Long Sequentially Poems
Long Sequentially Poems. Below are the most popular long Sequentially by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Sequentially poems by poem length and keyword.
A withered and separated flower lay squashed in bent stature.The wind silently erodes the remaining petals sequentially, with each pulse of the air.
A distant nightmare, tangibly manifested, the echoing warning from the past.
A trapped piece of newspaper married to a low-lying hedge branch, concealed from notice, dead from purpose.
An hourglass society, scuttling around in organized vice and engineered hypocrisy with time to dictate and money to distract.
A plague of opinions in this boundless possibility never reaching bedrock. A gash made upon the earth, a slow
puncture untreated in our hourglass existence we believe isn’t moving.
What do you say now?
Is there anybody who want to foul?
Standing behind and knocking,
Little lady....I see this sparkle rocking,
Life is full of dream,
Can't distinguish the laughter from the scream,
Out from the frying pan...straight to the fire,
Serif stuck to support.....I never mind,
No answer but I'm super,
Have mercy,oh kind!
Life is full of twisting,....I and that lady felt in a deep love,
No money but made each other have,
I was just a dreamer,.....
Questions we both asked,...why this night is not for our two?
Gradually protracted the range of pain from our affection shoe,
Her complexion is beyond the pan of ebony,
It was silly,
Watching her in a magazine!
Liberating men on their gusts is sequentially annihilated by power....But what should I say then?
A prediction propels the phsychologist...
but what is the outcome from that list?
What is the source of inspiration laid under the equilibrium of an action?
A beige model,...thus the life prospects of a solemn speaker.
Endeavoring the downcast,setting pinnacles to catapult those beneath,
what is the supremacy of outcasts limit?
Elude with nothing but a pinched of a capricon's feather....
Rich man sitting in a pub....unconscious of his expense,
A white coloured worker aim at counting even a penny.
It's a secretion to tie many,
Veil the remarks of the low class in society,
Makes an uncovering of their best nasty,
Keep on jeopardizing the honorary of a paupers good motives in building societal ray,
Wax blended with a marble clay.
Yeah!....yeah!
A swampy worms will be their king size bed....
A pinhole camera is before an eye...gonna see,right!
Just an optimal glance welled,
It's branded with a momentum....if Job was shield with the pinion of might.
what bares repeating?
what sounds are right to sing
everything is an opportunity
for us to sing
what bares repeating?
what bares repeating?
is this right
and should I find the chorus
the sounds are softened
right harmony for us
which words bare repeating
and are they sequentially right
do they share proper meaning
are they loose or too tight?
what bares repeating?
to be sung in high range.
written to have meaning
not to sound strange.
what bares repeating?
and do these words mention love?
are they written to have meaning?
and who is the author thinking of?
do they bare repeating?
do they bare reputation?
Was it in the fragrance of the grapefruit mint that brushed against my red blush cheeks,
or those lilac petal chains on
moss-strewn pathways,
was it in those rays that dance sequentially across some green flake grecian urn, or the tearful noonday noodle from a seagull’s
stricken cry, or that scarlet robin roosting on a grey grain granite wall?
For whatever reason nature’s vivid ministry appeared in locust swarms,
a tag on aural stimuli to whet one’s dormant vision.
Suddenly the golden brook within my compass bared its fountain,
each moonstone mountain peak its beacon light,
the twig on every tree revealed an olive branch
with verdant august wellspring at its cusp.
Each sprouting plant became this silver chalice rooted
in a centrifugal aliment.
When morning shoots at last boldly ripen ironic winter phase
blackberries loom above mundane detachment
as cold snap iridescence that normally
eludes quotidian tides.
''T'' Contest, New or Old Poem
Sponsor ; Constance La France
This is an old poem submitted to this contest 8th November 2021.
It was first entered on Poetry Soup in Brian Strand contest judged
March 17th 2020.
Title for that contest ; For Whatever Reason
Hurricane by any name is a dreaded beast
Monster winds guide every turn and twist
Clouds cluster in enormous darker shapes
Heated moisture dominates form they take
Dressed in cloudy eye-wall winds rotate
High gusting speeds foretell its arrival date
As eye of the storm approaches a landfall
Communities begin making evacuation calls
Stocking food and water families buckle down
Gas lines form as people begin to leave town
Death and destruction mount as storm lands
Streets and homes quickly become wetlands
Emergency shelters crowd beyond capacity
FEMA takes charge with speed and tenacity
Congress passes legislation to grant funding
Affected folks are unsure of their standing
Trash piles up burying childhood memories
Cleanup begins without hope of recoveries
Donations flow to charities like Red Cross
Insurance may recoup some of storm loss
They arrive sequentially in alphabet names
Leaving untold shattered lives in their wake
Placed 1st
September 9, 2017
Hurricanes
Sponsor: Julie Rodeheaver
Numbers come from a singularity at sea
Grow into oceans numerically speaking
Fluent in the foreign language of Chronology
Born from an original source sequentially conceived
Sometimes repeating calculus because they can
Starting out as the number one and counting
Figures break down into fractions
That hatch from shells on the banks of logic
Mathematical equations have solid names
John and Mary are not among them
Algebra is also not related at this time
However, Algebraic expressions seem human
When written as a quotient of polynomials
Rational and irrational as they may appear
Numerical oceans floating on logic surround us
It is hard to grasp such fluid objects in motion
Chronological or otherwise they still come
One after another exponentially counting down
Dividing by ten to get to the sum of the day
The Hands of Time
By Franklin Price
5/28/2016
The hands of time are turning
On a clock that's analog
The rooster's crowing morning
And he's waking up the dog
The dog is barking crazily
At something that he hears
The Sun on the horizon
Makes the clouds of day appear
The numbers on the digital
Alarm change one by one
Moving there sequentially
They never will be done
The seconds zoom the minutes pass
The hours cruise on by
There is no way of stopping them
No matter how you try
When the alarm awakens you
Get out of bed and dance
Enjoy your time with others
But don't forget your pants
Go through the day as if you own it
When the night falls sing a tune
To go to bed a little happier
Try howling at the moon
Written: October 27, 2023 For Ink Empress Contest
_____________________________________________
Under the diaphanous glow of the moon.
