Long Tilt Poems
Long Tilt Poems. Below are the most popular long Tilt by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Tilt poems by poem length and keyword.
A magical chemical infatuation
to disregard the tradition
of natures connectivity and diversity
dragged to the will of its subjugation
to dig into the complex cells intimacy
its mass increments of the yields
killing off the birds and the insects
for the sake of crop conformity
in the unnatural fields
A perfectly poisonous promise
released in defusable clouds
through the early morning mists
chugged and pumped out grotesque deformity
in silent avenues of crop conformity
the deathly dew eliminates
all so ripe so well protected
in latent morbidity awaits
Layers by "half-life" lifeless inherited
in this chemists manufacturing of a chemical romance
the inorganic compounds of devastation
bound by an economical tourniquet
to plough again the blighted earth
split breakdown the biological integration
a quick fix to be persuaded
a million years of evolution
the symbiosis of the world in Gods hand
was not a patent so diligently as patiently perfected
or so insidiously infected in the land
Mechanized desert to produce the taste
a tasteless morsel of a savored remembrance
to its colour yet another substance added
organophosphates persistently digested
concentrations in environmental compartments
disarrange the circles tilt the balance
the enemy is natures necessity
needs be defeated
swap it over transmit a hell-bent malignancy
Collusion's by crude oil alchemy
improving on a profitable perimeter
this chemical romance of manufactured efficiency
O = HO - P - HO - NH - O - OH ! OH !
take a look at what marvelous science has made !
broad spectrum killer
needs be to murder off bio-diversity
and 5-enolpyruvylshikimate-3 phosphate synthase
is so much better
so much cleverer than natures ways
so taint the population with polluted fodders feed
killing off the birds and the bees
killing off the fish, the insects and the fungi
and killing off our babies
So perfectly formed
and so perfectly preserved
perfectly free of any blemish
all sitting on the billion shelves
of a million supermarkets
So perfectly wrapped
and so perfectly presented
the perfectly picture of health
and in its cells something so insidious
and the perfectly poisonous
is its promise
So perfectly formed
and so perfectly preserved
perfectly free of any blemish
all sitting on the billion shelves
of a million supermarkets
It was when I reached my fortieth birthday.
Not so young, but, youthfulness ruled the day.
I was known as an educationist, around,
My intelligence and wisdom, they felt, was sound.
Not many were invited to my birthday party,
My friends said I looked hale-and-hearty.
Cut the cake and with all simple meals shared,
I felt, as though by all, I was loved and cared.
It's when I stood to thank each one that evening,
Something tucked my tongue for no evident reasoning.
I stood silent, shocked, perplexed and lost,
None could understand what had happened to the host.
I tried to talk. I could not. Tried again; failed!
Not knowing my state of mind my friends hailed.
When, after hard trials, like dew drops, my tears spilt,
All, around, understood. Lo! There’s some tilt…
They took hold of me and asked me what happened,
I could not articulate; all seemed so saddened.
Doctor - some said; That's what they soon did,
None could remove from my tongue that lid.
I, an orator, remained speechless. Is it God's work?
Or demons do such tricks that God gets the jerk?
I resigned to the state of affairs and remained silent,
Everyone around understood this and became quiet.
I felt my trouble is nothing before John Milton,
I could see; he could not; My path is, hence, silken.
Pain in me, yet, grew, like fire in a dry forest,
Though I seemed silent, within I had great tempest.
Having found no remedy in treatments mountainous,
I turned to God, who is bundle of boundlessness.
I surrendered to him and said - Give me speech -
In return, I will, your glories ever preach.
In return? O fool! What would you give God?
Inner mind said. What could to God you award?
It's, hence, I lay before him, as though dead,
As mute as a muted lute, I went ahead.
In one of praise and worship during night adoration,
I could feel, within my tongue, certain restoration.
Is it reality or illusion? I did never know,
Dumb will speak, scriptures said, if believed so.
I believed; trusted; relied on his immense power,
Many prayed during that very long operation hour.
I talked. They could understand me as before,
Does anyone know, yet, the truth within the core...???
God and God alone is the truth I firmly say,
Without him, for salvation, there is no other way...!
24 October 2022
ER: Enlightenment Recovery Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Chantelle Anne Cooke
*Image of Paradox of a Mindfoolness.
