Long Tangle Poems
Long Tangle Poems. Below are the most popular long Tangle by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Tangle poems by poem length and keyword.
A nomad wanders
in labyrinthine wasteland
of the denuded life,
desolate,
the sinuous dusty track
takes me nowhere
in the obscure bleak terrain
forlorn.
My soul’s lattice,
entranced,
migrates mystified,
entangled
in the encircling web
of enigmatic conundrum,
asks bemused:
shall I escape
from the debris of delirium,
or
shall I be the enigma,
embedded
in the extant riddle.
I couldn’t decide.
The ingrained imprint
of possessed passion,
indelible,
of the stubborn being
on the weaving wheel
of the demanding time,
winds on its own
out of the tormenting tangle
of the tortuous trail
of the pining past,
transfixed in the horizon
of receding menagerie
of memory,
metamorphosed.
Steered with the promise
of pervading pride,
my beleaguered mind
out of the maze,
shows me the pathway
to the fervent fountain
of euphoric future,
figurative.
With the beat of my heart
I break resolute
the invisible blatant barrier,
impervious,
you’ve built insolent
with the skeleton of seclusion
around the secret garden,
shrouded by the arctic mist
of mind’s winter feelings
frozen.
The baroque buds
supine on the supple saplings,
line your garden path,
wait for the spring.
I saunter there,
suffused sensually
with the seraphic shine
of the sunburst new dawn.
I wish,
before I walk the last mile,
our paths will cross
someday
in the valley of flowers,
entwine eternally
the bouquet of belonging,
epitomized.
Time to bring them home...
I was thinking sleepily.
After stuffing my face with holiday.
Time to bring those red, white, black, and blue teenagers home...
Time to resume video games-get some strange.
Instead of babysitting rocks on icy Afghan mountaintops.
Numbers for names exchanging blows with rock men.
That play charades with dirty hand grenades...
Sometimes death needs to be left alone.
To sip life from the Teat of misty goats.
To grow rows of golden poppies
Turn our mothers into heroines.
Time to bring them home.
Country Joe asked it long time ago.
"What are we fighting for?"..
A jungle without a soul.
Another 58th parallel. Jam session...
Big-headed devil is dead.
Buried at sea, alongside honorable men,
Spawning for eternity with sea hags.
Time to bring the boys and girls home.
They're dying in droves while Congress is on extended vacation.
Bring them home. So they can cut or whorl in the grass.
Before their limbs and minds are bent.
Let them kiss their puppies that are now fully grown.
Remembering girlfriends. Who moved on one tour of duty ago.
Bring them home; let them tell war stories.
How a tangle of teenagers smoked a local and his lamb... then laughed...
How a green friend slept forever under a red, white and blue fleece.
Then flew home under a flag, atop metal wings.
Time to bring the boys and girls home, forever,
Here is my every other...
15 minutes until the hour-
I have my tech tool powwow to scowl,
30 minutes from the end-
I'm in the descend,
I know I'm the key to this pen,
I know I know how to spend...
But the people are there to descend,
and they loved being alone without my advice and rent.
So many different problems I've personally never experienced arrived,
Guns, Drugs, Bad Adults, Spies...
I want mine-
145 years alive,
I want to dine,
in the distance with the friends who are alive-
But I can't...
I'm not conceded like an appointed hump,
I'm just endangered and a little bleeded,
like I have no other,
like I am a dove in an oven,
So don't tingle-tangle with them,
Represent this!
Exemplify the print!
It's older than Bible spins!
It's cold as me in the fires of ancient fins-
forget desire's so that this can reward you heart'd and leave them with no other mother to inspire,
get at the slow jam because they aren't fast enough to perspire!
Do this thing!
Be a M'F'in' Tower!
Be that that doesn't design or cower!
The emptying of the hall,
in memorandom or literal sprall,
the emptying of a peacefully worded spell,
layered with cement,
or drinks of the fall-
one done for the rafters in place,
two for people of outer space,
readying their reasons to be face,
constant dormant w/o tangle stands within fog,
reed wearing princesses who love to jog
take you along.
