Long Synthesize Poems
Long Synthesize Poems. Below are the most popular long Synthesize by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Synthesize poems by poem length and keyword.
Wonder not
if my thoughts are thrilled and twisted
daily and deeply by the albums of your ways,
I succumb severely to the impulse of imminent interplay
so dumb with joy, grateful for the fusion of our fevers,
I've never let you leave my mind,
you haven't finished eating your portion of my heart,
there is so much more for you, still in my chest, on my eyes,
I am your rare happiness,
that bare beast of a woman's best distress,
trigger your storm sirens with a single drop of Goodbye,
serve you with the most sensational sadness,
replenish your youth with an admiration that won't die,
knowing that I am not a makeshift man, nor a loyalty within a lie,
that I'll punish your pulse with peppered pleasure
because I can, because I must,
pull your hair just to hear those breaths beg for big flares,
treat the smooth and sweet lascerations of love's lament
butterfly cut into the surface of a girl's search for sincerity,
we get intoxicated on performance of personality,
buzzed beautifully from believing in the addiction of adoration's affliction,
We know we can handle one another's hurt
as warriors bleed hard because they sell themselves the sacrafice,
that we can process history with humor by breaking the shame of blame,
synthesize epiphany with sympathy to nourish symphonies of Divinity
we realize that intensity is the regal implement of our tournament,
I like it when you tell me the tough truths,
that you want to be loved for more than one reason,
that being respected in segments isn't enough,
that he will never be me,
that words can outlast the disappointment of distance,
that the world overwhelms you when you most expect,
that sometimes you'd rather be a heart attack
before being a pretty song or a favorite memory,
I understand your need for absolute affection, absolute attention,
lets allow our love to be confusing, dazzling, on the verge of villainy,
it isn't steady as a sleeping heart beat
or ready for celebration like a " gee wiz " graduation,
it is our Love, and its undefinably volatile and lovely,
Your cosmos gives a question that feeds one answer,
that love is ours, safe in the arms of Armageddon,
I remember the ember of our future
spazing on the hearth of fresh earth,
don't ever miss me Babe, just keep lovin me -
J.A.B.
Baudrillardian Echo
I awoke this morning with a profound vision of a painting.
A sort of Baroque ensemble of consequence, still lingering.
I've put it to pen, since it's quicker than painting.
The contortion of life via exploitation, from sacred to the profane.
Inside the frame:
Hills roll from back to foreground.
Three groups in the fore.
First from left also starts the hand of time.
Here some people admire the warmth of the sun, kissed by the rays.
Peaceful, unadultered, not yet restrained.
Drawn across the scene, and years have unravelled between them and these, where others sip wine.
Enrolled in playful acts of elation.
Seeing the reward natures vines of harvest provide them.
No longer new.
Able to take advantage of balmy days.
That romance of the past becomes a backdrop to the history of today.
In the lowest right of the work, barely within the frame.
A darkened coloration of auburn, perhaps a trees shade.
A wizened few smoke-rounded, toke in orchestration.
Contriving and prioritizing alternative ways.
There but not present.
Daydreaming our dreams of past days away:
''To live most natural was to imbibe from the elements of nature.
To desire was to co-opt, to milk, to press grapes with others.
But to groom, to groom the weeds of the idle...'' Think industry men.
Striving to lay ownership of all in front of them.
Outside of the frame is the simulacra.
The fought rights of the worker became frayed.
We peddle our fortunes, distracted with nonsense.
Killing ourselves to capture something.
All of the while, running away.
Business as usual, each to their own.
Ignoring the troubles that lead us astray.
Now, we metamorphose love into self-loathing.
We synthesize the serotonin.
The narrow space between us and the painting, no longer here; nor yet there, was when we had it best.
Was that the end?
The world is changing in a profound way,
through the exploitation of fear and lies.
You can't trust a word politicians say:
they connive and editorialize.
And legislate laws that legitimize
corruption and greed, for personal gain.
The tactics they employ to terrorize
are imperative to Hate's campaign.
Dictators strip democracy away
slowly, before folks start to realize.
Tyrants interject God into the fray:
persecuting all who dare criticize.
The ignorant are taught to recognize
the poor and weak as the root of their pain.
