Long Slouches Poems
Long Slouches Poems. Below are the most popular long Slouches by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Slouches poems by poem length and keyword.
Images and haze spilling from nowhere,
Like a faint whisper mumbled then aligned
In hours distant as life’s crushed timepiece… *
She gazes at the mirror; how unfamiliar
Could this face look pieced into a broken puzzle…
Her vacant mind gone in wasteland of dead roses.
~
And a gentleman reaches out for one mild waltz;
His fragrance and the song bring tears of nostalgia
Yet memory grows blank while smog chokes her head
Into obscure nights of brittle rain ) …
That her arm slouches under a dim lamplight
Pleading on glimpses to take her… away, away.. ~
.....................
'Help Raise Alzheimer's Awareness'
Broken Wings' Contest: Two Stanzas - Two Only
7.24.2016
Know the Beauty of tomorrow began in the past--
And it must last through today,
Suffering the indignities at hand.
And then you can see out of Spiritus Mundi
A shape with lion body and the head of a man,
looking out with gaze blank and pitiless--
The Nightmare that slouches towards Bethlehem to be born...
And Terra says he is coming
A Sign of the Second Coming-- Yeats
6/9/'14
Yeats's poem the "Second Coming" was about WWI and how it was the war to end all wars, only now we know better. Really WWI signaled an end of fighting of one era to the beginning of another, and this horrified Yeats as the latter was so very bloody. Frightened him in a way that he wondered if man had not lost sense of himself, and I try to extend Yeat's vision of a spiritual nightmare into an environmental expression-- especially in the last line.
911 Carousel
by Michael R. Burch
“And what rough beast ... slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?”—W. B. Yeats
They laugh and do not comprehend, nor ask
which way the wind is blowing, no, nor why
the reeling azure fixture of the sky
grows pale with ash, and whispers “Holocaust.”
They think to seize the ring, life’s tinfoil prize,
and, breathless with endeavor, shriek aloud.
The voice of terror thunders from a cloud
that darkens over children adult-wise,
far less inclined to error, when a step
in any wrong direction is to fall
a JDAM short of heaven. Decoys call,
their voices plangent, honking to be shot ...
Here, childish dreams and nightmares whirl, collide,
as East and West, on slouching beasts, they ride.
Published by The Neovictorian/Cochlea, Mindful of Poetry, Gostinaya and Scholasticus/Fullosia Press. Keywords/Tags: 911, war, violence, children, visionary, surreal, power, retribution, twin towers, terror, terrorism, east, west, dream, dreams, nightmares, error
I’m toey this morning, we’re getting a test back. I was all right or all wrong. I’m early, the first one here. I’m hoping the TA will early-bird and return my test before anyone else gets here. That way, when I run and jump out the 3rd story window, no one else will be traumatized.
I’m trying to have-sac but I’m keyed-up and quivering like a junkie. My chair seems all hard angles. I didn’t sleep much. My mind is replaying the test in a loop, resisting the unreliable seduction of hope. I've decided my score depends on one variable in question 3.
This semester I feel like one of those Cirque du sloeil acrobats that spin ten plates on a pole while riding a motorcycle. I realize I’m biting my fingernails and the parental voices that live in my head spring to life. I shut them down with a shake of my head, they’ll have their say later.
Oh, great, another student’s here, Clint, I think. He’s a stengo from someplace tropical. I’ve never talked to him 1-on-1 but we were in a lab group once, where we had to synthesize a coordination complex and characterize it. He’s smart, polite, and forever chipper. He settles into his seat and slouches like he hasn’t a care in the world. I don’t like him this morning.
If he’s wrong, he’s going to have to throw himself down the stairs, I’ve got dibs on the window.
slang..
toey = nervous, edgy
early-bird = arrive early
have-sac = be brave and grow a pair
stengo = a good looking, exotic guy
The scrape of tooth
on my bottom lip
as she pulls
her kiss
milisecs
away
agonise
the wait
...oh the wait
My breath deliberately
taken
Skin that tastes the flesh beneath
Muscles undulate
in untrained ways
Truths become elusive
Masquerading as the senses
Death slouches from the rooms corner
But pauses in politeness
Or watching
whose to know
Those moments space
is give and taken
Those spluttered grunts
and mewing purrs
A giggled snarl
words from banned books ripped
Skin pierced backs
as nails pull in unison
Rythmed beasts
Agonyistically unstatic
Run the gaunlet raw
Hold my gaze
with unkempt fire
let me kiss
your slipping breath
Oneness held
in tempered moments
For the devil to replay
Echoed musks the room
Ripping hearts
pulls breast
breath takes breath
Its roaring whimpered
in the cavern
of our
intertwined and wined
stems
Staring at the stars dancing
in the mirrors
of her sleeping sweat
I was gifted a little gem; her name is Polka Dots.