Don't sing your songs,
but remember who had your longest love-
the keys are all in place,
ready to turn,
the clothes wave to solar grace,
and one surfer of the soul,
emanates his new born...
The guy making world decisions is in angst,
for delay of an utter stunt to be designed has caught him fully,
a memory of pure scent arrives slowly,
and I mean that...
It's recognizable only like wood is to the coffee beans roll,
deep yo-
rooted.
One mystic blue night dead still,
I’ll steal the silver full moon,
break it into sharp shards,
and stow them in the backyard
under the shadow of the creepy cloud.
The dark devils will enter with fiend
my anguished heart beating vengeance,
hit hard by the moonless dreary darkness,
and make my boiling enraged blood
turn into lacerating incisive lancet.
The sinister scarlet elixir in my veins
the night will drink like wine,
the shining sequined full moon lost,
it’ll make a black one hollow,
darker than the dread of doomsday.
When the impious wolves will slash
the neck of the frozen stillness,
their ominous bark in the chilled air
will shred the nocturnal chastity, it's time
for moon plucking from sordid shadow.
They cunningly ensnare in an instant
the naive malleable minds unaware,
skillfully wrap with mute trance
the innocent hearts trapped
in the travesty tangle of love.
I’ll slit open their deceitful throats,
slice the reveling saccharine lips
with the harvested sickle moon.
Twenty-four hours ago,
the wind ran across the lake searching for a place to land.
Some shingles followed, torn from their topless roots.
This morning there is some abuse,
feathers fly on their own,
the mallards are whispering in the huddled reeds,
however, daylight stubbles upright
into a high-rising sky.
The television is predicting clear sight soon.
The radio coughs, and stutters, its talk
flutters from a loose tongue.
Behind closed doors
we gather wool from clouded minds.
Ropes of rain tangle the already tangled,
yet the air is not short of fresh breath,
it recovers
in the untrammeled stems of the living.
Tawny is the hair upon the slim vixen's back,
it is as sleek as ever; she goes to the water,
to sip the last few drops of a homeless storm
long past.
Rag top down
and stowed away
so smooth clean lines
did gently flow
four wheels suspension
independent all
front disc brakes
speed down to haul
four speed manual
grabbing clutch light
six thousand to shift
screaming bright
A M radio
in dash stuck
a hacked job
but no one cared
chrome gas cap
on the rear deck
rounded corners three
to fill tank small
balanced so right
with skid pad high
screaming through corners
without slowing down
wind did bubble
and tangle flowing hair
sunlight burning down
on golden brown skin
girls did wonder
and parents did fear
of what adventures
the driver did dream
bright days of summer
down roads twisting tight
with screaming engine
shifting quick and tight
highways long did call
to come fly along
seeking after nothing
but another summer day
Sycophants, thy future.
On what does it depend?
Gold upon the ground, be pure!
River, yield thy bend!
Tormented, ye prophets?
Pleiades, rescue me!
Toolshed, art thou Tophet's?
Fly, O fancy-free...
Gain upon in rhythm?
By what right, friend and foe?
Onward, black abysm!
Dark backward, well ... Although ...
Reign of conquerors endless!
On this doth all things hinge!
Forward, O ye stark friendless!
Heart within all, twinge!
White sand, will ye countermand?
One man gang or band?
Prison walls about us planned?
Better that we stand!
Robber, burglar, thief, thy grief.
Defy, my belief.
O ye Indians, stern thy chief?
Ten thousand foot reef...
Tentacles, reach upward!
Tangle, root! Enchant!
Golem, gate! Break fast, my guard!
Feet of mine, just plant...
Will or wool, O brazen? Bull.
Mea culpa, pull.
Green fire? Clean death due a trull?
Fate and Fortune, full?
Written: September 1st, 2023
Would You Love Me If I Wasn't A Poet? Sponsored by: Silent One
______________________________________________________________
If my words lacked flow, unadorned, and dry,
In the minds of those who mope and roam.
