Long Yawns Poems
Long Yawns Poems. Below are the most popular long Yawns by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Yawns poems by poem length and keyword.
A weasel wibble wobbling can be said to have ingested copious amounts of indemonstrable indelible ink today as it soared into doorways, hallways, cloakrooms, and buffet tables. Buffet tables are neither buffaloes or bongos. In fact they are a pleasant sight to behold. Many colours. Many tastes. And the sounds of chatting from the sandwich stack is delightful especially when the mayonnaise is chuckling away at the jokes told by the ham and cheese. Little dainty cup cakes are immature so a quality conversation cannot be held. And the large jug is rather unintelligible and uninteresting as it yawns away the hours before the consumption takes place. The operatic oversized plate of soprano pineapples and chords of cheese with onions today but the mighty weight of the plate of rice and pasta salad bangs away and interrupts the acts really so the sauces must line up and push the nuisance plate to the floor and this they did. The dog was very very pleased and lay down after eating it all for a doze. And over half a dozen eggs kept jumping up and down and throwing their mayonnaise hats off. We font want these hats. We want whipped cream they shouted. The despondent tablecloth groaned. Another booming buffering buffet. And then the cutlery began having races between the foods. Zoom zoom zoom. Wow. The might of the jar of gherkins was being prayed to by the punnet of strawberries. And the profiteroles were preforming Pilates to an amused potatoe salad. The salt and pepper were arguing over who got used the most. And the coleslaw was diving on and off the pizza slices which annoyed the pepperoni who shouted go away in a very high pitched voice. Buffet battling bemusingly being buttering breadsticks. And now the time had arrived. The hungry swans and tulip people were here. They saw the mess. Blamed the dog. Then walked out in disgust. Oh dear. The tablecloth picked itself up and all it's contents too then went out of the back door and soared off in the air. It landed on a busy beach where it fed lots of little sea urchins. Who were grateful. They gave the tablecloth an ice cream to say thanks. Then the tablecloth went into the sea and swam to the island of the nine figs. Great isn't it. Ha ha the waves want wands. Hahaha boats bouncing into the sky. Left angled fueled fuel vision of a visionary variant spelling of mid. Xxxxx contemplation z z z z in a kiosk z
Form:
Pure awareness
Unattached to form
Just IS
As it IS
Complete
But since the awareness wishes
Choicelessly wishes
To engage in movement
It does
Creating matter
And energising it
With a part of itself
Without reducing itself
Or being affected by matter
Though in it, with it
And so
Matter ...
Or consciousness
Thus energised
By awareness
Yawns
Stirs
Stretches
Awakens
And becomes itself ...
Awareness
There then being no difference
No separateness
Between the awareness
That brought this awareness
Into being
And ITSELF
The human form
Of consciousness
Is the latent awareness
Having already yawned
Already stirred
And now awakening
Within form
To become awareness
Pure awareness
Without form
The body
An instrument magnificent
Enigmatically magnificent
Within which
Consciousness detects
Grid lines that connect ...
The entire body itself ...
Completely
Each grid line
Having nodes
These nodes are then occupied
Energised
By awareness
Making them conscious
Just as awareness
Once made consciousness awareness
And so
Each node is now consciousness
Enabling awareness
To be joyous in movement
Of the node consciousness
Born
Energised
And awakening
Within it
Later to be distinct though unified
To itself become awareness
As is ALL
These grid lines
All interconnected
Across the body
Of which the spine to head chakras ...
Are but one
A prominent one but nevertheless ...
One of several grids
Each continuum of the grid
Whether at the node or without
Being alive & aware
So as such
Everything being awareness
In entirety
Yet ...
