Long Terminals Poems
Long Terminals Poems. Below are the most popular long Terminals by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Terminals poems by poem length and keyword.
It won’t be long before we will see
breakdown of moral values and family,
Marriage won’t be sacred as of yore
we won’t see man and wife anymore.
The family will be considered a species rare
state protected and under classified care,
Free love will be a taboo for its high risk factor
sex will be coded and monitored by a doctor.
There will be computerized fantasy terminals
catering to a wide range of erotic potentials,
With sensual simulators creating titillating illusion
to gratify one’s lust beyond his wildest imagination.
In this age of degeneracy and prevailing vice
everything will be bought and sold for a price,
From the soul of a man to the love of his mother
in the stores, thru ads, and at every street corner.
Stripped of moral fiber from its social fabric
society will be thread bared, soiled and sick,
Doomed to a fast-paced life of strife and stress
it will yearn for a moment of peace and happiness.
~In 100 years contest by Brian Davey
I'm in line at a store, and I'm bored,
Typing on my phone, restless and alone.
I’ve got light-blue nails, like the sky or your eyes.
I like them, it’s my favorite color - I don’t know why.
I’m buying flavors for my coffee, nutmeg and pumpkin spice.
I like having coffee in the morning, when it’s cold, they’ll taste nice.
There’s a really old lady at the check-out, she’s moving very slowly.
She’s paying with cash and coin, from a pouch, counting carefully, holey-moley.
She’s frail and reminds me of my Grandmère, with her white hair,
her sturdy shoes, I want to pick her up and hug her - but laissez-faire.
When my turn came, I waved my Apple watch over the pay terminal - it’s fast and contactless - like the whole world. Does anyone hug old ladies anymore?
It's taken me sixty years
Of evolution
To realise the simplicity
Of Earthen electricity
My naked feet, like freshly cleaned
Battery terminals
Strolling in hilarity
To observe correct polarity
Electrons flowing in and out
As I freely shuffle about
In hippyfied insanity
With toes embracing nudity
The science is effusive
So wonderfully conclusive
My body craves perfection
In each pedantry inflection
So to join the sockless roamers
The grass lovers and beach combers
I will earth myself completely
With each step I place, so neatly
Is it magic or just factual?
Like a nature deal, contractual
Or perhaps we were never meant
To be disconnected, discontent
And maybe it's progression
To dismiss the shoe of intercession
Returning to natural citizenship
Of barefoot - grass relationship
Reject the concrete,
Resist the vulcanised persistence
Embrace the beauty
Of a soul-full existence
"Transport Terminals"
When ghosts find ghosts
they walk through the
core of each other
expecting knowledge
of the other’s being
it’s surprising mirrors
are considered
transport terminals
eerily reflective
otherworldly portals
between there
and here
past, present, future
managing the transfer
easily
but it's never
that easy
when you’re a ghost
blueprints are beggars
to transparency
fingers slip through
the heart never seen
the remand centre
for processing
other channels are used
necromantic psychography
quills for keys
moonlit silver water
in a pen, shaken
sharp fountains for ink
cutting calligraphy for
phantom tears
inside the turmoil
of a storm-filled ocean
stirred surface searched
for eidolon's face
reflecting the other
rising to eat
each other's worlds
becoming words
the hungry need to be fed
ghost writers scrying
lives away, not near at all
but in front of each other
turning empty cups
upside down reading
spectral tea leaves
messages invisible
but it's never
that easy
fingers slip through
the heart never seen
the bare bones
of it all
materialise
skeleton keys
for dancing
those inside
the mirror out
locked in the dream
fingers slip through
the heart never seen
messages
ghost written
on mirrors
quills for keys
(LadyLabyrinth / 2022)
“The Special Ones”, Katie Noonan – George
https://youtu.be/LupbCITf4tw
Necromantic = Necromancy
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Necromancy
Psychography
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Automatic_writing
Scrying
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Scrying
Duality
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dualism_in_cosmology
LYRICS/ "The Special Ones", Katie Noonan - George
https://www.lyricslrc.com/song890471/katie-noonan-special-ones
"Crazy", Katie Noonan (Gnarls Barkley cover)
https://youtu.be/NZkE9GB7JuU
LYRICS /"Crazy"
https://genius.com/Gnarls-barkley-crazy-lyrics
My head spins as the noise from the crash echoes in my head. I sit up in some kind of terminal with strange trains bound left and right for places I don’t understand.
