Long Venues Poems
Long Venues Poems. Below are the most popular long Venues by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Venues poems by poem length and keyword.
Searching for the Good
Alas, the search continues
peering eyes in all the venues
as the pure and holy seek
all the virtues of the meek
their old and brittle bones
re-sounding creaky church pew tones.
Cold blinders to their views
force the “olds” upon the “news”
as the suit they wish to fill
is a fulfillment of their will
draped upon the soul of others
for they know it slowly smothers
all the “ifs” and “buts” and “druthers”.
Their quest fails by “default”
for the one they would exalt
is but a slickly polished ruse
a “three shelled” talking muse
slyly twisting every virtue
“Eddie Haskell” come to court you.
There are those who earn the name
who do what’s right not seeking fame
know the essence of a “good”
not shaped by brick and stone and wood
for the substance of their truth
springs from a single root
fed by unpolluted streams
feeding still idyllic dreams.
11/1/2016
submitted to – A good man – Poetry contest
Grant me rest under your lissome stems
Let me hide from the raindrops — shiny globules
That drip with tropical hauteur,
Rain that harms the ribs with cold rebukes.
Welcome me within your greenish lair, from
Your cane roots to your starry leaves —I insist on visiting
In your prime, so fresh with dew and so green, like
The envy in the gritty eyes of singed composts,
When waving rays of the shifting sun
Bathe the narrow venues formed by adjoining stems
Up, up and up the stairs and dome of the jungle.
I pray to shoot up with you and befriend the skies.
Oh, such elevation!
Fill my gourd with green wine;
Make me drunk with the spewing colours of life.
My heart is open to receive light —from misty dawn to
Dusk crowned with your blessing.
Let it rain on, I pray.
My palms are spread out like your leaves — I borrow the
Innocence of your frondescence.
Carve me flutes from your nodes, and, from them
Raise the cadences for summons, to be accompanied by
Drums fashioned by hands greased by the gifts of
The forests. . . .
Raise the joy, the frenzy, the tone of the ceremony
Raise, raise . . . upheave them
To royal heights — such as yours.
My dreams are bright
feather light
at night
conditions right
Carefree
Mind free
Life's challenges
to be won
Feeling warmth
from noonday sun
I dream of water
floating
boating
with Dad
Sparkle Lake
water ripples
Lost Dad
Double nickels
Still sad
Memory trickles
I dream of sky
Fly
High
Cropduster
Single prop
Big John
Name drop
Macho swagger
Li’l Baby
Taildragger
I dream in hues
greens, blues
Love so true
dancing with you
Faces aglow
manhattans flow
Bummer—
Need a drummer
Low-rent venues
party continues
I dream less bright
feather light
at night
conditions right
Carefree
Mind free
As when I
was young
Colder now
in the setting sun
At first we had traumatic stress
just being born
and later shock of near death,
physical and mental,
natural and spiritual,
lack of health
and unsafe, messy wealth.
Then traumatic cultural stresses
grew up into a global syndrome
of sad neglect
toxic fueling chronic depression,
multicultural repression
caste suppression,
cognitive and affective
double-binding dissonant
multigenerational dissociation.
Then post-traumatic historic stress syndrome
swept up panic attacks,
disabling shell shock,
invasive violent cultural shlock,
long-term victimization locks,
criminalization ad hoc
legislated abominations,
violent domestic and national monoculturing schools
of semi-thought through
flowing pure and healthy imaginations
creeping toward chronic creepy anxiety,
lose/lose de-nihilistic codependency,
mutually assured destruction
in bloodless
micro-annihilating pools.
Now we have pre-traumatic herstoric stress syndrome
for ever more biocultural pathology
in internal
and external climates,
venues,
lyrics and lessons,
narratives of unraveling devolutions
inevitably heavy self-implicating
stiff-necked stubborn scales
In-between disempowering monoculturalism
monopolistic monotheism
ego-privileged anthro-supremacism,
economic ecological lack of co-invested empathy,
And enlightened EarthPatriotic resonance
anxiously anticipating
polycultural revolutions
sustaining robust health care
ecosystemic wealth.
Why does it matter
if we sing or dance or call
"Make American Trauma Again"
pre- and post-suffering
the greatest response of all?
Isn't trauma of unrelenting win/lose competitions,
of StraightWhiteMale aggressive monoculturalism,
mono-egotheism,
monopolistic theology,
a culturally devolving climate trend?
Inside and outside,
before and after traumatic birth
and death of isolated individuals
swimming in a hegemonic
demonizing atmosphere
of win/lose capitalist self-defeating wounds
at risk of overwhelming all empowering lovely acts
and pre-post-enlightened passionate hearts
For resilient
ecotherapeutic stories
of positive
multiculturally cooperative
green peace
health care wealthy resonance.
A drop of summer, pleasing--over there
I thought it wanted me, no want of ground
but want of me, instead a pleasant sound
of birds merging and darting thoroughfare
seemingly clueless of their doing-dare
o'er crowds busy about, looking spellbound
course to escape amiss ahead turned round
to freedom with the banners released to air.
In the opened venues queues roundabout
every which way as the buying frenzy
curtailed from end to pass the noontime lunch
crowd slowing and going but caterers doubt
that the dinner crowd will be as lengthy
till gathering increased, gave them a hunch.
Underneath our sins/ they call us sinners
Underneath our pride???underneath our happiness? Buried within society? We heard them shout?
We heard them shout at the top of their lungs. We heard them shout where we were going and when we were going there. We heard them call us “Devils.
