Long Vetted Poems
Long Vetted Poems. Below are the most popular long Vetted by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Vetted poems by poem length and keyword.
Until Now
David J Walker
This poem was waiting for
The right paper before
It is said
It is Written
of
Printed plain words
until now
unspoken
Thoughts and hearts in clouds
Crowds of dry denizens crying in the dust
Until now
Unbroken
On the edge of ether and untried ideas
Of silent sentiments forming the Brokering Reinforcements
Until now
Unavowed nor
Vetted in sentiments of censored compunctions
Flowing in moonlit waterfall forests
Until now
Unnoticed
the Winer is welcomed with inevitable approbation
And essential acclamation while privately negotiating with Spring
Until now
We thought winter might never end
With summers anticipation
Eagerly joining the nation's martial order,
Becoming Uncle Sam's itinerant boarder,
Pledging to defend my country's border,
Against foreign malice and internal disorder.
Callously disregarding my own personal ambition,
Carelessly abandoning familial bonds and social position,
Caustically enlisting in the my country's latest inquisition,
Cheerfully pledging to defend abstract values without condition.
Forthrightly conditioned to to obey without recourse,
Instantly melded into mindless, fraternal force,
A provisioned robot, a designated national resource,
Vetted to die for patriotic cause without slightest remorse.
Subjugated to the imperial dictums of state,
Compensated a minimal wage for perilous fate,
Commissioned to fight amorphous foes without face,
Trained to annihilate belligerents without trace.
INTROSPECTION
reiterated &continous
an outpouring
to enhance trope
vetted &sublimated
exemplifies
an alterego
of
provenance&
credence
timeframed
in succinct
ironic layers
complementary
in
a relentless
genre
perennial
&
implicit
in practice
paralleled &
morphed
into sparse lines
relaxed &
intimate
as
visual statements
of solitude mode
yet
isolated
chimes
with self signature
&
is self streamed
THIS IS AN OPEN(organic) FORM VERSE without grammatical symbols the ' open' relies upon 'the one breath limitation' & so inherently requires the 'reader' (reciter) to input and respond thus making the form a two way interplay and often a unique interpretation by the enigma so derived
Star maker Woman made dreams for everyone for fun.
In her capable hands, they were a gloriously done.
Stars for health, peace, love, and fertility woes too.
She could create a star today for me and him and you.
Stars help the world be joyful, she explained to the masses.
They come in a variety of colors – they are perfect, none wearing glasses.
They have twenty-twenty vision and know exactly what to do
To create the best environment for your family and you.
It is not recommended that you put them out in plain sight.
If I were you I would place them in a dark corner, not light.
For they like to save their strength for when they are needed.
Starlight magic is delicate – already vetted and beaded.
I was not sure exactly what Star Maker Woman meant.
But I was determined to keep my star at a hundred percent.
So I followed her instructions from my head to my toes.
And the star she created has forever kept her sweet glows.
When I shake out my star for hope, she gives me hope.
She is ready and willing, and keeps me off all kinds of dope.
She warns me of trouble, and keeps me quite safe and true.
She is my best friend, and my muse, and I love her too.
Torrid pride consorts the wishing tree so swine and vines galoring vapid pines does bring recalcitrant openings for lurid cross-patternicities like ferns imploring for goes-a-dowsing the drowsy wolf sheepishly grins a piecemeal quilt now hereafter wins, and won a goodly row and the cause unslept in a tattered curtain wishes evergrain forest were smaller and spent. To make anew the wishing star, aglow the pew of solemn arts, the four-poster bed leeches the ceilings shadows now night is bifurcated and sunlight prances, the hasty parade of dismal greetings, swiss-chocolatiers readied for so-cast dearlings, and so the collar is abreast with fending cries that torture poets like sickly scythes pouring mock-endearment into the lover's crest a merry wake-up a darling chest. The wishbone has curved the day to the beat of the storming east, whereupon the western sun has created easts, so back-and-forth we turn the sounds away I guessed at mysticism and the mystic rays, so vetted foxes of fire sojourn, and free the reddish birds from empyreal homes. The wishing well has cared so deeply but honorable and well-fought are disparate seeds, so planted next to the wishing well in a garden of evil, is the flowers cast for all for anvils, that craft for wishes spent, the wishing well, the wishing star, the wishbone and the wishing tree, quail is a soft catch.
We were on a 2nd floor garden terrace. The three-quarter moon was doing its best to set a romantic, gin-mood, pouring a soft pastel-blue on the world, that softened hard edges.
A cool breeze wafted jasmine scents from a nearby tea-olive tree. We were alone, the only sounds were far off footsteps and my pounding heart. Wasn’t this romantic?
Fueled twice by desire I had dressed carefully and modestly, with just a subtle, but fancy, hint of sluttiness. My costume, carefully vetted by a company of five, calculating, non-virgins, was designed to be both alluring and as abstruse as Kleenex. I was a doll dressed, painted and scented to seduce. Wasn’t I romantic?
We’d never kissed before, and I wanted him to kiss me with an almost moaning force of will. I brushed my skirt down and checked that my hair was in place with quick, fleeting hand motions that could have been butterflies in the reflected light.
