Long Warps Poems
Long Warps Poems. Below are the most popular long Warps by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Warps poems by poem length and keyword.
I've known rejection, as well as its pain,
and every time I've sworn never again.
At times I feel I'm responsible too,
for doing things I knew I shouldn't do.
I have seen hope bring tears to people's eyes,
and those same tears, as hope dwindles and dies.
Sometimes living itself warps perceptions,
and life responds based on misconceptions.
I've seen fear hidden behind smiling masks,
being led somewhere, and yet no one asks.
I've indulged in the luxury of hugs,
though they can be as addictive as drugs.
I have seen truths overshadowed by lies,
fueled by conspiracies in disguise.
And I've seen people reject wrong for right,
when darkness descends to douse freedom's light.
I sit and stare beyond what's there, besides
"The oval window, a portal to another dimension".
It drags the moon's eclipse off the sun's circle
to show an ellipse with twin foci, in two dimensions not one.
The tension woven into its shape shrouds a duality,
a flip-flop state, steeped in,
and reeking with ambivalence.
An oval coracle holding on,
rocking in choppy seas.
Therein lies a worm hole,
where logic warps to both sides, here and now, together,
where light bends, twists refracts to an oval rainbow,
where time stands still, then back-tracks
to before, to way, way back when,
and on to now and then.
An oval belies uncertainty,
spiraling like sand,
down in an hour-glass
down the plug-hole, down into the sink below,
collected in an oval coracle,
an egg yet to hatch.
Exhuming dreams buried in time:
you are in constant denial.
And concealing your misery,
truth's hidden by a plastic smile.
Forged upon empty promises:
delusion, warps reality.
And you're lost in a fantasy;
where hurt's a matter of degree.
Flattery's lies confuse your heart:
for they are never what they seem.
And, as your doubts, gather in strength:
Hope can't suppress a silent scream.
Anxieties accumulate;
morphing into a restless night.
For scraps of love are not enough
to satisfy your appetite.
The years flow like the sands of time;
to where disappointment awaits.
And donning a mask of fake smiles,
Hope diminishes, while Death baits.
I plunge beneath the tide of the restless sea.
through corridors of green where shadows lunge at me;
the water’s pulse warps what I can see,
each beat a thrust towards my fate's mystery.
Silt now erupts, choking faded memories,
Shells lock shut, like vaults closed by ancient decrees;
I probe for grit wrapped tightly in silver coat's gleams,
With a silky smooth feel of much cherished hopes and dreams.
Light drifts down; it's not sunlight, it's rainbow,
driving spears deep into scared beds below;
ripping shards into the strangling cold,
making the search more strident, fierce, and bold.
I dive for oysters, for what someone called gold.
sewn deep within places that refuse to unfold.
I hear the air regulator hiss out my name.
Its voice in a shell I can never reclaim.
I can still taste the salt that scalds the air.
A glint half-formed as if it’s always been there.
I can still see the shimmering flare in my sleep.
A star blinking where foul currents stalk and creep.
All still, the ocean I love, tightens its claim.
Dragging me deeper for nacre's riches and fame.
The deep hums low; it calls my name.
Lungs burn hot; my heart's on flame.
I’m diving for nacre.
Locked in rough shell’s keep.
It's just out of reach …
just out of reach …
It's just out of reach …
How starved you must have been that my heart became a meal for your ego. ~ Amanda Torroni, writer
I dreamed an elephant
was flying high with wings
extended and ever
soaring nearer to me,
as if it were clever.
I dreamed an elephant
was hiding in my room,
and all it really was
is the shadow of soon
to be doomed lovers' oz.
I dreamed an elephant
quit eating and was dead,
was nothing but a corpse
beneath a blackened shroud,
pall-grey without its warps.
I dreamed an elephant
was screaming in the night
as I moved out of view,
away from misery,
the elephant was you!
My muscles twitch along their length
as words gain volume in my brain.
And my temper exerts its strength
spewing insults fraught with disdain.
When anxiety warps what's real,
the innocent suffer my wrath.
A blind rage distorts how I feel,
and it's not safe to cross my path.
Until anger leaves me alone
I can't begin to feel your pain.
For anger turns my heart to stone
and drives me completely insane.
Hurling hurts; I'm right in your face,
but back off on hearing your cries.
For love quickly takes anger's place
as tears begin to fill your eyes.
If I lose you, I'll have lost all
and thus flounder in sorrow's wake.
For I can't survive such a fall,
it is more than my heart can take.
(Quatrain)
1/23/2016
One may insist that spring will come if I just stand there,
I was, therefore, standing on the riverbank as he said.
The rain poured on the riverside where I stood
and when the water ran into the river
for downstream where the valley expands,
at a time when the water returns as the dew drops
on the riverside, the flowers bloom exclaiming,
“spring is here.”
Because he said that summer will come
when the spring grows as flowers on the riverside prairie
and look up at the sky from the places where they rooted,
I leaned on the drifting could high above and stared
at the corner where the sky hangs on, and before knowing
summer rushes here driving the golden chariot.
And when you live through your life
hanging onto the golden chariot, he says,
autumn will come.
That’s why when the sky becomes red
on the other side of the golden chariot goes,
winds rise and leaves fall and autumn comes
stepping on the fallen leaves.
If I weave the mortification I experienced as warps
and cruel treatment I underwent as the threads of wefts,
while relating all detestable memories deeply imprinted
in my heart to the leaves woven into a small boat,
and waft it on downstream to forget all those unwanted memories,
by the time the drifting water becomes a star
after whirling in the marsh for a while,
and falls onto decaying reeds
the winter comes, he says,
as a colorless lonely flower by a grave site where I stand.
Taken a light cosmic journey in a
hyper-luminous light vehicle.
I view space grandioso of "light bulb,"
blue big blazing bedazzling beacon;
a brilliant bright behemoth blistering.
Warp to a Pulsar star:
I view its pulsing light;
projecting prominently, its
pinpoint precision is like an atomic clock timing
Light-speed to:
Magnetars: mighty magnetic magnets.
Neutron stars, neutralizing objects.
Quasars, with their active-galactic beams
beaming like a gama-ray space spot-light laser.
I sling past Black-Holes that warps space-time:
they bending back all light matter,
behind their total black darkness horizon capture.
I continue warp-speed throughout space with
the use of fusion and some anti-matter.
I, a frontier intergalactic astronomical time and space traveler.
Homebound now; this of sometime in the far future.
Sniff out the garish lights, loud music, and drunken discussions.
Breach the party uninvited.
Conceive uneasiness and instant disdain.
You try to tango with strangers who quickly slide away.
Somewhere in the intercourse of a reddish night
they feed you to a pack of blue dogs.
Willing to drag you down to their side of the tracks.
Loneliness warps all reason, lowers the standard.
Opens the vein to jagged strangers.
Liaisons come and go like a Roman legion.
They begin the journey bold as muddy devils.
Ranks thinning by the minute, by the hour.
Till only one soul remains beneath a parchment shield.
His destiny is to forever cower.
...and then darkness fell through a rocky bottom
of lost innocence in the light of waning truths
an aperture tore away the veil of discomfort
tranquil as if nothing had happened at all
shutters gathered speed at fast click
exposed a lens out of immanent focus
yearned for reflection and solutions
counted images’ framed encounters
a flash escaped a dew shield of tears
mounted a memory in black and white
fielded depth on the surface of images
transcended shades reason feelings
time warps of poignant recollections
rearranged an impermanent future
like poetry in constant motion
the photo knows no secrets ...