Irreconcilable Paradox
The midnight sun casts about clear shadows amidst a
twilight noon, 'tis yesterday.
The windy gale brews, astir none to wake the quietude,
America's Guy Fawkes Day.
Watched I the beautiful orange sunset rise up above the
rolling hills flat opened field.
Leaving my umbrella sorted at home, danced I out into
the deluged rain spots yield.
Ambling I briskly stood alone in a crowd, as a quandary
cleared ere me from behind.
Menacing maintaining all matters determined found I at
a total loss to ideas sublime.
Brooding of the things I yet can do yesterday, I hurried
along to finalize nothing else.
In my rush to the airport, boards I, a train that went the
other way past fields of elms.
My new schedule should get me to my appointment in
the nick of time, one day late.
Know I will get that new job for 'tis the first time work I
there as of prior' year to date.
Been unemployed for straight five years, works I out and
in exclusively hands-on daily.
My legs are stronger as a direct cause of that makes me
feel sick for I am e'er healthy.
Speaking on health, the car insurance is fully paid but
wonders I, much is still owed.
On the subject of owing, our daughter's graduation day is
today, four candles a-glowed.
The court speaking, arrangement rose criminal charges
the prosecution, never violets.
Friends and I went to a drive-in, saw an old film just cast,
our Model-T's all on autopilots.
In the end, we all walked out as unconditional strangers,
familiarities sensed a oneness.
E.g.; If hail treasures of an emptied chest wouldst naught
crusheth e'er emphatic dream.
Thence bandied wordings lay straightforwardly ere wee
tilt scale rove archaic extreme.
The farcical tale wove abstractly, yet absolutes resolved
parodies sage distinctiveness.
2022 February 15
*1st Place*
This or That, Vol 10
~~Edward Ibeh: Judged 2022 March 02
*NOTE: I've portrayed the extremities of paradoxes distinctive values as self-defining based on its own merits, my placement via its close proximity to its opposite, validifies that point, whereto, abstracts become absolutes distinguishing their individualism.
Mother told a story yesterday
of how poets die in black penury
she said I won't be a pretty poet
as my dreams dance on my ink
"Poets are mirror of deceit and pain
craving beyond the debris of life
over my dead body will you be one!"
she pulled down the heaven on me!
a woman is a country of many colours
the hearts of men are far country
we are all students of life, learning
even the masquerade has a date,
a date to join their ancestors beyond
hold your tongue to your bosom
fate knows whose palm wealth will
be planted sooner or later by nature.
You will be raped by darned darkness
fed by junks of insanity lurking by...
a teary gland shall emerge, right in
the bosom of your myopic despair shall
you live by your sorrow like an oiled
orchestral stammerer down the street
father raged holding my LLB firmly
like pixels collection from a twisted
camera abandoned by a loner.
writers are mirrors connected to reflect
this world filled with broken stanzas
if my fears are not for my brothers and
my sisters and for Nigerians chains...
I will leave my hope dashed in the air
tilt this morning with the eyes of the night,
we will dice this moon for hand
on the paupers animated series of life.
Aduke birthed venoms last year for you
Chioma made your tears red images
words are like Sunbeams, the more they
are condensed the deeper they burn!
demise of a poet, no one seem to notice
in your domain,you don't expect praises
if a kingdom falls,there are several others
to replace it while you rot calmly.
Poetry pays but its a business of the Elites,
a trade not meant for children!
Shakespeare name is still carved on the
body of the sky, his head still seen today.
what is penny without a route in life?
Poets are pauper to their testy tongue!
Father, leave me to my dreams to perish
alone, even if evil calls for good,
I will stand as one poet and always will.
let the traces of a saint be kept in peace
let the shining armor of a poet glitter
becoming another star is not a sacrilege
Poets are not broken and shattered dust
this musing muse is only our spirits;
a spiritual elixirs to the clay world
we are crops, the worldcover, ladders
let the ways of poets be kept, we are
not paupers on the street begging for meat.
