Long Snakeskin Poems
Long Snakeskin Poems. Below are the most popular long Snakeskin by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Snakeskin poems by poem length and keyword.
My Heart
I am a glass half full
Sometimes sloshing over the edge
A temple for fireflies, sand dunes
Water by nature, that cuts deeply
Beneath the reeds, flowing fast
Rapids, sometimes violent
Rushing past jagged stones
To still again, gentle ripple
My heart is like the ocean
Vast and deep and full of whispers
Rip currents and gentle foam
Licking over the stones and sand
Upon the shore
My heart is like fire
A column of flame rising from my breast
That burns down those old thorny bushes
Making way for new sprouting seeds
In the morning I’m bleary eyed
Fumbling for coffee and toast
In the afternoon, agape with wonder
At the cirrus clouds above
In the evening I am still
…or try to be
Dismissing the stirrings of the day
Shrugging it off like snakeskin
Fidgeting, breathing, sometimes tears
Sometimes laughter
By the blue TV screen light
I am a glass half full
.. except when it’s half empty
But I always, always
Thirst for more
"Soul to The Letters of Love"
Dropped into a body
the vessel is a skeleton key
where waits the other being
holding 3
in its own mind and hands
the Sanskrit Blueprint Plan
the lesson is in the wanting
ripe red apple bleeding juicy pumping
the learning to be free
ephemeral stories look for ephemeral keys
– this is how it has always been
naturally selected skin and bones, ephemeral
the other being a ghost inside
long in tooth forever and ever amen
calls the other ghost Atman,
calls the other ghost Home
plucking Vedic strings,
with lessons in love
grants the sharing of knowledge
receiver immortal sits seeded waiting
a secret discipline
multiple choices
exams in Shaman college
colludes to collaborate with the Sun
through the next portal
granting access to Love
with Letters earned
Divine and substantial
in another realm
Love is given not won
Post-nominal phenomena
Noumenon
thoughts intangible
become sound
in another strange world
Love is read
Love is learned
Love is found
(LadyLabyrinth / 2021)
"Dreamlike"
https://youtu.be/YD1d-1hPuao
3
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Id,_ego_and_super-ego
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Trinity
Soul
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Soul
Twin Flame
"Put simply, the purpose of the twin flame relationship is to help us shed away the snakeskin of the ego, face and heal our wounded hearts, and transform into spiritually awakened beings."
https://lonerwolf.com/twin-flame/#h-the-purpose-of-twin-flame-relationships
"I have been a stranger in a strange land." Bible, Exodus 2:22
The compass whirrs.
North toward rock, south toward sand.
East toward ice, and west toward river.
Like a game of spin the bottle I take a chance on north,
run my hands over stone and pebble,
the spine of life a twisting snakeskin, shedding.
The compass whirrs
as words and winds uproot me to the south. Dust ridden,
arid. Earth sizzles, a roast overdone. My flaking skin
drenched in sweated drought.
The compass whirrs
as those years of crinkling sand dune heat melt
somehow into eastern snow. You don’t understand
how or why or when those summers became leaves that
fall, became sleet upon which you slip, recklessly, helplessly, toward time’s
splash. The final plunge pool.
Now, western waters offer a mirror,
sometimes murky, sometimes crystal,
and still, the compass whirrs, as you realise
that strange land - your body.
The stranger - you.
There’s not much to love in the land of
72 ounce steaks
Air-conditioned grace droning over
AR-15 soaked Saturdays
Remembering is not the problem these days
Rather it is forgetting that
Children can have new names
If they pick them up with their own hands
The bootstraps have all but worn off
these snakeskin boots
And I am tired of something I can’t put my mind to yet
But I never thought I would love
Bird feces soliloquies
Thanksgiving apart from family
Humidity on top of humidity
Or evenings that never turn to nights
So I’ll just hold my own name
Firmly in soiled hands until I can
Plant it back in the ground
Where it belongs, beside a cool swift stream
Shaded by a bigleaf maple
I paused by the river in the late afternoon—
how many years have passed!
The plane tree on the bank, towering,
the riverbed unchanged;
what, I wonder, will I find on the other side?
The hollow in the plane tree has widened,
memories stored within its hiding place—
time ferrets them out through nostalgia!
We used to play cops and robbers as children;
dry plane leaves, at the mercy of the wind!
The riverbed, an endless white snakeskin,
stones rolled round like scales—
how often I slipped into its freezing waters!...
my schoolbag a lifebuoy upon my back;
sunken pebbles held hostage in the sand!
On the opposite bank stands my childhood home;
its chimney smoked on a day like this,
the doorway held a sweet scent as Mother passed through,
the courtyard gate creaked at Father’s step;
a robin sang amidst the fresh snow!
Headlights stream along the strip
Late night dreamers on a trip
Neon lights shining bright
Everyone's feeling lucky tonight
Crowds bustle on the sidewalk
Wild laughter & small talk
Silhouettes smoking cigarettes
Pink Cadillacs & red Corvettes
High rollers & classy chicks
Cowboys getting their kicks
Sharks in suits
Snakeskin boots
The Devil’s drawing them in
Tempting them with sin
He’s playing them all
Watching them fall
He begins his dance
Playing with chance
Gambling with their soul
He lets the dice roll
All bets are on seven
A trip to heaven
Only the dice will tell
Who’s going to hell
Hundred dollar bills
Whiskey & wild thrills
Burning with desire
The city’s on fire
Matsuo Basho: English translations of haiku about summer, trees, firefly, fireflies, cuckoos, rice fields, rice paddies, bush-clover, Iris, Irises, temple, temples, Japanese culture, light, daylight, lit, boat, boats.
