Long Uncoiling Poems
Long Uncoiling Poems. Below are the most popular long Uncoiling by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Uncoiling poems by poem length and keyword.
Gradually the crystalizing dawn -- more hardened
Than folded steel --- more sharper than
The blade that cuts!
Wisps of thin vapour, once loitering insidiously
At the steps of each staunch door,
Swirling away -- seemingly almost alive!
Coiling and uncoiling. Has all the litheness of a
Dancing girls weightless silken ribbon.
Until, retreating back, high, into some lofty,
Inaccessible mountain...
Dissipates as if just abandoned dragons breath.
The trees and streams are no longer so solemn.
Circling over the temple, above the brittle lands
Frosted chill, red-beaked choughs noisily engaged
In agitated clattering...
But now the temple bells are commanding those
Monks to prayer.
The blind and withered monk, who sits alone
In his unassuming corner, reminds us:-
"An emperor who abuses his power unsettles the
Equilibrium of the whole nation, the workings of
Nature,
And the livelihood of all people;
His responsibility is to maintain harmony in
Himself and the empire...
By acting in accordance with Confucian principles".
It is for them to contemplate what we cannot
Comprehend:-
We are peasants and it is not expected of us
To understand such wise things; nor should we.
We understand the fish and their ways, and the
Ways of the Blue River...
Just as monks understand our gracious lord Buddha.
Rouses the sun. Slowly lifts an enormous sky.
Glistening hoarfrost spun from bramble to
Bush -- strung from bough to branch like
Giant spider web;
Stiffened grasses that so pleasingly crunch
Underfoot;
And from these grasses, droplets of moisture
Ready to be released like slow weeping tears;
They will join with and sweeten the vibrant
Spring waters -- clearer than quartz --
That stream in tripping rivulets over yellow rocks
To splash from shallow cup to pouring pool...
Once you have tasted these waters you would
Have little more need of wine.
Wine is for idle men, or for our warring masters
To drink when celebrating great victory;
What use have we of intoxicating wine?
It is better kept as an offering...
Lest the river Gods grow angry and
Spoil our catch.
I want you to know I care,
That it gets hard out there,
Stay vigilant and aware,
Look towards the light,
Make sure your love stays bright,
Even throughout the souls' dark night.
You'll never fall down, If you know your,
- ------------------------
Conscious holds the crown, ??
- -----------------------
Am I tripping?
Or is humanity slipping?
It's faith twitching,
Switching,
Flipping to agendas it's fitting.
Fear stitching,
It's way to existing.
The masses splitting,
Our Souls forgetting.
The inner being,
Darkening.
No one is seeing,
The Karma attracting,
Light we're refracting.
- --------------
Inventing the walls,
Stalling our calling,
Preventing my Ascending.
While Watching All of us falling,
They're in the chairs laughing
We're grasping, Gasping,
Barely breathing,
Crawling,
Grabbing for anything.
Hoping on a heart-string.
Knowing, we are all King,
Use the crown your carrying.
- -------------------
Start recovering,
Breathing, remembering.
Feeling energy replenishing,
Mother nature bathing us,
Her winds are embracing,
Gusts of wisdom invading,
Captivating my thoughts,
On my knees praying.
The love mentoring,
Energy entering,
My soul begins centering.
Overcoming something,
No one saw coming.
- -------------
Purple and white light,
Blooming and booming,
Flowering delight.
Sparkling, sparking,
Spreading, Gods light.
Uncoiling,
About to spring,
Empowering,
And loving,
Feeling UNITY coming.
Together we can do anything.
Through the Crown connecting,
A Universe consistently twisting,
Our thoughts into existing.
Fingers pull at sunlight, warm and trembling,
curling it around small, unstoppable palms.
Dust sparkles in the air like fairy particles,
twirling and whirling as if the sky itself,
is shaking secrets like sprinkles just for me.
The carpet folds beneath bare toes, soft as moss and rough as bark,
each step a drumbeat in a forest of my own making.
The tongue tastes words as they form, sweet with dust and sharp with soap,
syllables ripening before they leave the lips.
Shadows slither across walls, curling and uncoiling,
following the hum of laughter that trembles in the throat and spills like water.
Torchlight puppets move across surfaces as I narrate stories of beasts and wonders,
I have not yet lived to see,
yet they feel as real as any game of pretence,
as real as the tents I build and the villages I raise,
from mats and bedsheets, with soft toys aligned as citizens.
All puddles tremble under my boots, reflecting clouds that wink and wander,
a leaf pirouetting from nowhere, a stick humming secret music,
and the wind pressing soft against the nape of my neck,
telling stories in a language only skin can hear.
Knees bloom with tiny triumphs, trenches of scraped concrete,
deepened by running barefoot, but nothing my mother cannot coo away.
My hands remain sticky with juice and glue, ears wide for the scrape of a chair,
the creak of a door, the whisper of pages, the symphony of ordinary miracles.
