Long Untended Poems
Long Untended Poems. Below are the most popular long Untended by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Untended poems by poem length and keyword.
An earth in exhale of sigh, rising up, rising down in lungswell
till the air and forest becomes flash paper dry
Eoning as its corner eye looks in disgust
at the red flashed sky mirroring the pits of shale
The Unmooring of the World A Copses of Souls impaled by the by and by
Of the Deepest Slain in the coals
A Tumultuous, Ebb and Flow of broken Souls
Flotsam and Jetsaming in Sheoles foam,
An Eon in the Night that has never woken from
untended its suspended slumber
A Mournful, hell mouthful-Inflamed sliver of Echoed choking ember
tasting the not yet, but impending scape of Morpheus pudding cloud
Lifts its lids quickly open to a distances closer screaming for crying out loud
on the cores plasmatic searotic river gushing in gushing out
like a locomotive trudging errant, but right on time
Wave of signs, sine wave and sin city hives
Yes, we're right on time
......To be taken as the spoils of the dead, left for, the unspoken for
Unraveling the Sorrow of All that's Fallen, to the stakes
aiding and abetting our own Olympus in death throes faces
under anastesia of strobing
Unbound to Eternal Sorrow, Unbound to Eternal Despair calling
Unveiling of the Mystery of the Unseen, Hollows
EonS, Foremost- Slain of Raven eye of Savant Kingsgame Throne again St.
To unweave itself cleaven to token Fear-
A Mournfold, In flames A Shudder of Echoes morse coding the remains "distress is near, distress is near!"
and of negative ion of droplet spear?,- Unbreakable pandemonium-arears
A Copse of Souls A neural shame's-acidic tear Unveiling of the Mystery
of the Unseen here, swearing by name, taken in vain.
The memory of fires
Rage in my dreams
Though cooled to embers
Hidden beneath the ash.
The heat comes nightly
Scorching flesh in the scent
Of brimstone and desire
With a touch of Spring.
Embers left untended
Erupt from time to time
Allowing wildfires to reign
Havoc over beauty.
So do I let go of campfire memories--
of joy and singing from the soul,
Stamping them out and pouring water
Until all is cleansed in the stream of smoke?
Or do I come back to tend the embers
Knowing dancing flames may burst forth
With the potential for warmth or destruction
Twirling in abandon of love and happiness?
Some choices are not easy, my friend, and once made, must be seen to conclusion.
And so I dither, wondering if the coals are
Warmth for old age, or heartache's forecasts.
When a whore house was fun
I sat down to write about flowers, those often
called weeds and grows on untended pavements
but another thought got in the way as I recalled
that flowers in a whore house are usually plastic
except for a chrysanthemum on
a painting on a wall of an artistic whore
I have had much fun in houses of ill-repute
it is not only sex but also laughter and dance
The girls liked young sailors and the possibility
of a steady relationship.
It did happen to a sailor coming home from Brazil
with a blushing bride, no need to tell how
they had met
Time has changed, women are victims of men's
sexual demands and places where many victims
operate from have been closed down
Just as well, women in this trade are sex workers
and if not treated rightly, can take a customer
to court, or try a little blackmail
Whoring was more moral before you paid and
had a laughter, not hard-headed business
as the line of work has become
A waning aura no longer flamed enough to flicker a surrender. Decomposes, decompresses like mummification wrap.
An anti-resolvent-fume-
of-infest-chokes-out-integral-yield.
Thick as molasses, blackstrap.
Blight is apathy, and apathy is blight.
A Void, a claim farming the abyss.
Marketing it's lie, on sale.
Though it has a monopoly.
PolyEntropy.
In the garden of life; an empty field of dreams,
lays unintended on its side,
untended save for the shadows
that yield a mock harvest.
Decay on display of manifest.
The sky, descended as a Judas Ascendant,
it's belly gorged with malfeasance.
Exotic particles curse the ground
like wormwood in ritual burn, cache of ashen incense.
Libra sells you back your rye, mildewed and palmer wormed, to bore in at the destitute
at double price, double dealing
with the wages of Sin and Death.
Doubled down.
Doubled over.
So the pendulum swings
with the rusty blade of misuse.
The rose of passion unbloomed.
Ploughshares turned into warmachined torture device. Moreover.
"...and the feeling is dead, and that's the Ultimate Sin."
~Ozzy Osbourne
[They attack the Family... and the Poets are silent.]
"...and that's the Ultimate Sin"
Across the wide meadow of verdant green,
splashes of pastel pink waved in the breeze.
One of the lovliest wildflowers I've ever seen
appeared to ebb and flow like restless seas.
Delicate, the buttercup, its veins finger-traced.
This wildflower beauty with nectared center
stands patiently waiting with an upturned face,
welcoming pollen seekers with, "Please enter."
Enmass they flourish as a grand gift of Nature.
Growing in profusion, untended, they live and die.
They've inspired artists to paint their portraiture,
and innocently open their petals to the butterfly.
April 12th, 2017
Ode to a Flower(s) Contest
Shadow Hamilton
Some learn what they live, it shapes who they are.
Some learn from living, we all bear the scars.
Some learn to be selfish from abuse and neglect.
Some learn to nurture, not harm or reject.
