Long Wreathed Poems
Long Wreathed Poems. Below are the most popular long Wreathed by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Wreathed poems by poem length and keyword.
she drifted through an egg timer
as if imprisoned in a snow globe
a speckle of dust in the heat of sequence
turned upside down and back again
a centrifuge of forced cohesion
control anger self-imposed consent
she slipped on the endless surface
banged her head against the ceiling
dropped to the treacherous floor
only to take a breath of despair
suspended in broken limbo and
a script written by wrath injuries
incarceration dogma and defeat
wreathed with a crown of thorns
lacerated scared and vulnerable
puncture marks and crude exclamation
of a protagonist in agony
eventually the looking glass broke
shards and fragments set her free
no shelter apart from mental pain
bruised shattered and surrendered
a barely audible voice released the void
as she gathered the grains of doubt
enforced discomposure and surprise
she realized that she was far more
than the sum of intangible parts
and picked up the pieces aware
that certainty and collusion
had not been her friends but
evil foes had ruled her sentience
scattered strew swept her skin
as if to say sift through the dredge
once the cover dissipated in the fall out
no more a shell of crushing forces
she walked away as fast as the storms
that had held her captive for so long
02nd August 2021
'Tis in a manner far from thrasonical
That I come to you in full canonical
What I chose to do was to instill my love
On acolytes below while I was above
When the holy Church I entered in my prime
I, the Church,entered many, time after time
Those altar cherubs whom I picked out to spoil
I anointed warmly with my sacred oil
How could I resist faces so innocent
Wreathed in the swirl of the thurible's scent
To hold them close tightly and their soft flesh feel
Made my whole self dizzily tingle and reel
How truly uplifting was my fierce,fierce joy
When I had communion with a chosen boy
They knew our closeness was clearly God given
And that in confession would I be shriven
For all the worldly good I did on God's earth
Then entry to heaven is my deserved berth.
Alas,your Grace,you cannot in all conscience enter here
Too much dark concupiscence on your soul sits,I do fear
Too concentrated were you on carnal desire
That leaves you to roast now in the eternal fire
Begone! For scandalising the young
Round your neck must a millstone be hung
And into the depths of Hades will you descend
There to endure your torment without end
I dreamed that I was tangled up in vines
too numerous to count (such slender twines).
They’d somehow crept upon me in the night.
It felt so real, this strangely “twisted” plight!
I tried to move, but I could not break loose.
My face and limbs were wreathed, each in a noose.
Fresh fear set in. I writhed and writhed about,
then realized I’d have to wait it out.
In time, the vines were clearer to my eyes.
Their peril was a pleasure in disguise,
And instantly, I knew just what to do!
I turned into a mouse so I might chew. . .
My nightmare had become a child’s fond wish. . .
I set forth nibbling cherry strands of licorice!
For Frank Herrera's "Dream" poetry contest
I am Zeus the supreme deity
of the Greeks and Romans, who show their loyalty;
and they honor me and worship me
in glorious temples built expecially for me...
and they abound from Asia to Sicily!
Nobody can suppress the chant of the Muses...
that I am the only God of the sky,
and thunder and lightning I fling with fierceness
to those defying me with an envious eye;
victory was mine when I fought the mighty Titans!
In Greece and Italy, you find
sculptures and slaters with my ram-horned
and aurel-wreathed head;
my worshippers see in me a god and friend,
and they invoke me with an honorific sound!
I am Zeus the supreme deity,
and I ride my golden chariot pulled by four horses
that gladly and speedly obey me;
and through forests and grasslands they take me
to Mount Olympus to oversee my entire universe!
Strange - how one can know of a thing
yet not know it.
That I should perish someday is no secret ...
but how well do I know this?
My injuries before were always superficial.
A scar upon the surface
but no loss of function.
Now, my form has changed for the worse.
Not by much, perhaps, but such small changes
are the first stumbling steps toward the pit.
A small loss of enamel,
a thumb that may never bend as far as it once had done.
Trivial losses in the grand scheme of things.
But there is something utterly terrifying
in taking damage that cannot be repaired.
And the roads of tomorrow seem so much more
wreathed in shadow now.
