Long Stale Poems
Long Stale Poems. Below are the most popular long Stale by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Stale poems by poem length and keyword.
Ideas Trapped By An Inactive Mind
Your mind is hidden in darkness
Thoughts trapped in deep crevasses
Their screams echoes through deathly shadows
Attacked and strangled at their every move
The struggle against invisible shackles
Drawing blood as they fight their captor
Demons search for ideas ripping them apart
Stripped skin strewn across an evil world
A world created from depression and mania
Leaving the ideas disemboweled in the frenzied heat
Blood, skin and guts boil under the demon’s breath
Screams of torture and pain fill the void left by random thoughts
Still alive they choke on the stale sulfuric air
Waiting to die while hoping to be saved
A quick mind lights the darkness
Giving new life to near dead ideas
The strongest fight while the weakest wither and die
The rise through the darkness
Rising into the light they look back
They see the lost ideas dying beneath them
They care about what was lost
What ideas will never see the light of day
And they grieve as they come to light
And they will be told and retold
For that is what ideas are meant to be
Shared by the entire world not killed
Murdered by an inactive mind
In your hate-wars,
you grind your gears like a machine starving for friction,
searching for any excuse,
any scrap of justification
to strike at the one thing I built with my soul.
You slammed me over my music,
mocked the way I hear the world—
as if my hearing loss were a flaw
and not the forge that shaped my sound.
So I wiped my music from existence,
not in surrender,
but as a calculated move on the board.
A quiet checkmate.
A silence you never saw coming.
You thought you’d won a weapon.
I took it from your hands
and watched your excuses crumble like stale bread.
I may be almost deaf,
but my music is profoundly beautiful—
born from vibration, memory,
and the kind of listening that has nothing to do with ears.
I am alright.
This is not defeat.
This is strategy.
In your war against me,
I removed your last excuse,
your last vendetta,
your last fragile shield.
And now I hand you your cake
with a single beautiful candle—
a tiny flame to illuminate
the truth you never wanted to see.
The real victory belongs to me.
Not because I silenced my music,
but because you could never silence
the man who created it.
Welcome to the Bijou
Sometimes the creepiest places are old.
There’s a smell to them of stale nicotine
and rancid oil.
The denizens are often as ancient
as the peeling wallpaper.
The plaster cracks mirror
the wrinkles on their faces,
stale faces with
down dropped corners.
Layer upon layer of age
ground in dirt flecked, peppered
perpendicular
boxes and scaffolding
sucked dry by time, tasteless;
their visual appeal long gone
to celluloid.
The walls don’t talk
and few ask the opinions
of the bone sacks
wandering in and out.
The untold and asked for stories
hide like ghosts, shimmering
in the ancient incandescent lights
liver spots on the skin,
fish hooks in the eye floating
suspended
and powerless like flies in amber.
There are those who have always been
mesmerized by age
absorbing filmed content
wallowers in times leftover scraps,
those who bring their own infusion.
They are the catalyst of forward motion
pendulum pushers, who spew curiosity
into the dark corners
for those who follow this path
there is beauty, most certainly,
in the crinkled planes.
Enea Gets the Red Hat
Finally, he's getting somewhere.
Fifty years of age and almost crippled,
prematurely aged, but at last,
sweet recognition rains down
on the poet. Kneeling before Calixtus,
he accepts the Cardinal's hat.
Fancy that.
With every triumph, we're swept nearer Hell.
Each anthem that we sing's a kind of knell.
No matter what we get, or grab, or gain,
we're human, and our lot is death and pain.
Both Frederick and Ladislas
had to do a lot of lobbying
(Calixtus was a Borgia, after all:
and family is family.) Por fin,
esta elevado. Behold the scene.
Frederick with his back to us
and Ladislas holding on to him
(shouldn't that be the other way round?)
deserve their pride of place.
The seething swell of humans
swirls around the little altar,
but can't budge it.
The clear-cut marble doesn't give.
What is the painter telling us?
Men move, and flow, and live, and go,
but soon or later, their
energy is spent?
The Church is permanent?
Regard the four main players,
the upper crust of Mankind's many layers,
yet each one a loser clone.
Calixtus took the throne
already old, and singing one stale tune
(and that, corrupt!)
He didn't use a long spoon
when he supped.
There's Frederick, the Emperor,
a joke. Bullied by his minions,
unhappy, hapless, broke.
And Ladislas, a king without a kingdom,
a cock without a crest,
he's Frederick's long-term guest
(another kind of jest).
A prisoner -- or let's say, at home,
he and Frederick make a palindrome:
august additions to this Pleasure Dome.
Enea: worn out, homesick, ill.
Surviving now on sheer will.
Is that Nature's tonsure, or Man's?
He's kept alive by feverish plans
to mount a Great Crusade --
but we all know it won't be made.
Two rigid windows and an altarpiece.
The Trinity? (The painting is the Holy Ghost.)
Or are those plain, framed panes
the Empire and the Papacy?
You think we're reading too much in?
We point you to one subtle artist's touch.
The youth, right-centre, in the azure cloak,
who's smirking at some "only-I-know" joke:
head cocked, as if he's watching all, askance:
he finds the dainty, double-dealing dance
amusing. Isn't he Rafael?
Hatted like some crimson Cardinal,
he's watching how they rise up, how they fall.
He's waiting, calmly, to inherit all.
Oh isn't it unfair?
That,
Right there
Gone like a whisper .
For something to be
To really be,
Specials only vanish
Please,
Let me grab it
Please,
Let me hold it
I'll be careful I promise
But an idea never tarnished,
Why so eager to rot?
Why these children
Without folly
Play with costume
Do you remember playing?
