Long Sensor Poems
Long Sensor Poems. Below are the most popular long Sensor by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Sensor poems by poem length and keyword.
The air was thick with things unsaid,
I watched your lips, a silent prayer.
The push and pull within my head
was more than I could easily bear.
Watching and waiting, I held my breath,
tracing the shape of what I wanted.
The evening came to a quiet end,
as we stood together at the door.
I felt the magnetic current bend
as you reached out to ask for more.
Your hands slid along my jawline's trace,
holding me steady, face to face.
I was so shy when you asked to kiss
but you felt the fire and took control.
Your fingers in my curls brought sudden bliss
as a deep, new hunger claimed my soul.
Our lips found a rhythm, gentle and hungry
and I melted against you, forgetting my name.
It was a beautiful, long-lasting kiss.
Tender and lost in the dark night.
We clung to the depth of a moment like this,
breathless and chasing a new delight.
Until the neighbour's motion sensor light
blasted us both with a stadium spotlight.
The echo of a view
Nature is not democratic and doesn’t to the call
for liberal equality that means the rule of the majority
kills the unwanted by massive droughts to stop weeds
being in charge, a landscape of roses is but weeds
strangulating healthy edible plants.
Capitalism
Communism
Nationalism
Socialism
Are residues of the twenty’s century, with big political parties
Are on the wane, politics, as we know, is local, hence decisions
Should reflect this.
We favour a structure of humanity in considerations
The ruler must not lead us into the wilderness of unlimited growth
The end result is an elected dictatorship.
We need an alternative, do away with “left” and “right.”
A schism leading us to new wars; not be afraid to sensor states
That brutally suppresses people, not them.
In the dim hour she listens for the water,
a woman whose name is missing from her badge,
who mends the city's veins the way you knead bread:
slowly, with warm hands, by one amber light,
so Ward Nine can drink when there is no rain.
Her sensor, taped in place, ticks against the pipe.
On the roof, where tomatoes climb a plastic pipe,
the fixers meet and trade in borrowed water,
their smiles as soft and useful as the rain.
They pass her work around and stamp it with a badge,
the way a moth wears the colour of a light
it did not make. They break it up like bread.
Each pockets a slice, still warm, like stolen bread,
then taps a wrist to a wrist beside the drip pipe,
and permits pass between them in a blink of light.
Their glow is not a lamp but a mirror, catching water
someone else carried. Every borrowed badge
shines like a puddle pretending it is rain.
At dawn a drone chirps VALUED CONTRIBUTOR, and its rain
is two vouchers: one laundry hour, one day-old loaf of bread.
She does not ask whose name is on the badge.
She is already listening to a pipe
that coughs beneath the street, a throat of water
choking in the dark, far from any light.
On her walk home, the public screens throw light
across her face. There they are, taking bows for rain,
their faces blooming like weeds that drink the water
meant for wheat. The crowd applauds. Warm bread
goes up to the stage in baskets. Beneath her, the pipe
hums on, not caring who wears which badge.
She kneels. Her knees are her only badge,
the pavement cold, the stars washed out by screen light.
She lays her ear against the cracked pipe
and hears it breathe, the way a field hears rain
before it comes, the way a child smells bread
before the oven opens. She tightens it. Water
moves on, wearing no badge, falling like private rain.
The screens burn borrowed light; her unseen hands are cracked like bread.
No one will thank the pipe. Everyone drinks the water.
By Dr Padmashree RP
An infinitesimal slight speck tickled
nostril follicle – activated via an itty
bitty, nitty gritty dirt band noah bigger
than a mole luck yule set in motion a
chain reaction, whence mine sensitive
proboscis honker (wheeze - hilly little
bridged fine tuned pug nose aroma
sensor), got unexpectedly in gauged
(in holy matt trim mo’ knee) to achew,
and eschew pledging troth (in favor of
hanky-panky) found this chap feeling
phlegmatic because an endless string
of faux allergic emanations, which
upon subsiding left me throat rather
raspy and voice some octaves deeper
akin to a coterie of celebrated jumping
frogs from Calaveras County, California
took residence and refused leaving
stranglehold upon math rote upon
awakening from a hard day’s journey
into night across the outer limits
of thine twilight zone resurrected
during slumber, yet upon awakening
felt much refreshed and hungry enough
to eat a horse – nee – make that forced
whore – gulped down within a hoof
n hour and now recount how back in
the day when zooming thru the Lilies
of the Valley (whooshing mass elf tubby
an aeroplane) frequent bouts with uber
twittering snapchatting sinus attacks
besieged crinkled, doppelganger expeller
for germs hunting with his clean X
instantaneously for nasal passages
to enter surreptitiously the fecund
effluvia dripping, oozing, and seeping
clear liquid as wintry cold air looses
droplets from out a near frozen nose,
which bloke knows not why frigid blast
stimulates gallimaufry of sniffling
to spurt into a volume of one after
another gesundheit donning, snorting
trumpeting unwittingly confusing
Canadian geese, who misconstrue
the honking from midway centered
facial organ, which angry birds
in tandem with flock of Seagulls
quite perturbed to espy one curmudgeon
chap clapping hands over (what feels
like Smashing Pumpkins on face)
in an effort to stifle subsequent gummy
emissions, which residue expectorated
with heave hoe shove
schnoz el tov blowing into snot-rag.
