Long Tinder Poems
Long Tinder Poems. Below are the most popular long Tinder by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Tinder poems by poem length and keyword.
Awaking from Stupor 1-16-24
It's not desire per say but the clinging
That stifles soul and stops heart from singing
Enlivening silence sets our souls free
Vibrant in the now, joyful and carefree.
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Awaking from Stupor
Winter haze beats upon the door,
Drunken dreams cling to bitter cherries of midnight,
Before night sashays into white flurries of dawn
When dull eyes wrestle out of binding yesterdays,
And pink-purple pussywillow hallucinations,
Provoked
Awakened to dream
Throwing off phantoms of eiderdown illusions,
Dawning redeemed from the clutch of midnight shrouds,
Nascent emerges sipping sweet soul sunrises
Coaxed from aromas of grace,
From holographic hollow mazes,
While pale sleepwalking staggers into real
Returning with a rosy heartbeat flush
To leave in shadows lethargy of ragged pastels
Numb shades to retreat like useless ghosts
And cower in new auroras of primed breathless light,
Neon insights flash electric incentive,
Sparks ignite fertile tinder stored in silence,
Sentient eyes step into the womb reserved
For every new second purified
In percolation of harmonic animas –
Conscious and unconscious
Awake emergent -
Bliss consummated!
Gentle flakes dance gracefully to the ground
Each one made with perfectly unique crystals
They blow and swirl, going around and around
Until reaching their destination, frosting the world below
As snow falls during the brisk cold of winter
It is beautiful and alive, lasting for a period of time
Just like a fire that we can add to tinder
But in time, the flame will always burn out
We fall like snowflakes, each one of us set apart
Alive as we take our journey, creating meaning in our existence
The shortness of life is what motivates our hearts
To strive for greatness, to make our marks
And then we melt, to fade away into time
The cosmic carousel of the universe moving forward
The seasons change and move us past our prime
Until the new snow falls in the next yearly cycle
PARTURATION berthing the inpiration
simultaneous
visions,
mutli-layered
inspiration:
innovative
coherence
now apparent,
broken
syntax
in semantic
ambiguity...
unresolved
inspiration burns
turns a spark
from the tinder
of imagination
into a flame..
a flame
that gathers up
experience
burnishes and
refines
a nugget of emotion
into an image, then
crystallize as a phrase
to become
a spoken word,
a voice
from
the seeing eye
bursts of
creativity..
...short-lived....
colourful
caberets
exercises in
inspiration:
fearless
interaction
of parody and
sentiment..
in wordplay:
interspersed
crafting
of sensibilities
in compositions
....incarnate
A now moment,instantaneous,
parentage unknown,alive borne
of inspiration.Scattered here and there,
colours everywhere.The inner made
outer.Inherent originality conceived,
perceived,crystallised,the beneath
now in relief,of line,spot,point and
dab upon a canvas,to dry before the
eye.Succinct,complete of itself, never
to be reproduced it stays unique,of
me,for all to see.Of me,was once,this,
must art elsewhere,forever did depart.
I look upon it now,and wonder how!
I installed the tinder app,
Hoping that a match could fill my heart's gap.
But I used to swipe left or right,
Just to get through another boring night.
Then I saw my crush on tinder,
What on earth she is doing here still I wonder.
Thousand thoughts ran in my mind,
But when it comes to her I am blind.
Even if I give her super like or swipe right,
Still there won't be no light in my night.
Because for her I am a stranger,
As if I am some kind of danger.
Should I swipe left,
Where nothing is left,
Or should I swipe right,
Where nothing is right.
Confusions,memories and thoughts ran in my mind,
But no solution I could find.
I couldn't close the app then,
Because one day I would have to face her again.
No matter what happens my feelings for her will always remain the same,
As my heart always screams her name.
Hoping for the light in my night,
I swiped right.
So I installed the tinder app,
Hoping that a match could fill my heart's gap.
But then I saw her on tinder,
And I swiped right hoping that one day I would put a ring on her finger.
What kindling might i offer to
the long dead, now near newly dead?
my seeing.
my walking.
my sitting.
my doing.
What lung-puff (however quiet, however
meek, however entropy-fated it may be) might i offer?
As it always will be, leaving lungs and lips
and losing itself in storm gales of modernity.
Eclipsed by howling and raring roarings, the whispered whiffs of this bent soul’s wish...
to speak Qì to the tinder bundle, held aloft but low. i genuflect and bend and bow to stones, arranged in a circle just as humanity has long seen fit to arrange the stone Earth.
my seeing.
my walking.
my sitting.
my doing.
What spark might i offer?
to Zhuang Zhou? to Li Bó?
What spark might i speak into eruptive life?
to Tara?
Om.
to Ram?
Bolo.
Death does not safekeep
wisdom from further death.
The masters die many deaths.
Forgetting.
Confusing.
The Entropy of Illusion
is the rot-causing beetles and chemistry
and larvae unseen in the height of day
but never more than a last gasp away.
At the ready to take down and break down
what’s built up and named.
What light, what heat, what protectiveness might i offer
to ?afe?? to Frost?
That they are gone is no blame on us.
That they are lost is all blame sent to and stuck on us.
On each of us.
On each day.
Let, rather
the cemetery
sing the silent wisdom
without tarry.
