Long Smoulders Poems
Long Smoulders Poems. Below are the most popular long Smoulders by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Smoulders poems by poem length and keyword.
I promise — that ain't me
I'm not the guy in the mirror
The guy is so beardy
Cheeky faced
With a big thick lips
That isn't me
Remember when I smile
It's a crooked one
One side of my lip
Seems to go up
While the other just hits the ground
Like a heavyweight... Hahaha
Now, this guy in the mirror
He smoulders instead
He doesn't even smile
Well, he might but only when he's mischievous
When he wants to hate on me
Especially in the morning before breakfast
This is overboard but
That guy in the mirror murdered my reflection
I could see it in his eyes
But I just can't prove it
Look!
He just winked!
My reflection was the opposite of him
It's got my every detail
It smiles even in my toughest days
It cheers me even when no one will
It consoles me when I needed one the most
My reflection loves me
Like I said
That ain't me
That's not my reflection
Because I don't believe
That people change —
What's inside just keeps unveiling with time
Now, these days
When I stare at me in the mirror
I don't like what I see
In place of my reflection
All I see is this
An egoistic narcissist with beards
This guy is selfish
Always wanting to make me look bad
It seems like he wants the best for me
But I doubt his intentions
I've never been a cynic before but
I think i'ma be one with this guy
This imposter wrote this in the mirror
That no one deserves my apology
Not even those I love
He told me that
No one steps on my toes
That I won't pump up my fists
This guy told me that
I could do whatever I want
With anyone's Emotions
He said to me
All that i'ma take care of
Is just gonna be me
At first it seemed to make sense
I kinda agreed
Because his words are convincing
It seemed like one of them inspirational quotes
And I really wanna key in
He seemed wiser than I was
But when I realized
That I've lost so much
To please this guy in the mirror
And I miss my shy reflection
I decided to write this
So y'all could read
Right now, I'm about to sleep
And if y'all wake in the morning
And see some changes in me
That guy in the mirror
Switched our spots—
I'll be in the mirror
Please come find me there
And charge that dude
With a first degree murder
Because he killed someone
He murdered my reflection
That guy in the mirror...
Form:
What If There Was No Tomorrow? - The Polar Ice ‘Cap’
- this time it’s burnt and curled upon a new head. The
sweet smoke of his sugarloaf effigy black as night,
surrounded by a material red trim, below Parliament houses
blows political greed into fiery smouldering smithereens –
then it floated and landed after years, drifting, onto
the crown of a man: a business man portraying
wealth and class; here it sat above suit and below sun. The
American dream swirled with scotch and the tip of a bowler,
only for the same piece (restyled of coursed) to later sell for
pounds to make the pupils of any impoverished person pop:
his Hamburg with a knowing dent in back, how it span and
spun from black to grey and back again around Hill’s peak
to be dyed again and tilted just so. Now it’s pillbox pink and a knitted
O of a name/shape-sake that covers her head where her husband
had a target upon his. Watermelon-pink colour dye actually: the very
same fruit palette of brain cradled in her hands at high speed.
This latest star attraction of Burgdorf’s no doubt was, decades
prior, nothing but a mix of lifeless green and sludge brown from
grass and cud - metallic dead daises ducking over No Man’s
Land. A Brodie: styled on a not-yet-pulled pin grenade atop
beads of sparkling sweat, dripping slipping salt where now
a pedal controlled sewing machine stabs and pins sequins into
veils that hide brides with (it must be said) the same success
that protected Fawkes’ Plot or Churchill’s reputation or
Jackie’s husband and the slaughtered soldiers’ skulls - but
still the accessories twist into fascinators fancy enough for
mothers to weep below, only to find the box dish or bow
to be knocked akilter during the traditional bouquet mad
dash - then up – up – up! into the air before landing anew,
refreshed as a Gatsby or Hijab, perhaps a Trilby or Zucchetto;
better yet, the Boater or Sailor we’ll need when the hat that covers
all our heads smoulders and peaks when next dented and melted: a
loose grenade we can’t be veiled from, nor refashioned nor restyled
when the next season’s must have
will be a copper and bolt
protective Diving Mask
for the drowning tomorrow
from The Polar Ice 'Cap'.
Those who savour do know well the taste,
The rest may form but the images abstract;
Unsubstantial eyes penetrate deep into realities,
But the carnal look with superficial glance.
Spent I time pondering over the baffling puzzle,
Whom He created the Master Scheme for?
