Long Sessions Poems
Long Sessions Poems. Below are the most popular long Sessions by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Sessions poems by poem length and keyword.
Invariable measures find me concluded with torment.
Crystallized reflections peripherally surpass imaginations advent.
Crackling blisters intern vivid arbitration, as if to teach spine-chilling lessons.
Collapse goes hostage lungs, held up and recorded in air gasping sessions.
Constant ringing beneath definitions light concealed bag piped eye shadows haunting address.
All occurs timed perfectly for surprise panic attacks; choking on nothingness.
White vaporous visuals infiltrate what sight left remains.
Useless kicking and screaming ended then when normalcy fathomed midst windowed pains.
Feelings numb agony crippled sightless time; acoustic sound walls burrow.
Vines manifest scandalous intent, my surrounded record beckons such growth still; you expect me to feel sorrow.
12/09/16
Action begins and the scene is occupied by two living trays
succumbing to powerful activities much against dry cleaning services.
Nature once again proves its wonders
as water filled balloons and inverted cups
turn pressing pressures into pleasures
from two rakes with five long but rounded teeth.
Dialogue exists through sounds coming from a deep hollow without echo,
walking on a flat floor made of six tiles
and admiring anatomical pillars with well defined ridges.
Two opposing, headless snails without shells
come out from their holes to share fluids
so that horizontal rubbers so pink and flexible
dynamically interlock like the maneuvers of an octopus
causing the big headed firm spoon of one tray
to gently slide into the cylindrical funnel of the other
with nothing more to achieve after repeated sessions
leading to spillage for action to call it quit.
The less
I move my lips at my 4:00 am Saturday morning sessions
The more
These words are trees standing still beside a racing river
A long way away
Freight train bores the night
Moon without light
Its alto horn
Projects from nowhere entangles everywhere
Uninhibited
By barren maples and icy roads
Abandoned homes and snowdrifts
A shadow walking his dog under planets of street lights
All powerless against the elk’s forlorn cry
The long sigh reaches me in my living room
Like a rope
Or an armored snake
That takes its slithering life with such mangled ease
Iron bolts
Shackles jolt and shudder to the lumber spindles
I have no name but I am story
Clack clack
Clack clack
Clack clack
I count the halved steps of thunder from the mysterious miles
Waning afar
As the Rolling Stones once sang Love is like our music
It’s here and then it’s gone
I am magician
Make things appear and disappear
Conjure things to move
Erase the past and future with Bastami’s ink baton
I am startled back to life
Perfect quiet
Train absent if it ever was.
Wordless worries wander wearily working wayward,
Towards thoughts transgressing truth’s textured tide.
As always acknowledging agnosticism’s appeal,
Essence easily evaporates, exeunt Emile.
Very virtuous violent vowels vociferously validate,
Sanctimonious sessions some subtly sacrosanct.
Is it in incrementally immense ingenious imaginations,
Or ontology’s omniscience overcoming oceanic oratory?
Roughly rallying rage’s recessive righteousness,
Quickly quartered queens quietly quiver qualities quoi.
Under unctuous undeniably Umbrian utterances,
An astute and acute awareness as always arose.
Placing plausibly proverbial prevaricating predications,
Many morose morally myopic manly mighty men,
Eulogize everlasting ephemerally entertaining evocations.
Insinuating incredible implications, insomnia initiates,
Notably nullifying notoriously negligible nihilistic necessities.
Lies lay low, linking lofty linguistic lessons like laws,
Of optional opportunities oscillating on occult overtures
Until underlying unctions unify ubiquitous unknowns.
Joyless Joseph’s joyful Joy just jumped, just jumped!
Killing killjoy knuckle kosher korma koranic krap.
And announce another anonymous anodyne appointment?
(Empiricism’s emphatic emission, enter erotic Eloise).
Having Heidegger helps, hope’s homunculi hunting human.
Get gone ginger guesses, go grope Ginger’s grapes!
Immaculately ironic inquisitions instigate immediate impositions.
Once onto opaque ominous orbs, obey Oracles open orders.
Framing funny fractions, flaming far flung frivolous fictions,
Death defies dollar damnations, deliciously done devaluations.
Usually uncle umpire understands useful underlying ululations,
Also affirming apples avuncular altruistic assumptions.
