Long Wormed Poems
Long Wormed Poems. Below are the most popular long Wormed by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Wormed poems by poem length and keyword.
*Image of Between Doors by Hope.
As Shadows Mend
A lingering bravura form ... dawn midst twilight's brilliance,
It sprung a length of an unscathed course -- accidentally,
The mute vim snugly stamped unfilled, credulous of malice,
Flightiness stemmed from this silhouette, soulless oddity,
Fractured sewn plots hint of ambrosia, ere glint of the sun,
Crept o'er beauts dead asleep flit promenade the *Champs Elysees,
This undertaker gleams green edges, tickling haunting fun,
Furtive's sourced the virgin-less dove, resting on eggs well pleased,
Furtherance strengthen cloaks, catnapped air revives to a squeeze,
Contingent hollow burdened by hyped growth and fancy streams,
Swarming hodgepodge, dynamism idled, abandoned, charms ease,
Consequential happenings, capricious woodland's sprite dreams,
Curiousness provoked benchmarks, advance said grey graveness,
Flummoxed o'er see-through luminance, that occult pseudonym,
The breathless saunters towards pronounced distant concaveness,
Prompts closeness of wormed anomaly, like some phantom limb,
Chanced, faced with faceless, instantaneously, sensed a warmth,
'Twas pacific this heightened soul tried to claim yond circumstance,
A cleansing consumed me whole, doleful went yielding a formed,
While Lunar's wanting depth, Sol's dawn, striking a winks askance.
The darkroom flights emptiness to illuminate alone,
Receptive rays liberates imprisoned eyes to wander,
Aims set, spirits exalted, aids cognizant chaperone,
Nippy night solicited valor, daydreams come yonder.
*Champs Elysees (SHOHNZ-eh-LEE-zeh): a major avenue in Paris famous for elegant shops and cafes
~~Happiest 2022 Dreamers, Aloha!~~
2021 December 28
The Nothingness began as a small, black smear across my smile.
It wormed and gnawed its way past my unsuspecting defenses,
Until it settled finally in the center of my heart,
Numbing my smile and deadening all my senses.
Once its icy grip had completely encircled my heart
I believed it would take one stronger than I to pry it apart.
Where does my champion stand; he who will fight for me?
Will one come forward now and set my wounded spirit free?
I sat alone in the darkness, listening in the silence, waiting for a sign,
A brief repast, a hopeful glance, or perhaps a warm embrace.
From deep within, my warrior stirred and slowly began to chant.
I felt my strength begin to rise and my sad heart quickened its pace.
“This is a lie! I am not powerless in my own life!”
Darkness seeps in when focus is not set on life affirming themes.
This did not happen TO me. I allowed it to grow and spread.
I will not succumb to the Nothingness. My soul will be redeemed.
One step at a time, one powerful action after another,
I take back my power to own my emotions and thoughts,
I will overcome this relentless hopelessness and depression
By remembering who I am, I CAN control what is my own fault.
Underneath the Nothingness is a strong desire to die.
Choosing to live begins with a decision. Where will my focus lie?
Looking away from the Nothingness drains it of its power.
Drawing from my own strength and determination, I decide to try.
Chula Fleming © August 15, 2024
I do not know how men many we were
or how we went, what we saw on the way
nor do I know for what ungodly purport was ours
or what goaded us on into deeper uncharted territory
despite our tortured souls and aching bodies protesting to refrain .
I vaguely recollect through my befogged mind
some arcane words like Shoggoth and Mi- go and Dagon,
so much gibberish and blubbering babble of deranged minds
gone at once numb and addled with sights and sounds
forbidden to man in his wildest dreams and thoughts.
Through crenellated valleys grey misted in their troughs
and crests and covered with slime or ooze as from some
white-wormed denizens from unnamed and should-not-be-named
lairs in regions in deep damp grottoes of infernal charnel mounds
did I and my ill-fated team wander wild-eyed and unkempt.
Do not ask me what we saw when we reached our goal
for what my skulled orbs beheld or what my brain deciphered
I know nor remember not all semblance of sense and sensibilities
having fled with a volition not my own but driven by transfusions
of thought telepathically imposed from without from the miasma.
