Long Thumbnail Poems
Long Thumbnail Poems. Below are the most popular long Thumbnail by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Thumbnail poems by poem length and keyword.
Carefree in leisure time, one blasé tourist,
almost happy, I once had collected a complicated stone;
after the sunny hours had ended and last opportunity
for keepsakes began.
In my hand the stone had kept all of its mouths sewn shut,
holding its amalgamated story, and likewise in the car,
on the plane, through US Customs where it was not
in the least suspected.
A thumbnail identity I now should guess at, marking an old date,
and fixing it to, with reasonable estimate, a map location:
Plot No. 243, East end of the island, slave sugar plantation,
the stone from the corner of a ruined windmill stair—
broken free by my criminal hand, having liberated a vine.
The stone looked like a bleached out mini-monolith, square-rectangular,
able to be stood on end, leaning back and swollen at its center
like a pulled cork.
What could have moved this sequestered world to opening?
That was not for me to discover, except what came on Christmas Day,
two days after my returning.
Slave watercourses, the sight of innumerable Dutch ships,
ballasted with human flesh and hewn rock for sugar works buildings.
The drop at arms swish of the Driver’s bullwhip.
Flecks of spirit splayed on vegetation.
A mongrel dog barked beyond the windless wall of sugarcane
in centipede and mosquito heat.
Seaside, beautiful seaside impressions;
distant coral light shadows, etched deep azure;
snowy colored breakers that pencil-marked the sea.
The staid, vibrant, mocking power
of visual symphony backdrop.
So little of aid for the slaves, but for those dangerous secrets,
unhoused in the fallen coolness of the night:
demonstratively crystalline heaven of stars;
a ragged moon, clouds scudding eastward toward Africa
before freshwater rainsqualls came. And there
Orion’s Belt, mid-sky, illustrious bright, with its three
centering star points in rational line, as if
Hope could have flung such a rope anchor onto Life
engendering sanctified resistance.
Christmas morning, 5 a.m.
I had awakened from a stuck place, shapeless and dark,
half in dreaming and half in knowing I was in no dream.
I was sobbing, yet strangely, because there were no tears.
I had only put the stone inside my pajama top onto my heart.
I didn’t pick this pixelated hue,
Blind browser of flesh, what’s wrong with you?
Am I just a bug—some system glitch?
Or a firestorm code you can’t enrich?
You see a low-res thumbnail, tagged and filed,
But my spirit runs free—uncompiled.
Stuck in filters, default schemes,
You can’t decode my quantum dreams.
This isn’t a status, a picture frame;
I’m pure data, unchained—untamed.
A network where prejudice crashes, burns—
Where firewalls of freedom overturn.
Algorithms stutter, crash and stall,
Trying to define me with a finite call.
Erase the labels, tear down the fence;
See me for more than binary sense.
Skin’s just the interface—surface display,
But the soul behind it can’t be weighed.
So reboot your mind, clear your cache—
There’s more than a demographic flash.
Delete the bias, debug the lie;
The spark in my eyes won’t simplify.
I didn’t choose this pixel, this view,
But the brilliance inside is breaking through!
Scratched music of hillbilly washboards
From the scraping wings of the Katydids
Aloft in the Oaks
Reborn each night just beyond dusk
After the cicadas finish their warmup act
The Katydid return is glorious
Their little sound so loud
It overwhelms
The alarms of main street stores a block over
And the roar of trucks on damnable nearby I-96
That never stops its pipeline of crashing deliveries
No matter the time
I don’t know why these green creatures
Went completely silent last season
But I missed their rickety noise and worried about them
And us
I tossed and turned sleepless
When the wind was stolen and driven just right through my windows
Maybe it was the masting grunts of acorns throughout that summer?
But the thumbnail insects have returned
More symphony than I’ve ever heard before
Finally I can fall asleep
As they strum their instruments under the applause of planets
Until 4:00 AM each morning
I read somewhere even insects go to sleep
Though they don’t have eyelids
Imagine them exhausted
Stuck
Staring out to their little narrow world of swaying branches
If only they knew what we know
The expanse they do not understand nor comprehend
As they dream
Of love and music and the cool brush of feathered trees
In a religion they call Warm Dark Summer Breeze.
Gratitude suffuses me today
at prospect to plumb the depths
of a fledgling friendship
(respecting fidelity to wife)
even one bound
within the parameters of cyberspace,
I feel courtesy your amazing grace
figuratively stitching omnipotent binding
with virtual satin and lace
proceeding cautiously to experience
belonging to human rat race.