31 August 2022
He was the only one from the house of the dead at the cemetery
and he scared the living daylight out of other guests at the funeral
shuffled in rigor mortis and reaped a few condescending remarks
How dare he wield the scythe in his sick hand as if he was real
All the other mourners were dressed in white clothes and offered
eulogies so distorted that none recognized the deceased woman
who hence appeared to be an apparition hallucination and phantom
but he stood tall a few yards away from the expensive marble tomb
Wreathed and writhing she convulsed in her gold-plated coffin
tore the silk and satin lining in post mortal agony and disapproval
Those greedy bigots are shameful to pretend sorrowful everlasting love
they never took me seriously when I rejected their anger and wrath
I cannot breathe with such onslaught of hellfire and false tears
thought I had got rid of their dishonesty and dispassionate lies
Finally I could rest in peace and savour kindness and solitude
and then they spoil this moment and desecrate my final transition
Fortunately the ghost was for real and dispersed the demonstration
of counterfeit sadness cast a spell on the congregation had arranged
for water cannons tear gas and slurry and wielded jolly good canisters
of pepper spray to give them comeuppance and something to cry about
They did not know yet what she had decreed in her last testimony
made them wait for after the burial to prolong avarice and suspense
and delayed the opening of her will until one of them killed off the rest
Call it assisted and advanced suicide in the name of seeking the truth
18th February 2021
October's proliferation of bold colors are gloriously on display
Trees crowned and wreathed with russet and bronze leaves
Fruitful are the harvests of grains, bundled in golden sheaves
It's the month when being outdoors invites everyone to play
My heart sings praises to God, for His hand supplies the riches
Cornucopias of gourds and apples for pies, already in the oven
It's the sights and pungent aromas of October that I'm lovin'
There's Halloween candy and broomsticks flying with witches
It's the time of year to wear sweaters when winds are blowing
Weep not for fallen leaves, for they will appear again in Spring
along with the avian flocks, traveling South on fluttering wing
before Winter's gelidity arrives, and suddenly it starts snowing.
~ ~ 10/2/2020 ~ ~
October Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Regina McIntosh
SERVITUDE TO PRIDE
See,
Our love that once
Like an inferno burnt,
Now, like an ember smolders,
And beyond kindle by pride has become.
Our psyches by pride wreathed, in loneliness
Our hearts writhe and our mirth into myth retracts.
Without,
A serene heart we feign.
But within, our hearts by dusk of pride
Blinded, for each other grope and to the
Melody of the dirge of our fissured
Hearts pride spitefully dance.
For
A faded memory of you
All night i carouse yet for
Your caress I yearn.
Photographs of you and i, my roses
To you, as a sedative into the mire you threw.
But, how come out of your heart you could
Not throw me?
The
Trees of pride, it is palpable,
A fertile soil in our psyches had found,
And under the arbor of their leafy boughs,
Etiolated our hearts berth and for
Sunshine seek.
On one side
of the frothy banks of the mind,
is the river of endless death.
With its eddies of blood
heckling swirls of hopelessness.
Every day peck-pecking away.
Until there's no trace of what you were
or what you could have been.
Only black wreathed moles carrying the soul...
into the deepest black hole of night.
On the other side
of the frothy banks of the mind.
A pearly river of life.
With its swirls of hope.
Eddies of love and light.
Every day an endless golden array
of heartwarming sprays.
Lifting the mind into God-woven skies.
Birthstones of cherubs filling potholes of sunken lives.
On either side of the frothy banks of the mind:
a river of death, a river of life.
Among a stone-wreathed, sun-fried declivity
On earth’s raised stomach, a shack. Common
With the nervousness of heat, such shack-up
Points bury their heads in shame forever...
School hours brought me to such beginnings,
Such introductions, transient and loosely
Translated into vulgar languages aired by
A hairless harum scarum – MY LANDLADY!
Her vowels, resonant with crudity, frayed the
Walls, reaching the cruel apex of wanton folly,
Embellished with tattered pollutions of crimson
Air. Her consonants, tongue in cheek, jeered at
Remote efforts applied to disarm a vector with
Borrowed proboscis. Paraphrased sex lined up
Lips that chewed with primed caution, when
Pressed to announce, through optimistic,
Sarcastic leverage:
‘YOUR RENT IS DUE! ’
But the moon always winked at me. All four
Phases richly painted, slowly sketched to crawl,
And not by any fast means, run. The seasons
Nudged me to remind me they were not yet run
Over by the wheels of time.
But she befriended the calendar, stiff with hard
Resolutions to turn over her pages. By a runnel’s
Course, she evoked the late principles of buried
Time, calculating the length of days, the width of
Nights and the circumference of her wilted
Patience. Hourglass was polished clean to reflect
The sun’s glare through holes pierced by decibels
Of eastern hymns, composed before the waking of
Larks, when like an underpaid courtesan, she would
Hammer her now contagious sign-slogan, but
Now robustly rephrased:
‘YOUR RENT IS OVERDUE! ’