Long Vibrated Poems
Long Vibrated Poems. Below are the most popular long Vibrated by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Vibrated poems by poem length and keyword.
I saw Mary in Peru
as pastel chalks skimmed over
a gray concrete sidewalk, felting the surface,
baby blues and pinks vibrated with naiveté.
The artist knelt
each stroke given in homage
to the Mother of all.
I see Mary.
The Quechua see
Pachamama, earth-time mother,
the oval shape of her beatific head
tilts as if she’s watching—
when as the dragoness she rises,
she shakes
the ground.
A son of Lima dressed the dreary gray day
with earth stone. Chalk forms Her breasts.
He prays. We are all children
at the feet of the Mother;
the celestial sun and moon were
birthed
from her loins.
I saw Mary as he drew with diligence.
I saw my mother and myself,
let all who birth be
praised.
First Published in About Place Journal Vol III Issue II
In her eyes alone
They radiated with light
When shone to another
No longer a beautiful sight
Why did they whither?
Not appreciated among many
And how it broke her heart
But she still watered them plenty
Locked away from the rest
They sat in wait
For a time and place
Where another may appear
For a moment of magic
Another face as dear
Other acceptable beauties were gazed upon
So why us locked away?
Other worthy ones were revered
So why do we rot and stay?
The flowers felt neglect
Even with nightly hugs
The flowers felt unsightly
Even with kisses and love
The flowers grew restless with envy
Once a vibrated greenhouse
Now a relic that's quite empty
Form:
Tina was organizing her stuff. She was supposed to meet with the professor exactly two minutes ago. She drafted her outline of the content to be discussed in a precise manner. Now she needs to merge with her timing before it is too late.
The cell phone vibrated with the usual ringtone. An unknown number.
“Are you Reza’s mom?”
“Yes.”
“This is his teacher, calling from the school.”
“ Yeah, please tell me…”
“Reza is deteriorating with his performance. We would like to meet both parents to discuss about his progress. Since you are not available locally, do you think you will be able to attend a virtual session?”
“Sure. I will be happy to.”
“Please, let me know a suitable time when it is possible.”
“Sure…um, let me talk to his father.”
Tina tried to get Minhaz. Three consecutive times. With a long pause of ongoing ringtones, no response.
A separated couple has too many loosely based dysfunctionality, in fixing priorities, in fixing purpose of meaning, when to talk and how to talk.
Tina was struggling before… Tina is struggling with the aftermath too.
“Sorry, missed your call. Anything urgent? Please text me.”
Tina was truly annoyed. She is now getting really late for meeting her professor. A meeting about the trend of pedagogy in language acquisition and about the crisis in the young generation. A meeting bearing much importance for her future motivation.
She tried to be precise.
He tried to be precise too.
“I do not feel any need of yours to be present. It is better to attend an on-site meet-up. I will be there. That should be enough."
“Reza is lacking something….either motivation, or focus, do you not understand? Let me be there.”
“ I understand. You don’t.”
He finished his sentence with a coldness.
“Pedagogy of language acquisition and crisis in language loss.”
Tina's title of the deliverable.
She needed to make up for the wasted time.
She needed to make up to make her presentable as well.
Not all tears are too personal to decipher.
Between a friend or foe.
The Drive-Thru Oracle
Kevin Davis, 2024
At sixteen, I turned into the glow
of a fast-food drive-thru—
stomach echoing, thoughts unfastened.
The menu board flickered,
numbers rearranging themselves,
prices breathing in and out.
I rolled to the speaker.
It watched me.
Static. Then:
“What do you want?”
“Uh… a chicken sandwich and fries.”
The night held its breath.
Grease-sweet air pressed through the window.
Then the speaker again, slower now,
as if tasting each word:
“What do you really want?”
I glanced up.
The pictures had changed—
burgers replaced by ladders,
a compass,
a pair of open hands.
“A… chicken sandwich?”
“No.”
The word vibrated in the metal pole.
“What do you want to do with your life?”
My hands tightened on the wheel.
It felt warm. Almost alive.
“When I was little, I wanted to be a fireman.
