Long Unused Poems
Long Unused Poems. Below are the most popular long Unused by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Unused poems by poem length and keyword.
I have a box with forgotten words
And punctuation seldom used
In this box are synonyms
And grammar I’ve abused
There are commas there and colons too
Apostrophes spilling out the top
But the one thing there that I’ve got most
Are unused periods to make a sentence stop
I have one friend this bugs the most
Says no periods make my poems fuzzy
So I’ve collected them all and present them now
To the wonderful Deborah Guzzi
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Please feel free to apply them now
To my poems written in the past
I know it’s an offense I’m repeating again
But, I assure you this won’t be the last
A jackdaw is stealing
my tote bag of unused words,
a rodentlike kibitzer, a pecking dictator
of the worthiness of sounds.
If I run out of bullets now
he will take over my range,
blue-pencil my graffiti,
he will denounce me
as a purveyor of insensible languages,
a peddler of demonstrations
made for the amusement
of dabbling dilettantes.
Then I shall be defenseless.
I will have to render down
the fat of my mind
and when it is all as lean tree bark
it will be my own wickiup,
there I will wait
until he comes creeping again
into my larder, aiming to rob me
of my last cracked chicken bones,
my winter store
to make just a little broth
for my tongue.
Your mother Mary lay you down
in a bed of hay, and that was incredibly humble;
your foster father Joseph made it all possible...
he raised you in his birth town,
to keep you safe from the pagans
who worshiped those gods you called idols!
In a bed of hay, little King, you watched unafraid
that log-tailed star that stopped over the unused manger at the inn...
where the cow and the donkey breathed hard to keep you warm;
and how could the Wise Men have known of your coming,
to take on a long journey and claim you their King,
refusing to return to the almighty Herod the Great?
When the angels appeared above and started to sing
words of peace and good will toward men, and the shepherd boy,
who heard their voices, ran down the hill to fall on his knees...
while the drummer-boy played his drum by the drooping palm tree;
and others came to visit you and offer you their gifts!
The Magi came with gold, incense and myrrh:
the three gifts that revealed the stages of you destiny,
and you accepted them by showing no fear!
In a bed of hay, little King, you invite the blind and the sick,
the persecuted and the poor to get rid of their hopelessness:
to enter into the Kingdom where gracious love is the temple of holiness,
where no one is ever turned away if that soul has faith!
In a bed of hay, we declare you King,and you stare at us:
speaking of Paradise...proclaiming a divine message that God approves!
Copyright 2008 by Andrew Crisci
1.
the crystallised handkerchief
of one’s span of life
your handloom-bird brings with its lips
some musical notation of the nimbus
holding that waves within the heart
how much growth does occur
to the sandal-line of a man
or
it does
fall
the blades of grasses are known well
to be vegetarian
the eyes of the reindeer
have cent per cent smelling of fish
then what translation would you suggest
for the fingers of wild titlark
the shirt
they have put on the body of this night-stone
what best word-meaning does match it
but land-lotus
2.
i’ve re-constructed
all the trees and plants
with
the dry straws grass twigs collectively
fetched by beak
and the monsoon
as well
the full-brim of vodka
is deep in the palms
in that moonlight
a sleeping-tablet
does take a dip-swimming
within her enfolding
there may be the whole works of rabindranath
from the breathing of cd-player
spreads around
the sound of horse’s hoof
there is the bed-sheet of dusts
on the anger
kept bound within the cover of rexin
it’s true
our vineyards are still
prone to stones
then it does not seem
that the boiled moon sets
into the tea-cup
3
in your songs
still lies
immense green
the bed-room is too
very bright
the walnuts
walking along the path
that touches the rain-shore
make me think likely
on a sunday
kept in an envelop
when the bedcover of the early morning
speaks frankly
what’s in its mind
to the soap-water
the ears of the horse
in the wall-calendar
look very crazy
i can remember
one day
the sun-boats would tear their wrappers
their whisper would want to discover
the inclinations and thoughts of the creepers and herbs
possessed by the lady-volunteers
their yawing would notice
so many unused handlooms
taking a run-away on the clouds
now
would the cat under the beautiful jersey
finally think of waking up
then i’ll go
to deposit the clever apples
along with
all the triangles accompanying it
to the nearest cold-storage
There in plain view a secret box
That held all his letters
Remants of your favorite flower
One to like, well never
At the bottom a plane ticket
To a destination
Undesired, frozen Alaska
Total aberration
Why hold onto dead love letters?