She's an English greyhound wench, stands as tall as a park-bench.
She's white, full of black spots, slender stem, and loves apricots.
Her previous owner use to race her, my gut would wrench.
She's an English greyhound wench, stands as tall as a park-bench,
eyes that melt your heart, lies around on my round leather couch.
Her previous owner use to race her, my gut would wrench.
We're both old slouches and once in a while, she becomes a grouch.
Eyes that melt your heart, lies around on my round leather couch;
she's white, full of black spots, slender stem, and loves apricots.
Her previous owner use to race her, my gut would wrench.
I was gifted a little gem her name is Polka Dots.
1/9/2019
Poetry Contest: Polka Dots
Sponsored by: Edward Ibeh
Into a garden sprayed by night's rain,
Jen slouches under a dim lamplight
as the wind gushes on her divan
sweeping pages of a long era,
jotted down through crystal-clear memoirs
from her flawless hand, still radiant...
while tendrils of a past causes
her eyes to melt in glass of evening.
She pauses between emblazoned lines,
a web of saga transports her musings
in a village where life detailed the pain
and glory of unwanted wartime;
the smoky air turning fruits into molds
as land raids wheezed without children’s sounds.
Quietly, Jen folds the sepia-book
to find beauty in her lit garden,
while cloudburst fades like distant remains...
then, washing the leaves of yesteryears,
she breathes in solace: a woman freed
by putting a name to her past angst,
ready for rain’s music of tamed sleep.
.............
Poem In Paradise Contest
Sponsor: Isaiah Zerbst
7/21/2014
“Sissy! Sassy! Saucy! Sissy! Sassy! Saucy! ”
It is so much to say he found those words hard and palsy.
He normally comes in morning around eight.
I don’t even know what is making him so late.
He usually sits at the back of this shaky room,
He slouches like a monkey like one dory doom.
I don’t know why he is not coming out of his shell,
He is so lax but sly like this ringing soundly bell.
He never ever talks when I said something right,
He’s clingy odd guy who still searches one light.
I don’t know how long he can be so seriously crazy,
Sissy! Sassy! Saucy! Oh I can’t be so sorry.
He has potentials but aren’t well used,
He uses his brain that is commonly misused.
I don’t know how long he can take stupid things seriously,
Life will be wasted if he won’t use “S” wisely.
Home from a chemo session, uncle lights up
a cigarette and collapses
to the slick plastic that covers your chaise
lounge, auntie. He thumps the upholstery
with his legs and elbows for blood
to circulate again. A flake
drifts. Dehydrated lips, uncle
inadvertently kisses ash. Cushions
puff up, deflate. Uncle floats
smoke rings to prove he still has breath.
Your bulbous urn ruptures his rings
on contact where curvature
casts uncle’s warped reflection, all mouth and smoke,
as he would rise to reach your urn on the mantle.
Uncle slouches back, watches his sports channel.
I head out with his hamper
and forget to check pockets before washing clothes,
his soggy receipts - - once grocery lists? - -
and tissues, torn apart, clumped up, fake snow
I have to scoop out of washing machines.
Absent-minded tasks at the laundromat, auntie,
where you’d bend in pain. Lint trays reinstall
fluff. I snap
and snap airborne dryer-flakes off towels.
Once the future promised brilliance, but it never came to light
As the star I’d used to guide me dimmed and blended with the night.
The astronomy of darkness lured me farther from my goal
Till I stumbled at the crossroads where I lost my self control.
This magnificent amnesia puts the washboard to my shame.
Can’t remember where I’m headed. Don’t recall from where I came.
Empty cans amid the crossties, broken bottles by the rail,
Are the blazes and the landmarks that illuminate my trail;
Like conspicuous reminders of an unforgiving past,
Through a thousand level crossings, each more lonesome than the last.
But magnificent amnesia plays its lullaby refrain.
To memories asleep in the asylum of my brain.
Once the future wore the costume of a carefree, smiling rogue;
Now it slouches like a ragman down a narrow dead end road.
I don’t b*tch and moan, regardless; only mama’s boys complain.
I just trudge on in the darkness through a piss of pouring rain.
This magnificent amnesia is the perfect compromise,
And a cavalier expression is my everyday disguise.