Long Sourness Poems
Long Sourness Poems. Below are the most popular long Sourness by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Sourness poems by poem length and keyword.
"Breaking the Lonely Rewind"
Hysteria ensues a small death
on a funeral pyre pushed
into a sealed and soiled
heart shaped box sunk
to swallow stone tears
reversing reflections
in the coldest mirrors
Tsunami waves flood
all that was green
On the breaking shores
there the Lonely Rewind
is floating amidst The Shallows
resurfaced, cracked open and laid bare
her black treasures
boiling over inky interior
spilt darkly the soul
now sharp and split in two
a gift from the damned
walking out into the blistery wind
where sourness all around
whispers a soft war
of unclaimed, unwanted
forgotten voices,
The Lost and Lonely,
way past the end of their world,
where heartbreak is spurned
resurrect into burning birds
from the cold veined inferno,
The Silent Ocean of Reprieve
(LadyLabyrinth/2019)
"When I Was Older"/Billie Eilish
https://youtu.be/HSCREQjxPHE
Lyrics:
https://genius.com/Billie-eilish-when-i-was-older-lyrics
"In order to rise from its own ashes, a phoenix first must burn." Butler
"She told me she’d be a phoenix.” The image of the mythical creature rising from the ashes glitters in my mind. “They don’t really exist.” “She said that depends on whether or not there’s someone who can see them." Picoult
"One does not need to be against womens suffrage," the London Times editorialized in 1908, "to see that some of the more violent partisans of that cause are suffering from hysteria. We use the word not with any scientific precision, but because it is the name most commonly given to a kind of enthusiasm that has degenerated into habitual nervous excitement."' Gilman
"Lady Lazarus", Plath
https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/49000/lady-lazarus
Think of me as the eyes of late nightfall
crawl through a wafting sill
where lone moon cuddles dimmed glow
before she quietly slowly lays
herself on a cradle of clouds
as whistle of barn owl and incantations groans.
When dusk explodes into ash
upon fairways that lap,
think of me
mysteriously walking on the ledge
of our winding grassland
picking bluebells in wanderlust.
And when candles snuff the lampshades
think of me,
like the velvet skin of dusk fall
circling in a world of marbled thoughts
until you etch the back of my spine
to lullaby the sourness of truant dreams.
The stars play game-spy with the wind
rowing into a wave of dewy cruise;
I enter into your own lenses, a search light
that becomes the harbour of some peace
while echoes of unknown voices speak...
It is at this juncture when you, perhaps,
might think of me
lending a gentle taste of assurance
that the next hours will stir a brightened sun.
,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,
contest 259 Brian Strand
Far from a common world
Away from all that you to belong
No need to utter a single word
Just your soul with you get along
Wither in solitude
You are free.
Folded is your very sight
Wide open and profound is your insight
Setting foot on realms you do not own
In the midst of the unknown
Undergo risk
You are free.
Shake off all the leaves of your tree
Let go whom you cling to
Tear off the bonds of your unity
Let be a life of exploit and build a new you
Taste sourness
You are free.
No rock to fall back on and let things be light
No room in your mysterious journey for fright
No company that chains your soul and fill in your holes
Explore your inner self in danger zones
Reap cruelty
You are free.
"Life's problems will be a little less bitter if we
sweeten sour lemons with the right attitude."
~ quote by poet
There are moments in our lives, perhaps days
when we thirst to leave our troubles behind.
A bitter taste upon the tongue that stays
'til a sweeter flavor we seek and find.
The cliche' about making lemonade
is great advice that everyone should take.
Life can be more delicious when it's made
without sourness when its our thirst we slake.
Lemonade, a metaphor used to show
that bad situations can become good.
Plant a symbolic tree and watch it grow
into something much better. Understood?
Sweet lemonade served with a sprig of mint...
The drink leaves an indelible imprint.
Life,
Need Not Be
"All Briars & Half Ripe Berries"
by
Tom Wright
Much time
we spend wandering among the briars of life,
being rewarded with tart berries,
in our quest for the full and sweet.
Often resting, but never at rest,
seeking nectar for our vessels sourness within.
We're told, that God is a loving God, and so It's true.
So why life's bitter taste?
Finally, by Devine design,
God's thorns, have our attention.
["It is hard to kick against the pricks"]
But all too often, foolish heart's, yield not
as they continue to question,
"Is it my lot to remain forever among the briars"?
For our stubbornness
shall we be forever doomed to feel life's pricks?
I think not!
God has presented us a choice,
to forever gravel for life's tidbits in darkness,
or step from among the briars into His glorious light
One's decision should no longer be postponed,
of this I am certain.
It is time to fish or forever cut bait.
Let us, from a broken and contrite heart,
confess our sins.
Sin's, that He has long fore known will be forgotten.
In retrospect, I'm convinced,
God needs to hear but five small words,
"Lord, save me, a sinner".
My world is random, for it’s what I expect
Yours might be orderly, more’s the pity
My world is flexible, dancing her way past the gym
Your world might be lifting weights
We skip toward the bakery for our scrumptious donut
I believe life is like death
You get what you expect
If you expect sadness, dourness, sourness, meanness,
Guess what?