We were sitting close together, I could feel his warmth, but nothing was happening and then, as nothing continued to happen, I began to fret, to sag, what was the glitch? Maybe..
I felt a warmth, his breath, I looked up and he kissed me, gently, then moved back a little. I smiled. I wanted to laugh, to shout, to jump around like my team had won the Superbowl, but I was very still, lest I scare him off. Oh, there were butterflies somewhere.
He’s smart. His mind probes the infinite but sometimes neglects the immediate. I wasn’t expecting a smooth move from someone who’s all knees, thumbs and elbows but, hey, I’m capable, and willing, to learn.
Lost Art
Old man takes deliberate steps
Paints portraits of liberated women and ships
Oranges and blues play favorably on the canvas
Explicit details forged over time
His existence is the ancient house
Attic, main floor and basement are his world
Snow mounts outside his noble place all year
Cold fills in the troubled fabric there at rest
One slow step after the other leads him down
To cellar where he hides his masterpiece
A small brown boat on the vast angry sea
Planted there among the quiet dust
In the attic he secures a portrait of a woman
She posed in the past with a pink smile
Not much else
Old man loved the girl
But the ship has more value, color and design
He died one day without a reason
His art lives on
The attic piece, the woman, sold for several dollars
The ship for thousands
Who would guess?
The painting higher in the structure sold for less
The ups and downs of life feted
Vetted just like ours
We’ll be leaving in a day or three. School’s starting again soon, so I’m taking some last summer looks around.
When it’s vacation time I want vetted recreation - who wants to take chances?
Last spring, in the last few weeks of school, on the metro or when I should be studying, or on cold nights - when I should’ve been studying - I’d try to visualize these pactolian Héraclée beaches.
The bright, exclusive, Héraclée summer sun - that electrically-radial herald of beachy fun - bestriding a seaside indigo summer sky - like a fiery, winged messenger of heaven-spun blessings.
Hemingway, a man who lived in pedestrian Florida, wrote that the French Riviera was ‘the garden of Eden.’ Picasso said, ‘in sunflower sun, the clean, quartz-grained sand of Saint Tropez glitters like diamonds.’
Héraclée is slower, wilder and more natural than touristy Saint Tropez and its beaches are practically deserted. Craggy hills slope down to a pristine shoreline, where the sand is as soft as cotton.
We’re at a private area, where ‘plage-attendants’ (severs) circulate among vanilla colored cabanas, dressed in understated, tans and beiges - silently delivering food, amenities and drinks.
Waves chatter a timeless prose that lulls you to trance in cool bungalow shadows - this mile of riviera strand - totes private - is clothing optional.
The heat of the day brings out fragrant scents of native scrub blossoms - jasmine, rosemary, mimosa and thyme, sea salt and umbrella pine to produce aromatherapy-like fragrances that seemingly dissolve time.
This shore of sanctuary, where the scented air itself seems to compose rhyme, has always been a poet’s muse - with its golden afternoons and moonlit, tinsel-flecked tides.
Héraclée is whatever you want it to be - you’re free to inhabit multiple polarities.
It’s not, in fact, heaven - but it’s close.
.
.
Songs for this:
Don't Forget the Sun - The Explorers Club
Summer Girl (Bonus Track) by HAIM
Peter is joining us for lunch in the cafeteria. I met him on a crowded Saturday morning at a coffee shop. He’s from the flammable, paper-dry, sagebrush hills of Malibu and grew up overlooking the hazy blue Pacific Ocean. He says Mel Gibson’s drunken Nazi rant, when a cop pulled him over for a DUI, put them on the map.
Poor Peter is fashion challenged. He’s 25, too tall, and too thin. Reading glasses hang around his neck. His too loose-fitting clothes are all variations of brown, like tawny, penny and wenge. He’s wearing a battered tweed coat, brown corduroy slacks and tortilla colored mock turtleneck. He’s adorably shabby-fancy. If he fell in the dormant, straw-yellow grass, we probably couldn’t find him.
Peter has a serious aura of experience about him. His cheek bones are sharp, his hair is an explosion of uncombed black, his skin is pale - bleached - by over exposure to library lighting.
He lives in a different world - the prosaic, laissez-faire universe of research - where students are left to their own devices and expected to self-manage.
Right now, he’s being vetted by one of my roommates, Leong. His student lanyard marks him, but she wants specifics if he’s going to hang around. “What’s your major?” she asks, her eyes squinting like the Chinese lie detectors they are. “I’m a doctoral student in applied physics,” he says.
I pat his knee, “It’s nothing to be ashamed of.” I say, reassuringly.
It's 3am
In this country of mine
Another undesirable
It was just a matter of time
Are they through the front door
Or through the back
Is there a lack of security
Questions to be asked?
Any sites Admin
Should be on their toes
It's in their best interest
Or anarchy flows
If undesirables appear
They should be vetted as such
And if they don't comply
They are kicked into touch
What are the legalities
In our premium fee's
When there is no protection
The undesirables run free
Today's date
Is the 28th of November
It is their duty
To report this sender
How do we know
Who we answer to?
It's time to show face
And show that your true
If actions are not taken
A different road we go down
Who has the courage
To hang their heads and frown
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