One morn, at last at the hour of dawn,
The curtains were raised, the gallery swung,
The door opened wide to show the reality.
Ah! What incredible I did find to see,
Since then my mind burns, my heart smoulders,
To capture the fleeting vision again.
The nourishing celestial taste of experience,
My mind, my eyes my heart did undergo,
The organs of wisdom can not explain.
The words symbols suffice not to impart,
The festive taste relished by the inner being.
A huge mirror of brilliance hanging down,
In vacancy, extended from the south to the west,
I viewed glistening with stillness of dazzling glare,
Brighter than hundreds of moons if gathered;
Emerged then slowly in the shining surface,
Half portrait of the Masterpiece, the Beautiful,
With magnificence adequate to the starved yes,
But thousands of times more prominent,
Than the brightening ground of exhibition.
Beheld I the Redeemer, the Pivot of creation,
Wearing turban green with no end lurking on the sides,
Trimmed beard, neither too long nor too short,
Seemed as if the vanished hands laboured hard,
To adorn the Matchless with the regal splendour.
Cold flashes emitting out from the countenance,
Dazzled the force of frail seeing eyes;
The spectrum seemed a true manifestation,
Of the Being who from far behind reflected,
In the enormous screen stretched in front.
The mystery was revealed, but I should keep silence,
For when “Yes” and “No” both are the ruinous extremes,
Silence is the moderate route to survive.
In commemoration of your eighteen years
I will weave you a story fit for all ears
Of a special girl who is very much loved
A precious gift who was sent from above
A fallen angel who we are blessed to be
That her soul chose us, her family
A cousin, a sister and above all a daughter
Who has delighted us all with years of her laughter
But the road for this girl has not always been clear
At times she has been filled with a great fear
For to bear the weight of life’s choice’s on your shoulder’s
Your feet sink in the mud and the inner fire smoulders
It is from those ashes that your inner phoenix does sore
Bringing back the light and hope and oh so much more
The path of your life, untrodden is unique
You will blaze down that path, to any goal that you seek
With determination and an iron will
Your strength of conviction is a special skill
She knows her mind and what it is that she wants
She will never give in to life’s do’s and don’ts
For her to live her life the way that she needs
Sometimes she will be forced down on her knees
It is at that point her strength will shine
And it will guide her through life’s complicated design
She must forge on ahead, beat back all the doubt
Its the choices we make that sets us out
For life is full of sheep, directionless and lost
Always searching for the life that they want the most
A part of that group she will never be
For she is too clever, too much like me
She fights for herself and others she loves
Her soul is as pure and free as a dove’s
This is my weaving, filled with warmth and light
The life map of a girl who I have kept in my sights
For only eighteen years it is that she’s lived
I look forward to all the rest, the greatest gift she can give.
Victor Von Doom is looking for trouble,
he wants to turn the world into rubble.
He begins to unleash his evil wrath,
causing carnage to buildings in his path.
Inflamed with hate for the Fantastic Four,
he wants to smash Reed Richards to the floor.
The army is no match for his sharp skills,
his technopathy controls their free wills.
He arrives at the Statue of Liberty,
with a few hostages in captivity.
He is joined by the sly Puppet Master
and Galactus to cause extreme disaster.
Only the family of super heroes can save the day,
with cosmic powers to protect from those who prey.
Mister Fantastic with his elastic limbs and intellect.
Storm the invisible queen with a shield to protect.
The Thing a mountain of might with strength to praise.
The Human Torch a fireball with flames ablaze
Mister Fantastic distracts DR Doom,
the Thing punches him with a big boom!
Storm takes hostages into a room,
her invisibility saving them from gloom.
Human Torch scorches Galactus's face,
defeated, he scurries back into space.
Puppet Master is held down by The Thing,
as Torch smoulders his cerebral strings.
Dr Doom tries to escape Mister Fantastic,
but he captures him with his arms of elastic.
Storm removes his battery power pack,
the Thing drains him further with a big smack!
Villains thrown into a protected jail,
world is safe again to tell a heroic tale..
Another victory as superheroes rise.
Job well done conquering evil's guise!