Maybe a cop. Now…”
The parking lot stretched longer than it should have.
“I don’t know.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’m sixteen,” I said.
My voice sounded borrowed.
“I haven’t lived enough.”
The speaker crackled
like something burning far away.
“That is not an answer.
What will you be?”
The answers fell out of me like coins:
“A soldier. A psychologist.
A husband. A father.
A minister. A friend.”
“Good.”
The word rang
like a bell dropped down a well.
“How will you arrive there?”
“I… don’t know.”
“Then that is your work,” it said.
“To not know.
To move.
To fail.
To gather days.
Do not begin
before you have begun.”
Above the speaker, the clown leaned closer,
its paint cracked into maps.
I smelled smoke.
Or salt.
Or time.
I opened my mouth—
—and the world snapped.
“Hi there! Can I take your order?”
Fluorescent light.
Asphalt.
A plastic clown, sun-bleached and grinning.
The menu: burgers, fries, shakes.
Nothing else.
I sat very still.
“I’m not ready to decide right now,” I said.
No one answered.
I drove forward when the car behind me honked—
past the empty pickup window,
past the blank-faced clown,
back into a night
that felt slightly unfinished.
My stomach was empty.
My life, suddenly, was not.
As much as my fingers aspire, and endeavour,
I can not compose an exultant tune on my violin!
This violin is my kindred soul from early years,
Who I always turned to if I needed shelter
From harsh realities of life!
From hurt, suffering, sorrow, or melancholy!
Love flowed from my heart without hindrance,
When I played the tunes I composed myself,
The magic stemmed from pathos, poignant emotions,
My senses were drowned in the world of tender lilac dreams,
The strings of my soul vibrated with saffron imagination,
And I was not heartbreakingly broken any more!
I wanted to play cheerful notes as spring birds
Merrily cooing songs serenade,
Even though my inside wept inconsolably,
The Violin unraveled my raw instincts
Better than anyone in this world,
Violin continued creating doting music for me,
When lavender yearning filled my passionate heart!
I touched each and every string softly and gracefully,
With tenderness and care,
As if not to hurt them, as if they are the softest flower-petals,
As if they were born from my lyrical existence,
Every string is unique, and has its own voice and identity,
But together they create faraway ethereal songs,
As if a chartreuse waterfalls cascading on coral rocks,
Raindrops at dawn whispering magical marvels of life ~
I embrace my violin...tightly to my heart,
Life is not a rainbow fantasia,
Sadness is truth, truth sadness!
Warmth, surrounded me…always
My lips, my eyes, closed…
Mesmerized by the darkness that brought me consolation
I remember there were colors under those lids,
Green, spurts of purple…and sporadic yellows and reds
They danced and flashed
Whenever your voice rumbled and vibrated my abode
I remember the earthquakes of laughter
That pushed me against the soft, supported side…
I merely bounced back to the middle again
My legs, bending, and then kicking off against it
My body twirling in the lavish liquid
Natural twists and turns that were later underappreciated
Twists and turns that were who I was
I didn’t realize they would always shape who I am
Deep voice—music—surrounded me always
My ears opened to the muffled marvel
Curious of the outside world that birthed the mysteries of who I am
I recall frustration, kicking against your soft insides….
Colors of black, gray tints, and calming browns…
That left me gurgling for more of those outside sounds
Because that first day I heard the lightning yells
The hot swells of your insides boiled
My body twirled and twirled as I heard you wail
Crying…sobbing…
My heart beat faster—wanting more to leave this vessel
Wanting to be a separate thing
Wanting all to hear me scream
To feel the cold, rubbery hands of a stranger
Lift me—and to your breast—gift me
It was always the warmth of the liquid
And the comfort of our bond
That always remained
Bonds and beliefs never dry
Blood is blood
Color is color
It is living to be separate that makes us gods
Five hundred years Giovanni Fontana had the notion
To rope gears to wheels and put it in motion.
One hundred years ago an idea came to Baron von Drais
Horses had been killed, ploughing required other ways.
Two wheels, no pedals, all made of wood
You had to push through the field, but still did some good.
