Long Xvii Poems
Long Xvii Poems. Below are the most popular long Xvii by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Xvii poems by poem length and keyword.
I do not love you as if you were
A flow of pink petals billowing a fire;
I love you as I love certain things secretly
Within the shadows of my heart
I love you as a plant that does not bloom
But holds hidden inside itself: the light of all flowers,
And thanks to your love, living darkly in my body
Is every rich aroma that rises from the earth
I love you without knowing how, when or from where
I love you directly without problems or pride
I love you this way because I have no other way
Only this one, in which there is no you or I
So close that your hand upon my chest is mine
So close that when I yawn, it is your sleepy eyes that close
What if...
They are only two small words,
Harmless enough when left alone,
Silent, so long as they do not lean toward each other.
But the moment they touch, something in the dark stirs.
A door unlatched, a wound reopened, a shadow that follows you home.
It asks only one thing of you:
What if I had chosen differently?
That is enough to send the mind drifting into places it should not go,
Through the graves of the past,
Through the choking stillness of the present,
Toward futures that linger like ghosts beyond a locked door.
Some paths might have spared you,
Others still move behind you, soft-footed and patient.
That is the curse of those two words:
They can bury you in a life that never happened.
© Poem – XVII/V/MMXXVI
LRET
Porcelain shroud slowly falls;
hapless Mother trapped inside.
For the next twelve weeks at least,
her time she’ll be forced to bide.
Returning from his exile,
Uncle Jack’s come out to play.
Across our world, it’s been said:
free to have his wicked way.
Undeterred, life struggles on;
endangered mammals slumber.
Safe, secure and snuggled down,
climate does not encumber.
Signs of season everywhere;
glassy ice and icy glass.
Crisp, consoling cracks ring out;
the crunch of frost-crusted grass.
Deep within the forest’s womb,
hidden seeds of life gestate.
Once this weather does improve,
eager to embrace their fate.
Newborn shoots raise sleepy heads;
late frost strikes a grievous blow.
Others will soon take their place,
bursting from the soil below.
Wisps of freezing fog linger;
this last vestige Jack did grasp.
But ‘tis futile, this foray;
Winter’s final, feeble, gasp.
--------------------------------------
(C) John C Michaels, 5th March 2017
Submitted to Rob Carmick's "Screwed XVII" contest (judged 6th May 2017)
(3rd Place)
Originally submitted to the "Open Poetry Competition" sponsored by Charlotte Jade Puddifoot (5th March 2017)
I always intended to love you
Alone.
In secret, in silence, inside, and safe.
I was prepared for the unrequited, for inevitable desire and disappointment,
Spectate, distance, move on,
And be the subject of a one-sided love.
And all the while, you meant each lingering glance to
Linger.
Our eyes knew how to talk before we ever spoke of love or lovers.
I inferred what was hidden there, untold.
I was right to assume, to hope that there was more,
For there was, is, and so it goes.
I love you. Still secret, but now not alone.
I am afraid of what this makes me, but fear knows blood like love knows blood.
And so, knowingly, I let you bleed as you make me
Love.
Don't stand so far away, although I know you must.
My first sleepless night without you.
We fought with monsters and became monsters fighting the insane acting out in strange displays dancing nonsense in a cave imprisoned by a thousand lies we designed to contain a willful child, and with hammer blows and the whips we made ourselves better slaves then the slaves who came before with fevered dreams drunken prose spoken lost and broken noses, broken skulls, broken bones tore through flesh, the fear, the fear, I miss my friends, those younger days, it seemed to me we would never grow old, tired. VIXI.
Poem 17 Note. . . vixi liber et moriar: "I have lived free and I will die free"
The Donald supporters were pissed
But Dorian Gray they have kissed!
Measured in fathoms
Their brains’ empty chasms
All hail the chief narcissist
Author's Note: Sunshine Smile's recent post, "Showtime," inspired me to write this. Her poem really speaks to me.
"The Picture of Dorian Gray" is a philosophical novel by Oscar Wilde, first published complete in the July 1890 issue of Lippincott's Monthly Magazine as described in Wikipedia. I urge those who are unfamiliar with the story to check out the plot.
I do understand people's anger. It's unfortunate the rest of us didn't do more to retrain and help the folks between the coasts--like the former coal miners. I really liked Bernie Sanders. Hillary was more a representation of the status quo. I think she lost the election when she called Donald supporters, "deplorables." She didn't get it.
"Make America Great Again," is doublespeak for, "Take advantage of the downtrodden and poor." We all share the same planet and its resources. There will be blowback from what we are doing in this country. No wall or immigration ban will keep us safe from ourselves and what we represent. We have not yet embraced sustainability, and I sincerely doubt the richest cabinet in history will have an intent to help miners. Mine owners are the ones they want to help. Stay tuned world. It is "showtime."
No spot, no matter how ugly can be transformed,
into a place of beauty and delightful with flowers;
in spring I feel a rising sense of excitement,
oh, soon the winter damage will be full of color.
Primrose with tenacity thrive in the shade of a tree,
bluebell happily rise through the foliage of bleeding hearts;
and blooming tulips grow between clumps of lilies in the sun,
my garden of pleasure is so extravagant and fragrant.
Painted daisies and meadow rue cheerfully sing in harmony,
I am creating a quiet garden of peace;
peonies and roses choose to peak over a fence,
and purple phlox willowy gather in a sunny corner.
Oh, those wine lychnis pop up wherever they like,
creating color and havoc and magic;
I do love a white shasta daisy that reminds me of mom,
creeping thyme decorate a rock garden along with yarrow.
Yellow loose strife grows everywhere willy-nilly,
this year I am planning a water pond;
where a sea of lyme grass and a blur of mantle,
will tower over the blue water.
No spot, no matter how ugly can be transformed.
into a place of beauty and delightful with flowers.
______________________
March 30, 2017
Ode/Ode To Garden Flowers
Copyright Protected, ID 888526
Screwed XVII Contest
Rob Carmack
Fourth Place
_____________________
Ode to Flower(s) Contest
NA, Judged April 12, 2017