Yours Poetically,
©John Chizoba Vincent
Nestled is the slender twisting trail canyon between timeless steep
aspiring mountains and meditative sopheric sea waters
The frail road deepens into lofty thickness further from the harsh
volcanic valley where passion’s throes are ever in abeyance as days grind
on at a petty pace, as winding cathartic minds strive to be free and leave their
fears of mortal sin, intrusive family— religious dogma dismissive, oppressive
My yearning heart writhes in agonizing prose knowing senses magma
guilt etched into my very core, now behind
I’ll unwind, in a soft bed of sand that awaits
Spring’s strong winds of life call, visible the sea in the
distance, in instance, heads tilt, abut, falling upon my
wooer’s shoulder, he presses gears, downshifts reaching tireless
slate-gray force spreading over ocean floors flooding with no remorse
An uncommon gallantry he displayed, a warrior’s valiant looks
fired up my very essence
A dimming sun immerses into a hesitant horizon, sweeping breezes spin
warm spells embracing an enchanter’s realm,
with its charm he gazed into languid eyes
Silhouettes stark, foreheads bow, touch, sweetened sweat from
jasmine bushes alongside the road, perks of riding the stallion of steel
evoked smiles in sideview mirror, heated rims, spokes spun
Dismount a stroll, toes sank in sand, holding hands dodging driftwood
washed ashore, I chose a serpent shaped, a souvenir!
I’d glue turquoise stone eyes, a keepsake, or an omen?
Zena’s cove of guilty pleasures seal fates, certainly
not rhythmic lapping waves against the shore nor salmon sunset
or a waxing crescent moon, and not the wistful ocean’s teary spray
Its tears wetted my cheeks in afterglows
Lest moonlit sky amongst shy hidden stars
Pangs subside, panic betides, doctrine ridden not from our marrow
Womb’s flower in bloom, a secret kept, an advent arrival
The planets wept, forms beyond birth of celestial bodies,
one existence yet does sin exist in celestial angels?
He held tightly, softly whispered let’s run away,
his proposal on adulthood’s precarious cusp,
bestowed him a refusal, sweet youth ruins
Alas and alack life proceeds
steady as ebb and flow of the tides
After a precious gem she’s named, sweet lord
never more blissful, daughter
Caressed are tranquil ocean waves
In Celtic lore, Lig Na Basate is a dragon that terrorizes Ireland.
Through the rough and rugged bramble
Lig Na Basate was boldly sought,
By a band of hardy hunters
who cared not of the danger t’was fraught.
The Lig Na Basate had killed three hundred men
and wounded two hundred more,
And the only way to stop the beast
was to pierce him at the core.
Turn away ye wee small men
lest the beast come pick your bones,
Return to your loving kin and hearth
and start to rebuild your homes.
Pray then that the Lig Na Basate
has moved on to other hunting grounds,
But wait, too late for now they hear
the burble of the beastie’s sounds.
Then there at the edge of the wooded glade
they saw their quarry sleeping.
And silently the four brave men
drew near as they were creeping.
Then with a snort the terrible head
was lifted into the air.
And sniffed at the scent with dreadful intent
until he found them skulking there.
The four brave men with lance in hand
Stood north, south, east and west.
In hopes that one would find the mark
and send the beast to its final rest.
Ne’er had the beast encountered such men
who showed no concern towards death.
Yet no pity would he ere afford
as they met with the heat of his breath.
With dodge and thrust they went about,
looking for a spot.
To drive home a deadly lance,
before he killed off the lot.
And quick the battle was enjoined,
with blood and spit and sweat.
In hopes that one day their victory,
would outlive their regret.
The beast grabbed one valiant man
and snapped him at his back.
Then ate one more while the other two
continued on with the attack.
The Lig Na Basate swung round
to slice them with his tail.
But a lance pierced his wicked eye,
and he let out a ferocious wail.
He turned his head to gasp the pike
that had nearly left him blind.
Exposing his own naked throat
to the two men from behind
A plunge by one and the next
a gurgle of blood the only sound.
The beast turned to face the men
but with a tilt he hit the ground.
The scales of the mighty dragon
became the armor of the brave.
And the teeth were buried with the dead
inside their hero’s grave.
And still the tale is often told
of the beastie and his demise,
And in the great hall still hangs his head
as the victor’s well earned prize.
Drop picture till six
The land like Pokémon kills
Nearing a tornado’s kiss?