The magnification of awareness
At the nodes
Which are consciousnesses
Dormant and now created, born
Or say energised
Awaken
And thereby enable
The totality of consciousness
Within form awakening
And experiencing awakening
In conjunction within
Nodes awakening
In unison
As a symphony
Of the formless movement
Of awareness itself
Are connected at all continuums
Of the entirety of awareness
Boundlessly
Within form
Without form
As the one awareness
That IS
Disclaimer:
No elaboration offered
For the revelation in stillness
Which each consciousness
Awakening
To & as awareness
In timeless time
Receives and becomes
As One in Oneness
Pure Awareness
23-October-2020
Flashback from 30-November-2018
Life is fuuny and cunny,It's not a good thing for anyone to pass through my path way in life for it is meant only for the strong and bold.I don't know where my strenght is coming from each day but i manage,
It's not easy walking through the path i have walked through and still walking through.I will never pray someone else walks past close to my path way in Life uptill now,never should anyone get it.its been STRONG my dear friend and brother
very STRONG,
I am just stocked in a single place like a piece of paper on a dry ground surrounded by both water and fire.if i change position,i either get soaked and torned off or i get burnt and loses in thin air,
Sometimes i stare at my path way in life both past and present,I see that i have travelled too far but not so far
I tend to wonder if travelling this path is all about staying at a single bus stop.
its really frustrating and sometimes wonderingly uncomfortable to notice that haven travelled a long path in life,you find yourself starting from the very begining where you started from,
its kind of annoying and may give a weak mind some chances of blaming his creator of which at times i do but may God forgive me for I am just being human.Listening to FOOLS and illitrates whose mindsets are blocked with ignorance and mischief makes my path narrower and tight,
well,well just keep doing your thing my brother and God is with you.as for me,I'll keep walking my rough path in life till my God makes it glaringly straight and easy for me,
I realy feel so down man,so down and confused.I feel real down.Yeah I know about my faith,I know about my God and I know everything is possible with him but i feel weak after passing through so much in life His strength has been and is still keeping me going but i need more,
I need to get to the stage in life where i can start doing what my heart yawns for.As it is said in the bible,"Train your child according to the ways of the Lord so that when he grows up,he will not depart from it",
Hope you get what i am talking about even if you are not around or beside my path way in life to witness the reality of it.But we must keep things we have in a continuous and pospective way where we can see developments in the near future even if it aches my back,throat and heart in a very bad way.Well,well I just keep my path way in Life and until then,i keep praying...
I am not a blank slate to score upon again
Yet there is this gap, this hollow place
That wants a name. I search for it in vain
The alien presence of eyes, and of face
Nothing comes back to memory. We are
Strangers now, and the empty space
Yawns akwardly. Thirty years is too far
For memory to recognize what is it I trace
For family and friends like fluids converged
In a nether space that makes glee brief
I feel the joy familiar as sky and sea merged
But the change in people contests my relief
For man have changed many things, but few
As much as himself - and as if to hide before
Familiar eyes. I remain old in a world new
And hesitance now where once I was very sure.
Time drizzled, drizzled, drizzled and terminus
Came piling up the sands of days for the wind.
Exile was my fickle way of escaping detritus
The sand shy had not yet blown but I was blind
And in the darkness where spins now alone
The white leached of soul calcified by snow wet
As unshed tears, under its stigma do so moan
More than the coming home again, the soft death
Of bonds, and the sense of proprietary loss. Who
Is left to stare in my face blank and expressionless?
And say by angle of shoulder: nothing here for you
I see all my labor like butter in the sun, and I am less
Than all the worth of man because the price of me
Is trickled in the sand. They kept the rules the same
But changed the game, and for lost of this efficacy
I am poured out from the chamber, a pot in shame.
For this I fled the foolish notion fawning in my head?
For this I left the better known of friends? The mills
Of stress do spin there still, the uncertainty of bread
And age from time's trembling vessel nervous spills
The unfriendliness to share because of a narrow dread
That tomorrow stalk alone will not suffice the failing
New. I was tired of my self-imposed exile, the shred
Remains I gathered and came home to true trembling.
There is only one familiar landmark, a true friend, this
Alone give my days orientation to praise. My true pole
Is where such a friendship in the sand storm still exist
The lighthouse in the billowy mist, anchor for the soul.