Creeds crave caves, charms calm cause, come conquerors,
Be belligerently bad, betray birth’s beginning, balance budgets.
Entreating entirely empty, emphatically elusive, existential entelechy,
Is, importantly, incommensurably idiotic, inexplicably impractical indeed.
As I look back on the torrent winds of the fate that mars my mind.
Back at the measured erosion of my convictions.
Back at the losing elements of my loving drive to conquer.
Back on the relationships that drown in a river of tears.
A river of tears that precariously became a barren desert to my soul.
Back on the temptest of my sins.
Now through the secretive forest of time do I see the inauspicious path I've traveled.
I have succumbed to my fate and do not have any more sessions of dreams being a righteous conqueror.
No more sessions of dreams to be a righteous anything.
Feeble is my spirit as I continue my travel down this inauspicious path.
No longer shall I allow myself to sniff at the fragrance of hope.
No longer shall I allow myself to look at the sun through ill-omened branches.
A baleful and ominous future I do embrace, for my passion for life is bleak as I move swiftly down this inauspicious path.
Copyright January 21, 2017
Hot as hell, emotions fire the flames,
Nervous about meeting doctors, nurses,
Curtain separates them from congregation,
The veil is not torn in two, but steamy adulation,
Courts their friendship sessions to distance,
Bible fanatic from mum, with a secular pretence:
Stationed to obey that mile that you go,
Faithful to womb child who does overthrow,
That divine validation of mundane everyday life,
Which never does blot his copybook, he’s your invisible wife,
Just because nothing bad happens, then he’s loving,
To be a feature of your relationships and thinking,
So good to give you a furtherer of your animations,
So fine to set converts and following by time within your devotions:
Baby born, and the first thing they said was Jesus!
But I did adjust like a jet, right arm spasm, religion to suss,
Because i had not related perfectly to my mum at all in her beauty,
By getting into a tizzy, a fix about her vaginal cavity:
The umbilical chord did suffocate around my neck,
Three times, and three times to many, ‘cos i hit the deck,
Put in an incubator, a machine my life to sustain,
Where i didn’t depend on maternal caresses to obtain,
That blooming continuation that does greatly assure you of your future,
You expectations, your understandings and boundaries to nurture;
The machine of oxygen and warmth did suffice,
To love this new born child as cold as ice,
To spiritual things and to worlds unknown,
By humankind who only know hell when it’s thrown;
And as I did lurk in my hospital bedroom, or ward,
Like a businessman who is playing the sure investment card:
I wished so much that black book to just disappear,
As it only wrought despair, anxiety and tumultuous fear;
My parents friends, stone cold as delinquent thieves,
Prayed though those days as they sang “Bringing In The Sheaves,”
Whilst appendices of nurses added that they’d do,
Convincing my parents, including doctor-trained dad, that I’d pull through,
They just read the bible to me, over and over,
Through glass ventilator, that separator which did cover,
Happy as chuck, pleased as punch and relaxed enough, in that clever machine,
I clearly didn’t see what they did mean,
Because I was dressed in the NHS, nothing less,
Never this sin to render or confess.
THE WRITER IN ME, WANTS YOU TO KNOW
Somebody called me a poetess in one of the Open Poetry
sessions I attended and I said, “I’m not really a poetess”.
I am a simple woman and I am a writer of simple poems.
The writer in me wants you to know I am no poetess.
A poet to me is somebody who writes with meter, rhyme;
uses words for their beauty and sound, like vivid, imaginative
words to share ideas, emotions, life stories or experiences.
The vivid, imaginative awareness flows for it is arranged for
its meaning and rhythm, thereby using flowery, descriptive
words with extensive vocabulary, especially passive vocabulary.
Passive vocabulary which we may know; but are rarely used.
I write poems using active vocabulary, the words we understand
and use every day for there are readers with minimal vocabulary.
I write poems with simple words for the readers to easily grasp
what I am conveying so they don’t have to think what I mean.
Most of my writings are complex, life experiences or social issues
based on my own life, observations, research and knowledge.
I am a spiritual person; but I rarely write spiritual poems for
not all readers are spiritual or believers and my main purpose
is to reach out to everybody, believers and non-believers to
inspire, motivate, encourage to hope and instill faith in them.
