Long Wire Poems
Long Wire Poems. Below are the most popular long Wire by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Wire poems by poem length and keyword.
Karnnifa Leaf And Beyond
Karnnifa Leaf lies wrongler to the westermorn of Liquida Barga
Cool brushing blues, calmingly decending corner wedgefords
In delinquinada rolling ragers fire lavala redlings, there a ring begun so hot
Jellying through mystification morphus above the blue
Just-toola eastly of roada low and up from there-abundancies creelowing
Wayla is the daughter quested with amblins and shards vestitures
Found them cutterlin and bleedingly profounder on irony ware there
Wilds on the Barga tramplina, wildest sojournaling and purelificing
When nilda drack and drungeon came upon the groupulence
So many then, Lurchin, far beyonda Karnifa Leaf, lefting red and again
No pestilencers remained wonderlate or crackling crack in waste
Not now or laterlinga dayly dayly on morphus morn
Came Wayla spleedling slashalactic and meandermindering
She takes then the monstrella girla down giagantling higher wire crier spree
Returnabout to Karnnifa Leaf proudoler, prodlinging, no timer grinders we
Popularizationer came awaying with Wayla, and yes!
Rained heavywonder browling soundabouts
And Liquida Barga settlering comfortingly to the lighter sighterscene
Quietler minder, nilda drack, smilling to a crawler, happerstance and crowning
Quarkly firing into skylinger endlings of the Leaf, solar bound
Above Liquida Barga, there Wayla lovingly suspends it
To that end begins
HAIKU BLOOMS #1
Sense buzz here
In simple lot;
Cheer lives fine pun
~~~~~~~~~
Life knows the brave
In harsh terrain;
Smiles sculpt sense
~~~~~~~~~
Bamboo leaves sway
Dance with stray breeze;
Wet rain brushes
~~~~~~~~~
Two black birds
Sit and watch;
High wire act
~~~~~~~~~
Brown squirrel
Runs up and down;
Zigzag curious
~~~~~~~~~
Black cumin seeds
Sweet honey surge;
Bitter black cuppa
~~~~~~~~~
Lemony brew
Aqueous spill;
Hydrates well
~~~~~~~~~
Hint of rain
Moist air aglow;
Flash of lightning
~~~~~~~~~
Sleepy moves
Body so weary;
Pre-dawn darkness
~~~~~~~~~
Leon Enriquez
04 January 2016
Singapore
Guns feel neither pain or shame, nor reason or rhyme.
They send messages by air mail with postmarks of death.
The boy in the wire was too young to be a soldier.
When he was alive, no one announced his coming
and no bell tolls his death.
No college welcomed him to their rolls
He was never in “Who’s Who.”
But his life had value and worth.
Here, under a dewy curtain, he lies alone,
no longer concealed by darkness, for lights reveal
that which darkness deceives.
The wind blows dust mixing it with the color
of crimson and black hair.
The last shot's long since departed and silence
stand guard on these acres.
Death in the wire and a body that drips blood
in the night under a brilliant moon that stares down
and clouds lie scattered over “No Man’s Land.”
—-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Memories of war for me to ponder and wonder if the gangs and thugs in our cities
and towns ever recall their victims. Will they think of them
years later and consider their worth?
Does sleep still come easy? I recall the Bible saying "I'll Turn Them
Over to a Reprobate Mind."
I have a song to sing and it will tell you where I have been, in the shadows of the night the fear of hope break through daylight and destiny begins the journey without shoes.
They left their homeland in search of a better life two of them walking hand in hand as destiny propel them to another land but they end up having to pay a bountiful price for their sacrifice.
They become vagabond on the way hitchhikers and belly dancers and they kept going despite the outrageous feelings but they had one goal in mind and that was to reach America and experience the American dream.
There was no visible sign of reaching but they kept pursuing their dreams, crossing barriers and left exposed to open dangers but courage kept them going. A bandit with scars in his face held them up at gun point and took away all that they have got, shortly after that mercenaries strip them of their shoes, leaving the bare essentials on their body but they continue to journey on.
With courage in their feet and faith in their hand they were determined to go along but, they fell on the wayside from hunger and dehydration. The heat scorched their behind but mercy came just on time. An old woman live in the nearby bushes came with a jug of water and pour it over them. They were still alive and could walk half a mile to the old woman’s house. She gave them something to eat and let them rest for three days and when they were strong again they continued the journey.
They cross-country in the bushes chewing grass and feeding on wild peaches, climbing mountains and jumping from rocks with a touch of sentiment bundle in their backs and at nights when it gets cold they make a fire and have scrambled bird eggs and lizard legs for supper. Thorn and thistles pierce their knees and barbed wire sinks deep in their flesh when they try to jump the fence.
They kept humming the immigrant song in their head as they reflect on the dead that did not make it, and there is still no sight of America. They were determined to get there for they have been travelling for more than a year. Their bodies are weak but their spirits are strong as they journey on the painful path to reach America.
I looked for peace
not in the temples,
but in the ruins behind them—
among bricks that still remembered
how silence sounds
before a missile arrives.
I searched for stillness
not in the slogans of diplomats,
but in the eyes of a child
cradling a doll
with one missing arm.
The world,
they say,
is preparing for peace—
but they build it
with barbed wire and budgets
dipped in blood.
They call it strategy.
I call it
the art of forgetting
what a lullaby sounds like.
I asked the wind—
where does peace live now?
She said:
“Wherever a woman
chooses to forgive,
but not forget.”
I asked the moon—
how do I find it?
He whispered:
“In the breath
you take
before you strike back.”
Once, I thought peace
was a treaty,
a table,
a handshake.
Now I know—
peace is a mother
choosing to feed
a stranger’s child
after hers is gone.