Night and day, a thrashing
like an invisible whiptail
surge van hail,
doth swell me bosom
excruciatingly, doggedly blackmail
capriciously be-numbingly,
aggravatingly assail
mine conscience in
what paltry pale
capacity of this gamboling male,
I can "pay forward,"
whatever means shale
be moost apropos avail
to offset bewail
ling (internal psyche doth ale
hankering) against utter
lifetime (mine) peppered
with emotional, physical
and social destitution
bereft, viz fail
ling to maximize inspiration
reverberating as vibrant detail
lacking even justa minimum
desire to live
(visa vis no way
discover ring, nope nar even
"FAKE" king minuscule appeasement
of my body, mind,
and spirit triage during)
hell...shove (shelve) aside
such gloriously noble benighted role,
amidst upending folktale
re: King Arthur and His Knights
of the Round Table
futilely searching for holy grail,
where steadfast conviction
emboldens this heart and hale
spirited mindful,
sincere hard drive spurs
(neigh saying horse
sense of mine),
where ambition saddled
to air (dan sing) quailing,
yen propelling (yours truly),
with sincere humanitarian,
(i.e. blood driven)
philanthropic spiritual zeal,
I tried to unveil,
this reasonably rhyming thumbnail
sketch poetically versatile
within this spurious verse despite
any trials undermining travail
rather mine heart felt genuine
motive fueled by impetus
to contribute within e kale
logical, fizzy hollow gee, humanity,
with integrity, magnanimity,
and quality fervency,
while still adept, adroit,
agile, and alert,
(cuz America needs more lerts
to become great again)
ironically steel tougher than
nine inch rusty nails,
duh pleating ability dovetail
to bug (or wug) gee wholesale.
Adieu from Matthew Scott Harris
who tapped out this message
while holed up in his mancave
situated within Southeastern Pennsylvania.
While trees lift bright yellow combs
to attract squabbling honeyeaters,
lower bushes open bells and stars.
The ground, however, keeps time differently.
The first rain has entered dry sand,
but nothing has confessed itself.
For many weeks, we return
to the known places,
two people reading grass at ankle height.
We look for leaves
round to the touch
among the flat blades of grass.
Then, at last, a flower spike
begins its small ascent,
a dark seam lifting through the leaf.
That is enough.
We leave the certainty of known ground
and search the wider heath.
The flowering shrubs are loud with wings;
at our feet, the Autumn Midge
gathers its darker wings from grass.
Small plum-coloured flowers,
each with a dark, pendulous tongue,
grouped no larger than a thumbnail.
One camera.
A photograph. A report sent on
to the researchers.
We leave the place unspoken,
and the orchid where it rose,
hidden in the grass.
Hardware
to spare
Software
quite bare
Firmware
full glare
Upload
bug sowed
Download
smart code
Cursor
fervour
Cyber
fibre
Password
absurd
Hard disc
at risk
windows
hellos
Wide screen
green scene
Hotspot
jackpot
Screen shot
rogue bot
Desktop
nonstop
Thumbnail
all hail
Clipart
from heart
Browser
dowser
Broadband
grandstand
Toolbar
gold star
Macro
steals show
Micro
back row
Wizard
not hard
Rich text
what next?
Template
create
Pixel
oh well
Sharp hack
attack
Portal
mortal
Mail merge
we purge
Dot-com
random
Systems
victims
Viral
tidal
Net world
unfurled
Part 1 Diagnosis
I. Surgery
Surgery—
Today cuts yesterday—
the calendar blade.
You carve the year's new initials.
The beech—scarred—
keeps its reverie-venant
in smooth wood.
========
II. The Future, Uninvited
The future isn't knocking—
inside already, thumbnail
at the doorframe's paint.
Wood smoke. Bergamot—ash.
That cologne of Occurrence—
you still holding
the empty shot glass.
==========
III. No Reset
The heart does not reset at midnight—
the liver does not forgive.
Neurons fire their exhausted patterns:
flinching—craving—glass
in hand again—shuddering like the heat-pump
kicking on as you almost—
almost—
sleep.
Your face in the mirror—
steady—
waiting to see
if you'll
disappoint it.
==========
IV. Rings
Rings on the counter—
like your mother's plant
left years on the sill:
Live Evidence—
no one bothered to move.
