Long Speck Poems
Long Speck Poems. Below are the most popular long Speck by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Speck poems by poem length and keyword.
10/10/2019
I tried to write today, but I couldn’t manage it.
You see, there’s a speck of dirt stuck to the paper.
I tried not to let it get to me, but to no avail,
And had already begun trying to get it off.
Scratching at it was no use, I couldn’t get under the thing.
And washing a paper would defeat the purpose.
It seemed impossible to pry off.
I can’t live with it in my sight, yet can’t throw it away.
I’ll have to take my mind off it somehow,
So I can rest easy tonight.
Just the thought of it will haunt me.
Tomorrow I can write again.
10/11/2019
I got another piece of paper today,
And had managed to get the speck out of my head,
Just long enough to get some thoughts out.
But something else is bothering me.
Now that I think about it, I can’t stop myself.
All the abnormalities of the patterns on the wall,
The crumbs on the desk,
Even the nearly invisible creases in this paper.
I need to get out a bit more,
There’s no way I can function like this.
I can talk more when I’ve dealt with this,
But for now this is all I can think about.
10/12/2019
I couldn’t go to sleep last night.
I had turned on the fan in my room,
But its spinning motion had fascinated me.
The quink motion blurs it together,
But if you focus on a single blade, following it,
It starts to become clear.
After a while I decided to get up.
There was nothing to do, but anything was better
Then staring at the cursed fan.
I found a rubber wall stick toy, molded into the shape of a dragon.
My brother probably got it from a teacher.
After spending the rest of the night trying to keep the wings apart,
I passed out.
10/13/2019
I can’t stay in this house,
The abundance of dust has only become more clear.
My brain won’t rest and I’m seeing things I haven’t before.
The edges of my nails that are begging to be cut,
The imperfections in the palms of my hands,
The papers not all in a straight pile,
The lines of my handwriting inhabiting them,
The dust scattered over the tables,
And the finger marks breaking the unity.
My head is spinning
And I can’t make it stop.
Round and round the ceiling goes.
10/14/2019
Ah, the beauty of sleep medicine.
I finally had a good night’s rest,
And I think I have an idea on what to write about.
Until next time, Journal.
And please, deal with the erase marks,
I need a break.
-Connor Lotts
I saw you leave for a trip of discovery
I saw your face alight with such enthusiasm and delight.
You set off, to explore the world around you
***
While you were gone, I witnessed the utmost betrayal to you
From the man, whom in a few short months, were going to exchange vows of forever love
I watched in horror as the events laid out
Dark and cold swirled around Me, clouding my judgment, making me crave the kill
***
You came back from the trip, so happy. I felt sick knowing I was about to destroy you
I opened my arms to embrace the cold and darkness, to over come me so I can go for the kill
I sat you down
I showed you the proof
Those minutes seemed like an eternity
I saw when your world turned upside down, inside out
I saw your heart and soul shatter in your eyes
It was then that the darkness left, and I cried with you, for it’s a pain I know all to well
Though amped for it is you that is going though this
A pain I would take forever just so you do not know it’s lingering existence
***
Your screams and cries howled from your oozing wounds, shaking to the core
You ran and enclosed your self in what use to be your sanctuary, but now nothing but ruins of lies
I sat on the opposite end, listening to those howls and fade away to them
***
After part of the storm of your chaos let up,
I went and saw you. I went and said my final piece:
“It will hurt, it will hurt so bad and you’re life will never be the same. You’ll never be able to trust so carefree, you’ll second guess everything but most importantly yourself. Those wounds will scar and be a forever reminder on your frail heart. Those wounds though, will be gorgeous and you should bare them. They are your battle marks, they will make you stronger in time. My precious darling, my adoring sister, please don’t let him put a veil over your eyes, don’t let him mask the beauty of life. Don’t let him cover your flame of passion. He is nothing more than a speck of dust flowing in the wind, do not make that dust ground you, center you. You will heal, you will conquer and destroy, and you will rise to be almighty and glorious once more, for this will pass. When you don’t feel that you can stand on your own, I’ll be there for you to lean, I will help carry you on. I’ll forever be there to help you fight if you so wish. I love you”
I left this for you my sister, my most precious friend
Form:
There are visions roving inside my head
of a time and place where perhaps I once lived.
But how do I know of those worldly things
if I no longer exist? I must question if I ever did.