Ways to demonize and rationalize
are imperative to Hate's campaign.
Potentates kill people who are born gay:
their death is just something to televise.
Fakers, pretending to believe, they pray:
their fake beliefs, simple to synthesize.
Bigotry's easy to popularize,
despite being cruel and inhumane.
And fascists willing to militarize
are imperative to Hate's campaign.
Fascism is set to materialize
and show its ugly face, yet once again.
And propagandists who destabilize:
are imperative to Hate's campaign.
Oblivion's needles and lines
camouflaging an ugly truth.
By using dope to escape life,
your addiction drains you of youth.
Drugs synthesize reality,
magically banishing pain.
And you live lies disguised as bliss,
seduced by the lure of cocaine.
On the road to self-destruction,
you tread upon the hearts of friends.
For, in worlds of your creation,
everyone hustles and pretends.
When highs morph into misery,
resistance drowns within your tears.
But you don't try to get away,
for hope's been denied you for years.
You're trapped in a web of deceit,
delusion's shackled to greed.
And you've strayed beyond salvation,
living only to feed your need.
(Quatrain)
8/10/2015
I was putting away some Fiesta Ware the other day when, noticing all the colors in front of me
I had to stop and smile at how they reminded me of our family tree.
I love our family tree…love every leaf…love its branches one and all…
love how it is painted all year long…in colors of the Fall.
I’m proud of the colors of our family tree…and as each new branch extends
how easily those colors synthesize…how beautifully they blend.
There is a kind of magic in how our colors come together to form this beautiful symmetry.
knowing underneath those colors lies the heart…the true magic of our family tree.
We share each others highs and lows…and we’ll go to extremes
to support each other’s hopes…to encourage each other’s dreams.
We find the more we do this…that our tree grows strong and tall…
and we find the colors of our tree…though beautiful, don’t matter to us at all.
I could probably end this poem here…but I think it only fair
to go back to where it started…with our Fiesta Ware.
I love the diversity of each plate…the different colors one and all…
love how our collection is permanently painted in colors of the Fall.
How food that’s made with love…always will taste great..
no matter which color bowl we choose…
no matter which color the plate.
That’s why Fiesta Ware reminds me of our family tree…
because whether its the Fiesta Ware stacked high on a kitchen shelf
or our family tree standing tall…
when love is holding them together…
their colors do not matter to us at all.
We are all flowers…our seed planted long ago…
inside our mother’s womb…where we begin to grow.
Until we grow so big and long and round…
It’s time to leave the womb…to be planted on the ground.
Where, now a whole world to explore, all that extra room
with our parents love we continue to grow…until the day we bloom.
Then one day (with flowers this usually comes as a complete surprise)
one flower meets another flower…and their colors synthesize.
Their stems and leaves and petals tingle…their flower hearts begin to soar…
and each flower feels a little more beautiful then they ever felt before.
Knowing their flower love is forever…they can’t help but dance and sing…
It’s as if time is suspended…and they’re in a constant state of Spring.
They hope to spend the rest of their flower lives together…
their love to the all the other flowers is well-known.
Why, they even create new flowers…a little garden of their own.
But such is the nature of flowers…though they’d love for their life to extend
they are fragile little creatures who never know when their days of Spring will end.
?When one flower’s time is up…the flower left behind stands by
and remembering their times together…will smile, laugh…and cry.
And for a while that remaining flower is as lost as any flower can be…
knowing the flower they were meant to spend their life with…
is now a treasured memory.
Moved to a garden in their heart…where other flower memories grow…
to be bathed by showers of their tears …and nourished by their laughter’s glow.
And for that remaining flower…not a day will pass…
when they don’t tell all the other flowers in the world….
to please enjoy life while it lasts.
For they know even if it only lasts a little while…
from the depths of the deepest ocean…to the land…and to the moon and stars above…
Nothing is as precious or as cherished…or as beautiful…
as a little flower love.
Formidable flourishing fiends...
harangue since landing
yours truly immersed
in a dream-like
fiercesome state of war,
not quite a dream
can be described
as a "hypnagogic state"
while virtually in Singapore,
where Katy Perry
namesake of a lion doth roar
noise amplified courtesy dissonance
while nine inch nails synthesize
scraping across chalk board
evoking discordant soundcloud
foo fighting beastie boys
comprising a quatuor.
