Long Unswept Poems
Long Unswept Poems. Below are the most popular long Unswept by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Unswept poems by poem length and keyword.
AI cannot break your heart
in slow, fracturing pieces
or phrases of feeling
like an onion
that doesn’t want
to be cut open
in your warm kitchen
on a spring evening
when the cardinals
are chattering
and mating outside
your modest
windows.
AI cannot feel
the tense muscles
of your lover’s back
when he lays on top of you
and you taste the
perfection
of his sweat.
AI cannot drink
warm red wine
from a hand-painted
cheap wine glass
while you sit alone
on your unswept
back porch and consider
the shape and chaos,
and the untamed smell
of long grass.
AI cannot hear the
softer barred owl
that you can never see
on a still trail
in the middle of
the bicentennial
greenway.
AI cannot write this.
AI cannot feel this,
see, touch, or experience
my precious life.
I am grateful
in knowing
simply that.
Blood-full, swollen
Ripe with hunger
of all varieties
Fevered, sweltering
A sweaty temple
Rusted, cobwebbed
Unswept and unwashed
Distant, Left swinging
In the wind, far from notice
Heat lightning! Strike the ground!
Boil, tumble, the shape of your mouth!
Fire, fire, red fire! Melting to the bone..
Oh, oh, oh! Before, during, after!
All the time! More, more, more butterflies
More everything, more throbbing, heaving!
Oh god, can't stop laughing!
..
Failed, glass-blown thing
Knocked off the edge of a ship
Filling with silt, cement and bile
Smothered, frozen veins,
locked into place, eyes closed
Too tired, too heavy
To utter another word
Peeking through a keyhole
Moving around in the chrysalis
Thinking, only a little, about
Reaching out, or in, or in between
Sleepy but curious, again
Flesh is building up, maybe it's time
to come down stairs for breakfast
Unrestrained Summer Fun
Unrestrained summer fun. Uninvited Feds frolicking, throwing unarmed people in unmarked vans. Rollers ride, with unchecked power, distributing death to those undeserving of it. Millions sick, from unseen marauders. Poets fueled, by undead spirits.
Unrestrained summer fun.
Under a bridge sleeps the undignified welcome committee for the unjustly unemployed. Unpaid rent leads to under-served sleep on unswept ground. Underneath is an under current, threatening to leave an entire nation undone.
Unrestrained summer fun.
Understanding what it means to be under the undermining influence of unrestrained summer fun is undesirable. Patiently we wait to no longer live under the gun.
A train travels under a bridge. I’ll try not to end up underneath it.
Although it’s almost autumn
And the stands are stacked with mums,
It somehow feels like we’ve been stuck
With summer’s unswept crumbs.
For temps are in the 70’s,
So folks are wearing shorts;
And baseball scores are still a part
Of all the sports reports.
There’s watermelon in the stores
And burgers on the grill;
Mosquitoes buzz around the screens,
Their thirst for blood to fill.
Yet shops are decked for Halloween
And football season’s started.
Ice cream trucks have hushed their bells
And for the south departed.
The almost-fall’s confusing.
We’re betwixt and we’re between;
But Mother Nature, with her paintbrush,
Soon will intervene.
When oaks and elms and maples
Sport their red or russet hues,
Then autumn will be here for real
And we won’t have to choose.
His seared look, from a painted gird brow dons,
a face like Van Gogh with both ears, though just,
as lost, looks about an empty room of challenges,
that is built high on lost convictions, drowns in a,
festering of desperation, as sweats beads a stench,
on an unswept floor, wavering, between old unhealed,
wounds of a, dark past, all attached to young love,
and their new miseries.
He takes a swig and walks away from a sultry,
sway as a piano's light tune, breaks off key and,
holds, as a blown off woman pops her gum and,
snobs at his direction unnoticed and wanders off,
while a glib man in slick clothes offers a chance at,
cards, he simply walks away until a chair moves,
from behind, it's slick, he then stops with his back,
still faces him, a chair slides back, he walks on.
He comes up to the man at the piano, who is a bit,
jittery, asked hm if he knew a song called, 'Ole
Susanna', he replied saying that he never heard of,
that song, he then steps back a spell and figured,
him to be from the north, and gives him a look like,
a Picasso painting for he knows that people out West,
knows, 'Ole Susanna', so he's thinking that things are,
afoot here in this town, as he looks around at stares.
He backs away, on back to the bar, takes a final swig,
as a jingled coin settles to silence in the uncanniness,
of a quietude western bar, as he dons his hat, the,
bartender hollers that set the bar back to its norm, girls,
giggling, cards shuffling, piano playing, and all of the,
joviality returns, as the new guy in town, hops on a horse,
and pulls away as a normal western town fades in the sun as,
a drifter stops, turns and sees afar off, a painting by Monet.
White rope of sunlight
Tethered through my chest
Shot clean through to my spine.
Gordion knotted to my backbone.
I can feel the knuckles of it
Between my shoulder blades.
Pinching rope with a yawn.
No contortion reaches the lonely
Mark, the treasure on a map.
I have never begged for the sword,
I never imagined needing it.
My wrists are too weak,
Sinew is salt, muscle manicled.
Sometimes, as if in a dream
The rope slackens as sunlight
Slips beneath the sleep crusted
eyelid of dusk. Dust on the
windowsill dances—-Celebrating.
Is it for me? A reverie? Or
The potential, praise for one more day
Unswept, unkempt, a knot of effort
Unmassaged can swell to blackness.