I am off kilter, as if I'm an invisible entity,
a salty speck of foam floating on a sapphire sea.
Should I feel dire despair, indifference, or jubilant joy
that I am not part of this place that's been laid to waste?
It's as if I'm surfing in shadows over what used to be
an amusement park, but the Ferris Wheel is broken,
and there's no spark of life anywhere to be found.
Only faded pamphlets lying on the ground, sun-bleached
remnants of the way life used to be, once upon a time.
I pity me for having been given this gloomy glimpse,
a vandalized view that no one could misconstrue.
I feel like Alice wandering through a frightening fantasy.
Desperately wanting to go back through the looking glass
and forget the devastation in which the world dwells.
If I ever had an inkling of what living in hell would be,
then in this chaotic clime, this dysfunctional dystopia,
I would seek to escape my existence and set myself free.
I feel the need for fresh air, but who would care
if I should have lived or died? No one cried tears for me.
What future fate have I discovered with thoughts
hovering? Tragic thoughts that haunt me like a cold stare.
What ill winds have swept the world away?
Cursed be!
How can anything exist is this sorrowful sepulcher?
I'd rather be a soulless specter without a home
then live among those in this lamenting land.
This is not Aldous Huxley's Brave New World.
It does no good to imagine a world without me.
Friendships made; children born; none of those would exist.
I can only envision these things. These things that I've given wing.
They roam inside my head, making me wonder if I had a beginning
or an end. I feel repercussions from having a discussion
with myself over the conceptual conundrum of my existence.
Would I have been happy, would I have made others happy,
or brought them grief like the thief who collects the dead?
It's a nightmare of reality, for I am sure it's not a daydream.
Greed played its Trump card and schemed to sit on the throne
in a kingdom I could never contentedly condone.
I've no desire to dally here a moment longer, and
since I don't exist, I am certain I will not be missed.
(Gen. 1: 1, 14 / * Isa. 26: 4 / Isa. 43: 10 , Isa. 44: 6 , Isa. 45: 5-7, 17, Isa. 46: 9-11 /
* Acts 1: 7 / * Eccl. 3: 1-8, 11 / Mark 13: 30-33 / 1 Tim. 1: 17 / Jude 25 / Rev. 21 :6)
The King Of Eternity Gave Me Laser Answers
So That I Would Know of All Matters
That It's All Only A Matter of Time
Yes, All Things Are Set In Time's Prime
Yes, It's All Only A Matter of Time's Size
It All Comes In The Frame As Time Supplies
The Past, The Present & The Future All Relates
It All Devolves Upon The Time That It Takes To Make:
Once Upon A Time:
One Drop of Water Pierced A Stone-Face Into A Smile
One Step Then Another Paced A Walk, A Million Miles
One Speck of Dust Then Another Made Earth's Mosaic-Tiles
... of Pebbles Into Boulders Until The Many Mountains Piled
& A Child Grew From An Embryo, As One Cell Multiplied
All In A Matter of Time's Length & Scope & Steady Strides
Once Upon A Time:
One Thread Joined Another Until Its Sewn Into A Fashion Style
& Years Reached The Hour's Stroke That Heralded End of Trials
Each Separate Instant As It Happened - Produced History's Files
See - Its All Only A Matter of Time, All The While
There Is A Time For Every Matter & A Time For Every Thing
It's All Only A Matter of Time's Space, Track & Sync
So It's Only A Matter of Minutes In The Continuum of Time
'Til We'll Meet The Moment - All Is Divine
Whether Its A Hard Conclusion or An Easy Climb
Whether Infinity Is Curved or In A Strict, Straight Line
Whether We Fail To Find Our Own Finally Arrived Sign
Or The Start & A Stop & In The Middle That Binds
Its All Only In A Matter of Time ...
Whether That's To Catch Ocean Waves or A Winds Cadence
Or To Fly Thru Galaxies By The Speed of Light's Radiance
Time Is Ever Moving Forward & Spreading In The Distance
Time Has No Break & Man Can't Hold Time With Resistance
Time Is A Touchstone, That A Traveler Uses As A Chart
Minutes Are Modes of Transport, In Time's Non-Stop March
A Moment Is Only A Motion, of Emotional Import
Yet Whether Its Digital or Analog or Of A Sundial Sort
We Can Touch Time - From Our Own Back-Porch
Time of Itself Is An Interval ... & Time Is A Track
One Can't Rewind Actions & Time Won't Run Back
(Unless of Course GOD Himself Designates That Act)
But Time Is Organized & A Tamper-Proof-Fact
(Part 1 of 3)
Written & Copyrighted © : 9/9/2013
by: MoonBee Canady
Down many of the coalmines in Yorkshire , Safety dictated that an alternative means of escape
had to be found just in case anything ever happened to the shafts that raised and lowered miners to their work.