Some learn to reach out, to take in and love.
Some learn to close off, to regress and to shove.
If we learn to inflict as we were inflicted,
Then others will suffer because we were rejected.
If we learn to show love where love is needed,
We break the chain and it isn't repeated.
If you see one in need, untended, alone,
Reach out and accept them and give them a home.
Then you will be happy by blessing another,
And you can know love by loving a brother.
Listen to this grief I tell,
How love away from me didst wind.
And though in time, I think she’ll find
I loved her better – never mind –
The whole of life, its parts combined,
Are only sorrows intertwined.
But on the Plains, the Plains of Asphodel,
Shall it all at last be well!
The whole of life, ‘tis nothing deep,
‘Tis fodder for the compost heap.
Life laughs at us, I laugh at it,
We last through lethargy and wit.
Yet this my rule, ignore the rest:
‘Tis he who dies the first, dies best.
Untended lie the acres of my heart,
Where once a field of roses bowed and swayed.
And gladly from all sorrows shall I part!
Nor by a dismal voyage, be dismayed.
Only ten is she.
Assailable as a child can be.
Her mind drifts, worry at best, fear at worst.
Her ally is her art that expresses it so vividly.
The face that she wears on the page,
a tear drop just below each eye.
This is her identity. Her surroundings exposed.
Can you see her pain,
hidden behind those beautiful eyes?
She wants to be loved like little girls do,
The doll she embraces wants love too.
Through art, her heart is uncovered.
The tears so vivid on the face of a shadowed image.
She is that face.
Rejected by a mothers sin
who can relieve her from this life she navigates, but one friend she holds dear to her heart.
Untended, wasted and forsaken but by God.
If she can find Him.
"The breath of winter holds a hushed enchantment, a captivating stillness." Anna Islington
One frigid February day
after a night’s snowfall
had left my world white and pristine,
I took my new sled
and slowly trudged over
our huge back yard
to a spot which led to
the top of a hill.
Down this hill we children
loved to go sledding.
In white’s silence, I felt utterly at peace
and unhurried.
A few kids had arrived
at the top of the hill
and had already left before I got there.
I could see the tracks of their boots
and was glad to see that their sleds
had made somewhat of a pathway
for me
to go sledding
down.
A few lyrics from “Winter Wonderland”
drifted to my mind,
for the snow around me glistened
beneath winter’s wan sun,
but I was alone in the wonderland.
And no sleigh bells were ringing.
Suddenly I spied a bright cardinal bird
perched on the powdery branch
of an evergreen tree.
Its small red-crested head seemed to nod at me.
I was blessed by that special moment
as I stood transfixed watching it.
I looked down the sledding path
to the thickness of the woods below.
In summer it is a chaos of untended tangled weeds
and clusters of many trees.
On this day – frosted by nature -
the woods appeared the opposite of chaos.
Concealed by snow,
the woods was a picture of beauty
in the cold, breathless air.
Cold, yes, it was so cold.
My mitten-fingers would soon grow numb.
I got hurriedly onto my sled.
Then gliding smootly downward,
I went deeper
and deeper
into winter enchantment.
An anti-resolvent-fume-
of-infest-chokes-out-integral-yield of humanity.
Thick as molasses, blackstrap morass of emnity.
Blight is apathy, and apathy is blight.
A Void, a claim farming the abyss.
Marketing it's lie, on sale.
Though it has a monopoly.
PolyEntropy.
In the garden of life; an empty field of dreams,
lays unintended on its side,
untended save for the shadows
that yield a mock harvest.
Decay on display of manifest.
The sky, descended as a Judas Ascendant,
it's belly gorged with malfeasance.
Exotic particles curse the ground
like wormwood in ritual burn, cache of ashen incense.
Libra sells you back your rye, mildewed and palmer wormed, to bore in at the destitute
at double price, double dealing
with the wages of Sin and Death.
Doubled down.
Doubled over.
So the pendulum swings
in shadows deep, a soul did sleep- in
Crimson and Clover, over and over, so over
the Lords of Plunder.
Its essence lost, a memory weeped as it counts
the costs.
Whispers of sorrow, a silent scream,
in the Wilderness-
under project Blue Beam/Warp Speed.
In the void, the soul did dream of cover
by militias of truth needs to redirect the beams.
The sky, a jumbotron of betrayal and lies,
false witness to commercial treachery
portrayal in its thespian guise.
Cursed particles dance in the wind,
like venus flytrap babys breath.
A haunting reminder of the wages of sin,
the touch of death.
The scales of justice are unbalanced and frayed,
black judgment, jury, executioner-DOJ.
Truth and falsehood in a deadly coliseum
where devouring Lions roam.
The rose of passion, its petals torn,
as humanity's innocence is forever shorn.
As the pendulum swings, a dance of despair,
seduces in masked charade in the wings.
Hope dwindles
in the poisoned communications air.
Ploughshares turned to weapons of hate,
In a world where love is overshadowed, here,
eclipsed by the tech magistrates in monopolistic
fare synods.
The farms bought by syndicates who will use starvation as cattle prod,
obedience broad, shock and awe.
The World Economic Forum is a synod,
a syndicate of Lawless Ones using purse strings to strangle us into submission.
Submission to their Fallen Angel false Gods.