The kitchen smells of nothing yet—
that early sadness of resolutions
you haven't—
not yet—
betrayed.
=========
V. What Continues
The self does not reset—
continues—
playing song in an empty room.
We drag it all:
rage swallowed at the feast,
the lover whose face we can't recall
the Ledger—
left blank
the moment we said fine—
Meaning—so far—from Fine—
I’ve forgotten—what Fine—looked like.
===========
VI. Threshold
Fear crosses the threshold—
checking your phone at every red light
eating over the sink
so it doesn't count as hunger
chewing your cheek until it tastes of copper
the way you say sorry
before you've even spoken—
all of it followed.
That stray you fed once—
you woke up one morning
and it had become you.
Or you had become it.
Now when you look in the mirror
you can't tell
if you're wearing its face
or it's wearing yours.
Either way, you've stopped
asking which one got fed.
Good dog.
Midfall and nearly all the trees
Stand brown as broken sticks
Against a sky impossibly blue,
I in shirtsleeves a walking go
With love and longings as my companions
Kicking through the drifts of colored shards
Fallen with another Summer's stealthy fading
Feeling, marveling at this piece of heat
That dropped unnoticed from Her pocket.
I could believe today
In America untamed,
A place full of wild things and untamed peoples
A place where Spirit spreads
To ride the clouds
To sing its songs unhindered.
Nature has let down her locks today;
Who will look on her
To let themselves be consumed, entranced
By the beauty that lives on in spite of all our assaults -
Who will be distracted by the miracles we move through,
Feel the surge of the sea of life all around us,
Hear the whispered prayers
In the windsigh of the sleeping trees
Watch the sacred night come on
Announced by the rose glow behind the thumbnail moon -
Who will stand amid such things,
Yet not put aside for the moment
Those little cares we circumscribe our lives with,
To stand amazed to be here breathing,
Alive to feel how loving-close
Infinity holds us, claims us for its own;
Surely, not I alone.
I rest a hand on my sleeping child's chest;
Feel the heart fluttering beneath the skin;
I can sense a great wheel turning.
I wander out in the still warm darkness
That follows this day,
To look up at the starstrewn sky
See that great wheel begin its turning,
Stand amazed to be here breathing.
Stand, amazed to be.
Deposits of shells, pebbles and seal bones left behind
by the ocean
There is life inside this cave such as small solid drips of gold
barely the size of a thumbnail;
Although they are part of the most amazing formations,
still they cannot tell the exact age of this cave
Part of a fascinating human and geological history
it is recognized as a significant and important Australian treasure
it is believed to have been exposed by the constant pounding of the ocean
Over time the sea has retreated leaving behind a cavern of interesting
treasures...
such as shells, pebbles, and seal bones,
Night and day, a thrashing
like an invisible whiptail
surge van hail,
doth swell me bosom
excruciatingly, doggedly blackmail
capriciously be-numbingly,
aggravatingly assail
mine conscience in
what paltry pale
capacity of this gamboling male,
I can "pay forward,"
whatever means shale
be moost apropos avail
to offset bewail
ling (internal psyche doth ale
hankering) against utter
lifetime (mine) peppered
with emotional, physical
and social destitution
bereft, viz fail
ling to maximize inspiration
reverberating as vibrant detail
lacking even justa minimum
desire to live
(visa vis no way
discover ring, nope nar even
"FAKE" king minuscule appeasement
of my body, mind,
and spirit triage during)
hell...shove (shelve) aside
such gloriously noble benighted role,
amidst upending folktale
re: King Arthur and His Knights
of the Round Table
futilely searching for holy grail
where steadfast conviction
emboldens this heart and hale
spirited mindful,
sincere hard drive spurs
(neigh saying horse
sense of mine)
where ambition saddled
to air (dan sing) quailing,
yen propelling (yours truly),
with sincere humanitarian,
(i.e. blood driven)
philanthropic spiritual zeal,
I tried to unveil,
this reasonably rhyming thumbnail
sketch poetically versatile
within this spurious verse despite
any trials undermining travail
rather mine heart felt genuine
motive fueled by impetus
to contribute within e kale
logi, fizzy hollow gee, humanity,
with integrity, magnanimity,
and quality fervency,
while still adept, adroit,
agile, and alert,
(cuz America needs more lerts
to become great again)
ironically steel tougher than nails,
duh pleating ability dovetail
to bug (or wug) gee wholesale.