Death of I-Kons
In my life, I have seen many movies.
I watched wonderful animation,
tell stories that touched my heart,
over the years of my life.
Now they are stabbing the elusive
cartoons with sensor-driven remarks
and woke-ism that cuts and shreds
like a trash machine,
in the kitchen...
compacting and changing
the shapes of all things
it is fed,
or chooses to consume
on its on.
(EATR Machines, Military Robots)
I have read many books,
texts on history and science.
I was blessed and attended college,
to learn about business
and the world at large.
It was enough to get by,
and make a life.
They taught ethics and morals,
and math to me.
Now on TV, they change the rules.
They do as they please,
hire for the numbers,
and fire for the color of their skin...
to win at some kind of gamble,
no one knew or agreed to take.
(Gambling was legalized on March 1, 2022
legalization of betting on and off-reservation lands.
Now Advertised directly on the TV)
The parks are full of tents.
There is nowhere to take the children,
that they will not see, the evil of the day.
There is no protecting them,
from the darkness that is consuming the land.
The only hope is the Hand of God.
Resources running out,
wasted by the powerful...
taking jets to lunch in Paris.
Food unimportant to those that have full pantries,
and ice cream in their favorite flavor,
ready to be consumed,
at leisure.
(Gourmet flavors for the head of Congress
at $14 a gallon.)
I grew up on "good wins over evil".
I grew up on do the right thing,
because it was and is the right thing to do.
Grandma told.
Grandpa told me.
And, most importantly God told me.
So why is the world upside down?
Why do bad people hurt so many,
and so few do anything about any of it?
Frosty is melted.
Rudolph was hunted down,
and given a vaccine.
Twenty-eight food sources,
factories and processing plants,
have been leveled
in just under two years.
Two by plane alone.
But who would really believe that?
The energy supplies have been cut off,
or sent to other countries,
by our sitting president.
The citizens go hungry,
and the children cry.
But that is okay,
they are meant to die.
All part of the plan.
Did you vote for this?
Did anyone?
The time-framed mirror made of me
reflects the pernicious perception of fear,
looking at it I’m mortally scared,
and sink immobile in the state of stasis.
An emotion engulfed by trepidation,
bewildered by the flight of fight option,
gets trapped in irrationality of phobia,
while freeze response shrivels my mind.
The sane sense loses the escape route,
disappears in the miasma of loneliness,
petrified mind meanders in dense darkness,
trying to find the instinctive observer, me.
As that me turns into a fright sensor
in the dark abyss of scary isolation,
my detached soul strives to abandon it
to show the way how to transcend fear.
August 28, 2021
Brian Strand Contest : A Strand (1059)
Desecration, desertion, designation,
yours truly doth poetically dislodge
destabilization, destination, description
I auto deftly, but did not dodge
regarding destitution, hodgepodge
comprising 2009 Hyundai Sonata
wheely tired to noodge, yet cannot
drive out accursed tread
full fate, nor outdodge.
Critical breakdowns spanned decks
cumulative deleterious effects,
thus versatile reasonable rhyme I flex
cuz, methinks paragon of evil spirit did hex
issued hardened, gnarled, index
finger pantomiming strangling necks
accountable incorporating potential
yet steered clear dire wrecks.
Approximately August 2018
to present i.e. January 2, 2020):
one malfunction after
another did not abate
voluntarily listed quasi alphabetically
in order demonstrate
pennilessness incurred courtesy
every red cent, I did hate
to squeeze out checking account, irate
mood a one worded understatement,
nonetheless I venerate
to express absolute zero
tolerance to communicate
quick succession prohibitive
mechanical malfunctions,
I painfully delineate.
R&R PARKING BRAKE SHOES
PARK BRAKE SHOES
PARK BRAKE HARDWARE KIT BATTERY
PRE CER BRAKE PAD
BRAKE ROTOR
BRAKE CALIPER
BRAKE HOSE GENERATOR
SHOCK ABSORBER (driver side front),
TIRES (and sensor).
Hence prayerful notion woke
ah, think blinding and
ear splitting thunderstroke,
perhaps tardily to one slow poke
after eyes bugged out of head espying
invoice(s), I lamely mumbled okey doke,
what more could be said,
dang, me experienced ministroke,
thus doggone divine intervention
futility aye feebly did invoke,
the aforementioned summarized
list bloke not surprisingly
depressing state affects
garden variety bloke,
understandable a worse than
(think) one who gasps and doth choke
Gypsies
Across a misty channel
Sensor fingers
Stretch
Through foggy, silent waves
Where two souls embrace
In expeditions of speechless discovery
Two minds stand naked,
Face to face,
With wordless words
Each knowing the inner rhyme
Of another soul –
Intimate outside skin and limbs.
