Long Unrepeatable Poems
Long Unrepeatable Poems. Below are the most popular long Unrepeatable by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Unrepeatable poems by poem length and keyword.
The clock's black hand, a surgeon's knife,
Slices the present from the past.
This singular, particular life
Is made of moments that don't last.
The way the light fell on the wall,
A certain slant of afternoon,
The sound of nothing, and then all
The quiet rising of the moon.
The coffee's steam, a spiral drawn
Between your fingers and your lips,
Before the fragile thread is gone,
Before the final, cooling sips.
The laughter that we cannot hold,
That spills like coins from a ripped purse,
A story someone briefly told,
For better, or for worse.
We try to trap it, press it flat
In photographs or yellowed pages,
A captured fly in amber, that
Defies the turning of the ages.
But it's a ghost, a mimicry,
A hollow where the sound has fled.
The only truth is: this, for me,
For you, for now. Then gone. Then dead.
So let the unrepeatable be
A sharp and startling, sweet surprise.
Not something to be caught, but see
With full acceptance in your eyes.
And then release it, let it flow
Back to the river it came from.
The only way to keep it? Know
Its beauty is it will not come
Again.
In the depths of thought, where memories blend with dreams,
I walk a path of shadows and lights, where experiences weave in silence,
A voice whispers of the trap of generalization, a labyrinth of illusions,
Where each personal story is a distinct universe, a solitary galaxy.
That woman, with eagle-like steps, turned her love into guidance,
Seeking truths in messages and shadowed street corners of uncertainty,
But each of her gestures, a metaphor of fear, built walls between hearts,
The advice given to a friend became an echo that shattered the silence of love.
A coffee thrown in the tumult of a business meeting, a symbol of mistrust,
Turned into a storm of tears and reproaches,
Bitter words and rash gestures, a play without a script,
In which unseen details rewrote the ending, a divorce that closed chapters.
Understanding, an unfathomable labyrinth, where each detail is a key,
And ignorance, a monster that distorts reality,
In the flow of consciousness, I wonder how it would have been if we had looked gently,
If we had allowed mystery to tell its silent story.
In a world of mirrors and reflections, where nothing is identical,
Experiences melt away, like snowflakes, unique and unrepeatable,
And perhaps the lesson is to look with open eyes, to listen with the heart,
Not to dramatize absurdly, but to embrace uncertainty as an old friend.
In front of my houses, on leather, we
were sitting, and I cannot figure why,
but he was to my right. Why would he be
on the passenger side? That is where I
ought to have been – the closest to the door!
However, that’s the way I recall it.
He touched my face, and I could not ignore
sensations, never wanting them to quit.
His lashes were so long – dark like his eyes.
“Do you know what butterfly kisses are?”
he asked me, gazing at me like his prize.
His lashes touched mine. In that lovely car,
I melted when his mouth met softly mine.
His Riviera had become my shrine.
Part 2:
I chose to write on this moment because it was so special to me. This young Canadian came into my life (then left) right before my 16th birthday. The feelings he brought me can never be duplicated, so they fit the theme of “unrepeatable.” Also, many of my romantic poems were inspired by this moment as well as by that entire night.
No lines were difficult for me to write because I chose a form I love to use. However, the final couplet was a bit difficult. Upon editing this poem, I only switched out a few words or phrases to make those lines more specific. For example, my first line had been “Inside his lovely Riviera, we” . Because I mention the car’s name at the end, and because I wanted to get in the fact we were parked in front of my house, I changed line 1.
A secret accord written in breaths,
Configured in kisses and celestial caresses,
A saga-rhapsody we inscribe in flights of love,
Upon this stringless harp called Love.
Ancestral pact,
Woven from sacred gestures, liturgies of the bodies
That hide behind a curtain of raw and fierce desire,
We prefigure the metamorphosis, from beasts to those who drape in divine silks -
In the temple of love, the fervor softens, becomes tenderness.
In your magical whirl, there I lose myself, trying to pronounce your name,
As a nighttime sparkle seeks a gentle reflection in the cold water,
My desire, a traveler without clothes, eagerly searches for your lips,
Weaving, in the silence of moments, the eternity of a tempestuous kiss.
Our hidden power, a perpetual transfiguration,
Words become fervent refrains, playful,
And weighing ecstasy in the empire of our unrest.
Our free bodies dance and crash in an irresistible longing,
You know me from before the world,
And I penetrate you as the zephyr whispers across the plain,
Yes, the potency of love is the cloak that conceals us, crowns us
With the edge of a white gazebo,
Pure and unrepeatable as the malt of our fervent love,
Tumultuous and headstrong, like the hazard of our passion,
The power of love is the murmur of day and night.
Looking skywards, the Alsatian’s eyes glinted for a split second, connecting to a piercing sun ray.
The ray beamed onto dried semen ammonia. Hot dog breath puffed from his nostrils, onto my bare arm.
He sprung next to a sweating succulent, where a tiny kruisbessie leaf quivered human sperm cell display, in a whimpering breeze.
This was a filigree second, in a day of twenty-four hours times twenty-four hours.
Next the Alsatian’s back muscles rippled.
Coarsely-soft black-brown hair along his spine needled up. Four other police dogs whelped in frenzy. He gave a whip snort-sniff, then one sharp bark of achievement.
Wolf ancestry pupils dilated, penetrating that of his handler.
Time, matrixed into bruised, scratched body was a figment, my cells metabolising light and raw earth like the fragrant koppie bushes. Detective voices sliding sediment rock were parachutes opening, falling, dissipating __the helicopter an incessant mozzie.*
“Hy’t dit gekry.” **
The Alsatian with his helper dogs found the evidence of a brutal ripping of my young teen daughter’s virginity, by an impoverished farm worker, on a rugged hill in the Little Karoo.