Socked away within
cerebral nooks and crannies
house mailer daemons
inconveniencing yours truly
i.e. an Indus das scribe
hub bull mendicant
bullying jimmying,
jump starting, joy riding
junket at breakneck speed
disregarding dangerous signposts
warning reckless (heedless) highjackers
speeding stolen heavily
sedated body (mine)
slap happily, obliviously,
jauntily (devil may
care attitude) careering
across rubble strewn
bombed out stone age terrain
gunning engine like
there's no tomorrow
zipping past crumpled
suspended abridged abutment
jarring sole abducted,
bound and gagged one tramp (me)
hurling over edge of cliff
temporarily free of gravity,
(albeit an infinitesimal eye blink)
between life and death
rapidly descending in accordance
with laws of physics,
when suddenly motion stops
as if thee Earth stood still
freezing all life forms
held as if invisibly tethered,
when ghostly debut appearance
courtesy Rod Serling
rattles of his trademark narration
"...fifth dimension beyond
that which is known to man.
...This is the dimension of imagination."
I resort to aforementioned loose analogy
to approximate mental state of limbo,
asper...this man falling to Earth
minus parachute on par
with crash test dummy
an absent firmament
to feel securely grounded
held stock still,
when moments before plunging
pitched head over heels...
only to find this mortal,
either entering or exiting
somnambulant state
only groggily awaking
out of deep sleep
falling out of bed
singing hup bout poor lovely bones.
The Purpose Of Life
Some say that doubt among many truth’s convictions relieves the questions
relives narrates unfolds the thinking understanding cogitating human being
Too much like cogs in wheels of life some thus respond and posit that its
enterprise oozes soothes from a sense of feeling warmth’s emotion’s intuition
‘Its action good deeds and virtue’ shout philosophers from roof tops root tops
crowned winged elegance of contemplation clothed in ivory towers
Or is it ‘Science’ ‘God’ ‘The Revolution’ ‘A Path Of Least Resistance’ ‘Trying Harder’
‘Drugged Insistence’ ‘Evolution Fit and Fatter’ or ‘Sex’ and ‘Happiness’ Hottest Guns’
A panoply of tapestry and fabricated fabric’s fragrant fragmentation to synthesize
pragmatic hedonism ‘I Want It All And Now’ approaching nearing paradise
The apple of our eyes in cycling spiral’s procreation or might there be no sense or
meaning just simple free and undirected flow of something unbeknown to any kind
Tumbling in the halo while sunshine radiates in love compassion kindness seems a good
design on meaning my purpose aimed at understanding what its all about before I die
01st November 2016
Mind Your Words
Some thoughts trickle through your mind like grains on a beach through
the hand that writes in the sand with heart blood and a rock pool of soul
Other images flood the gates unlock at great speed the secrets of minds
too restless to mind their own business tentacles twisted ink everywhere
They flow and bow to the rainbow gurgle pushed and pulled by the moon
and beyond dark sides of grey mattered hemispheres lightening flashes
While they unravel loops and scoops up and down brain’s crevices they
synthesize mitigate stream consciousness like a river never quite the same
But finding its bed nevertheless on some way to the ocean like a tribute
they contribute to the delta condense and evaporate then rain down again
Words however can be like corals congers razor blade canyons below a
surface of meaning once out never back in the genie some cuts never heal
Self talk is a fine feast for pontoons of one’s mooring and a dash with a splash
spoken words to others though are entangled and uttered you can’t get them back
07th November 2016
The light breaks free from winter’s bone
to cast its warmth; to life atone,
to warm the dark; to thaw the chill,
to synthesize through chlorophyll,
a dormant seed to resurrect,
and coax a soul from introspect.
Awake! And breathe the wafting spice
of lilac buds and wild rice,
the lavender; the orange puccoon,
the sweet of honeysuckle bloom.
An overture, the sparrows sing,
to celebrate the oeuvre of spring;
while wind and weeping willow dance
to promises of new romance.
Come alive! Draw in your breath,
let winter die a noble death.
The seeds of yesterday are strewn;
it does not do to weep and croon.
If you seek, so shall you find,
as true for darkness as divine.