Fireflies
turn our trees
into well-lit lodges.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
A noontime firefly,
dim by daylight,
hides behind a pillar.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Firefly watching,
the tipsy boatman
rocks the boat.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Rising above fields of rice and barley,
the cry of the summer cuckoo.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Tedious life!
Plowing the rice field
back and forth...
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Lying in the summer grass,
discarded like a king’s robe,
the snakeskin.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
The shrubby bush-clover?
How impudent
her appearance!
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Glistening dew
sways without spilling
from the bush-clover.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
I bow low
to the venerable
rabbit-eared Iris.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Rabbit-eared Iris,
pausing to chit-chat,
one joy of my journey.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
The rabbit-eared iris
inspires
another hokku.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Rabbit-eared Iris,
admiring your reflection?
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Inside Uchiyama,
unknown to outsiders,
blossoms full-bloom.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Uchiyama was a temple little-known to the outside world. In fact, uchi means “inside.”
I have stood on every shoreline Earth could grow—
watched civilizations peel off like snakeskin,
hands red and raw, throwing words into the wind.
What was it, they asked, what was the answer?
This morning, I walked into a diner in Kansas,
found a cup of coffee that tasted like 1983,
and sipped the ghosts of a thousand endings.
People talk like birds now, high-pitched and fast,
forgetting their wings.
I remember sitting cross-legged in Greece,
listening to poets invent gods out of clay.
They believed the world was a fistful of stars
scattered by children before bedtime,
and that we were made to gather them.
This last time, I come unmasked—no silver suit,
no cryptic message carved in crop fields.
I leave no warnings of doom, no demands for change.
All I have is the echo that never leaves—
a glittering hope beneath the static.
The song that says:
There’s life, there’s life—up here, down there,
and somewhere between the lonely notes
of what could have been and what still waits.
I’ll take my place in the sky once more,
watch as you blink back, eyes wide,
and see what you’ve always been:
Starmen too.
Every one of you, already knowing the tune,
just trying to remember the words.
T i m e stops for no one,
as searing seconds swerve
through seasonal squalls,
thawing frost that sleeps upon
the necks of onyx roses,
where pain is etched in skeletal sins~
across pruned plumes,
fleeting through amethyst air,
merged in changing frequencies
of wind and waves,
carrying ballads of a bruised bluebird.
But I have long known grief,
and I’ve tasted the bittersweet
cocktails of life and love.
I am s i l e n c e,
swirling amidst the wheels
of dusk and dawn,
like the unseen flares
of blazing boulevards,
for I am made from ashes of steel,
strong to the eyes
that see not beyond bleeding sighs.
I waltz faster than
my fears can grasp,
the obsidian t e a r s of petals,
leaving each abstract sunset
sketched in acrylics
on murky meadows,
thriving with grieving geraniums.
O beloved moon,
I see lakes of Elysium
through the chained windows
of my tortured tower.
I breathe against the
crystalline concoctions
composed from the ink
of curved constellations,
erasing kismet calligraphies,
cluttered with chaotic conclusions,
sailing toward an astrological sphere,
where colors of love
run free against
the gravity of diabolical dust,
designed on rings of rust.
So let me save the twilight sage,
before the last drop of wintry rage
is no longer tamed by the
treacherous tongue of fate,
for I am armored against
the demonic drumrolls,
luring the splitting sea-surge
to a bioluminescent shore
where Lucifer’s footsteps linger,
caressing the edges of snakeskin,
mimicking merciless mantras
of Medusa melodies,
orchestrated in seething strings,
oblivious to the t r u t h
that I am more than
a wounded warrior,
dressed in whimsical wisterias.
I’ve learned to let go
of every faltering feather,
that blinded me,
pushing my patience
into a labyrinth of tilted tulips,
tainted with twisted tones
and hues of hypocrisy.
Remember,
I am more than the splitting paranoia,
running through corridors of uncertainty,
I am flashlights in the monsoon sky~
emanating petrichor pastels
upon nocturnal nightingales,
singing without words,
dreaming amidst trickling chords.
~ and this is the truth of trembling t i m e
that halts not for the sleeping supernovas ~
As I was peeling this orange, it whispered an epiphany.
"You must first be taken apart to gain strength.
Seek out the purist of storms
Dive into the cyclone, be cleansed, be reborn."
I followed the advice of the newly flayed orb.
Tracked down that cleansing wind.
In its billion unrecognizable forms.
Chasing a shattered constellation.
On the edge of starry town.
Cracked thoughts stretching out.
Nibbling wildflower- gathering strength.
Weaving a metal skin made of sun.
Devouring the sweet winter rain...
Life then began with a hum, then a roar.
Soul ignited by spectacular, undefined things.
Stardust of the mind, gathering clarity,
Now the bright fields of life flash eternally.
It's time to leave the old snakeskin to the weeds.
A new constellation rising into the night sky,
Broken hobos and coyotes dancing in delight.
Laughing, cascading so rich in their dreams.
What name shall be given to this infant skin?
This gathering of pristine baby stars.