Drawn to the graves
Unbeknown clarity develops like root canal treatment
festering wounds and scull bones loom on the route
In reason and feeling I have no choice but to venture
an ancient drill grinds away carbon in my father’s grave
Gravity certainty narrative German post war collective
guilt betrayal crimes against humanity ‘we only followed’
Orders commands yet propagated propaganda and demise
a generation later my prerogative to look away falls by
The wayside on the path to Auschwitz the stench the cries
train tracks total war extinction ‘Lebensraum’ final solution
My officer dad a cog in the wheel just a soldier or willing
perpetrator and I too am getting longer in the tooth of time
‘What did you do what did you not’ and on a map in the
cellar times and postings little flags of when and where
I cannot avoid the void any longer and my atrocious search
for atrocities smoulders at boiling point and the search is
On for the roots which must be exposed from gold fillings
extracted to knowledge before cavities lie filled with pain
Might be covered with exposure of who I am as my father’s child
There stands a blackened tower
Shrouded in a ghostly white
The tomb of seventy two
From a day that drags on hour by dreadful hour
As we reflect upon that ghastly night
A day so many live to rue.
From a simple kitchen fire
There grew a flesh eating blaze
That built into a funeral pyre
Covering London in its darkening haze.
Onlookers helplessly looked on
At windows registering silent screams
Of friends and relatives soon to be gone
The stuff of nightmares ,not of dreams.
Too late did the firefighters come
As the flames did the victims consume
In the furnace they once called home
Daily life no longer theirs to resume
An inquiry now picks over the remains and rubble
Searching for what went so badly wrong
Many will be called to account for this trouble
For those commemorated in my dirge of a song.
Grenfell's holocaust is burned into the national mind
Memories shredded and ripped sadly asunder
While every attempt was made for blame evasion
By those who to customer safety were blind
Our bitter grief smoulders on from this costly blunder
Such a parcel of hypocritical rogues in our nation!
Inglenook
She, the face in the embers,
The remnants of a raging fire,
Smoulders like a cigarette
Between lips of lustful desire.
Where men stoke in gay abandon,
Pokers hot as blacksmiths arms,
To fade and die in the ashes,
The inglenook of her charms.
Breathe, breathe, smoke inhale,
Fill your lungs, my laddy, my son,
And when you spit the bloody spit
What manhood will be done?
Ten a penny, 'tis Rose and Jenny
For whom you shall but die,
But it is dreams of her raging fire
That will burn the smokey sky.
She, the naked, fireside chat
Will weep upon the ashen grate,
And you dowsed her, her inglenook,
How it sealed a young mans fate.
Where flames rose and flames fell
Like the dance of a harlots fare,
And you, the gasp of life and death
Did often purvey her there.
Breathe, breathe, my laddy, breathe,
How dare you die so young,
The inglenook knows many tunes
But you have hardly sung.
Ten a penny, yet be you broke
And deader than her yearn,
She, the face in the embers,
When once, my son, you burned.
© RJVHorton2016
A spark ignited when our paths first crossed,
Your knowledge kindled, my ignorance tossed.
From a timid flicker to a steady glow,
Our bond, like embers, began to grow.
Your wisdom blazed, a guiding light so bright,
Illuminating truths are once hidden from sight.
In learning's heart, our spirits intertwined,
A sacred fire of mentor and mind.
But time, relentless, feeds on mortal flame,
And even the wisest cannot remain.
Your light now fades, yet lingers in the air,
A warmth remembered, beyond compare.
The pyre of knowledge you so proudly built,
Now, it smoulders low, leaving me with guilt.
For lessons missed and questions left unasked,
As twilight falls on your final task.
In ashen whispers, your teachings persist,
Through smoky memories, too precious to resist.
Though you are gone, your spark lives on in me,
A flame of wisdom, burning ceaselessly.
Your absence chills, yet warms me all the same,
For in my heart, you're an eternal flame.
I tend this ember, with reverence and care,
Honouring the light we used to share
Down The Years
O, my blanket smoulders,
too warm for you and I,
Drape, my dear, your shoulders
and not upon your eye.
Lay between the faces
of every empty smile,
To wallow in the spaces
and breathe there, for a while.
O, these shoes grow weary,
we've come, this time, too far,
Run with me, don't fear me,
or how beautiful you are.
Tip-toe between our troubles
through the shadows in the dust,
To gaze upon young couples
pretending they are us.
O, how a kiss can turn sour,
bittersweet and rushed,
Kiss, instead, a delicate flower
before it can be crushed.
Blossom between regrets
where memories dare to hide,
And waltz to loving minuets
befitting a blushing bride.
O, your heart is dancing,
'tis time to take your leave,
I'll wear it, my dear, romancing
and not upon my sleeve.
Love me between the tears
that oft, do gently flow,
To rendezvous down the years
where I will let you go.
©RJVHorton2016