Lift picture to three
The earth seems a lot different
And looks extreme wilderness!
Turn picture upward
Rapid rivers dash inward
Floods hit mountains and stumble!
See Ottoman cries!
Its history in Palestine
Breaks loudly a hurting cry!
Until the see twirls
Syrian shores to Lake Err!
In one tsunami fits in!
Turn picture around
Look at it from the back side
Night time is facing big sigh!
Walk around clockwise
Walk around counter clock’s wise
What’s the difference at bright?
Look carefully at
While standing behind that
Her shoulders and her two arms
South America?
Thirst for the Atlantic’s tap
See a side face that had trapped?
Is there another mountain?
Leaking black gas surrounding
Happy carnival, walking?
See the dancing sleeves?
While wild fire nears the streets
On her leaning arm as seen?
The plate is moving!
South America swimming?
The south is wetting valleys!
Would waters sink in?
Reaching Amazon’s region
From the forest’s province?
Incline her to three
See volcano born from sea?
Crafting her right cheek’s sad fear?
Is it Gibraltar?
Suddenly speaks, spreads horror
Causing Mona Lisa’s shock?
Tilt her down to six
See Morocco’s beaches quick?
Nearing the west in a blink?
Or causing that lint
To near Africa’s dark flint?
Marrying mounts in a blink?
Prop to quarter till
Watch! The height of the waves bring
Over Mona’s head curving!
Prop her upward to
See again what had done to
See fire rocks drop next to!
Is she hugging babe?
Alive or faint but looks dead?
Leaning on her charm screen scared?
She’s holding a rose!
Or holding one stem of corn?
Looks like child’s hand overall!
Near a villager’s
Boat on top of the mountain
Does sail or drifts to go float?
But, a pyramid
More likely to look amid
Mountain tops and gardens’ bits!
Spin picture right this
Minute, a serpent showing
Behind two wed couples’ kiss!
Aruba under
Her nose moving to northeast
Survives a great flood beneath!
Walk ahead the screen
See Mona is still weeping
For two thousand twelve... searching!
By: Nadia F. Shahwan – April 2009. Note: This is an innocent discovery to analyze the
beauty of the famous Mona Lisa by Van Gogh.
The Ferris wheel, a spoked and sputtering crown,
Pinned back the velvet dark. We paid our fee
In crumpled bills, bought passage to the town
Where gravity forgot to work its shift for me.
Neon stuttered sermons: "Try Your Luck!"
"See Freaks! Win Love!" The calliope’s thick breath,
A sticky-sweet confection, made us drunk
On promises spun sugar-brittle, sweet as death.
We traded common sense for ticket stubs,
Gulped down the chaos. Bumper cars collided
With jarring joy, released electric grubs
Of laughter down our spines, fear undecided
If it should stay or flee. The Tilt-A-Whirl
Unstitched the solid world, flung stars askew
In streaks of cheap chrome, made the pavement curl
Beneath our feet. I held tight onto you,
A fixed point in the whirling, painted blur.
The rifle range barked sharp, tin cans leapt high.
A sad-eyed bear, impossibly demur,
Watched from his perch where hopeful bullets die.
We shared spun sugar, ghosting on the air,
A sweetness gone before it reached the tongue,
Like fortunes told by Madame Zara’s stare
In smoky glass where futures, cheap, were hung.
The haunted house exhaled its chilly moan.
We walked through shrieks (machine-made, mostly sound),
Past rubber bats and bones of plastic thrown
To frighten children. On the trembling ground,
The roller coaster’s skeleton outlined
A shriek against the stars, a rattled breath
Of riders flung through space, ecstatically blind.
We felt its tremor, smelled its oil and death.
Then, sudden quiet by the carousel,
Its painted horses frozen mid-career,
Up, down, around, beneath a tarnished spell.
The music box wound down, the notes unclear,
Like childhood memories half-drowned in time.
The lights began to shutter, one by one.
The midway sighed. The air grew thick with grime
And spent excitement. All the magic, done.
We walked back through the gates, the real world vast
And strangely silent after all that din.
Holding the cheap prize that was meant to last,
A plastic star still glowing deep within
Its fragile shell – a captured, fading spark,
A testament to how we briefly flew
Above the ordinary, through the dark,
On borrowed light, just me and just... and you.
