,
on scaffolds of dust
Virtue or vice register
equally the same
Except between stars,
there’s space for one more grain
Down here, we clock in daily,
stack hours like prayer
Worship strong Wi-Fi,
evangelize on thin air
Imagine heavenly echoes,
because the silence isn’t fair
Some develop connection,
others a thousand-yard stare
Our Earth splits naturally,
along seismic lines
Greenwich claims centre stage,
only for the meantime
Sisyphus, still aching,
gets an epidural at last
But only in hindsight,
for his hump blocks the past
Redrawn are our own lines,
watchtowers in the sand
Sketching new borders,
carving up the promised land
Exhume ancient treasure,
and black, viscous stuff
Addicted to all things buried,
as if our dead weren’t enough
Still we write blindly,
tracing glyphs already faded
Helps lift the mood
when depressed and jaded
Gods stand on shaky ground,
myth holds them together
In schisms that bind billions,
then sever forever
Oh, look on—ye poet
Sisyphus now rolls his eyes
He’s seen the apps, wars,
hoodies, and cable ties
His hamster wheel’s a meme
for gods who merely try
Small wonder he mutters,
at least Ozymandias gets to die
And sometimes I pray to gods,
or maybe their ghosts
About versions of me
I’ve been missing the most
They don’t directly answer,
but do leave this guess
In the end, to keep on rolling
may be my passing success
By David Kavanagh
When I examine the episodes
beyond my routine day -
those testing times that make a man
and scattered along the way -
my life - like a coastal track
with many flats and steeps,
the turning points and braided paths,
the cliff edge and the deeps -
I find my memory exaggerates,
simplifies and scaffolds truth
to make big driving reasons
for the disasters of my youth.
It is only with some effort
and an honest brutal survey
that I can see a tenth of all
the things that made my way.
So I have to face the tragic fact
as I tumble down this slope:
there’s a lot more to my current fall
than a simple lack of rope.
“The fool doth think he is wise, but the wise man knows himself to be a fool.”
~William Shakespeare, As You Like It, Act V, Scene I
I weep by the stardust shore where seraphs sing
Tangerine tears rain despair ‘neath a velveteen veil
My melancholic muse, muslin-wrapped in ice-cold caskets
Slain by ruinous romance swirled in absinthe abstractions
Despondent sloughs bespeak the depths of my soul
Saffron scars scream sonnets through metaphorical mists
Morose melodies paint scabs on pastiche strophe
Pregnant pause, so precious, submerged in lurid lament
But then it whispered, a voice unvarnished by purple plumes
A verse, it bloomed, untainted by thesaurus bleeds
Sculpting off silken scaffolds pasted upon profligate poetry
Leaving a profounder palate for plainer prosody
Fools thought wisdom speak in sequin-laced soliloquy
But wise men abrade from calligraphic charade
I was told I began—
so I assume I am.
No proof—
only a feeling.
Only learned assumptions,
repeated until they
find a foothold, and hold.
Ground gives—
footing slips and slides
taking sides.
Floundering with truth
devoid of scaffolds
the self loosens its chains.
What’s held firm dissolves
to what this is, now it questions.
Failing again and again—
the whys and wherefores
outlive the free fall
without a chute,
without a ripcord.
Certainty petrifies—
the floundering
within the foundering.
What the teacher taught stands tall
until something breaks it—
and even then,
doubt breaks what's real,
into a simple reflex reactions.
Beauty—
held in the eye
vies with
eye-spy-with-my-little-eye
to catch the beholder's drift.
And in that loosening—
the floundering deepens,
the foundering drifts away
from the its mooring
on the foundation.
How can I try for the stars,
When I can't even afford to keep it bright?
How can I chase the moon through iron bars,
When dawn denies me even candlelight?
I dream of rings, of veils, of vows once said,
Yet pockets echo where gold ought to gleam.
The future sleeps on floors I’ve barely tread,
My hands still building scaffolds for a dream.
What gift have I but verses made of thread,
Woven from hopes too fragile to endure?
What altar stands for love the world calls dead,
When bread and rent leave nothing that feels sure?
Yet still, you smile—no coin could match that grace,
A richer man with less could take your place.
In my reveries, I am a monk in the temple of love from the books written with shadows,
Sailing through the endless pages, I let myself be carried by the breath of destiny of fragile heroes.
They who heal their loves with a divine piety,
Like the keepers of mysteries - isn't it the right of every being?
They raise them in a fan of breeze, consume them in dances on dew's tips,
They spin under drops of sky, with the echo of symphony on the canvas of scattered clouds.
A scene detached from romances, where petals compose a celestial carpet,
And nostalgic, slender murmurs intertwine with the veil of evening in chords of vastness.
Fingers intertwined, carving astral paths, white morning words carried by the dawn's breeze,
Embraces of daylight and the coffee that bursts aromas beside morning prayers of rounded dreams.