And still, my eyes open wider, drinking the tilt of light,
the smell of wet earth, the shimmer of moving air.
The world is alive, trembling, waiting for nothing,
but to be touched and tumbled through by little smiles,
a submerged continent rising just for my delight.
And a thousand birds chant harmoniously, shrill and vibrant,
Bringing spring to forest creatures and urban dwellers;
Come out, come out and breathe the air,
Drink in the azure sky and the golden sun.
Every tree is bright and fresh and standing tall,
Flowers are uncurling and uncoiling in the warmth and light;
Go down to the deep sea and listen to the waves crashing and roaring,
Hold hands and skip along the beach young lovers.
In my kitchen garden the hummingbirds have returned,
Just look at those whirling, twirling wings;
Keep open and uncluttered all the windows and let the breeze in,
Let us leave memories and thoughts of winter winds behind.
Moonbeam evening and sun bright morning promenades are ours,
Nothing is more enjoyable than the perfume of spring to make us hum;
Oh, my heart has been weary waiting,
Put away all winter things.
Quietly bends down a weeping willow tree in the park,
Rest below the shady branches all the day and dream your dream;
Soft like velvet is the grass upon the cheek,
The meadow blossoms within our dream are calling us to come.
Up and down the fields we run like children again,
Valleys lush and emerald green for miles and miles and miles;
Winter snow and chills are gone,
Xmas yuletide is but a distant memory now.
Yes, oh sweet spring has finally arrived,
Zest, joy, happiness and delight is ours to enjoy.
______________________________
February 14, 2015
Poetry/Abecedarian/Oh Sweet Spring
Copyright Protected, ID 02-640-759-14
All Rights Reserved, 2015, Constance La France
For the Premier contest, Abecedarian,
sponsor Shadow Hamilton, Judged 03/2015
Second Place
“Can you feel the soul of an abandoned house,
can you hear the whispering? "
Quote by _Constance La France
Standing before this old, dilapidated house
Memories leap out from the moss-grown crevices of my mind,
Like snakes uncoiling, rather like bees swarming,
Fragmented, scented and sour!
I remember my old maternal uncle,
Who had turned a widower at forty-one,
The presiding deity of a joint family of fourteen.
Most of the time he sprawled in the armchair,
In the enclosed patio of this massive homestead
In the living room was an old grandfather clock
Ticking away like the faint heartbeats
Of that decadent house with crumbling plaster
He had seen heydays with many a ceremony of great fanfare,
When the house used to board all kith and kin
And the granary was full of paddy and tons of black gold.
But as time slowly weakened his torso,
The house too lost its onetime splendor.
His children got scattered far and wide.
They went to hoard fortunes abroad.
But grand uncle refused to move away.
With a shock, one day we heard of his death.
He left the house orphaning it forever.
Now the house remains fragment of an old memory.
Though once I thought I had escaped,
The compulsions of the past,
Now I discern, I am still pinioned by it!
As I stand before this house, my ears perk up,
To hear what it whispers, its one-time glory,
Or its sad deserted state?
I wonder if I can ever enjoy the love and life,
That once so luxuriously bloomed inside!
~ PLACED FIRST~
May.27.2023
Writing Challenge ‘C’ Quotes Poetry Challenge
Sponsor- Constance La France
From here and there, I hear him speak
His voice, falling in mild whispers
But he always plays hide n’ seek
Never once I could see his countenance
At times he speaks loud n’ clear
Sometimes so harsh and stern
How he denies my wild longings
With a stubborn ‘Yes’ or ‘No’
What magic and mystery in him stored
I often wonder and am at a loss to gauge
Amid the shards of my broken sleep
I often struggle to decipher his mysterious codes
I sought after him over and again
Down the nights and through the days
But he eludes me like a mysterious sprite
Prancing around and hiding about
When I give up my search after him
He shouts and whistles amid the confused din
And I see faint truths suddenly uncoiling
Forming in me a clearer perspective of life
At the end of my incessant search
I chanced to meet him within my own self
Peering into my depths, I saw him, his face veiled
And a balance held obliquely in his hands
When the veil was lifted from his countenance
I saw him clear, clear as in a mirror
Someone with such commanding air
And so stern with an impassive demeanor
In the still pool of humid silence
I heard him introduce himself
His sound ringing distinct and clear
Leaving echoes in the caverns of stillness
“I am CON- SCI-ENCE, your alter ego
Listen to me, you shall not stray’’!
When he thus revealed himself before me, I stood
Wonderstruck staring into the face that eluded me for long
Honorable Mention
'Wonderstruck' Poetry Contest
Sponsored by
Robert James Liguori
As I stand before this old, dilapidated house,
A structure fast decaying and about to crumble,
With its walls painted grey and white,
And the plaster bearing cracks and marks,
Memories leap out,
From the moss-grown crevices of my mind,
Like snakes uncoiling, rather like bees swarming,
Fragmented, scented, and sour!