This usually involved keeping a single route open underground to the next nearest colliery .
Old George waiting by the mineshaft
Spitting his chewing tobacco juice
Today with his apprentice
They must survey the mines escape route .
1000 yards underground
In darkness as black as pitch
They reach up to their helmets
Turning on the headlamp switch.
George prodding at the timbers
That support the roof and sides
His apprentice grows more nervous
With every single stride .
A mile down the escape route
The roof is seven feet high
They see a little fallen rock
but manage to squeeze by .
The roof is getting lower
George hears the scurrying of mice
Brought down the mine in bales of hay
When pit ponies and the miners destiny were spliced.
The apprentice is visibly shaking
but only one more mile to go
When a piece of falling timber
Dealt his torch battery a glancing blow.
George could see the boys panic
and as the leader of his team
He reassured his apprentice
Then they shared the single beam .
Suddenly they hear a crack like thunder
Then the splintering of wood
George pushes his apprentice
but a fall of rock stands where George stood.
Young boy on his hands and knee's
Screaming Georges name
More terrified by the second
When no answers came.
Now in total blackness
He inhabits the world of the blind
If he is to help his leader
The boy must use his senses and his mind .
The faintest hint of breezes
He feels on his face
Air sucked down the mineshaft
Just might be his saving grace
He crawls along the jagged floor
Using his sense of touch
Soon in the distance he hears machinery
A sound he has never loved so much .
He tastes the ever freshening air
Hope inside him grows
Then the tiniest speck of flickering light
His tears overflow.
Help, Help, he's calling
As the miners come into view
Two men want to hep him to the surface
Burt he awaits his friends rescue.
Old George didn't make it
He sacrificed himself to save the boy
Broken hearted the boy had a breakdown
and had to leave the mines employ.
The boy became a father
Then a wonderful granddad
but he never tired of telling the story
of the best friend he ever had.
Swimming in the deep depths of tales
A place where writers sometimes go
In urgent need to find themselves
To envision again the writing flow
A place where words swim like fish
Many are like sirens that sing in bubbles
that carries their voices in bliss
Hiding their beauty in the trenches tunnels
All glow shining with inscriptions within
Giving ideas that can create
A plot for your mind to confine in
That exploit to initiate.
As you go deeper in the abyss of it's body
It gets darker, colder
Luring you to it's embody
Time is growing older
As getting closer yet feeling bolder
Enthralled in its ebony shadows shoulder
Now alone with a blank mind
No one can save you this time
It's up to you on how to evade the mine.
It wants you there
Now trapped and soon in need of air
You're falling in despair
It's calling you but seemingly to not bear!!!
Swimming through is a murky cast
It swims in, at full blast
Stalks you like a shark
Can't see well it's too dark!!!
Freshly still like a simple bass
It's way too sharply fast
As hoping that good fate
Will make it pass
Or make you it's ideal bait
Maybe even to occasion a special date.
It comes...... It comes!!!
Then silence fills to surround
Yet there's nothing around
With not a speck of sound
What has happened?
This is all so rapid...
Am I dead in the oceanic's shroud?
Then a source of swirling light
Endows my presence
A feeling so unique in essence
giving me a sense of no fright
Darkness and fear is now evanescence
What never was to result in a bad bite.
Now my hands are inspired
to naturally write
For the seas stories had conspired
To paint in black ink
Giving a talent with passion
So there's no way for them to sink
But to float like jellies
With pink flopping bellies
Giving them a sensual attraction
Almost like ballerinas in a stage
That dance with grace
To the seas gravity with no name or age
Love how well they rhythm in same pace
It's all now coming to me....
And I can see and do I proudly see
In a sweet art masterpiece
That I made it be...
I want to feel it's dew
It's meadow harmony that arches in peace
In the profound beauty of it's blue
The skill I carried and always knew
Was never far from me
I had to get prompted starting at new
Hey you got this don't worry
Now get on and write your story....