They rise sequentially to a delightful boon.
They have no feathers to adorn their skin.
They still sway quietly and love to spin.
Angels evolved with their comely wings.
Let our souls fly via shadow, amid springs.
Their dulcet grace shone, and they were brilliant.
A rule was argued until it was deemed resilient.
In their mellifluous flight, they blaze a path ahead.
To rise across the humdrum and the dread.
Embracing our true nature, our inner light
And embark on an endeavor that glows bright.
Heave-hoed hereof hallowed halls of heaven.
Their flaps hurled them forth, yet again leaven.
Their minds were furtive on the floor, twirling.
Sage sight scarlet-smeared saffron swirling.
On an arcane spring day, an eternal angel sings.
A world abyss carries empathy and peace strings.
Humming his tune all day over freshly cut hay
As the sun set down, the haycocks turned to clay.
Scorch my lips and quench my thirst.
I sense a schism and wish the wood had burnt
This cherub has no feathers in his wings.
Spouts anguish from inside, a burning ring.
Intense heat as they recover and renew.
Blaze floated and lower downward blew.
As a flock of birds drifting in the auric air.
Wisteria wains on white wings and stares.
If wings have been equated with plumage,
These angels provide us with a fresh triage.
Strong featherless wings are a sign of pride.
Challenge us to prevail utterly by their side.
Featherless angels are luminous and buoyant.
Seek their wise and keen support as clairvoyants.
They elevate us to eager heights on invisible wings.
Sending smiles to our faces as they fit past things.
They serve as a signal that we are all free to fly.
Despite challenges and tribulations, we rely
Their vitality is stored in the depths of the soul
A heavenly grasp, an aura of celestial stroll.
Blank page syndrome
feels like full page longing
to be done with some work project
that will not slowly grow worthy
of my time
and certainly no captivated reader.
I feel victimized,
tortured, actually,
by blank page syndrome
Where I want to feel some opening
and rewarding opportunity
and not dull risk
of further unnoticed failure
to richly
and wisely communicate
warm and wild communion.
My blank pages
demand content
spilled across blue horizontal lines
with a red left side vertical
boundary demarcation
Remarking where orderly thought correctly begins
to unfold top left
unfurling cause effectively
sequentially
toward right bottom
Yet Left dominance
overpowers Right feelings prominent
circling and recycling
whirling and spinning
spiraling out of win/win control
re-membering risks
of nontransparent failure
falling brawly short
of both peaceful Truth
and vulnerable Beauty.
Yet a bleakly black blank canvas
with no red
or blue bicameral communion rules
or tools
feels most frightening
intimidating of all
unbalanced
anthro-privileged
vaporous calls
My
"I can't draw,
or sketch,
or paint,
or write,
or sing,
or dance,
or speak out woke"
Can't preach
or teach inside voices
ignoring outside echoing choices
to evoke
childish dreams,
daydream schemes
to become Earth's greatest love
of blank paged warm regard
for how we flew
and walked
and swam
and grew to Here embodied
meets Now compassioned mind
Greatest
deepest
widest
trusted EarthBeauty
dipolar co-arising
all scared yet sacred Time's unfolding
Win/Win regenerative
peaks and valley sand
defining ecstatic
aesthetic lines
refining intimate circling spaces
etched throughout
neuro-systemic elegant
regenerational potential
for healthier lands
Not not synergetic journeys
deeply and widely
back and forth
out and inside
polyculturing communion
While staring at this straight lined
and otherwise white privileged
square-cut manufactured page
Holding my green health hope
and content contented circling pen
praying for worthy expiring
inspiration.
Of all vocations calling each of us
perhaps it is this final ecopolitical stage
most arduous.
To reflect with full integrity,
both Left dominant hubris history
with Right-recessed not full disincarnation,
those unfulfilled dark promise valleys of aptic time
lost to Ego's yangish self-promoting memory,
past trauma vocations sequentially emerging therapeutic transubstantiations,
pregnantly nurtured with Left/ElderRight bicameral balance
not +1 not -0 yet,
to reconsider sinner's sins omitted,
winner's wins committed,
bringing slow-growth ballast to one's enculturation
of synergetic grace,
both those healthier blessings fully consumed
therapeutic regeneration,
yet also known only through past struggles stretching ego-compassion's for degeneration,
declarations of Self+Other incorporating cooperative interdependence,
laughter's miraculous love moments
best shared, yes,
but yet bittersweet nutrition alone,
remembering what lives best not forgotten.
This final vocation,
to merge our previous lives together
with those we hope to follow.