Long Static Poems
Long Static Poems. Below are the most popular long Static by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Static poems by poem length and keyword.
It's Opposite Game day
says JayJay
to on-screen enthusiastic friends.
I have no adult time or patience
to see or hear
right as not not opposition wrong
Right, like left,
only appositionally spaced
like I have timeless time
for western this nor eastern that.
If God or Goddess is inside everywhere
with us on our voyage stuckness outside nowhere,
both here and there
then yet not just there
nor merely here.
Just as the opposite of empty secular time
is no sacred time and, yes, eternal timelessness
I wonder why whitened black
appears greyscale to daytime me
while blackened white feels ultra-violet bright
at night.
Something could not be right
about left experience of love as life
inexperienced
as dusty death.
All Earth feels full with resonant music
and sky voided silent empty resilience
brittle as a frozen drum
without a ballistic stick
of thunder opposing lightning
It might be true
opposites of dance
are static non-moments
for sterile decay
stagnant non-being
remaining lifeless,
abandoned by courageous hope
to dance once more
And yet I wonder
why opposite of no yes
says "not yet"
while tension between yes no
waits for a double-binding second "no"
to also produce relentless ambiguity
of not not yet.
The opposite of yet
what and whom and why could past become
if we could just get
not not yet
as a sure bet
for outside climate health
and not inside bitter weathered pathology?
From left against right
day recovering night
not not wrong
silence predicting not not adventurous theme songs
oppositionally inappropriate
for Jay Jay's dancing apposition daze.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Twiggy painted her lids white,
then drew the lines~
black brushstrokes stretching
beyond the corners,
as if her eyes were always
mid-flight, escaping
the confines of her face.
A trick of angles,
the way those lashes spiked
like radio antennae
searching for a signal
in the static of the decade.
Every blink became
a semaphore,
a Morse code of mascara
saying look at me
without needing
to speak.
Every mirror was a protest.
Every kohl line, a rebellion
against the softness
they expected us
post war girls to wear.
We girls copied the shape
with shaky hands,
practicing rebellion
in bathroom mirrors~
sharpening our glances
into weapons.
It was never just about the eyes.
It was about new identities
we claimed with
our orbits of rebellion.
You may read the memoir vignette titled "Twiggy's Eyes" at poetrysoup.com/short_stories/remembering_twiggys_eyes_13651
But innocence is fleeting in a world that feeds on pain,
And Lysander’s golden network was a fragile, human chain.
He built a bridge across the void for desperate minds to meet,
But forgot to wash the poison from the travelers' weary feet.
By the second year of weaving, all the currents turned to lead,
As all the old cruelties of the living and the dead
Came flooding through the cellular gates, a dark and violent slime,
The malice and the envy of a long-forgotten time.
The thread was far too delicate, the static far too loud,
The human ego would not bend, too arrogant and proud.
It did not heal them instantly; it made them all akin
To every dark and hidden sin that festered deep within.
Lysander sat paralyzed, a prisoner of his throne,
His crooked body shaking with a horror not his own.
He felt the phantom agony of ancient, iron wars,
The bitter fruit of minds that only dreamed of making scars.
He saw the floodgates he had opened, saw the dangerous sea,
And knew that he was drowning in their shared hypocrisy.
Yet as his long hands trembled with the planet's collective ache,
He refused to cut the living cord, he refused to let it break.
He knew that if he severed it, the dark would win the fight,
And damn Vaeloria to an eternal, separate night.
He held the connection open, through the madness and the grime—
The human fuse that burned toward the dawn of Fifty-Five.
At first there was no alarm; these were winds
And high prairie farms had learned to hold tight
Against gale force blizzards and tornado;
Replanting, repairing after each storm,
‘Rain Follows the Plow’, the golden promise
For European settlers flush with land,
Planting in familiar ways of home,
Trusting tradition and the land agents.
Dark clouds in western skies dangled promise,
Sweet, saving rain just before they vanished,
Leaving naught but crackled fields and static.
Rainmen appeared, showers promised, for cash;
Farmers paid, desperate now, this new spring,
Watching hard-earned savings sowed into clouds;
Circus planes driven by clowns peddling hope
O’er bare fields, empty barns, forsaken dreams.
These were winds, curdled harvests of heartache,
Hot summer winds, bleaching pastures, hayfields,
Blowing dusty “heys” from Oklahoma;
Bitter winter gales, driving snow upward
To dance with black Colorado topsoil.
Four years of wind blowing down future’s dream,
Delivering drought, death and foreclosure;
Desperate winds ringing funeral bells.
[I grew up on stories of the 1930’s ‘Dust Bowl’ reaching the Dakotas in the last few years
of this devastating phenomena. My mother’s family lost everything; my father’s family
held on, and rebuilt. When the winds finally abated, farming methods were modified and
adapted to protect the topsoil, but the damage was done. Farming would no longer be
merely plowing up the land, seeding and expecting rain. Farming became a risk, a hope, a
prayer. The strong, the faithful, the fortunate remained on the land. The broken, the
faint-hearted, the hopeless were swept away.]