I know not whether to thank those who found me in the sorry state
that they did - a blathering caricature of the human form more ape,
nay, an ape has more intellect and dignity, than man- a creature more
fit to dwell in the mire and morass of a cess-pit than tread the same
hallowed soil or breathe the self-same vapors as civilized man.
It was far better still that the group of kindly souls, most rightfully,
had left me to my own contrivances and let me wander in my unknown
quest for unknown and mysterious things best known to myself once
but now lost to me forever.
I find myself in these padded and strait-jacketedand dreary halls of Arkham
standing at the edge of the precipice of an insurmountable mountain with
an abyss at the foot, both of interminable depth and dark as the devil's heart.
I have leaped from this vertiginous height perhaps a dozen times to end my misery
but having felt all the terror and thrill of finding absolution, I find myself here again,
and again.
A waning aura no longer flamed enough to flicker a surrender. Decomposes, decompresses like mummification wrap.
An anti-resolvent-fume-
of-infest-chokes-out-integral-yield.
Thick as molasses, blackstrap.
Blight is apathy, and apathy is blight.
A Void, a claim farming the abyss.
Marketing it's lie, on sale.
Though it has a monopoly.
PolyEntropy.
In the garden of life; an empty field of dreams,
lays unintended on its side,
untended save for the shadows
that yield a mock harvest.
Decay on display of manifest.
The sky, descended as a Judas Ascendant,
it's belly gorged with malfeasance.
Exotic particles curse the ground
like wormwood in ritual burn, cache of ashen incense.
Libra sells you back your rye, mildewed and palmer wormed, to bore in at the destitute
at double price, double dealing
with the wages of Sin and Death.
Doubled down.
Doubled over.
So the pendulum swings
with the rusty blade of misuse.
The rose of passion unbloomed.
Ploughshares turned into warmachined torture device. Moreover.
"...and the feeling is dead, and that's the Ultimate Sin."
~Ozzy Osbourne
[They attack the Family... and the Poets are silent.]
"...and that's the Ultimate Sin"
Insanity's Poem
In the beginning everything was normal.
"Tag, You're It!"
Some lifetime ago and
that's all I remember.
I was a kid playing a
game with other kids.
Home is where you hang your heart...
I broke every societal rule I could find;
just because, without any repercussions.
Until...Anxiety wormed its way into me.
I don't know how but I know why.
The bible and priest and nun always
said mortal sins meant eternal damnation!
I'm emotionally paralysed, can't breathe, trapped
in a moment of horror that feeds upon itself.
I'm lost inside my thoughts in twisty little passages.
Unable to move like a concrete image of myself.
I feel better now. The staff gives me medicine.
My thoughts are slower but not scary like before.
We have activities each hour on the hour. We get
to watch afternoon soaps. I love the nurses on TV.
"Tag, You're It!"
Deep down inside I knew I wasn’t good enough
Though we would share the same space
you hung out with a different crowd
the “in” crowd
The ones that were good looking
popular
everyone wanted to be with
I was on the outside looking in
shy, reserved
sitting at the back of the class
You had friends to hang around with
I had a job to take up my time
too poor to be fashionable
Waiting for the pain of high school
to be over
which couldn’t come fast enough
Knowing in our last class
our paths would never cross again
that was how things worked in my world
Then one day while
working under hood of my old car
you came around the corner
All the right things happened
we wed and had a great life
until the words of doubt
Wormed their way back
into my subconscious mind
deep down inside I knew I was not good enough
And then it was over…
Andreas Simic©
When I was young, I took ballet
or in the sun with friends I'd play.
but once in school I learned to read,
on stories I began to feed,
especially when days were grey!
Upon the bed or couch I lay
for hours, and nobody could sway
me from it! It became my need
when I was young.
Through many books I wormed my way.
In fiction's world I longed to stay.
Mom had read me tales, so she'd
been planting in my mind that seed
by reading to me everyday
when I was young.