The carnival's clockwork heart beat slow, then ceased,
Leaving just echoes, ticket stubs, and peace.
Trixie Light Wing, the lovely, lithe,16-year-old light-worker faerie,
was the first one awake in the prairie on this fine Spring morn.
She effortlessly dusted the grasses, the dandelions, the daffodils,
and the pink hydrangeas with pixie dust called Big Pix.
She had come by the Pixie Dust legitimately, because it had
been presented to her as a gift, for being a sixteenth-born.
Named Trixie Light Wing by the Pixies, the light-worker faerie,
lived up to her name, because she was an expert of tricks.
The dragons were still asleep in their cave when she liberally
dusted their front knocker with the Big Pix.
She knew it would be easier to do it now and ask for forgiveness,
than ask permission and be told “no”.
The dragons were known for their inability to see
another side of the story or even flex their own a bit.
Trixie felt jubilant that she had gotten past their door
without waking even the sweet and cute
2-seasons-old baby dragon, Little Joe.
The Flitzwillies were the first magical creatures
to wake up as were the rest of the Light-Workers, Tee and Bee.
Tee was an avid admirer of Trixie; she wanted to be like Trixie,
she wanted to act like Trixie, Big Bad Tee.
Bee was not so much an admirer, a light-worker with
a lone wolf type attitude, one in this prairie we rarely see.
Bee would have liked to stay in the dark cave and play
Video games all day long, rather than be friends to the Mee.
The Mee is what we call our cooperative made up of faeries,
dragons, and flitzwillies. I am one of them too.
My name is Khan, pronounced CAN, and I can do a lot of things
other mythical creatures are not allowed to do.
Probably because I am the princess, and my Mommy,
the queen, helps to make all the rules for the Mee.
Daddy doesn’t dare cross her, or she will add another
rule for him, and he already has thirty-three.
I decided to pull out all the stops today,
and play a trick on Trixie before she
Could play a trick on me.
Disguised as a little baby unicorn, I watched her
feed me an apple, and began to
Talk about how pretty I would be.
When I shape shifted back to myself, we laughed and
Laughed at my trick at her expense.
Then she pointed out that we could ride on
A Tilt-a-Whirl for only a sixpence.
And so we did.
Across the dance floor, your soft sashaying gown flew
with its bright waving gleams of silver dust and blue;
within that blessed gaze, lonesome heart jumped a beat
seeing those golden slippers on your dainty feet,
feeling love's welcomed arrows shot by Cupid's bow
knowing that most treasured gift would forever grow!
That cool June night we walked under golden moon's beams
with your heart and soul gifting love that so redeems;
this man that had lost heart and walked a blind path
death long ago condemned this soul to darkest wrath,
torn asunder joy in life that had been a gift
chained this spirit upon a black-ship set adrift!
Loss of my beloved I once lived blind despair
wading through this evil world's black pits without care;
her sweet love reminding me of Hope that was lost,
found anew when your destined path with mine was crossed.
I saw the world with open eyes but could not see
Faith, till sight was laid upon fair beauty of thee...
Your rosy warmth danced with grace thawing my cold heart,
seduced by rousing rhythm never would we part.
My heart began to waltz and pallid pulse did race
as I saw charmed moonlight caress your angel’s face,
I longed forevermore to tilt your chin and kiss
your promising sunrise lips of heavenly bliss.
That early summer’s eve I took a leap of faith
willing to let go of my haunting lost love wraith,
I found with you the heart to fall in love once more
and glissade you in my arms ‘cross life’s ballroom floor.
Alone in love’s spotlight of golden moon beam’s glow
you have my whole attention for you stole the show.
Robert Lindley and Susan Ashley
(a collaboration)
June 27, 2018
Poet’s note: Yet again, it was my tremendous honor and privilege to collaborate with with you, Robert. There is an abundance of beautiful poetry overflowing the banks of your heart and soul, my talented friend, and I wade in the lovely flow of your poetic words.. Thank you for allowing me the pleasure of being your writing partner and for generously sharing with me in these wondrous poems of love, romance and hope; always hope - the common golden thread that runs victoriously through the weave of our writes.. With appreciation, thank you for another exquisite poetic and artistic experience, my dear friend.