Sea of searching tore hope without explanation
Crucified crests cascaded, crazed static fall crashing
Thrown spontaneous needs, unclean situations
Wayward waltz of flotsam incongruity, faith attacking
Tossed by tumult of quick duty drifters expected
Wanton women sought whimsy single wave provided
Crudest crass antics satisfied, longevity rejected
Your initial impression of love soured, ineptly guided
Passing storms glinted possibilitiy, gold molten
Tides' turn triggered stability, a precious daughter born
Island high respite bleached prior sin, forgotten
Barbaric baby mother forced ongoing warranted scorn
Struggle to maintain safety, sentry shipwrecked
Shattered bow released soul mate satiate foreseeable
Tormented tiny child splintered fragile prospect
Cuts met welted wounds, salt sterile from recent evils
Collapse on a beach of relief, I'm your purest cove
Bloodied hands bandaged, nurtured with tender heed
Mollusc polished particles to resume trust's trove
Immortal vessel promise predicts turgid tides recede
24th October 2020
Written for Contest: After The Hurricane
Sponsor: Craig Cornish
picture to take inspiration from is
'After The Hurricane, Bahamas',
painted by Winslow Homer
Written July 14, 2025, for contest Sponsored by: Robert James Liguori
************
So tiny, yet so vast: a square of purple flame,
A postal stamp formed from forever lame.
Houses at its center a half-cast, cloudy glass,
Trapped in a gilded cage of grief and lilac crevasse.
Bedecked in the hue of storm-light, a figure stands,
A gaze carved from ache, hair as comet strands.
Static roses, suffused in blue, stood behind,
Each petal burned by cords, yet spirit did not mind.
Rain doesn't soak into his skin or asphalt as he vies,
Yet, unshed tears flow from the dream to the sky.
The water leaves his clothing with faint rings,
But in this dampness, nostalgia unfurls its wings.
O, how you bend and blaze, purple witness—
A design firmly woven into the yarn of threnody.
Your quiet strength lingers as words fade,
A melody that pain cannot shatter or jade.
Let this stamp be a symbol in all mortal prayer—
For timid souls who dare not weep amid silk fare.
A poignant lament for love wrapped in mauve grief,
A message sent to a visitor, destined for the glyph.
What could anyone possibly learn from me?
Besides how to hide in alleys, climbing dead ends like a tree.
Or how to hoard your own burdens, allowing guilt to turn to endless static.
Maybe I can warn others of my curse, which turns me erratic.
Maybe they want my sanity, which has become untethered.
I am like a burnt out street lamp, which has been weathered.
And no longer provides safety to others, in the blaze of night.
Maybe others will rob me of my guilt in my plight.
So that they will be bedridden with my past.
And sleep with urgency, until the pain has passed.
The ultimate ineffable creator,
So, its analogous creations
Coloured with nothing static,
With the ephemeral moment
In transition.
Gray hues at dawn transform
To radiantly glowing horizon,
Altered when arrives evenfall
Then, contrasting flickering night sky
In appreciation.
They drench the thirst of Earth,
The blue ocean bliss of the whales,
Blush the stars on their reflection,
Look precisely through crystal waterfall
In realization.
Similarly mortal beings show and hide,
Emotions residing in heart
Through faces of showcase,
One doesn't realise what's inside
In confusion.
Who appreciates not charms of
Canvas of colours
Periodically visual illusion,
What humans convey
In manipulation.
I could walk barefoot on the moon.
I could breathe easily,
In space,
On earth too.
I let my shoes disintegrate.
Holes all over my mind.
Relaxing in a lawn chair.
But the lawn is gone.
I could stand barefoot in my house.
I can’t stand it though.
I can’t, can’t stand it.
The person in the lawn chair.
I forgot it was me.
Touching a window.
As if it was glass.
It’s more than that.
It’s me.
I could walk barefoot on the beach.
And find seashells.
Falling from my hands.
More and more precious gems.
Falling from my hands.
I could do that.
Or lie on a beach chair.
Dying.
No beach to be found.
It’s just me in a crater on the moon.
I used to be able to breathe.
Don’t question those things.
It’s me.
I could hear static on the tv.
I could be a burden on everyone.
I could have made breakfast a little earlier.
I could have gotten that new toaster so I could have toast.
There is nothing better than,
Ice cream that melts then freezes and melts.
I wonder if outer space is cold.
Or maybe it’s me.
The dog's paw clawing on the linoleum,
Restless pacing while the kettle starts to
Activate steam. No, it's not a choir of a
Nimbus of gold, just the unmistakable,
Sudden realization that the sink is leaking
Cold tap water on a Monday morning -
Everything is heavy, until it isn't
Nobody told him that climbing out of
Despair felt like a wet, damp blanket
Eventually hung up to dry by the fire
Now, the prolonged static in the radio clears
Cutting through the kitchen grease
Exposing the manner in which dust settles.