One is gold and ornate but the trappings are fake with cracks that filagree in its façade the train reminds me of a serpent-like Leviathan.
The next is sliver and clean with white and sliver cravings blue accents and the train looks sleek streamlined like it's from the far-flung future. Bright lights gleam. Chrome.
Is that blood I see dripping from the golden cracks along the tracks. I feel the frost of the sliver train's exhaust. My head swims and lay my head back to let the world catch up.
The terminals lights are harsh here, harder than Fluorescence More brutal than incandescence the building I find myself in, is like no glass and armature skeletal structure I have to seen before. An architecture unknown in my life. On earth or anywhere. I feel the infernos of one and the chill of the other.
In this Terminal were these mechanical beasts are cradled. This terminus stretches into infinity. I see pail figures drifting up and down the platform faces all a blur like failed dreams I have dreamt once before. My eyes focus but the faces don’t, a little chill runs my spine.
I look around the depot, it is staggering. The architect must have been mad or on some mind devastating drugs.
I look to the right the building fades to a brilliant blue sky with regal clouds and a sun low on the horizon but never settings as occasional clouds pass before it shooting glorious rays of light my father call the visions of divinity. I think I see wing shapes fluttering like butterflies, but that can’t be? I rub my eyes nothing changes.
To the left, I look to see a dark horizon with thunderheads miles high of endlessly thunderstorms churning and crimson and violet lightning lancing the rim of a cityscape on fire. Dark industries tower and burn. A jagged broken land of fissures like rough-cut skin and bleeding lava, belching smoke. The worse nightmare of a demented god.
I stand lost in my own translation. I fell the screams of a car crash echoing, the rubber screeching, burning; in my head like a lingering bad dream. Fading in my inner mind's eye. I am forgetting the time. I must go. I feel I should go but I stand there for a while.
The four walls of this hotel room
Look the same as the four walls of the other
The name of the city where you happen to be
Is just another detail in which you smoother
The life of the traveler sounds glamorous
To those we leave at home
But there is no glamour lying awake all night
In a double-bed all alone
It’s the same sad faces in the hotel bar
Spending per-diems on a meal of booze
Business suits searching for the next prospect
Submitting bids they’re apt to loose
Your wife takes care of things at home
Thinking you’re out having a good time
While you wonder if at her bedroom door
The neighbor men are forming a line
Lunches consumed in airport terminals
Rental cars of all shapes and size
There is nothing fun about the people you meet
In the not-so-friendly skies
Yet bills must be paid
And your bread is buttered on the road
But don’t believe that this life is grand
Regardless of the lies the traveler has told
God is good to everyone; so when you love, be in love.
Said to me a Sable Hoplite in mottled clothes; guarding the memoir of his dead wife in Boston’s subway transit.
Robbing a pedestrian of a moment's time as he did from banks for fiat claims and capital climbs via violent crimes.
He intimidates the hive mind as well as mine, but we are receptive.
Like all under the devil's thumb, we wish to traverse the red wall.
I look to my side and see a cherub evolving into a matron of unworldly skies.
Her will soars like a whirlwind sword that scores the fabric of time.
She fosters the orphaned spirit and walks the literal and figuratively blind through their valley of darkness.
Her and I are vagrant and lost like nomads; but we find homage in one another.
Attracting like covalent and ionic bonds.
She’s an eclectic electric Aryan blonde with the constellation Pleiades in the lines of her palm.
The lines are in cursive and those who read and heed its words will hear the echo of the Celestine.
The Valkyrie, oh so cunning and keen; so intent to take me to Valhalla.
She passively leads the Liberation Army; to their respective terminals and posts.
As if to intervene.
Co-collectively, they carry the virtue of a justified rebellion in the form of a military coup.
Encouraged to face the truth even in her absence, a man finds he must transmute.
You are the opposite of everything I am.
You are so unique; nothing like a carbon copy.
