Long Thread Poems
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Jogging on the roadside,
With my friends at my side.
He moves every inch with us...
I almost forget we were four.
Seeing him as one; we discuss
Along the line to the very core
Before I knew he was a stranger,
He has turned out a humble words exchanger.
"What's your name?"
He asked diligently.
"What's your aim?"
I replied bluntly.
I know you feel dismayed.
Notwithstanding, I am for peace.
So; be unafraid,
Set aside your earpiece
And give ears to me,
My words with a straight face.
Pasting all the copied pleasant words
Into my ears like songs of birds
Pleasing to the heart every dawn of the day,
Hardly could I get away from his voice culture
Painting itself raw on the blank vacant space of my mind
Loom up with the best attar of roses.
Allover me again and again till my withered flowers grow kind.
Considering him a different vulture
Not to feed on carrion and fly away
Coming up roses with bared teeth for another tease...
But I sensed he would love it a game
Or see me behind the times--
Telling him I will think well of it
So that he won't see it as endgame.
Though, the well-intentioned untruth, I've a heart-stirring permit
Of one's own free will beyond wildest dreams
And set a match to my pun
As we smile and stun
Through the narrow hole of my ears,
His running thought beautifies the flowering moment.
Through the shady words in cool paints,
Filling the widened path to hold my breath.
Where sunny days hid afar in our accoutrements,
The hot weather foaming to worm the family birth...
If we won't only do it for fun and disappear
Between the thin lines of complaints.
Someone I never think of,
Is now the reason I uncontrollably laugh.
For the silent moment easily pictures,
His unrelenting acts decently packaged which bathe me
Romantically thinking of our future,
Praying and working to make it be
The richly blessed one absorbed in friendship.
Down the line against all hardships.
Yet, for all these
I never let go of laughter
Whenever I remember
The awesome pictures of all the tease
You planted into my head
And the zeal of beads around my waist well thread.
In which I film
You as the humble stranger
Who purposefully endanger
Peace of love into my dream
like
shadows in
a slow-turning
waltz, they drift—
soft, unsummoned sighs
from corners of the mind
where dust forgets to settle,
and yesterday pirouettes silently.
dreams once bright now fade, tulle
trailing in twilight, ankles kissed by
cobwebs of sleep. Each step unwinds
the golden thread of almost-memory,
echoing rhythms never quite born,
never quite gone. They circle,
spiral, shimmer, vanish—
the dance of
forgotten
dreams.
He toiled on the railway station’s platform, A mundane existence, devoid of passion’s warmth. No romance graced his life, no partner by his side, yearning for companionship, he sighed.
He perused matrimonial ads with care, seeking solace, a love story to share. But the pages held mundane cries, until one day, a twist did arise.
The ad proclaimed an unusual deal, “Call us and get two for the price of one!” A tantalizing offer, a chance to healyetet little did he know what had begun.
He dialed the number, heart aflutter, Anticipating love’s sweet mutter. But fate played its hand, oh so sly, For the women he met left him awry.
Two souls entangled in a curious dance, A tangled web of circumstance. He thought he’d found love’s embrace, yet it turned out to be a peculiar case.
Red braids and striped stockings, Cherry lips with white and blue stockings.
Her fabulous smile, those twinkling eyes, He felt like a puppet in love’s disguise.
But alas, the truth unraveled like a thread, Emotional abuse, a masterstroke instead. She withdrew her sweetness, like candy’s cane, Leaving him sticky, icky, in love’s disdain.
Long-distance lover, a bittersweet refrain, He wondered if he’d ever break free from the pain.
Written: April 29, 2025, for Contest by Brian Strand
**************************
diaphanous
spirals
of
spectral
nebula
tethered
to
whispers
of
life
a
paradox
swirls
in
meticulous
orchestration
of
touch
& sight
where
heartbeat
echoes
foreboding
forecasting
a
sweeping
chronicle
etched
in
ether
fragile
breath
fleeting
as
twilight
thread
unbares
layers
of
ethereal
embroidery
sewn
from
souvenirs
tactile
puzzles
mapping
connections
under
vast sky
scattered
with
ambiguity
of
perception
seeking
clarity
in
clouds
marked
by
light &
experience
wind-driven
sails
mysteries
folded
within
gentle
breeze
amidst
ephemeral
odyssey
intimacy
anchors
us
with its
quiet
song
OPEN FORM created by Brian Strand in lowercase without grammatical symbols, uses spaces&breaks relying upon 'the one breath limitation' & as a 'happening' requires the 'reader' (reciter) to input &respond in a two way interplay & interpretatIon unique to the moment& changing according to mood & thus is inherently variable.
Autumn leaves of purple, orange, bright yellow and gold,
fall as I walk along on a day brisk cold.
In my hand a vermillion red leaf so brilliant still although dead,
with love I trace it's delicate spider web thread.
All the trees have put on their colorful rainbow gowns,
and sun touches each leaf 'til in glory it drowns.
In a garden patch near big orange pumpkins are growing,
soon there will be pumpkin pies flowing.
Colored leaves I am gathering and hold tight to my heart,
for soon their beauty will wither and depart.
_________________________
October 10, 2018
Poetry/Couplet/Autumn Leaves Falling
Copyright Protected, ID 18-1070-322-01
All Rights Reserved. Written under Pseudonym.
.
Babel: “A bottomless pit of violence, a Tower of Babel where all are speakers and no hearers.” Alexander Smith
The preachers preach what they've been taught.
Reporters say what they’ve been told.
The politicians lie and lie.