But I have no root here to hold me firm to one spot
Roots adventitious grows away, and then cold excision
The stem alone left in the miry mud to to swell and rot
Coming out of exile finds coping a harder final decision
Dawn, when silence falters
And the trees of the range-
Are tucked in a bucket of fog
Marching dawn, whose beauty never alters,
I tuck myself in blankets like a log
At the Treetops Hotel upon the range
Dainty dreams upon dawn’s altar
The dappled peacock dazes the dawn
While the African crowned eagle
Will soar, prowling for prey
And tourists peep and picture the fawn
While their eyes prowl the breakfast tray
Jacaranda festooned fashion regal
Its blue flowers blue snowfall upon dawn
Elephants trudge to the watering hole
Buffalo follow, even the bush buck
The warthog always walks silly,
The big five will steal your soul
At the Ark's perch, you will be stuck
The water adorned by the pond lily
The range's serenity, waters your soul
Pristine streams gush from the moorlands
The Hagenia, decked in velvet green
The sword lily, sheathed in fibrous tunic
And as the Karuru falls hit land
True love will pierce to the gene
For pristine nature, is the true cupid.
Breaths bated as lovers hold hand
Further, nestled nigh in the blue skies
The Kinangop peak, peeking through
The closer I get, the further it hides
A sun bird chatters, along my trail's high
My eyes in tune, such wondrous hillsides
I sweat as I head towards the bamboo
I am among the butterflies
Ringlets in a dance, oh! Surreal world
Monkeys swing, tree to tree, a trail of imagination
A reed buck is openly grazing
A canvas of the grassland in its gold
I spot a Serval cat, in hiding
On a safari truck, the breeze is an inspiration
Beauty flows in the altitudes that I behold
At dusk the steeped villages prepare for sleep
The Nyandarua range, yawns its last
Fabled home of the Kikuyu god
Curtain like shadows befall the steep
And this wonderland begins to nod
As the women fluff off days dust fast
Men’s ears wide open as it darkens deep
Wild animals are known to visit
Roving around, excitement for the young
But the animals are known to visit hungry
The locals know too well, memories vivid
An elephant’s wrath is meted out bluntly
Protection for man and beast not far flung
Conservation and nurture is the spirit
As Mount Satima watches her watered floors,
She knows the heart goes deep
Collaboration with njeri hunjeri who is a wonderful poet
Oh wow. Oh great. Look over there. Quickly now. Come on. It is the mitigating migrating mammoth mansions. Brick by brick and bone by bone. In a line. Travelling. Traversing the plains, fields and mountains but not on roads for roads are neither natural nor normal so always wear a tea cosy hat when pouring tea at a tea party. It is to show not to shine that has the sun in a pondering and philosophical mood. The auric rays are neither a moon sitting in a tree nor are they a kayaking planetary alignment. High seas then create high teas. Whirling in circling dresses of spotted green. But never in a greenhouse does one find a tomato in a tantrum. For tomatoes are very very mild mannered especially when given a drink. And this is good for compost can be crafty and doesn't like moods. A wafer thin biscuit is a flat chested mermaid moving around at the dusk. By the marina. Catching a glimmer is easy for the eyes of the octopus in an office with high rimmed glasses. Circle then dash. Tick tick tick. Form done. Signed. Signatures separate stagnant stale stupors. And the fat wading brat bird yawns on a front bench in a large ornately decorated room. How common. And yet rather uncommon is the master of the seaweed sermon whose speakers are never wise upon answering questions and questions are rarely answered so why play noughts and crosses with a jute duty bug? Inheritance is not to be placed in a kissing box for boxes are to be reserved for tiny biscuits who march around chaotically chairing and chanting at quite important times. Thus causing a lot of little flowers to sigh and droop their heads in an apathetical style. In a scrapbook posy position. The layout is not the layer and the label is a laugh. Numeration of a numerator is a numerical nautical nonchalant nerd. And the beast of the best bank is not to be trusted with a styrofoam cup. No never gi e it that cup. Always give it a baby bottle. For it is ignorant and infantile. Beware of the two foot clam in that drawer then when you are putting socks away. Hahaha a mist is coming to play cards and monopoly with a tree top, a hill, a perfume factory, and a zoo. Hahaha dolphin and duet with a dancing seahorse at a grand opera. Xxxxx desensitization Z now eat a nice scone and sing la la la to a doorframe. Z peacocks.
Form:
Warning, this poem is dark. It is inspired by the Canterbury Tales by Geoffrey Chaucer.
Gather around and hear of the strange day,
When three total strangers met on that plane.
Three unlikely females eager to tell,
Of their journey through the clutches of hell.
My hands are weak but I'll try with my might,
To give you facts and get this story right.