An undulating, perhaps roiling
tubule by sea of purported peace:
this gravemarked sea of sliced
and shined and stuck stones...
some with offered pebbles there stacked
‘pon...sees me sit. In screaming silence.
Sees me rushlessly walk. Sees me speak
wisdumb through closed lips.
Nothing comes.
Nothing comes.
Everything goes.
Nothing comes.
The days crack like porcelain
under the heel of my wanting.
I am a spine of restless birds,
feathers slick with salt and early light—
my mouth tasting the metal
of doors I have not opened.
They ask me why.
Why walk without a destination?
Why carry a compass
if you don’t believe in north?
I tell them—
the road does not need an ending
to be worth taking.
Some skies are meant to be looked at,
not arrived under.
I keep moving
because stillness feels like rust,
and the wind has a way
of remembering my name.
The Great Perhaps is not a prize—
it’s the taste of rain
before the cloud bursts,
the echo that lingers
longer than the voice.
If you need a goal,
call this my goal:
to know how a streetlamp hums at early morning,
to count the freckles on a stranger’s knuckles,
to find out if the moon
is the same shade of bone in every city.
I have no anchor,
only her pulse like a lantern in my palm.
We are marrow and tinder,
always burning toward a horizon
that refuses to hold still—
and I love her for it.
The first flame will always be its own.
None can ever mirror it.
A second flame born of the same candle
may be coaxed to life;
but 'twill ne'er be the first.
Go ahead, grab the matches, grab the candles,
everything you need to start that fire.
Light that first flame.
Revel in its fervor, enjoy it while it lasts;
don't be too sad when it burns itself out.
Try to light that same candle, a second time;
if indeed it can be lit at all,
it won't thrill you the same.
Yes, it's still fire; it still mesmerizes,
still creates that heat, and still burns.
But 'twill ne'er be the first.
Now, take a second candle, and put
flint and tinder to that one instead.
Watch it, live with it, savor it -
and when that one too eventually dies down,
riddle me this one question.
That first flame is oft times the fan favorite,
but which, in the end, is truly more precious -
an attempt and mayhap success, at a second,
imitation flame,
or a fresh first, with a different candle?
Make no mistake, on rare occasion that second flame
of a first candle may even be better than the first.
Yet, even were it more ardent than the last,
every single fire is unique -
and some small part of you will always remember that first flame.
Any others may be
more wonderful and fierce,
may be slovenly mimicry,
or may be raw magic in their own right -
but 'twill ne'er be the first.
She sees him strutting the boardwalk
eating from a greasy bag,
he’s not her type; Jersey shore muscle,
distasteful for a girl of her upbringing.
Yet her body latches onto his,
magnetized by a shocking carnality.
Her pith is tinder
a smolder beyond her intellect.
Imagination leads her
through tunnels only the willfully blindfolded
would enter.
The night is full of erotica
she once saw
carved upon an Indian temple.
She is passionate about
the muscular scent of grease,
for his figure strutting to her table.
The morning finds her
washing her sleepless face -
watching the mirror slowly blush.
Self-Existent Light
Beyond the sight of imagination,
Invisible of alpha and omega,
Unseen your non-existent borning daystar
Glory and splendor collide,
Pure sinew of sublimity
Source of ceaseless heartbeats
Flame without source,
Robed in resplendence.
No vacuum!
No space for ebony!
No consummation!
No cradle!
.
Divine edgeless clarity
Perpetual renewal of resplendence -
Wholeness illuminated,
Spring of radiance
Eternity’s original mystery
Needing neither tinder nor spark
Light – essence of the Eternal
Eternally coupled fission and fusion.
Fleshless eternal incandescence
Uncontainable virginal day
Infinite dynamo of electric brightness,
Ceaseless and incorruptible,
Self-contained chalice
Of always,
Chrysalis of incensed endless fuel
Shines from within Perfection.
Pure light
Pure love
Pure font
Undimmed Eternal
6-8-23
Contest: Self-Existent Light
Sponsor: Unseeking Seeker
I spent my early life
Looking out from behind
The chain link fence on the turkey farm
There they fed me right
Fattened up my thighs
After all, what could be the harm
If it was up to me
I would never leave
It's where I prefer to spend my years
But alas will come the day
When all good turkey's have to say
Arrivederci...I am outta here
I was born to be a Butter Ball
Unlike those sloppy pigs that live next door
To be a tender turkey is my call
And all you want to do is eat me
Yes, you wanna eat me
They just took Turkey Jack
To the shed out back
Where we never heard from him again
Just like yesterday
With my friend Turkey Dave
Strange they haven't messed with Turkey Slim
Am I the next in line
Could this here be my time
My head placed on the chopping block
As I say my goodbyes
To all the gals and guys
I gobble to Mary Lou as an after thought
I was born to be a Butter Ball
So delicious they're coming back for more
Tenderized to the very core
All they want to do is eat me
I was born to be a Butter Ball
A slap in the face to the Honey Ham
To be a tinder turkey is my call
Heavy on the gravy with a side of yams
Now that you know my tale
I hope I told it well
Enjoy this day with your family and your friends
So remember then
Don't leave the stuffing in
And dinner will go the way that it was planned
I was born to be a Butter Ball
The highest honor of them all
Into the open oven I must fall
Cause all you want to do is eat me
Yes, all you wanna do is eat me