Peace is a man
who buries his weapon
before his father.
Peace is a country
that learns to weep
for its enemy’s dead.
They say
war writes history.
But I have seen—
it is peace
that writes
what is human.
In the end,
peace is not found—
it is chosen,
by those
brave enough
to stop shouting
Mihaly was a saint of sorts;
he improved, with his search for understanding,
the lives of so many yearning writers;
the lame in spirit heard his Zen like words.
He could not have imagined the journey
From Hungary to Zurich to Chicago
A glimpsed mandala led to the heart of the impossible image
How did he learn to trust the flow?
The Rhine flowing down to the North Sea
May start as some minute spring
At the confluence of the gravity of water and earth.
And those then who have cast their nets into that sea
May bring in treasures not found in the business of cities.
At the first sighting,the image seemed hazy
Then the words began to flow like current through a wire.
Like a river cutting slowly through rocks of marble,
like an unknown sage from the Himalyan Alps
who had kissed the lips of his muse more than once
As she floated like a ghost, no,more like music
Tracing concentric spheres into the air
Till the universe was singing.
What was most human was his appetite,his love.
Touch the hem of his garment,follow your flow
Cut your path through the hard darkness until you find
The sunlit sea you were made to swim in
like a fish in its own sphere
The man was
handsome, intelligent,
and good in bed.
But he just
had nothing
to say.
And all of his days
were the same.
Monochromatic
introspection followed
by a sort of smothered
self-expression.
He never
felt like himself.
And he always felt
worried about what
other people thought
about him.
Who even was
he?
His routine?
His career?
His interests?
His beliefs?
Beliefs?
The man had
no beliefs, the
man didn’t need
to believe.
For if he started believing
in something, he may have
actually needed
to start existing.
And that idea
scared the
hell out of
him.
Goblins dance across the wire
With blood red eyes and wings of fire
They beckon me to join their game
Join in the buzz and kiss the flame
My journey’s only just begun
The purple sky ignites the sun
We’ve chased the dragon – he’s on the run
Now flying high and having fun
The strobe light penetrates my brain
As music pulses through my veins
Got no more cares- Got no more fear
Coz everything I needs right here
I’ll take you where you’ve never been
Beyond the boundaries of all dreams
A mystery tour – enjoy the show
We’ll cut a line and share some blow
Enjoy the buzz – the music’s loud
Escape the madness of the crowd
But first of all let’s score a hit
Follow me – enjoy the trip
I’m flying high and looking down
In freefall now – I hit the ground
The spider laughs and spins her web
There’s no way out – she’s in my head
My body heaves and starts to shake
This nightmare dream I can’t escape
The spider whispers “your time has come
You’re in my web – my turn for fun”
The goblins’ stare – they point and jeer
Now relishing my wretched fear
We make a deal – I pay their toll
My life now spent – They take my soul.
I wonder what the land would say
If the land could whisper of what it saw today
It would tell the tale of two souls
Trapsing through the thigh high grass
Crossing over the barbed wire as they pass
They set up the fishing pole
They feel completely and utterly whole
The land would sing of them
As the clouds parted
It became harder to keep her heart guarded
He stripped his shirt and dove
Straight into their little cove
The land would sing of her
Watching him dive deeper in
She couldn’t take her eyes off him
It was their own little haven there
She admired without a care
The land would tell the tale of her yearning
For in such a place as this
She could find such bliss
She could let her mind wander
And let her heart grow founder
If only
If only the land could talk
But I wonder
Would it say anything at all
Would the tale get lost in the grass so tall
Would the land have anything to say
Or would it go on about its day
Have lovers and friends already passed through
And we were nothing new
The land we sat upon that day
might soon forget our stay
I wonder if the same is true for our memories
I wish to go back to a happy place
To frolic in my dress of lace
Back to this ridge and our little spot on this hill
To feel so tranquil
Oh, when did my heart get filled with such sorrows
Poetry is tangerine and other potent or poisonous colors.
It is the breath you feel at the nape of your neck and
the strong caress of flesh on flesh, defying death.
It is most certainly Spring with petal flutters and jays
flittering about. Melodies come alive…words almost too
ravishing to versify…like brilliant diamonds and crystal lines.
Poetry is rhyme and not…it is time well spent. The clock
doesn’t give a hoot. It’s cuckoo to stand on your head
to get just the right angle, the geometric high. Likewise,
the adjustment on a thin wire, with ink blots to examine.
But a poet does, again and again, pounding at raw meat,
to settle a matter…but we never settle…there is always
one thing more. Death, maturity, seasonals. Let’s dig
up that grave. First we jump in, holding onto leaves dyed
in various tinctures. Often we swing over, on our trapeze,
thinking we are invincible - we don’t see the six foot ravine.
Not feeling trapped at all, until the Ice Queen shows up.
We paint that buttercup white, as if it were virtuous.
She vividly holds up the scales to weigh our slights,
to slow us down…now,
we dribble upon the page…drivelling every nuance, as if
our kids (our words) were leaving home and we need to drill
just one more thing. Sadly our words will hang
and slowly scroll away…our scribbles fondly remembered
by a few for a while (and our smile)
Paint giraffes ouside the line, and gaffes - keep them in time.
Don’t be afraid to annunciate or not…to be literate or
alliterative…to be silly…oh do be silly…to be human…
to be common or uncommon…we all have our place.
We are the apostrophes, colons and periods. We stop
in mid-sentence a lot. We throw the hammer down
with an exclamation point or dot. We write run ons
or put out briefs. We admire awe. This is just a small
treatise of thought…a mud pie, but certainly not
a prize…but I say, the prize is in the beholder’s stall.
3/13/2023