March 14, 2019
Ms. Brenda Brawling borrowed nothing,
but begged life to bestow her something.
Blistered blue when life barely listened,
she began buying bargain fiction.
By and by, she believed she’d become a book ink fly.
Her heart bade she give her own fantasies a book try.
Brenda bathed blank sheets in beaut romance
billowing with bawdy circumstance.
Brenda bloomed when her pen beget one man’s behavior;
the book’s brawny, bold boatman became her heart’s savior.
Brenda’s book was bought in big, boxed bundles,
so she boasted bling, but felt befuddled.
Daytime, bedtime, both brought baleful feel
born from thoughts baring boatman’s appeal.
Brenda balked, but she well failed to block boatman’s stalk
who wormed her sanity thru fiction’s crosswalk.
Obeying her pen, she beheld him in blissed fantasy blocks.
Now, Brenda’s berserk pen bends her daily at bleak o’clock.
My love for fiction started, as I recall,
when Mother read to me in happy times
of fairy tale enchantment and nursery rhymes.
Seeds of fancy blossomed fast when I was small.
Another door opened when I learned to read,
and then through many books I wormed my way.
In libraries for hours I could stay
searching for great stories on which to feed.
From fourth grade on, I used to put my mind
in shoes of young detective Nancy Drew.
Who was the killer? What would Nancy do?
To follow her sleuthing was a thrilling ride.
I lived vicariously the romances
of “Little Women” or protagonists
of other tales, jeering antagonists
who put them in awful circumstances.
Escapism is magical and fun.
From the fantasy of “Lord of the Rings”
to the witty satire of “The Song of the Kings,”
getting to the ending is like a home run!
Laura Ingalls’ “Little House on the Prairie”
instilled great lessons in my pre-teen mind,
while things profound I would later find
from Isaac Asimov and Ray Bradbury.
“A Tale of Two Cities” and “A Handmaid’s Tale”
displayed for me that best that fiction gives:
strong feelings where deep thinking also lives.
With novels like those, to the skies I’d sail!
Life on the edge would certainly become a novel,
if I included all the chapters of my life’s journey
from that of an old soul, from pure consciousness
to egg and sperm colliding, to embryo, to fetus,
to that of a baby, a child, youth, a teenager,
a young adult, a middle aged man, this old man
who has walked the walk of the living and the dead
with ghostly shadows floating in night time forests
blanketed by sheets of blackness, permeated with flakes,
specks of light from distant planets, long lost stars,
forgotten lives, as the reflective moon, on high,
tries to shed light upon the nightly shadows,
brighten the edges of all the black clouds
that fill all the empty spaces above the tree tops.
Life on the edge – I have been tripping – have gotten up,
have fallen from grace, yet stands up to face adversity,
have been trapped, yet set myself free, been lost
yet have found my way back to myself.
Life on the edge – time reveals all, all the efforts,
all the accomplishments, all the failures, the defeats,
and all the losses become weightless in the light,
of an old man who sits alone, on his own locked up
in the cage of his own design, his own making
as nightmares continue to haunt - to the end of his journey.
Life on the edge – has been sharp, dull, keen without tears,
in spite of all that life, fate, karma, choice have lain upon
the experiences this old soul has suffered, endured, enjoyed
and yet the dreams of this child – before and after he became –
still linger on in the fading embers of his life’s journey
even if they are but ashes blown by cold cruel winds
putting out the raging fires that once lit up the skies
and wormed the heaven and the hearts of a few mortal women.
Life on the edge – of this plane, this dimension, this universe –
can it really be as we see it ?, is it karma ?, is it fate ?, is it design ?
Does history repeat itself ?, does it come back to haunt us ?,
in another time, in another place, in a different space.
Life on the edge – next time around – will be a prayer
to never, ever have to live on the edge again,
to know no more emotional pain, no poverty of heart, soul,
the stupidity and thoughtlessness of those in control,
those in the know, of the nature of this old man
who has shown – specks, flakes of light, light that has
burned so bright, has flickered, has long since taken flight.
B. J. “A” 2
March 10th 2004