Written: January 26, 2025, for contest Sponsored by: Sara Jama
Quote by Geoffrey Chaucer "Time and tide wait for no man,"
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Time, a poltergeist whisper
slipping through the cracks
Moments shimmer
akin to Petunia petals aloft,
a hypnotic dance —
ephemeral yet priceless.
Time waits for no one;
haven't you felt its rush?
Time waits for no one —
It simply drifts away.
With each tick, clocks transform
into the fabric of history—
you seize fleeting seconds
as if they could stretch forever.
Wilted Orchids echo
forgotten dreams,
pulled by unseen forces
upon a canvas of memories.
Each speck of time,
a mason's chipped work.
Harmonic motions dim
in the palms of eternity;
calming breezes frown
upon autumn’s sunlit glow.
No one halts time—it surges on!
It speeds faster than a blink.
Nostalgia weaves itself
around crystal vessels,
while moonflower garlands
bloom amid hazy dreams.
Tattletale smiles escape
into hollow nights—
a foggy embrace
filled with haunting whispers and grins.
Tulips muted bluish—gray
etch their tale in time’s shore.
Embrace winter’s trudge
and find solace unvexed:
surf through waves of magic
knowing love beams bright.
Galumph through life
daring despite harsh fates:
vagabond dreams vaudeville
within flummoxed hearts;
a rainbow palette spreads
beneath a hammock sky.
No matter what, it lies ahead.
After passing, it's futile to cling on.
Desolation puckers beneath
the glistening dew decline,
an abyss where bleeding
wrists are fodder for worms.
A sycophantic squire crafts
kismet kernels stripped—
flesh ripped by careless slips,
losing grip on whispers;
breaths juggle surly skies,
sharp as bleak thorns.
From cradle to grave,
We've learned —
that time is wealth
we must cherish.
Darkness veils endless roads,
plummeting in twilight throes.
tangled fears mimic
Dionysus amphetamine highs—
brimstone offers esoteric solace
that straddles the magnetic edge.
Whispers eviscerate as they swirl,
amber kisses across fallen stars.
Crocuses bloom in purple
while goldfinch trill
yellow celandine riddles.
Employ your edge before it fades.
Everyone longs for plenty of time.
You can't carry time with you
money cannot reclaim lost time.
Jawab-e-Shikwa
THE ANSWER TO THE COMPLAINT BY ALLAH ALMIGHTY SIDE TO PIOUS PEOPLE OF THE WHOLE UNIVERSE:
https://youtu.be/EXRl5VKq39M
When passion streaming from the heart turns human lips to lyres,
Some magic wings man’s music then, his song with soul inspires;
Man’s words are sacred then, they soar, The ears of heaven they seek,
From dust those mortal accents rise, Immortals hear them speak;
So wild and wayward was my Love, such tumult raised its sighs,
Before its daring swiftly fell the ramparts of the skies.
The skies exclaimed in wonderment, “Some one is hiding here,”
The wheeling Planets paused to say, “Seek on the highest sphere.”
The silver Moon said, “You are wrong, Some mortal it must be,”
The Milky Way too joined converse, “Here in our midst is he.’’
Rizwan alone, my plaintive voice began to recognise,
He knew me for a human who had lost his Paradise.
And even the Angels could not tell what was that voice so strange,
Whose secret seemed to lie beyond Celestial wisdom’s range.
They said, “Can Man now roving come and reach these regions high?
That tiny speck of mortal clay, has it now learnt to fly?
How little do these beings of earth the laws of conduct know;
How coarse and insolent they are, these men who live below.
So great their insolence indeed, they dare even God upbraid!
Is this the Man to whom their bow the Angels once had made?
Of Quality and Quantity He knows the secrets, true—
The ways of humbleness as well If he a little knew!
That they alone are blest with speech how proud these humans be,
Yet, ignorant, they lack the art to use it gracefully.”
Then spake a Voice Compassionate: “Your tale enkindles pain,
Your cup is brimming full with tears which you could not contain
Even High Heaven itself is moved by these impassioned cries;
How wild the heart which taught your lips such savage melodies!
Its grace yet makes this song of yours a song of eulogy;
A bridge of converse you have formed ‘Twixt mortal man and Me!
Behold, my hands arc full of gifts, but who comes seeking here?