I watch a tragedy unfold.
On social media I see
some folks who like to blog or play
while bullies bully; haters hate.
“Talk to the hand” they seem to say.
Mean twitters, memes and certain posts
use scalding words - an endless thread
scrolls down as if into a pit
where fire by sparks of hate is fed.
Opinions can be strong, but why
can’t some folks hear the other side -
with peace agree to disagree?
Yet fight they do and then collide.
Insanity is not just lurking.
Madness spits right in our faces
as many blab and jabber on,
heedless of the social graces.
Ears get clogged up; loose tongues flap.
See Babel’s Tower now so high!
We’ve come too far to still believe
that towers climb to touch the sky.
The fire raging underneath it,
spurred on by hate, crawls up each wall.
Violence will overtake us;
Then Babel’s Tower we’ll see fall.
up a steep and gritty track
reach the tops
wilderness reclaims a verge
of wintery snags
land juts and tilts
hauls out
lays treeless
clumps and hags
pitch up stricken soil
heap their marshy troughs
loud the heartbeat
nearer to feral thought
then any numb mouth or ear
slough quag and mire muddle
seep listless
every bog runnel shrouded
to fetch up the feckless
harsh and gorsy
heather grips low
the moors stretch
flat and far fetching
a grappling wind
blears
bites and baffles
a bedrock sprouting
tough rooted and cold
as an ice-crushed vine
clutches
flinty undercuts
wait to pitch the faltering
a tangle of un-spun fleece
caught in barb and thistle
sheep piss in running rivulets
thread through
mizzle-pecked rocks
inscribed
by whatever tortures the air
ravens picket gritstone edges
glimmer wings beat back the below
primal caws that lift and speak
for the standing stones
their harrowing
storm-cuffed history
as silent
as scored moss or lichen
before light founders
cropped spikes snatch
snaggle beneath a lowering mist
or snow flecked haze
a scant anchoring
a shallow farrowing
shorn and scoured
below and aloft
shredding miles
with toil and trudge
twenty years later
son sends pictures
of moors long traipsed
the sky in my phone howls
Loving You Is an Art ????
Loving you is an art,
Not just words, not just emotions,
Not just romance.
It is like carving a linocut,
Each stroke, each cut—
Careful, gentle,
So I do not wound the sketch,
The same way I hold your heart,
Responsible not to hurt you.
Loving you is an art,
Like stringing beads with patience.
And when the thread breaks,
And the beads scatter
I do not leave them behind.
I gather them, mend them,Like
The way I would gather your broken pieces
And heal them with love.
Loving you is a design,
A vision that sparks in my mind daily,
A creation I bring to life,
Over and over again.
Loving you... is my masterpiece.
Some places you don’t write about. You survive them.
Frost on the telly, piss on the stairs,
Smells like bleach, burnt foil, and prayers.
Boiler’s gone. Sockets dead.
Someone’s screaming. Someone bled.
Tinfoil wings fill every bin,
Ashtrays stacked with yesterday’s sin.
Fridge blows air. The kitchen’s grave—
Nothing left, and none to save.
Upstairs she rocks a silent kid,
Eyes like glass, ribs half-hid.
Skin all wire, voice all gone—
“He screams less when I use alone.”
Three doors down, a bloke named Rick
Dealt ten bags to fund his fix.
Found his brother stiff and blue—
Took his coat, then shot up too.
They found her curled behind the bins,
Legs like rope, cuts on her shins.
Said she slipped.
Said it was rain.
But silence screams
when soaked in shame.
Kid got stabbed by the corner shop—
Twelve years old, still learning to chop.
Mum lit candles. No one came.
Council rinsed, but the stain remained.
Still—
still—
Through all the filth and smashed-out glass,
a streak of sun begins to pass.
It cuts across the piss and pain,
slides through blinds, through cracked windowpane.
It brushes past the silent kid,
Eyes like glass, ribs half-hid.
No cries now, just the ticking room—
Still rocked gently in her gloom.
It lingers at Rick’s old front door,
His coat long gone, his name no more.
His ghost still trapped where the rot runs deep—
No peace, no fix, no final sleep.
It finds the girl still by the bins,
Track marks raw on paper skin.
She doesn’t move, just lets it burn—
“Smoke still holds me. Wait your turn.”
The sun don’t ask what you’ve done wrong.
It just turns up. Don’t stay too long.
Don’t save the good. Don’t curse the bad.
It lights the wreckage, leaves you mad.
And while it’s here, we breathe. We fight.
We crawl one inch. We steal some light.
A thread of gold. A breath. A flame.
On streets they curse but still proclaim.
So write it raw. Don’t make it sweet.
Don’t bleach the blood. Don’t clean the street.
We ain’t saints. We ain’t pure.
But we’re still here.
And we endure.
This is the sound of neglected Britain—
forgotten, boarded, pissed-on, driven.
A country that don’t fix, just shame.
And sun that shines on piss and pain.
I never thought, nor sought to find,
A soul so bound to me,
Yet fate had drawn an unseen thread,
And wove our destiny.
No thunder crashed, no heavens cried,
No signs marked where we met,
Just passing words on borrowed time,
Yet hearts won’t soon forget.
Through endless nights and whispered fears,
Through laughter, bright and free,
No blood was shared, but still you stayed,
A part of home to me.
Some bonds are made where none expect,
No maps or lines are drawn,
Yet in the dark, some stars will shine,
And guide us ever on.
So if you find a heart that stays,
Through storm and quiet tide,
Hold it close, don’t question why,
Some souls were meant to collide.