A Scotsman added pedals, to the rear wheel
Maybe to celebrate, his friends danced a reel.
A Frenchman made the "boneshaker", which lived up to its name.
Ahead of its time, though reasons to complain.
It vibrated horrendously on the bumpy roads
Rattling teeth, rattling nerves, rattling loads.
Then England's "Penny Farthing" led the attack:
A five foot wheel in front, tiny wheel in back.
It was hard to climb on, and to keep a balance.
Every mount was a test of acrobatic talents
If you fell off without a helmet, it was hard on the brain.
Inventors went back to the drawing board again.
Radial spokes came in 1870, ball bearings 2 years later.
Progress is a goddess, love her or hate her.
Caliper brakes, multiple gears, shifters came fast.
Still too bumpy to have a blast.
Societies of bicyclists lobbied for roads paved and smooth.
Women started riding, old attitudes moved.
Across the pond Thomas Stevens rode a trans-U.S. ride.
With that kind of bike, a reason for pride.
Then pedals to gears got linked with a chain.
Derailleur was the next step, and a drive train.
The Italian Army used a foldable during World War I.
Between incoming bullets, they might have had fun.
Like the future Mountain bike, it handled rough terrain.
But for that, California cyclists tinkered, got the fame.
So that brings me to the day that I was cycling on a country road
composing verses, humming, reciting an ode.
Overtaken by two cyclists on electric bikes from Preston
Were batteries cheating? I glumly asked the question.
I concede it's liberation, more folks in fresh air
Their efforts assisted, but still mostly fair
Causality doesn't focus on me, of course
I'm just a convergence, a bike over a horse.
But all this history made it possible, on a rural lane
To move on my own power, through really nice terrain.
the world a playground
parents arms our nest
school was fun too
barring the weekly test
measles and mumps
mother tended with care
flame of love vibrated
heart vibrant and aware
our fontanel was open
we communed with God
but when we shared this
we but got a careless nod
we knew then we are soul
encased in body-mind
it took time to realise
to truth others were blind
counselled by elders
light of our soul became dim
taught to be street smart
God called but we forgot Him
looking back we now see
it was as meant to be
even though we seem bound
our soul is always free
In the middle of a vast daisy-covered meadow,
there were honeysuckles hummingbirds loved;
their leaves were large and their flowers pinkish-red...
lovers spent sultry summers nights to escape sorrow.
Far in the distance, the darkened cypresses swayed...
keeping watch on the marble graves and those names death knew;
over this side, there was much vibrant life and all fireflies happily flew;
happiness vibrated in the joyful voices while guitars played.
Come, lover and bury yourself into my warm embrace,
let's make believe that yesterday wasn't a faded dream...
we can bring it back for endless moments that these eager hearts shouldn't miss;
if hummingbirds love honeysuckles, we can be as inseparable as they are indeed.
She was afraid of heights, but she feared even more never flying,
Like a bird that keeps its wings folded, fearing the wind,
Yet whose song is filled with the desire to soar towards the sky.
She was afraid of plunges, of the abyss stretching beneath her,
Like an ocean hiding its depths in mystery,
But in her eyes was the desire to explore the unknown.
She was afraid of falling, of the pain waiting at the journey's end,
Like a star fearing the moment it becomes a supernova,
Yet her heart vibrated at the thought of the freedom awaiting in flight.
She was afraid of loneliness, of the silence reigning at height,
Like a mountain wearing its solitude as a mantle of ice,
But her soul longed for the song of the wind and sky.
She was afraid of heights, but her dream was to fly,
Like a condor looking to the sky with eyes full of longing,
And her wings, though still untested, were ready to carry her.
So she learned to embrace fear, to make it part of her,
Like a climber knowing every stone and crevice to scale,
And she learned that fear is but a step towards courage.
And when the moment came, she spread her wings wide,
Like an eagle preparing to launch into flight,
And with one last glance at the earth, she leapt.
She was afraid of heights, but feared more never flying,
And now, in her free and fearless flight,
She realized that fear was just the price to pay for freedom.