But when the story ends and reality reclaims its throne,
I look behind me and see nothing but ruins of glass and scaffolds of dreams.
The blood of bloomed failures on the floor of my soul like a field abandoned after battle,
Grows in shades of changing despair, a morbid carnival with lights that do not falter.
For love now seems to me a desert of words without shadows,
A weave that tickles my senses in a bitter, deaf sarabande.
A feeling unprecedented, among foreign hues,
A sweetness overturned across the threshold of a heart that cannot defend itself.
Echoes of despair reflect off the eternal walls,
An ode of pain where the past seeks a forgotten chalice to rewrite its destiny.
This is not just a sanctuary, but a labyrinth of solitude,
A habitat not to find, but to wander lost among the echoes that leave no trace.
And as the hours pour before the curtain of darkness,
I remain a mystic lost in romances, when the world sleeps and I watch over the ruins of hope.
What Dad Did
Friends from the nearby projects bike over e'er since we had hit-it-off
and dad atop his makeshift throne, food aplenty, points to the nearby ladder.
Time is October 1973, it was on a Sunday and this day was to be the best-of-seven playoffs of the World Series.
Home from church, mom out with the sisters while dad says, "No
shame, just serve yourselves," as we began to watch our Oakland A's
engage the NY Mets.
None of us had known that our dad would have made the rooftop into makeshift bleachers with our TV propped on scaffolds from our neighbor, the painter, who was sitting next to dad.
I need to point out a fact and that is, our homes are basically in the shadows of the Oakland Stadium.
Dad, a realtor, was also a part-time stadium worker and had moved us to Oakland, getting us in the 1972 World Series when they played at home, as it was Oakland A's 1st win since 1930.
He had subbed our rooftop, that being his day off, as A's won again.
Fireworks blast the last evening air for the World Series to conclude in daylight. It will not return to evening hours until 2020.
Dad was the best for I had realized what he did and why he did it.
They were my friends, and though they were ashamed of the projects where they lived, we all knew from the start that we were never ashamed of our colors.
2021 May 16
For years I’ve seen a pair of ducks
In front of a fountain close by.
They swim or sit and those who notice
Likely wonder why.
The fount’s in the front of a building;
Pedestrians pass night and day
And the street’s filled with traffic and noises,
Which you’d think would just scare them away.
In addition, this year there’s construction,
With drilling and scaffolds and nets.
For some ducks maybe raising a family,
It’s as stressful as city life gets.
Yet this morning, my duck friends were waiting,
As indifferent as creatures can be.
Their return was, to them, nothing special,
But it sure brought some smiles to me.
Written: November 06, 2023
___________________________________________
A swarm of herring gulls amassed
Nexus Nautilus nabbed by zealous winds,
whitening the black soil
we hold spears in our hands.
blood-stained thorns on the side
sullen squawks a skirmishing sporophyte,
dubious, grayish rumors must be buried
drave in a drizzle, drape to deities.
Installation of sentry fences
Sisyphean stones
anchor down using seal and string
flaws in the swings used by blacksmiths
Unborn burning bullion bludgeon
Savage sunless swords embryonic
Edgeless, with no reflections.
Each peak over the Edenic Steppes is sprayed,
using torn paper candles as bait
climbing scaffolds with lumber rungs
pounding of leather-heavy boots
darkened, grimacing features
Flocks failing feathers or flight.
Our hold slips on windswept
Windswept updrafts carry us away
as offspring of the royal family.
It's too beautiful within your soul, like a garden blooming under clear and endless skies,
It's too late within my thoughts, where the shadows of memories lie like a veil of silk,
We share the same secret, a dance of dreams entwined in the silence of the eternal night,
But no one knows until when, for time is a bird flying through unknown skies.
Too many cardinal birds whirl among illusions, drawing circles of unknown desires,
Contaminating with elevators our earthly mystery, lifting us to dreamlike skies,
We grow old with happiness in an attic without flowers, where moonlight gently embraces us,
Leaving dolls without addresses for dawn's celebrations, messengers of a universe forgotten by time.
We dream of the same mill hidden in the tragic decor of days that dance like leaves in the wind,
Grinding the same tears when parents call us, finding echoes of longing in their sound,
We are lucid to the blood, inseparable to the sky, with hearts tied by unseen threads,
And I don't even know, after love, what else I should ask of you, for our love is an entire universe.
Words lose their warmth in a protocol kiss, like butterflies losing their wings at dawn,
Guilty birds circle the scaffolds, drawing dances of shadows and lights on the ancient sky,
Under my brow, it becomes night, in your eyes, it becomes day, a balance of the inner cosmos,
We give up knowing which stars might protect us, for we are the stars that watch over.
In the silence between us, a gentle light is born, like a candle burning endlessly and warmly,
In this light, we find answers to unspoken questions, like hidden treasures,
We step together on the unknown paths of destiny, with hands united like two branches,
And in this silent union, we discover that we are whole, a wholeness of dreams and light.