Long Sulfur Poems
Long Sulfur Poems. Below are the most popular long Sulfur by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Sulfur poems by poem length and keyword.
the sun exposed
above mountain's edge
through the folds
of dawn's rise
carmine sky erupts
mimicking fire
that burns beneath
in the crisp morning
the earth gasps in breaths
of pallid air
as it rises from the cracks
of asphalt and dirt
the smell of sulfur lingers
the narrow streets are unkept
a few stone walls remain
at the edges of driveways
where houses once stood
the cemetery sits on the hill
behind a weathered fence
yet the grounds are well maintained
if you walk passed the edge of its lot
a mound of dirt well traveled
hides an abandoned highway
about a mile long stretch
still divided, guardrails intact
the danger, no trespassing signs
won't keep the people out
the colors allure
fascinating you
with the graffiti
that covers every inch
while hundreds more
walk daily
down that forbidden path
looking for a place
between the buckles and folds
to have their story told
on the highway of fame
(centralia is a place in pennsylvania where a coal mind started to burn under the earth...people were forced to sell their houses to the state and the few that stayed are allowed to remain but cannot sell or will their houses to anyone, upon their death they state will get the houses! it still burns but less fierce then it once did. they have removed the signs from the highway but once you get close it's easy to get gps to lead you there and when you see people and vehicles line the road by the cemetery, there is the highway, partially hidden by a mount of dirt that was supposed to keep trespassers out~)
Did you see the showman,
His act a lion he outran!
Let me tell you how it all began,
When in youth he lived in a van.
Where the lion hunted,
For food it was confronted.
A sad tale it resulted,
In the feast being plundered.
Do you understand now?
He was the lions crown,
A cub which is how,
He grew up and- ow!
Was there no child here?
Just a starved lion I hear,
But didn't lion disappear?
The story is unclear.
So anyway- the lion died,
And vultures circled its blight,
Ripped a gap so wide,
To eat its inside!
They all became lions in time,
For they ate the spirit sublime,
And became not a mime,
No, no, it was the perfect crime!
Understand now? Its a vulture!
What? "Not in your culture"?
But it smells of sulfur.
I am not being vulgar!
What do you know about lions?
Widen your tiny horizons,
Lions kill and are suppliers,
Vultures the shy ones, they're liars!
You see they made it up!
The savannahs not corrupt,
It's rotten,- dont interrupt!
Put lion, vulture in a cup
Mix it good and well,
And you have a human to sell!
Does showman ring a bell?
Secret ingredient? Not gazelle!
But there is one, you are right,
Its of which they lose sight,
The rattlesnake hiding in the night,
Silent and deadly, about to take a bite!
I'm not lying! Would you though?
Befriend him with pet snake in tow?
No?
Thats why it's kept on the down low.
Now that you know,
Though,
Would you give him the deadly blow?
Or watch the reptile grow?
What do you mean I'm insane?
These questions arent inane,
We're debating a show, so plain,
About a man in pain!
The lion was the van,
The lion he outran,
And starved did the man,
What do you not understand?
I see, I see, you don't get it,
Too many plotholes to fit,
So allow me to permit
A secret I'll admit
The lions the favourite they say,
They want more but it went away,
Wanna know why it didnt stay?
It is I who wrote the play!
Now treat that bite with spray, yea?
Crisp biting touches the starry night provides;
I sit inside my warm home listening
To darken spirits shoo goodbye on site.
Fireworks and gunfire ascending, exploding
Boom into the clutching cloudless steel-blue sky.
The heavens in sparkling colorful spiral flowers
And sputtering silver glittering showers
Falling slowly, burning all the whiles.
Smell of sulfur and gunpowder
Wafts through the air for miles.
My dog trembles as he listens, fearing
The repetitiously pop, pop, boom.
Leaving little room, he stays
Beside me not wanting to play,
Staring up with puppy dog eyes
In safety, while I stroke his fur to calm him.
12/27/2020
Her feet crush the coarse dirt,
settling from foot to foot in approach.
Tendons flex; bones remember weather.
Wings—thin bone, taut skin—rise,
each feather catching a gale it cannot see the end of.
The body lunges.
Wings propel upward as a single draft is caught.
Legs lock into a streamlined stance,
and the body relaxes, gliding on years to come.
The dirt seems never to have existed;
storm gales he dark sea below.
Flying spray and rising mist crust her beak with salt.
Endless currents shepherd the locked wings through thick fog.
Half in repose,
sweeping the air—never too high, never too low.
She has always been this far from land, and never.
Seasons crust her wings like old weather she can’t shed.
Then the wind snaps. A warning.
Wings unfold.
A wall of petrichor and sulfur rises ahead.
Feathers shudder.
Tendons unlock. Her body loosens.
Feet strike giving soil,
legs search for footing as friction returns.
Salt gives way to soil.
The dirt is dirt again.
A blithesome royalty, sea of roses smile
delicate faces spark in emerald pasture.
Vivid sunny weeds, dandelions fragile...
no one cares, stems of careless rapture.
Petals felled in wanton lawn mowers,
roots still strong in moist warm blaze.
Radiance return, blooming little flowers
with lion's tooth, serrate leaves amaze.
Sulfur glowing yellow, sleeps in moonlight,
opalesque heads, new dream of stars
Wakes up to sun, soft balls fluffed white,
unburdened wings, fly hours after hours.