“Devils”??How could we be devils?? We were only just alive. We didn't choose to be this way, it just happened like this. We went to the venues for confession but they only shamed us more. They shamed us for coming clean, they humiliated us, kicked us out and closed the door.
-So what now. Where will we go? It's ok, forget about it, pack your bag and put on a smile. We're leaving but we'll come back after a while. Underneath my strong assertive exterior there is a person scared that they have to go. A person that regrets ever letting the world know. A person that took advice from someone living on the same planet yet a different world .
We heard them shout at the top of their lungs. We heard them shout that sooner or later we would have to stop this sin. We heard them call us miscreants. MIscreants?? As in criminals?? What have we done to be classified as such?? As if me expressing my love through a touch is enough to make me into an animal. One deserving of being put into a kennel. Are those who love normal recipients?? Are they the ones worthy?? Does their normal make them better? Does their “holy” mean they’re greater? They shout loudly at the breaker. And their loud shouts grow prouder.
-Underneath that voice shouting lies a girl not so much girl buried within society. Slowly dying to make a break, slowly crawling to catch a breath. Underneath her happiness lies the lies that she hides from the world as she tries to be the best girl in it. Underneath her pride lies a girl that strives to reach and meet the terms of their holy but dries out and dies.
-Underneath their “HOLY”.
They call us villains.
We hear them shouting.
We bear with the pain and the shame… we pack our bags and turn our backs….desperate for the day they will understand our pain and welcome us back
I express my pain loudly yet not trying to provoke thee
They ignore my yells proudly while singing the songs of their holy
It was another grey stone winter.
Menacing Queen Beira terrorized the countryside.
We traveled the winding cobblestone way,
the grey stone winter way.
We believed in anything to get us through the murk,
anything to overlook our disintegration.
We sought patterns, convictions, decrees within the chaos
until all our candles blew out.
We believed in believing and we thought it worked,
so it must have.
When the Queen ended her wrath, we felt the warm balm
of spring restoring our faith in life and order
but the second law of thermodynamics was not reversible.
Our animated order of life expended more energy,
By delaying decay we paradoxically tended toward it,
Like snakes, we shed our skins,
transforming, reforming until death.
The impressions lingering from our consciousness
seek new venues,
we know not the dimensions of these new spectral landscapes.
Not created, not destroyed, our energy transcends
only by the menacing queen.
The Lotus Eaters page 1 of 2
(This is an original fiction by Earl based on the fiction by Homer. Part 2 of this is in a 2nd. posting)
Northern unkind gales forced, with no care to man or nature
The cunning, the brave, the great King Odysseus and his crew to draw off course
From Ithica, their home and one true destination
A strange land happened upon them by fate and chance
Appeared from nowhere, but did enchant them one and all
We’ve come to learn this is the Isle Lotophagi.
Glorious scented lotus fields rolled up, waving against moving vast hills
Winds gave them life over flowing there
With majestic summer’s heated wilds
Holding the world intact
Boulders lined up as giants against the ancient unencumbered breathing skies
Virgins in yellow and pink silk, filled in the silence of morn with vigilance
While gathering sweet cold water in fragile jugs along the foreign stream
Within the golden landscape scene the lotus eaters lived
In tender innocence, no cares in the world, or of their fate awaiting
Hectic red steadfast on earth this day as sun rose stronger than venues of time
But not too late
To mold the landscape in its style in brightness that takes the sight of man to shelter
The cunning Odysseus, and his men are hungry, tired, worn of war and lust for water from that shore
Before they sail to Ithica with furor to their missions end
Determined one and all
They must rest, take in splendors of this world and learn their love and lore
The king and sailors did much more. The lotus eaters, as they’re called
Running the 95 from Jacksonville to Richmond
On a Sunday afternoon in June
The thermometer and the road signs read the same
Sunny and hot, the miles were winding away
When the gas tank and the hour called for a pit stop
Down the ramp we went to Small Town South, USA
The sign said BP and Old Time Diner, half mile away
I fed the car first and then snuck across the two lane
The Old Time Diner was not much to look at
The wife was not enthusiastic about the place
However, the boy and I were hungry
Chicken was fried, pork was smoked, beef was slow cooked
And smothered in gravy, collards were sweet, lima beans,
Corn on the cob, biscuits warm, corn bread, banana pudding
Can you smell it? Can you see it? Can you taste it?
The patrons were plentiful, the waitstaff was old
A sound track of greatest hymns serenaded us
I sang along as I know each one
The boy chastised my singing, but with a smile
It’s a joyous meal, I’ve had better vittles
And certainly, dined in more upscale venues
Never enjoyed a meal more!
For almost an hour I fed my belly and my soul
I was witness to America and her people
This was the America I know and love
The America that is everywhere, and yet
Remains hidden to the ones who would deign not
To stop at The Old Time Diner, Small Town South, USA
Quote: In the dusting of the springtime scented smiles of yesterday,
lingering softly in my mind, on this beautiful month of May;
Tender petals fresh anew fragrant perfume fills the air
in my garden wedding venues garland crowns and bands of gold
Wafting kisses lacey skirts by springtime fair
Enjoy the daisies, marigolds and boutonnieres
let the ghosts of winter sleep beneath the sweet magnolia tree;
Faeries, Maypole Dancers let them share
garlands, ribbons, tea time laughter too
Flimsy shawls for evening walks breezes barely there
secrets shared in hush tone whispers by the garden square
Watch the fairies dance around in the thicket forest patch;
Fountain wishes copper pennies let the hopes renew
paradise awaits us dear won't you come home too
large peonies pink as roses, sweetly blossoming for you
walk the pathway view my flowers, soaked in morning dew
let the memory lead you back, down the primrose path.