If you expect joy, hope, faith, and positive affirmations,
come and sit by me
I think our souls and imaginations determine our world.
There is no fate, there is only free will.
Free will that plots our life and our death
I know my death is going to be more life than my life.
How is that for free will?
The three hands of the clock
stand at ninety degrees.
My roots are on the couch,
my eyes turn toward
the approaching feet,
my ears toward the wrist turning
the key in the door,
the smell of vodka slipping
into my nose.
When a lucky break falls
right into my lap,
I need no lawyer,
I know nothing of the law.
I pull half a body close
and lay it crosswise across the bed.
Geckos, spiders, cockroaches, bedbugs, cats —
I don't bother counting them,
nor the table lamp,
the curtains, the bookshelf.
All the sourness in my mind,
I kick more than a dozen times
straight into the goal,
and a little
Zuu... escapes my lips.
......................................
One more calendar page
belonging to an animal—
I treat
it like an animal would.
It's
easy, easy.
I am caged in depression.
A mind in haze, prostrate in grief.
The radiance of your candlelit dinner..
I can only decimate in sourness of sad light.
I can only feel nothing,
but would you still love me?
I am helpless in depression.
Waxing and Waning in a tug of war.
The fragrance of your red rose..
I can only desiccate in wilting darkness.
I only have a will to die,
but would you still love me?
I am hopeless in depression.
A timeline ticks.. entailing no future.
The exhilarating brilliance of your words...
I can only strangle the sibilant sounds of hope.
I can only hide and cry, speckle you in brooding,
but would you still love me?
I am miserable in depression.
Surviving a battle of empty loneliness.
Your stardust glamorous passion of love..
I can only turn back.. pushing away your hugs..
You very well know... . I can no longer feel love...
but, would you still love me?
Resubmitted to
''Say It Again'' Contest Info
Sponsor William Kekaula
Contest Name 'Say It Again'
PLACED SECOND IN CONTEST
Date written: 8th December, 2018
Submitted to the Would you still love me poetry contest.
Sponsor Edward Ibeh.
How signals go to our brains.
I've just scranned an apple,
No time between bite and taste.
I remember so many tastes which are
Impossible to describe without saying
Sweet, salty, sour, bitter, bland.
What is sweetness?
It is sweet and not sour.
What is sourness?
It is sour and not sweet.
Salt and sugar are often vital for a good flavour.
But alone, they are nothing.
It is crazy to think about
How the slightest touch to a hand
Is never missed,
Unless the person is sleeping or paralysed.
And of course, this detection by the brain —
To a certain extent, a machine,
Can spoil, with a gesture that takes a second
All the hours
Of a misunderstood outing.
It is crazy to reflect on the fact that
I will only see my face as a reflection and in photos,
Except a little bit of my nose.
Photos and reflections are mindblowing, too.
Yet, whatever the purpose of existing,
I know that I exist.
As for everyone else,
How can I be sure
When I live only in my body?
How do I know that this grass is green,
That these dandelions are yellow?
Even if a hundred, thousand people were to say so,
They could all lie,
And it could be a big lie that there are
All these other individuals
Who appear or don't in my life.
Assuming I am not imagining the world,
I have felt, I am feeling and I will feel
An abundance of the same feelings as you.
But when you say you are peckish,
For all I know, you could be ravenous.
Anyway, that is how I feel at the moment —
It is time for pasta and avocado.
And even though this poem expresses that tasting is mindblowing,
Crazily, it is also normal
To live like it is not.
1
Sugar no longer belongs in tea,
only sugar-free,
and the sound of the spoon stirring.
2
The lady of the house,
the lady's kitchen,
gas, mixer, microwave,
the battle of the wok and the spatula.
3
A bottle-gourd vine creeps
through the kitchen roof,
white flowers blooming,
while frogs call out,
ghyangor-ghyang...
4
A harsh, ringing afternoon in Bhadra,
the street hawker
wearing himself hoarse,
calling out his wares.
5
A harsh, ringing afternoon in Bhadra,
ripe hog plums crushed to pulp,
gram-flour fritters and mustard paste
shoved down the throat
by a sharp, puckering sourness,
the taste of our boyhood.
6
Water flowing through the drain,
a fig tree beside it,
and a little farther away,
a plate of rice,
a lump of rice and mashed potato.
7
Darkness descends
over the tops of the bamboo grove.
A sky crowded with stars,
the sound of a fox's footsteps
crunching through fallen leaves.
8
Water hyacinths drift
across the middle of the pond,
and upon their leaves
a spider has woven
its delicate web.
9
Sour curry of ripe shol fish
cooked with green mango,
its more formal name:
amshol.
10
A Hemanta twilight,
a ring of smoke,
and on the electric wire
rows and rows of birds
holding their evening council.
11
I converse with the steps
in the afternoon,
and in their moss-covered bricks
find the memory
of my grandfather.
12
Heavy curtains hang
across doors and windows.
Life, too, has grown heavy.
I find myself remembering
my mother's sari-end,
her anchal.
13
A wall built
to hide nature,
and upon that wall,
a landscape
of nature.