A pirouette dance of dandelion seeds
in summer sky, holding hands of wind.
Uprooted wafts fly, survive to breed,
uncertain distant lands, hope gets pinned.
Blowing birthday candles, wish of goodbye....
pangs of separation, siblings all forlorn.
They'll never be together, no tears to cry.
Life moves on, another dandelion is born.
Dated 7th April 2019
Line Gauthier's Dandelion Contest
PLACED THIRD IN CONTEST
Also featured in list of best new poems of the month
Yes, I smell sulfur
Brimstone seepage smothers me
Earth’s crust pizza thin
Mud pools like cauldrons bubble
Dante’s infernal region.
Underworld torment
Geysers vent their hot rage
I am thunderstruck
Extreme caution is needed
The inferno is waiting.
A trip many years ago to Rotorua reminded me of Dante's Inferno. The smell of sulfur (Brimstone) and bubbling mud pools all made me think of the Divine Comedy. I wrote this poem while the experience was fresh in my mind but it has been tweaked again to fit syllable count. These days I try to be accurate regarding haiku and tanka.
We ventured out one summer morn
to meet up with the rising sun,
the trip began at Castle Rock;
we joined the others for the run.
Inside a truck stop restaurant
the club debated where to go,
some wanted south to warmer lands,
the others north to find some snow.
We decided north and south were out;
most choices were too far to roam.
We voted to go east instead,
all wanting to stick close to home.
Mount Saint Helens made our list
and looming Mount Rainier did too,
we flipped a coin; let fate decide
which roads we would be riding through.
I picked that coin out of the air
and slammed it down just like a boss.
I raised my hand and all could see
that Mount Saint Helens won the toss.
We topped our tanks and checked the tires,
then lined the bikes up in a row.
One final check determined that
this biker run was set to go.
The Pres pulled out and took the lead
His panhead chopper screaming loud
The rest of us filled in the line,
the one percent, the few, the proud.
With colors flapping in the breeze
and engines gleaming chrome and steel,
the club was on the road again,
expressing all these things we feel.
The knucklehead was running smooth;
with you snug up against my back,
we made the perfect picture love,
you clothed in white and me in black.
We wove around for miles and miles,
until we claimed the mountain crest,
then, near the famous lava tubes,
we finally stopped to get some rest.
We pitched our tents and made some food
then we decided to explore
the holes that held the lava tubes,
the sulfur springs and so much more.
When we were done it was full dark
the only light a crescent moon
so we returned to find our tents;
the morning light would find us soon.
We washed ourselves and changed our clothes,
then settled in to spend the night.
Near dawn we woke and 'saddled up'
prepared to ride before first light.
Colors fading from view
The sun dies slowly in the sky
Clouds grow and churn above
Casting shadows on an empty landscape
The rotting smell of sulfur fills the air
Even as the lowliest creature struggles
Fighting for a final gasp of air
Air that no longer exists
It lowers its head
Its eyes stare straight ahead
Looking into world around it
A world that once had life
Then man came to be
A single cross word
Shouted across a turbulent ocean
Twenty millennium of progress
Stone to metal to nuclear fusion
Leads to an ultimate act
Everything is lost in a mere second
The press of a single button
And the world exists no more
Except for a single creature
That has taken its final breath
And the Earth is once again as it was
A ball of water, rock and gas
Nothing more
Nothing less
Just a ball
Form:
It shreds me when released, then bursts into confetti.
Words are papier-mâché, articles of all of us, tabloids torn apart then glued
back together piece by piece.
Playing pretend made a masterpiece that will be gone before
that big breeze or a fast move cracks the motif, and the brittle shell is more
disgusting than most I'd really believe or expect to see.
The motive is unrepairable, won't be repressed, still there nevertheless
in a pool of gripping distress.
What's the point of fables, what's the point of idols too?
They are usually strung out and disappointing.
See happiness till it's all disparaged. Exposed so hope will take off, and make space for the expanding emotions that are less forgiving.
These make up a stage where the play performed is most unfriendly.
Resulted in damn ruination. It's televised so there can't be wiggle room
for reparations. Abolished, no evaporated, it's no use if the truth
clears rooms and leaves them speechless, tongue-tied, it really shocks without awe.
It changes mood, and the masses will say really just how they feel, so next we are supposed to pick up the pieces if they still even there.
In short, they're taken aback; these stabs in our back will collectively mature into a scar that can't be scratched.
Sculptures turn sulfur, what once was marble-made, was chiseled down,
and whittled away.
Downhill rolls a derby of the disturbed, perturbed in a gaseous state; a floating stench alone will cry, tear ducts leaking and streaming in unison, still non-union; the establishment put em' up to it.
I wish it was that easy to say.
You'll need to excuse me, I'll just need a couple days.
Poetry is breathing out
graces of the heart;
for unlike other writing,
such exhalation
transcends words:
whether scented with sulfur
or mint de jour
poetry is the soul’s lure
dangling immortality--
We are tempted to the brink;
whether dreadful fall
or bottomless sink
next step is uncontrollable:
rhyme with time
or proses with glows,
the shell broken
serpents and birds alike
released—poetry a feast
of both our demons
and saints--
So...with pen and pad
we come to the table;
some fable some truth
with manic greed
we plate all obsessions
imbibe the fatal drink;
not a writer dare blink--
both God and the Devil
transfixed, they are watching,
prolonging to eternal
some final call--
so long as the poet
amuses them all….