The writer in me wants you to know what kind of a writer I am.
I write poems that are direct and easy to understand that cater
the ordinary to extra ordinary people and the people who have
minimal vocabulary to the ones with vast, extensive vocabulary.
8/26/21 August 2021 NA's Poetry
Constance La France
8/14/21 The Writer In Me, Wants You To Know
Mystic Rose Rose
Judged on 8/14/21 - got NA
What cha thinkin' now?
Keepin' up with the latest thought.
Did you hear the last thing that she said?
Dialing for emotions on a broken down old set.
I could spend forever there in her eyes.
I think together we could sort out the lies.
I'm mezmorized, kind of surprized.
She put on the charm, bypassed my alarm.
Tacked on the back a sweet little prize.
Not her best, she's like the rest.
Gets put to the test.
Three times yours out, but I just got past first.
Not for me to say, I'm dieing of thirst.
Thank you for the soul parade.
That's when they'll say you've got it made.
Post script each line trying to explain.
While basking in the sunshine and rain.
She's a magic taste of honey.
Now she has all her own money.
And the world is showing her a brand new view.
As I sit and wallow in my heart so blue.
Thinking of her, but I don't know what to do.
PS I wrote this listening to Sheryl Crows Globe Sessions CD for the first time.
She was a grandmother, and my Mother.
Who cared for her grand-daughter, like no other.
Bought her new clothes, new shoes.
Mother never sang,"I'm too sick, or tired,"
She funded my daughter's swimming and tennis lessons.
They were not cheap, these summer sessions.
She treated my daughter like a little queen.
Even got her a new canopied bed that was so
princess-fully supreme.
She gave her aromatic pink bubble baths.
And after that, set her hair in rollers on a lush
pink mat.
She was in her seventies but still worked a job.
She was never a freeloading snob.
On Sundays, they made sure she went to Mass.
Not willing to have a grand-daughter of the
godless class.
We both took care of Mom, at our house the rest
of her life.
This Angel, my Mother, who was far more than
just a grandmother and wife.
We saw her in hospital after she passed.
Her hair appeared, as if made of spun, gold glass.
I have never been in the presence of such
beauty!
Her skin, with the radiance of a newborn, by an
Angel on Duty.
I did not want to let her go..that loving, faithful wife,
Mother and Grandmother.
But her spiritual impressions on us all, were
far beyond any earthly other.
4/17/2023
~Dedicated to my Mother~
First Annual Poetry Soup Convention shall be held on June 21st at Stonehenge
For Nina’s convenience and to entice Jan, Melani, Brandy, Heidi and Anne-Lise.
M.L., Rhona, Brian, Joseph, and Emile will build the fire, and bring magic.
Jennifer, Michelle, Aditi, Carolyn, Lu and Panagiota will laugh into the night.
Victor, Demetrios, Andrew, Gershon and Chris will build their own cabins.
Mahtab, Brenda and Jim will help construct them, but will refuse any credit.
Directors Line, Eve, Connie, P.S, Ann and Irene will be assigning bunk mates.
Sarah, Sherry and Anisha will create food using M.L.’s epulaeryus for recipes.
Andrea, Gregory, and Kim will be teaching "how to win" poetry workshops.
Peter, Vera and Freddie will bringing along cockatoos to entertain us at night.
Tom will be down the hill re-enacting war stories with a bunch of the fellows.
Maureen will be teaching senyrus. Beata will be holding Bible sessions.
Nette will be coordinating with Susan, Robert, and Teppo to recreate the moon.
Sandra and Maurice will be sneaking onto computers to do their own thing.
Jack and James will arrive without James’ special pal, who is at Mar-a-Largo.
Bobby and Wren will make banners. Everyone will be hugging Line for the idea.
Constance, Sherry and M.L. will bring their cats, who will go from lap to lap.
Charles and Carol will be rich by the end of the night from their cut of the money from Chantelle and Tania's workshops. Arturo will be Grand Marshall.
Winged Warrior, Pixie Dust and Silent One will reveal they have regular names.
We will have so much fun, we will have to do it again next year in Kansas City.
Where Caren can put up all the tents. She does not sleep anyway.
Written 3-8-2019
Contest: First Annual Poetry Soup Convention
Sponsor: Line Gauthier