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.
I won't look for you if the apocalypse arrives
It's those like me with the least reason to live
who will survive to continue searching in
vain for anything of value as we did before
civilization as we know it ceased to exist
when the finer things in life become
a tin of beans, clean water, a warm blanket
tinder for a fire and a safe place to sleep
when names mean nothing and money
is merely worthless paper printed with
portraits of monarchs and presidents
so precious previously to those with power
and influence who didn't give a damn about
people like us though they'd make a pretense
if it would be easy and to their benefit
when it was convenient and didn’t conflict
with the next high profile black tie event or
champagne soirée where the income
of the guest list for a single year that they
pissed away on the puerile and frivolous
would have ended world hunger and poverty
Life won’t be all that different honestly
struggling to stay alive though we don’t know
why as there’s nothing in it for us but
another Dickensian day of hopelessness
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 nuns in the Abbey adore Emma,
for she often visits them after school.
And volunteers her time and assistance,
barely thirteen, she thinks that nuns are cool.
It fills her parents with a sense of pride,
when she discusses becoming a nun.
For they know, she has so much love to give,
judging by the things she's already done.
It sometimes takes a little persuasion
to get her to leave the park before dark.
For she has a profound love of nature
and a tinder heart awaiting a spark.
An example of humanity's best,
she's an inspiration for all the rest.
(Sonnet)
7/31/2016
the random residue of sunken shadows
retrieves an image of the light gone by
an effigy ashen faced and smouldering
glows tenderly upon the silhouette of time
yet another curve ball of molten assertion
distorts impressions on the transient mold
pinnacles opine to differ from ground zero
tapestries’ memories fragment figments
of imagination attempt to reassemble
the waning half-moon of false composure
serrated edges compress to bursting point
the vigil at closed gates of no return
defended by cross bows skulls targets
missed opportunities and flightless arrows
in anticipation of another haunted day
when sleep refrains from comfort
night stallions call for spurs and whip
a rodeo of mental injuries displays
with comfortless numbed precipitation
the viscous sweat of solutions out of reign
yet she gathers remnants of an outline
a contour of sanity clothed in disguise
puts another log on her ice-cold fire
sheds a frozen tear on course to exposition
grasps a tinder olive branch of feeble hope
decides to die at last and wishes to forget
01st August 2021
Inside friends but more
Everyone knows I’m beyond
A friend or tinder whore
Hitting spots you love and cuddling up
We pretend that it’s just touch
Time spent isn’t much; strange to think.
Listening to Frank Ocean
Told me not to show emotion
We’ve been doing this for months
It’s beyond the sex
But you do it best
Situation is a mess
Even so I’m truly vexed.
I look up to you (literally)
I volunteer I want you
To show me what to do
Won’t work for free
Did that as a teen
But where have you been
My whole life
Let me down twice
Third times the charm
I’ve learned it’s beyond
The sex and the second time
We’ll do it right this time
You brought me back
To rub your back
And gave me back that feeling
I would spend
The rest of my days exploring you.
I see you in everything.
Real life, in my dreams.
Am I exploring life for you?
Are you my muse?
Is that a problem?
I’m going to make more cookies.
You don’t know that.
Didn’t ask.
Want to share?
I know you like them.
Those are facts.
No emotion there.
Fragility is quite a strength
just as the crucial bumblebees’ breath
Perhaps not only titularly
gentleness is stronger than severity . . .
Channeling Emily Dickinson : To be a feather in a holocaust
– hope, sewn in the soul, sings the song needed most
A minor thought on regeneration : To regrow the leg the mantis lost
– a marvel on a molecular level - most miraculous
Of majestic beauty : To behold the fragile snowflake - winter’s impetus
– intricate masterpieces exist in the microscopic and minutest
Plant power is undisputed : To reap lemongrass’ healing gifts
– behold a beloved botanical treasure of abundant benefits
Quantity trumps quality when better suited : To cut out the mountains through erosive agency
– water as a weatherer works wondrously
Sources of energy : From the brilliant and prodigious mitochondrion - a natural wonder
to the multifaceted palm frond - suitable as tinder
It can certainly be said that, in the slight
one can perceive preternatural might
So, as the Scots say, “while we breathe we hope”
and our delicate operatives firmly stay a-float
Three days and topo,
Drawn circle to stay
Within; can’t
Encounter another.
Three days of solitude
Bare provisions, no tent;
Fruit, jerky, one egg,
Three matches.
The rest of food to find
Mid-summer, Sierra,
Plenty if you know,
Nothing if not.
Night one, little sleep
Chilled, shaking fingers
Touch flame to tinder –
Welcome whisp.
Eat one half orange
Put egg within
Then orange into coals –
The first breakfast.
Eve, day two,
The silence doesn’t speak;
Smells and sounds
Grow strong and loud.
Night three, a voice
Different language
Primal, musical,
Ecstatic, empowering.
Hike back, meet others
Sit in circle, no talk,
Eat sandwiches
Listen to a drum.
Krummes Holz gibt auch gerades Feuer
Crooked logs make straight fires [Work with what you have.]
Downcast eyes scan; the larger fear’s in deeds.
Germany thrives on the allied dollar
having culled the herd; they bank euro collared.
I, remnant of the tribe of David, take heed.
Full, again, of pride, the German strides
bold as brass across the pristine Alpine
scene, offering migrant shelter in line
with its own future needs as need coincides.
Who will be the tinder, the next confined
and the fly to the spider’s gruesome tale.
Prominence ignites dominance, the grail
binds with the golden eagle enshrined; it blinds,
yet, how few the choices, the wretched wail;
the tempted homeless yearn within the gale.
Published by Page & Spine 2016
Burning bridges
That tired metaphor
Often still seems so apt
But you missed one important point
When you tried to light that fire
The fact is that we
Like any modern bridge
Were never made of wood
You tried to ignite
Concrete and steel
Under an ocean gasoline
Threw the match
Watched the flames
And walked away
Thinking you had done
A necessary evil
For us both to survive
But as the flames died away
The heat began to dwindle
It became blatantly obvious
The structure is still there
This was no matchstick trestle
No tinder span we crossed
Those flames that were so impressive
Left no destruction in their wake
Now I'm left to sit and stare
At that empty overpass
I know chasing across it
Would be wrong
So I stand here quietly waiting
For you to realize the truth
That while the metaphor may tired
The bridge is still intact
Where are the Heroes
That kid's want to meet
Not in the pages of comics
But live here on our street's
Who is going to ignite
The kinks and the bends
Where danger extends
Along these trampled street's of woe
Into the afterglow of childhood dreams
Where god only knows
The boundaries and rule's
Or the form of tool's that will be used
On the tinder steps of those who power
Our working pay and weekly hour's
Of mass taxation and exploitan
Built upon chemical sedation
As we live to support our medication
If this is what we are meant
To base our every working cent
Then what's the point of taking part
In an ever increasing
Waste of time
Life is to short for backward thinking
And the overriding feeling
Of waking up
To a life without reason