Across the barriers of minutes, hours, months
Two silent gypsies wander,
Through heartbeats
They stand, then gaze,
Connected to each other -
Escapees of the spoken word;
Outside the limits of ticking clocks
Two hearts touch
And see the signature of yet another
Self
At the address of the not yet arrived,
Undelivered.
Across the minutes and the moonlight
Pushing past the stealthy march of mysteries
Two fugitives flee holding hands
Leaving footprints
Escaping lines and spaces
Of a calendar;
Two almost strangers stand
At the mystic gates of the unknown -
Today’s unwanted guests
Intruders in tomorrow’s dwelling -
Thieves of time -
Fate’s despoilers.
Across the walls of midnight’s
Crumbling castles
Two wanderers peer into fleeting glimpses
Briefly understanding
The images and ghosts
Taking shape in the mist undefined;
Two stowaways crouch in secret coves,
Hidden from eyes born into mortality
In the warehouse of the borning
To see and not quite
Understand
Young future’s dance.
Across all barriers of time and space
Two gypsies touch outside galaxies to identify
Vague daylight outlines- dim midnight contours -
Embracing imprints,
Acknowledgment of events to come -
Words still unspoken;
Two souls run past the morning
Then return in recognition
For they now stand
Outside of themselves -
Vagabonds of facts
Nomads escaping demands for proof in black and white.
Great minds get the memo.
Mashup; Of Mashpee boston
appears cortsey ofVIP- Club Editting Continue Song..............
The Lover of the Cantar's Remix- radio Edit Sampler!
Punk's want in/ Ole Chore/new responsiblities!
Song Six from Ditty 101: song of Promised Love.
Auctioned off, Sold to me!
best won-Ever Jam and Groove(Phattie's bounce- big Gal Groove)
week one...featured song" oh Love: oh Love
week two " or Was it Specaiel
week three: Of love
Week Week Four: Weaker, Weaker
Week after Four: Might I mention
Week Six: Time for Me
Week Seven: Nights Lights and Pretty Faces
week Eight: People smiling all over the Places
Week Nine: Whispering a Spanish Love Song
Week ten: Me, with all These Words
Week Eleven: Bounce and boogie "do Your Thang Remix"
The Next Week: Yet< Thus and the Other Words
And Then: Moonlight and Kisses
Week Fourteen: Another One about Love
Week fifthteen: Thyme to tell you
Week Sixteen: Evasive Instrumental
Week Seventeen: Learned
Week Eighteen: Buzzienteam VIVIIIII
Week Nineteen: Just an Knocked-up
Week Twenty: Nothing to Do with You
Week Twenty One:Coldnight
Week Twenty Two:Mista Cajuin ; Missus Creole
Week twenty three: He reeled 'em in!
Week 24: Caret: Caret! Number 24
Week twenty Five;A song About You
Week twenty Six: Mrs. Fecker
Week 27: Kazu, Kazu "her phone number the musical"
Week 28: Robot Intro's (software coversation)
Week 29 Love Motion dectection Sensor
Week 30: Your words Insult me (the Tone Remix)
Week 31; disco Groove
week 32: Respect for Men ( under $30 grand respect song)
Lust's Sickness throws off the yoke, of cure?
Defiant in-body, pleasures obscure.
A mask, of pride, a lost soul-in vogue capture, a hell-ride in the belly of a beastly whore.
The salt crystal shines your thirst back to you in a drowning mirror that blinds you.
It's image, in-retrograde.
Worship of false idol,
self, made, self that binds you.
You are tapewormed, pinned at the head,
eating the loop of tale.
A process processing by lassoing,
the masochism of sin.
The Harlot, riding an illusion abiding,
of perverted grandeur, aboding the Vale,
in a warped game of intelivision in the City Dell.
Rally the standard, flags, censors,
sensor a game, of shell, of humanity being played,
like a fiddle, rung like a bell.
Their humanity wanes,
from defiant song in the harmonic scale, of fever.
Their body a signet, of times despoil.
The occulus hourglass abacus mirror waxing cold,
fusion spirit, ether, spell for sale, sold.
Doors closing double
folding into the dimension of troubles.
Shopkeepers of the gates of Hell,
and souls falling onto the other.
Neon is in the blood, signed, *** - 666,
enter, the veil.
Apocalypservices,
the last vomiting throes of Society's-former Dale.
BDSM by Hollywood (wand not for display),
at the demonic re education menagerie.
Self's gallery for sale, while burning,
nativity to ashes,
carbon to polish our looking glasses.
Sold-out to the oil of midnite.
Snaking, on a torch lit by the way
of political prophet-eering incite.
Insight of conscience swayed
by field communications, too near.
Of Olympus-apothecarried by the scales in motion,
weighed by fears'-musings-fear.
By Reptilian, Orwellian, modern, progressive notions caught doing.
Explosive, fiery things.
Burn us to death, in house arrest,
in-deed to fuel one's own un, manifest.
Doing, one's undoing at the behest of the WEF