THE ALL partnered with dogs for humans.
from my loins, a jewel
God connected sun with earth
violence, a teacher
_________________
*mozzie : slang word for mosquito
** “He’s found it.”
_________________
This lifetime’s moment is etched into my evolving DNA as experience. The power of seeing an Alsatian’s eyes connect in radar, with the heavenly Sun, directing him to dried semen on a delicate fynbos* leaf was astounding. Instant perception was one specific gift during great trauma. I chose this unrepeatable moment as it emerged from memory when I read the contest details.
No line was hard to write, though I shed a couple of stagnant tears.
I deleted how I was able to access the best sniffer dogs in the country, the Alsatian and his handler being flown in from another city. I deleted contextual details about the time.
____________________
*fynbos : fine sweet smelling bushes, some producing small flowers, indigenous to South Africa. Rocky koppies are often covered with them, making this type of hill challenging to climb.
PLACED NINTH : Premier Contest
Sponsor: Daniel Henry Rodgers
Feb. 26
Staff Meeting
At my desk each morning,
over my first cup off coffee,
I call the staff meeting to order,
a gathering together
of my various bits and parts
that scattered in the night,
each to its own devices,
be they terror,
notes on that yellow legal pad,
erotic fantasy,
unrepeatable indecencies
uttered in an unfamiliar patois,
a mélange of whirs and clicks,
whooshing breaths,
mah jong tiles scattered in patterns
I don’t understand.
On mornings that don’t hurt
they settle gently
into orderly arrangements,
designs and lines of poems,
the fabric of my day.
Other mornings,
the more ordinary ones,
they reject my need,
become ash
that I scoop into the urn
of yet another
lost
day.
In my dream, a porthole of misty seas, I find myself anew,
My skull, a closed shell, from the shell of a celestial egg,
Together with you, I recreate you from the clay of memories,
Blowing upon you the eternal kiss of desires.
We rejuvenate for a millennium while God rests,
Allowing our souls to bloom in the dandelion of humanity,
A corporeal flower, intoxicated by hallucinatory longing and living water,
Drowned in thoughts, living your new, unrepeatable eternity.
Just as life dares to transport its soul into a corpse,
We chew words spoken before the dawn of destiny,
Foaming fortune in the fire of what was given to us,
In the spring rains, my love, our destiny will sprout.
My love will bloom even after death, within you,
In a dance of eternity, under the star-filled sky,
Dreams will guide our steps on the mysterious paths of the heart,
Wandering through metaphors, in search of the sublime truth.
Connecting dots is gathering
the quiet movements of time,
moments scattered like sparks
across the map of a life.
Each dot stands alone at first,
its own small universe,
a single breath of experience
waiting to find its place.
But slowly, they drift together,
forming constellations of memory,
galaxies built from seconds,
minutes, hours, days,
weeks, months, years,
and the long stretch of decades.
Patterns emerge from the chaos,
simple lines growing into
complex shapes of who we are.
A universe takes form,
unique, unrepeatable,
drawn from every choice,
every joy, every wound.
Yet the world around us
shapes the way we connect them.
Society, environment, circumstance,
they bend the lines,
shift the angles,
challenge the pathways
between one moment and the next.
Still, we keep tracing,
dot by dot,
until the picture becomes clear:
a life made luminous
by the way we choose
to connect our stars.
Worlds around me faded and melted away
When he was placed beside me
With my doctor exclaiming- “Look at your baby boy”
It felt like heaven stepped on earth.
Those moments, which couldn’t be captured in a camera,
Are captured in my inmost heart and can never be repeated.
* * * * * *
He came, the dainty Darling of our dreams!
He came, high from Heaven, like a cherubim sent,
With promises full and hopes in store,
To fill the void within our souls.
To burst the silence, with the clatter of sounds
To dispel the gloom, that hovered on.
He came, like the first rain on parched ground,
To drench the arid lands in profuse shower,
To ease the prick of sweltering heat,
To put out the fire of growing drought
He lay close to me, the bundle of joy!
His dark little eyes poised on my face,
Full with words on silent lips,
And innocence on his glistening visage
I peered into that cute little face,
The face I had long fondled in my dreams,
I whirled in the feel of prime feed,
And swam in the glory of maternal bliss!
It was after long 12 years of waiting and after rigorous treatment for acute endometriosis, that our first son was born to us at a time when we had given up all hopes. Our joy knew no bounds. Now he is 36 and is pursuing a successful career in Law, a loving father to my only grandchild! After three years, my second son also was born. I believe they are gifts from God and I thank Him to have made the impossible possible! There are unforgettable moments in life, as in the lives of all. Some, sad, some joyful and some, unrepeatable. The above is indeed an unrepeatable moment, the aftereffect of which continues to add sheen and sunshine into our once dampened life. . I had concluded my poem with two other lines, but changed as the joy of the first feed is still alive in me and I struggled to translate that feeling through proper words.
she showered the sky in anthracite crimson and sepia
eclipsed broken pencils and crayons moulded together
took a fading snap shot in memory of what’s yet to come
a soft touch surpassed clawed grips of splintered sorrow
outlined peripheral beauty on the transcripts of passing
rescued cinnamon and ultramarine from darkness of night
as she climbed past the pinnacle of rational composure
fresh mysterious shades surpassed stark intentional hues
compounded tapestry of magical sketches into her truth
when the moon waxed in slow motion to a tune of innocence
doubts waned as evaporation dried the canvas and pattern
of unrepeatable capture of reason to emotion’s delight
she took another sip from an overflowing fountain of measure
repainted the scene from scrap books of subconscious mind
unaware of translucent epiphanies moistened on parchment
18th May 2020