Unlike the average--the reason you complete me.
Unlike many without identity, you are happily you.
You are the meaning of, 'opposites attract each other'.
You are so set in your way, often stubbornly unmovable.
Unlike two positives or two negative terminals on a battery.
Unlike so many others, you are able, capable, and very stable.
You appear to be a woman of steel, permeated with a strong will.
You are predictable, with little variation; yet so full of suspense.
Unlike plastic, recyclables, or reusables; no rival; you are the real deal.
Unlike anyone I have ever met or known; you have no twin, I'm convinced.
You don't need circumstances, or people, or things to make you happy.
I perceive the happiness inside of you, infused, permeated with God's Love.
God sees that you are the clay, designed in heaven, and a God-made woman.
God was the potter who saw what he wanted in you, and made no mistake.
To my devoted wife,
Happy Birthday.
I love you.
090721PSCtest, A Poem To Your Spouse On His/Her Birthday,
Funom Makama. 8P
Parallel lines never cross, they usually meet after dark; parallel lines never intersect because they have similar depth, parallel lines coordinate for they have indefinite slope and they usually meet at the gates.
Take me to Florida keys and let me show you something that you cannot see; the ocean is flowing ahead of time and it is moving along two parallel lines, but if you look close enough , you will see something that your eyes refuse to trust, there is a third line that crosses two parallel lines, and create the divine.
The climate is changing and many hearts are breaking, there is not much luster left in the sun and the age of compromise is over and done, and nature is on the run. It will take you to places where you have never been, and it will expose your youthful sins. Parallel lines are moving with time, so change your dirty shoes before you attempt to cross the line.
Take a look at the blatant skies and examine the truth before you die, it is written on every page, and it will expose your biological age. It tells the truth about your youth, your real mother’s name, your father’s name, your sisters and brothers, your grandmother and your grandfathers. The parallel lines tell it all.
I woke up this morning before daybreak, and I felt a strong energy all over the place; the moon is still in its orbit, and the cloud was in line with two parallel lines. Where they were going, I just don’t know but it was a beauty to look at the show. I trust what I see and sometimes I trust what I cannot see. It is that brief moment that you spend when the lion escapes out of the den, raging through the forest searching for a prey but the parallel line was running the other way.
There is a message waiting for you with a mandate of what to do; the terminals are not clear, and the cars are parking too near. Open the space a little more so that moon gravity can expand on the floor, it is more than sixteen percent of the earth’s gravity or one sixth percent of the earths weight. Don’t procrastinate; be there before it is too late.
When two parallel lines meet, they will rapture your heartbeat, they have so much in common and they will surely give you a helping hand if you cross the land. When two parallel lines meet your trouble will cease.
I envision no romantic, grease-splattered engineer
Overseeing the direction of my particular train.
It just follows the course of the tracks laid down
Within the fractal flow of nature’s symmetry.
It curiously transports me from one sad affair to another,
Depending on which Chiquita happens to be turning my head.
My destination has always been inclined to speculation.
I have lived one singular life, but died many lonely deaths along the way.
My travels through this landscape of consciousness and self-awareness
Have often brought me to untimely terminals, via various means of derailment.
There have been lethal infections, and numerous fatal diseases,
An airplane and a helicopter crash, a murder, a head-on collision,
A tragic skydiving mishap, many bad storms at sea,
A life sentence in a Kenyan prison, overdoses from unwise decisions.
I’ve driven off a cliff at dawn and had a cardiac arrest.
But after each deadly incident, I somehow awoke to a better world.
Wrought iron spikes hammered to a hard-driven finish
Hold the rails in place until that one comes loose on the curve.
When my train gets derailed, I just begin again, and yet again,
Recycling intentions, re-establishing severed connections.
Over the years, I’ve come to realize that the final death I'll face
Will only involve some little discomfort, perhaps just a deep, sweet ache.
I can lay to rest whatever fears my unfinished dreams may embrace,
And look forward to greeting a better world when next I awake.
As someone once said, you’ll not appreciate the full extent
Of life’s train wreck till you get far enough away from it.
Then you can take in the whole awe-inspiring picture and say,
Holy ghost and good goddam, that was surely one memorable trip.