Long Sunless Poems
Long Sunless Poems. Below are the most popular long Sunless by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Sunless poems by poem length and keyword.
I was cursed with ink
intoxicating blank canvases
with toxic scribbles,
releasing twisted tales
of suppressed troubles.
I was a forsaken ebony rose
in satan's grasp,
kneeling on ungodly needs
in a gothic fortress
of woeful odes,
surrounded by black knights
and colorless blossoms,
searching for legitimate sestinas
and versatile villanelles
to ignite my quill to bleed
without semantic barriers.
Swaying like a pendulant,
on the edge between
light and darkness,
resembling midnight's
black ice queen,
I thirsted for a
universal prophecy.
A poet who would engrave
perennial verses upon my
discoloured healing heart.
To paint antique stones,
during sunless days
in a moonless kingdom.
A calligraphic catharsis,
adorning the sincere crown
of an imperial ivory king,
whose angelic voice
glitters like gems,
soothing insensitive beating drums
within my pondering pensive mind.
A majestic master of his quill,
reviving poetic intimacy,
fusing his musings
deep inside untouched chambers
with an unscratched itch,
of my undanced fandango.
F a t e has a way for
versifiers to assimilate.
From the first drop
of his couplet,
he had my tongue
rhyming to the rhythm
of his unspoken lyrics.
Now, I am a slave to
what I have become.
Handcuffed and blindfolded
by preserved petals
between perfumed pages
written from the tip of his
magical wand like fingers.
I am weaving crystal quartz
words in witching hours,
whilst he pours dulcet musings
incensed in white sage
over my rustic bronze silhouette,
as I am his willing mistress:
a submissive subservient pawn
to his silent slavery.
Throned in intricately carved
prose and poetry,
where monochrome strokes
of thin lines no longer perish.
There’s no need for a sorcerer
when his sentimental sonnets
are an addictive elixir.
I am deliriously comatose
and chained in piercingly
euphoric sagas of his saccharine soul.
Even Lilith seized the moment
to behold what belonged to her
In the name of infatuated love.
So this is me, stealing
scented seeds
sown along parallel paradigms
of his rightful Parnassian paradise,
d r o w n i n g in
metaphorical monograms,
leaving memoirs of a poetess~
seething glitters and gold
reborn from the depths of
a savior that saved
me from burnt chapters
of darkest oblivion.
In pods, pale and emaciated-
muscles atrophied,
their eyes behind thick goggles
deflecting stroboscopic lights-
they sit for hours with empty smiles.
Each human in a private pod
lost in grounded bliss:
every want and need, fulfilled
by technological AI wonders;
instant information and amusement.
Touch of a button simulation
to other places via virtual reality-
the world unto themselves;
lives filled with at-whim commands;
their necessities- delivered by drones.
A bleak view- future existence;
lone humans in gray sunless pods.
Traveling to unknown places-
eyes blinded from reality
heading for grim, robotic essence.
There’s beauty in the midnight feathers of a black swan so divine,
as euphoria illuminates s t a i n e d sanctuaries~
where stars long to drown in your still train of thoughts,
for there’s a p o e m ruffling through lakes of ancient runes,
too d a r k for the blind who refuse to see beyond color,
amidst the swirl of sorcery… emanating magical wavelets of strength,
to stand out in a world of dwelling dullness..
Remember, life goes on, with or without
the veil of validation..
You’re more than a silhouette on a blank page….
I see through those scratched windows
of your sunless eyes,
where manipulative monsters
make a foolish king out of your soul,
whilst morals of yesterday’s
drown in poisoned puddles
of contaminated cruelty.
Yet we still hope celestial roots of eden
would sprout through barren grains of time,
as hostile hands weave paper petunias,
to color them in shades of shallow shadows,
which glimmer amongst salmon skies,
enveloped in airy blue lace.
Perhaps, a touch of an empath may
reawaken the light of life that has been
dimmed within the fogs
of your narcissistic ego.
Or maybe there will never be a release
nor a remedy to relieve your
lethal fangs clutching my breathless lungs,
constantly feeding me infected fruits on the
furnace of malevolent magnanimity.
But, I’m no longer the naive target that
falls victim to every shimmering knife you throw,
aiming to blind me with your crystal color coated trickeries.
So take all your weapons wielded
of manipulative mantras~
forged from the hells of insecurities.
I am not the mistress meant only to move
in motions of your designed gravity.
I am earth and fire,
more than skeleton and scent.
I am stronger than every storm I’ve sailed through,
when sinister seas screamed in angst.
One day you’ll realize my kindness
was never a weak vessel to be misused~
whenever your greediness finds the need to
steal wings for your own malicious delight.
In shadows taken, at the age of seven,
A stolen light beneath a sunless heaven.
The world outside, a memory growing cold,
A silent story, in a cell untold.
Seven long years, the clock a broken sound,
No laughter here, no safe or hallowed ground.
Then the sudden light, the prison door undone,
At fourteen years, beneath a stranger sun.
A ghost returned to a life no longer there,
Haunted by whispers and the weight of air.
The freedom was a cage of a different design,
Filled with the wreckage of what used to be thine.
The scars unseen, they etched a different fate,
A fragile soul, burdened by fear and hate.
The world moved on, but he remained behind,
Tangled in webs that held his heart and mind.
Just a decade lived, after the chains were shed,
At twenty-four, he joined the silent dead.
A fleeting candle, burnt out far too fast,
A life of fragments, of a shattered past.
The tale is told in numbers, stark and brief,
A quiet end, a final, sad relief.