And how shall I the right road shew when there’s no traveller?
My loving care is there for all, If deserved but by few!
Not this the clay from which I can an Adam’s shape renew!
On him who merits well I set the brightest diadem,
And those who truly questing come, a new world waits for them.
(alternately titled: impossible mission goes awry
probably mortal enemy cast spell binding jinx)
Both mental versus
physical tasks necessitate
laser sharp attentiveness
triggered within blinks
similarly on par when people toast
momentary instance utter silence
before more'n one
wine glass simultaneously clinks
cheering hurray, especially
if delicate circumstance
incorporates telecommunications downlinks
critical vital communique transmitted courtesy
think outlier (christened
Saint Matthew Scott Harris)
with acute instincts
held hostage between warp,
and woof fifth of dimension
far away beyond where
outer limits exhibits kinks
nsync with twilight zone
dwell alienated ratfinks
resembling authentic animated
Doctor Seuss characters
where one after another
third eye blind winks.
Lame excuse told cosmic speck (me)
sending yours truly on wild goose chase
an underhanded way to rub
inept feeble poetaster punster
out webbed wide world existence
purportedly great eats boasted
deep inside black hole sun pub
must make posthaste
to nearest galactic grubhub
mission control haint made no flub
boot deliberately thought
ineffectual doling out futile drub
cuz mister flibbertigibbet (me)
ostracized from highly selective club.
The aforementioned synopsis and
ultimate banishment cheered with big bang
decreed courtesy kangaroo court
constituting beastie boy gang
think star wars movie,
where farcical charges trumped
offering accused two choices,
either to hang
suspended (think piñata) and beat
to (fictional) pulp
torturers obviously ignoring pang
of utter emasculation, but rather sang
a song of sixpence*
while downing flasks of vintage tang
crafty entrepreneur William A. Mitchell in 1957
phallic drinking vessels
resembling Chewbacca's oversize wang.
---------------------------------------------------
*Lyrics
Sing a Song of Sixpence
BY MOTHER GOOSE
Sing a song of sixpence,
A pocket full of rye,
Four and twenty blackbirds
Baked in a pie.
When the pie was opened
The birds began to sing—
Wasn't that a dainty dish
To set before the king?
The king was in the counting-house
Counting out his money,
The queen was in the parlor
Eating bread and honey,
The maid was in the garden
Hanging out the clothes.
Along came a blackbird
And snipped off her nose.
In the depths of the mind, endless questions dance like shadows on the vast and silent sky,
Who am I, what am I, a speck of dust merged with everything, a fragment of a lost dream?
I am nothing and everything at once, an echo of the universe singing its endless melody,
A current flowing into the great ocean of existence, where time and space dissipate.
In the search for perfection, I find myself caught in the subtle game of old pride, a piece without rest,
I try to climb the peaks of morality and art, but discover it's all just a contrast,
A shadow play, where my success is nothing but a step on the path of others' failures,
An illusion spinning endlessly, a spiral of desires and fears struggling in silence.
If you wish to overcome the feeling of ego, ask yourself sincerely why you seek to escape this fight,
For the desire to reach spiritual heights is just another mask of pride that keeps your path broken,
The ego, a falsehood pretending to be authentic, is not the free center of the soul, but a foreign mechanism,
Implanted by the world, inherited reflexes that make us dance on invisible strings, in a predetermined fate.
When the ego relearns to be a victim in its own play, it divides and mimics helplessness skillfully,
"I am just a bundle of reflexes," it says with unspoken guilt, like a shield against any judgment that comes.
But we too are puppets, with souls tied to the same strings that carry us in the dance of the world,
Why shouldn't this lie, this shadow play that pushes us toward abysses, infuriate us?
In the end, the ego is nothing but what it pretends not to be, a wall of defense around another wall,
A labyrinth of illusions and appearances, a closed circle in which we lose our steps and get lost,
And in the center, the mysterious nothingness reveals itself, a hidden truth in the heart of a shadowy universe,
Where at last, the truth emerges, like a star piercing the darkness, singing its eternal song.
In this game of life, we discover ourselves, layer by layer, until we reach the essence,
And understand that we are part of everything and everything is part of us, in a harmony without pretense.
We are nothing but echoes of an infinite song, where every note matters, every whisper,
And in this dance of existence, we lose and find ourselves, in an eternal and magical quest.