When we could do that
And that was just a thing
But time a constant
Never discriminates
And this child is growing up
Cupid sends him
His first letter
The return address was
The bad part of town
Why he does it I don't know
But every time
This boy falls in love
A lady of the night
Temptress No one knows
Her name always changing
But she always
Drinks something pink
On her luggage tag
It just says, "disguise"
The fragile said something
Quietly from the corner
Ever so slightly
But now,
Louder
Louder
And Louder!
She is staring to scream.
Her breath wreaks
Stale and rotten smoke.
The room its self grasped
Is cold fills the void
It is instant
An idea has cracked
Oh but isn't this fun?
And it's making me feel good
That can't be bad,
Right?
But the walls are yellowing
And the wallpaper is sticky with tar
The only thing
keeping that ugly pattern still up there
And now it's gone
That
Just there.
Humor, in different dimensions and forms,
An innate trait that conforms to odd norms,
In high daily dosage recommended
To fix a funny bone, pun intended.
The one that cracks you up when you are down,
The one that makes you chuckle when you frown,
The one that cheers you up when hell breaks loose,
And weaves a silver lining through your blues.
One dirty joke upon awkward excuse,
One grandpa’s joke that grandma deemed stale news,
One dopey joke and you pee in your pants,
One inside joke that no one understands.
Whatever shades it comes, novel or trite,
Good old humor at all times serves us right.
April 13, 2022
When you pack a life, you pack a soul.
A tapestry of memories, tales untold.
Each cherished moment, tenderly whole,
To be packed away, a bittersweet bold.
When facing mental and literal grime.
To pack for an unknown trip on time.
A dance with nostalgia, a delicate art,
To gather the fragments, piece by part.
There is a profound stillness in the room.
As blaze pictures and messages to consume.
Stale, antique odors of books and art.
Floats across the air as the mind starts
Each item holds a story, a chapter in time,
To be stated, akin to a tiny wrap, is sublime.
Tokens of happiness and signs of pain,
The tangible remnants of a life's refrain.
The clock ticks softly, as memories unbend.
Through the hands that touch, stories trend.
Each object holds a piece of one's soul,
A window into a life, a world once whole.
The packing continues, a dance of reflection,
As the past and present merge in introspection.
Each item is carefully wrapped, with love and care,
Preserving the essence of a life's wear and tear.
After the last item, a closure grips the room.
A silent trip ended, and a fresh era beckons to bloom.
Mute
but immutable.
Unmoving, unmoveable;
timeless, yet tireless.
Solitary stalwart sentinel
surveils undulating horizon.
Aberrant, achromatic clouds
pock-mark the skies, as distant
rumblings herald his adversary's
latest gambit in their age-old conflict.
The wrath of a thousand crashing,
clashing, thrashing fists batter
against the beleaguered sentry.
Ceaselessly, remorselessly,
the maelstrom assails him.
But the foundations are firm and
noble gatekeeper stands steadfast.
Single-minded of purpose, placid
custodian morphs into combatant as
his luminous, voluminous blade carves
luminescent arcs through chthonic cloak.
Tenebrous tendrils wither and dissipate,
impotent under intense lambent onslaught.
His victory is only fleeting, as vanquished
foes are summarily supplanted by more of
their ilk in a seemingly continual surge.
Again and again, over and over, tormentor
presses the attack, exploiting any weakness.
Over and over, again and again, valiant warden
repels the barrage and despatches his enemies.
And so the pattern repeats endlessly, unabated,
as these eternal opponents jostle for position
in a perpetual cycle of aggression and defence.
Until eventually, finally, ultimately, the stale-mate
is broken; when Tempest's tantrum is tamed and
Blizzard's battalions have been banished, all is calm.
Tranquillity is able to reassert herself and order has
finally been restored; at least for the foreseeable future.
Obligations fulfilled, the triumphant Guardian can now rest.
Until the need arises again, until he's called upon once more,
he will wait patiently, watch diligently, in unflagging vigilance.
Forever resolute, a beacon of sanctuary, a symbol of hope, his is a
thankless task, but the Protector of Mariners will always be needed.
-----------------------------------
(C) John C Michaels, 27 July 2017
For Eve Roper's "Lighthouse" Contest.
(1st Place)
Dawn a new day is breaking
Open my eyes to the beauty
As the Roosters, Cardinals, and Doves eyes open
Tiny crescent moon relishing in its appearing
Birds sweep across the pale-blue morning sky
To the beat of coo-coo-coo
As the Doves communicate to their love
Striated clouds greet the sun
Sun takes the gray away so there is apricot on the horizon
Gold to decorate the way
Clean slate_new dawn great start for this unique day
Fresh air refreshes lungs
Adds glow to all creatures
Gives life as sun clears the stale dark
Opens doors to opportunities for renewal_forgiveness
The sun rises golden
As if it is the gold of royalty
Without its daily visit all of earth would decease
Become an entirely different sphere
What contingency does the dawn of new day bring to you
Open your eyes to the venture
Contest:Sunrise~~Versus~~Sunset
Sponsor: HGarvey Daniel Esquire
Written by:Sara Kendrick
Time here is measured
by the lint-clogged resurrections
of air-conditioners.
All of us have had to learn
to shout past our souls.
Dulled minds are churned awake.
Fractured nights slumber on
beneath the rocky rumble
of nearby ice-machines.
The ‘Marigold’
is unmarried, divorced and abandoned,
but for those still not seeking lonely
there are midnight do-overs.
Behind the days horizon
a desert sky still thirsts
in the mouths of discarded shoes.
Firey sunsets melt
a stale residue of bedside booze.
The Marigold is mad, it was built that way,
its identical rows of doors
are designed to be portals
to yet more distant parking lots.
We internees prefer our rooms
to be dead to the daylight,
though every night
they will always revert
to storage units
for long imagined - much better times.