(Five-year-old Timothy White, whom Steven rescued from his child molester, Kenneth Parnell, was one of Steven's pallbearers at age fourteen)
I am here on an archaeological quest,
to satisfy many a curious mind's request
for knowledge on antiques and artifacts
of Egypt's long extinct historical facts,
in treasured sands buried, like gold mines earnestly
sought for in stories shrouded in mythology.
With a large contingent just as curious as I,
hardly daunted by curses, but with shoulders high,
we went to the field, the sun baking us chaps
to a baker's delight. With our rumpled maps,
we searched every clue, and were bitten perhaps
by a million flies. Getting relief from sunless skies
in times of fair weather, whilst hoping something lies
in the depths of the hot sands for our very eyes
to see. With my tools by hard work and search worn out,
I brushed to full view, the tomb, brilliantly carved out
of young blue blooded Tut, regally laid to rest.
To my wearied colleagues, I spoke in real earnest:
'To exhume the past, we are here at last.'
Form:
Show me the maps etched in your skin,
the ones the world wasn’t meant to see.
I know the syntax of a wound...
the dialect of the "almost" and the "used to be."
Not the scars of a stumble or a fall
but the weight of a name, a night, a wall;
The words that settled like silt in your chest
until they became the rhythm of your rest.
The deepest hurts don't always bleed;
They manifest in the things you don't need...
In the way your laughter cuts off at the edge,
in the silence you use as a sharpened wedge.
I see the flinch before the touch,
the way you give, but never too much.
Turning your eyes to the floor or the door
before the heart can ask for more.
Show me the jagged, the worn and the deep,
The secrets your silver scarred memories keep.
You aren't a puzzle or a "difficult" soul,
just a story that had to fight to be whole.
For those who have walked through a sunless spark
are the only ones who can see in the dark.
And my life without you is just a long death,
A broken clock, with its mute and deaf ticking.
Unspoken words drown me, tighten like a pack of shadows,
Grazing the vast silences, over time and destiny, unheard and rabid.
In every nook of the soul, your absent echo resounds,
A sign that our love was once carved in a comet,
Now, I am just a blind astronomer, studying an empty sky,
Searching for your rays in a universe that no longer wishes to shine.
I am like the sea without a wave, a horizon without a beach,
Orphaned of your laughter that brightened my ashen days,
I have become a phantom in my own existence, interweaving
The thread of hope with sadness, on the loom of patience and regrets.
The walls of my room, painted with echoes of lost time,
Remind me of the day when words were our bridge over the infinite,
A bridge of lights, of blossoming promises, of blue dreams,
But the silence now isolates me in a labyrinth of solitude.
Unspoken words, now wilted flowers in the garden of memory,
Where you no longer walk, no longer laugh, no longer exist.
I seek a hidden meaning in the pages of the calendar that no longer bring you,
And over time and destiny, I call out to you in a river of devouring silence.
If I were to find you only in a dream or another life,
I would sacrifice all these sunless days,
On the altar of a hope maybe naive, that you will return
And the unspoken words, with you, will finally find their voice and purpose.
Naked Clowns Demented Brother
Alas one disaster follows another,
naked clown - demented brother
dancing for the heads of state
asleep with faces in their plate
and as the rubber chicken stretches
they send again the fool who fetches
red noses from downtrodden wretches
to decorate the wedding cakes
join the real to crumbling fakes
camouflage who gives and takes
shifting weight of global heat
melting shoes on city street
to shrinking ice caps tidal creep
rising under Al Gore’s jeep
clowns, they squeeze their bulbous horns,
geneticize the rose – no thorns
while warning us of sunless dawns
their seltzer bottles but a prop
sprayed on a fire that won’t stop
its cindering of nature’s crop
Alas, the clowns will all save face
disappear without a trace
disguise their noses as thorn-less roses
post naked “selfies” in heroes poses
Alas one disaster follows another,
naked clown – demented brother.
John G. Lawless
©7/13/2017
An empty look of sadness
That never bears a smile,
A malnourished mind
Aching to utter its voice,
A baby’s cry missing
The sweet tune of lullaby.
A dark moonless night
Reminiscing of shining stars,
A pensive gloomy dawn
Rising on sunless sky
Yearning lift of marigold arc
Sprinkled in magenta.
A spring lacking flowers,
Autumn bereft of fall colors,
A winter wishing for snow,
A river that does not flow;
A barren desert longing for
Glimpse of a cactus flower.
A concert deprived of music,
Dissonance of broken guitar strings,
Ballet dance lacking pizzazz,
A song of disheartened lyrics.
A world without poetry--
A curtain closed on art,
Vacant, parched existence
Staring blank pages,
Thirsty for life’s meaning.
January 22, 2020
Placed 1st: If there was no poetry contest
Sponsor: Silent One
Placed 1st: Strand choice 7 contest by Brian Strand
Placed 2nd: Your Best Poem 2020 Contest by John Hamilton
"War and Peace in the Days of Love’s Retribution"
All is fair
in Love and War
they say
Lost are the
gambling angels
who walk tight ropes
from the point
where time departed
the jewel stolen from her crown
sacrificed for
something better
a child’s happiness
another fallen
goddess
tripping between
the cracks
pinned to a wall
in a sunless place
where light tries
but fails dismally to get in
suspended heart’s arrow
caught forever bleeding
in betrayal’s
sticky web
Failure’s warrior
wanting a sword for
cutting tongues
War and Peace
lost and found
unconditional
In the time
of unjust justice
follows freedom
wearing a new light
darkly burning in
the time of Love’s retribution
(LadyLabyrinth / 2020)
gvlm
"Hurts Like Hell" / Fluerie
https://youtu.be/Uil0L-0F4no
"“Once I was brave
enough
to leave home,
I discovered
splendid parts of me
I had no clue existed.
I, then,
realized
where they came from
and hurried home.”