Or his favorite flower
An unused plane ticket crackled_
Why reminisce this hour
So different this strange couple
In flowers, expressions
Held together by a secret box
A unique possession
Within that box sealed away; things
Some bad these which they sling
Forget their existence, buried
Now that secret box cling
Cling to every precious moment
A love that lasted through
Good times and bad, hard times and sad
Divine love story true
Inspired by: Laura Loo's Contest_Combination of Three Phrase_Poetry
Written: January 02, 2016
Through the night as I sleep, I dream, I dream, of a time which yet to come, to come, Can I really become all I was meant to be, That Great Potential locked within, locked within me to be, I cannot see it with my natural eyes, eyes to see within me, but oh what vision there is to see, to see that is me. I will not allow it to go to the grave unused, use it must be done. Life but a step away from the grave, which is waiting for all one day. Light is brighter when darkness is around, to the ground one falls when it’s not in use, reduce to ashes, useless unused. I can't live unless I give, My heart is within, sins sometimes insurmountable, release through Christ it is. Let not your heart be troubled, for Christ has forgiven it all. That's what He has done for you and me to see, It's the key, that's what your dream shall be, to make you free, free indeed you shall be.
The FutureNow
Early Autumn.
Lazy Sunday morning.
Coffee cooling.
Reading poetry, writing pooretry.
Viewing artworks, editing photographs.
Eggs and crumbcake, long since
consumed.
Forgot by mind, by mouth
though not by belly.
Hawks foreground the
white puffery in the North sky,
circling.
Perhaps challenged by a corvid.
Something black seems to dislike its circling.
It’s presence.
It’s self.
The birch showers in newly not-green and softly serrated
leafery.
Dropping into cappuccino.
Into coffee.
Onto keyboard and camera.
Into hair.
Upon the unused chair.
There, beside us.
A carpet to inspire the sole
of the barefeet we eat in.
We ate in.
The rustle seems to murmur something
about the season.
The ages.
The world.
The hawks cry out.
Continually.
Distant.
They could be anywhere.
They are just there far over there
but
could be anywhere.
To place the call of a hawk is no
small thing.
To resolve them in the bluevast
no easier, true.
The leaves, seem to tire of the sky
and fall,
seemingly mostly,
on her.
She leaves them where they be.
A forest come home to its
Hera.
Mother Earth:Garden Womb
She is not virginal
Not unused
Not pure
Being ancient
and of old,
Inevitably,
Been touched before.
Many years
a widow,
She is a lonesome,
barren land.
So many
passing lovers;
Needing a faithful
Husbandman.
For she was present
In the first garden;
Feeling the slithering belly
Of the snake.
And when
the curse was given,
One womb quickened,
And The other
Was Laid waste.
The womb smells
of dusty earth.
Her salty tears
bring only pain.
She waits for
the Husbandman
To finally bring
the latter rain.
He will work
the soil
Scrap metal fingers
through to damp.
In love
and anticipation,
Tiny seeds
he will plant.
If the womb
is ready,
If it is
the perfect time,
Then
the Planted seeds
Will grow
into
The True Vine.
Growth
will begin,
Bearing fruit,
Lusty,
Strong,
And Bold.
Increasing
and multiplying
Making a Mother
Of the Old.
The canoe turned upside down
Leaning on the bracket type attachment
Held air born unused
Casting a cresent shadow againt the barn
Discarded window boxes lying in path
Window boxes unused for awhile
The evidence that the canoe has been air borne
Dying from misuse and neglect_____
Canoes are made for water
Elegant are they rightfully used
Graceful floating paddled along
Just don't clumsily stand onesided
When will the opportunity arise
For the canoe to float again
Soon will be great, sooner even better
Freedom and destiny on cool clear water
(Jotted down when waiting for
Cody to see about his dad.)
i don't cower to death, he had me in his grasp
faltering through the sudor of illness
my heart beating slower than time's hands
like a worthless clock on the wall needing replaced
ashen flesh bore his mark, a kiss against my blueish lips
somehow missing his quarry, while i awaited my wings
he still abides in the dumping ground of memories
with promises broken, love unspoken, and heartless liars
in a dashboard of broken dreams long abandoned
that stalk my existence, awaiting to be restored
to recommence through the pathways of my mind
as more than just unused rusted out frames of thoughts
that only resurface in the outburst of downcast eyes
when the shadows of sorrow grapple my emotions
as he purloins another from existence before me
I don't cower to death, he had me in his grasp
the attrition of time has left me emotionless
unscathed by his touch yet numb beneath his kiss
through past's rear-views as i unwillingly await my wings
October 4, 2019
My Favorite Junkyard poetry contest
Sponsored by Craig Cornish