Poetry purls and parades its philharmonic prose.
If my ink dwindled, leaving pages bare.
Should you still sense my soul's splendor?
Where waltzing words entwine and endeavor
Would you still cherish me sans the poet's guise?
A stunning seemliness, a seraphic stake.
Now, we anticipate this mutual toast.
It's a tradition we've upheld, you and me.
for countless years.
However, what if I never compose?
What if my verses abruptly cease?
Will you still inure infatuation for me?
If my words no longer intertwine?
Will my verses strive to heave delight?
Even if they lack their former bright?
You offer unwavering support, truly!
My muse is born from deep happiness.
Delight in my dulcet discord—a deed
Without your input, my words carry no value.
It feels as if you favor my fantastic flexibility.
Poetry is in my blood; that verity is obvious.
Even if terms at times tangle.
I'm afraid you'll amplify apathy one day.
face futile files and fragmented facts
Still, your urging ubiquity dulls my iniquity.
A placid pithead packed with pride and purity.
Despite the ups and downs
You ceaselessly stood by me.
As my skills strive to strike success.
You are my source of strength.
In each verse I write, you praise
My poems find solace in your gaze.
But what if I stop being a poet?
Will you cast a blind eye?
Will my words still be worthwhile?
If I can't glide amid the lyrical birds,
I long for our ties to rise beyond rhyme.
May our love defy the flow of time.
You admire me beyond words.
But your mate is utterly unattainable.
Our steadfast solidarity supersedes art.
PARADISE IS CALM AND PEACEFUL
A PLACE THAT HAS NO PAIN
SADNESS HAS NO FACE HERE
EVIL HAS NO GAIN
STANDING ON A SHADED HILL
THE TREES ARE BRIGHT AND BOLD
COLORS DANCING IN THE AIR
TOO MANY TO BEHOLD
NEARBY THERE’S A RIVER
THAT’S SHIMMERING IN GOLD
AND IN IT SWIMS A TALKING FISH
FROM PROPHECIES OF OLD
IT KNOWS OF MANY STORIES
AND IT TELLS ME MANY TALES
IT TALKS OF LOFTY GLORIES
AND LEAVES OUT ALL THE FAILS
AND BY THE RIVER A TREE
WHOSE MANY ROOTS RUN DEEP
THEY TANGLE THROUGH THE FERTILE SOIL
WHERE MAGIC CREATURES CREEP
AND ON THIS TREE THERE GROWS A FRUIT
WHOSE MEAT IS SWEET AND GOOD
TO EAT IT MAKES YOU KNOW THE THINGS
YOU NEVER UNDERSTOOD
AND BY THE TREE A WINDING PATH
THAT WANDERS THROUGH THE WOOD
IT TAKES YOU TO A SILVER GATE
TO ENTER THERE IS GOOD
AND ON THE OTHER SIDE A GLADE
A PLACE WERE RAINBOWS HIGH ARE MADE
THEY RISE UP FROM A CRYSTAL POOL
WITH COLORS BRIGHTER THAN A JEWEL
I WALK UPON A RAINBOW'S EDGE
I’M CLIMBING VERY HIGH
I JUMP OFF FROM ITS HIGHEST LEDGE
AND FLOAT WERE ANGELS FLY
LIKE A SNOWFLAKE DESCENDING
OR SO IT MAY SEEM
LIKE THE WING OF A DOVE
THROUGH A BEAUTIFUL DREAM
I LAND BY A SEA
WHERE THE LONGBOATS DO SAIL
THEY BECKON TO ME
LIKE A COLD GLASS OF ALE
COME WANDER WITH US
THEY SAY WITH A SMILE
WE’LL SING HAPPY SONGS
AS WE SAIL BY THE MILE
THE SUNSETS ARE BRIGHT
THEY LIGHT UP THE NIGHT
COME WANDER WITH US
IN TIMELESS DELIGHT
SO THIS IS PARADISE
A NICE PLACE TO BE
AND WHEN YOU ARE READY
COME WANDER WITH ME.