I remember my old maternal uncle,
Who had turned a widower at forty-one,
The presiding deity of a joint family of sixteen.
Most of the time he sprawled in the armchair,
In the enclosed patio of this big house.
In the living room was an old grandfather clock
Ticking away like the faint heartbeat
Of that decadent house with crumbling plaster
He had seen heydays with many ceremonies of great fanfare,
When the house used to board all kith and kin,
And the granary was full of paddy and tons of black gold
But as time slowly weakened his torso
The house too lost its onetime splendor.
His children got scattered far and wide.
They went to hoard fortunes abroad.
But grand uncle refused to move away.
One day he left the house orphaning it for ever.
Now the house is sadly left to total decay.
Its life gone, its soul frozen,
A fragment of an old memory.
Though once I thought I had escaped,
The compulsions of the past
Now I discern, I am still pinioned by it!
As I stand before this house, my ears perk up,
For the lovely sounds this house once produced
And pine for the love
That once so luxuriously bloomed around!
Proud I am children, proud for sure, proud of day and proud of night
I can finally turn the key in my own door
No latent echoes filled with omnious warnings
Measuring out my freedom in abbreviated noons
And uncoiling mornings with elastic circuit of the sun
I can plant my own ten acres of banana more
Beach my own canoe on the shore
And will cut twenty more yards of sugarcane
If they pay me better now to buy a proper loaf
I come this midnight dividing present and past
Dividing hope from despair and brief uncertainty
About the cloud's timing of the rain.
I come to see my own black sorrows rolled back
To taste the ripe green of land and labour
And peace of sovereign gold
I come for me, and I come for Nanny on the mountain
Looking down, and for Bogle's marching done
I come for brother Sam fired dream of freedom
Do you hear their great spirit chanting us
Garvey on the podium after the black, green and gold
Have taken its place proudly amongst the nations of the world
I hear him thunder "rise ye mighty race, rise"
And feel the lightning of the heroes voice
Those all past, and those to come
This is a great moment in the building of a nation
A great berth of ship before the salt waves lick
The sturdy bow, O ye valiant seamen, no cringeing now
No shackled hopes, no tethered dreams, our coffled hearts
Shall be only what reminds of the bitter voyage past
My soul is breathing like the abeng tonight
Atop its pole the flag of Jamaica in full flight.
A fire,
alight beside the darkened door
that waits,
shadow over its weathered bones;
the flames envelop
and choke the heart.
A twisting fate winds like a snake:
sliding, hissing,
curling its wicked tongue -
yet it's nothing but an earthworm
when its eyes dig in
and sear their gaze into your screaming mind.
The fear;
the fear is all you know now.
An old man,
infested with the maggots of his life,
groans in his endless sleep
and blinks away his final tear
as he watches you,
but not the you that is you:
the one that you forgot.
Your memory;
your memory was all you had,
but now its gone
as you cower under the devilled eyes of the snake
and fear to even reach for a strand of light.
The unknown has conquered you.
So what will you do?
Where will you go?
Can you even bear to move that finger
that seeks out freedom
though it was erradicated long ago?
A black-thought tear expands in the gloom
and slithers down your shaken form,
but you can't bear to look at it,
nor the eye that reflects in its sheen.
This is all that's left for you now.
This fate is all your fault.
Perhaps, if you'd left that skull-crossed blade
behind the darkened door
with its weathered bones
and its uncoiling snake
and left your boiling anger
in the small cauldron of dark-twisted hate
and tossed the key away,
the sun would still shine upon you
and maybe,
just maybe,
you'd find that smile you left behind.
It starts gently—like a setting sun,
a tingling drift uncoiling in my abdomen,
tracing meticulous pathways through my frame.
It slithers into my mind, a weight both foreign and familiar,
a harbinger of past collapses,
whispering peril in the language of ghosts.
A whisper becomes a tremor, becomes a howl.
The cold vacuum yawns wide, swallowing every lucid thought.
The world outside disintegrates into shadow.
Fear is no longer a possibility—it is law.
Rational thought fractures,
splintering beneath its weight.
I am hunted—
by echoes, by specters,
by the certainty of failure.
A thousand past mistakes resurface,
each one carved into my skin.
My heart pounds, hammering dread into my ribs,
a steady cadence of self-inflicted peril.
I drift—untethered, lost in a space with no end,
caught in a current I cannot fight,
dragged by a tide I cannot name.
I have strayed from the path.
My only armor is retreat,
a desperate crawl into the deepest alcoves of my mind.
I search for anchors, for proof of the real,
but terror clings to me, thick as tar—
a parasitic thing feeding on certainty,
swallowing past and present whole.
Damn, it’s painful.
I question the steps that led me here,
the fractured frame of my own making.
I am reduced to a child—
small, breakable,
locked in combat with invisible horrors
as they claw their way from the abstract
into the marrow of my bones.