Come along on their unexpected quest,
Learn the reasons why these females lack rest.
The first is grey-eyed, skinny, and a blonde,
And due to her boredom, she slowly yawns.
Fair of skin, but vain and vapid of heart,
She makes her profit acting in the arts.
Lacking in brains, but her beauty stands out.
She looks perfect from her stance to her pout.
Successful and severely ambitious,
Cross her, she turns rigorously viscous.
“Holly Star” people adoringly shout,
Their praises erase all her feeble doubts.
Remaining awake for days at a time,
Easing pressure with the help of a line.
She loves her job more than anything else,
But Holly feels like a doll on a shelf.
The second is plain but kind as can be,
Lacking a husband, a mother of three.
Prominent red hair, blue eyes that are lost,
Freckles dot her face, her temper a wasp.
Three screaming children are taking their toll,
Their father's absence turned their hearts to coal.
Months of a mom struggling to make ends meet,
Make her closer to admitting defeat.
Her choice of work is not quite ideal
Pleasuring men for a family meal.
Disgust, self-loathing, and hatred are there,
Under the surface, with no love to spare.
Her life is foggy and covered in rain,
She wants to put a bullet in her brain.
The last woman is always on her guard,
From an accident that left her scarred.
Twelve unbearable years have all but passed,
Since the scars on her body were then cast.
Long charcoal black hair and brilliant green eyes,
Her profession centers solely on lies.
Her absence extends weeks at a time,
To find those willing to spend on a dime.
She hides all that dope in crevices not seen,
Storing it in baggies to keep it clean.
Deceitful, perceptive, a broken saint.
Her hobby makes the whole idea quaint.
Who has she fooled? Can I even name one?
Not her daughter, but possibly her son.
Dawn, when silence falters
And the trees of the range-
Are tucked in a bucket of fog
Marching dawn whose beauty never alters.
I tuck myself in blankets like a log
At the Treetops Hotel upon the range
Dainty dreams upon dawns altar
The dappled peacock dazes the dawn
While the African crowned eagle
Will soar, prowling for prey
And tourists peep and picture the fawn
While their eyes prowl the breakfast tray
Jacaranda festooned fashion regal
Its blue flowers blue snowfall upon dawn
Elephants trudge to the watering hole
Buffalo follow, even the bush buck
The warthog always walks silly,
The big five will steal your soul
At the Ark's perch, you will be stuck
The water adorned by the pond lily
The range's serenity, waters your soul
Pristine streams gush from the moorlands
The Hagenia, decked in velvet green
The sword lily, sheathed in fibrous tunic
And as the Karuru falls hit land
True love will pierce to the gene
For pristine nature, is the true cupid
Breaths bated as lovers hold hand
Further, nestled nigh in the blue skies
The Kinangop peak, peeking through
The closer I get, the further it hides
A sun bird chatters, along my trail's high
My eyes in tune, such wondrous hillsides
I sweat as I head towards the bamboo
I am among the butterflies
Ringlets in a dance, oh! surreal world
Monkeys swing, tree to tree, a trail of imagination
A reed buck is openly grazing
A canvas of the grassland in its gold
I spot a Serval cat, in hiding
On a safari truck, the breeze is an inspiration
Beauty flows in the altitude that I behold
At dusk the steeped villages prepare for sleep
The Nyandarua range yawns it's last
Fabled home of the Kikuyu god
Curtain like shadows befall the steep
And this wonderland begins to nod
As the women fluff off days dust fast
Mens ears wide open as it darkens deep
Wild animals are known to visit
Roving around, excitement for the young
But the animals are known visit hungry
The locals know too well, memories vivid
An elephants wrath is meted out bluntly
Protection for man and beast not far flung
Conservation and nurture is the spirit
As Mount Satima watches her watered floors,
She knows the heart goes deep
(for Jon Accomando)
mine was the last generation to be spanked. sensuous and real, w/ corporal punishment— at
least you felt something.
sadly, it too has been corrupted.
in the new violence no one raises a hand— eyebrows and whispers, an errant son reclaimed?
“fr yr own good. for your own.”
i am somebody’s son.
no.
i am in the living room, barely. the remote in johnny’s hand, an extension? new american
phallus, contoured to fit your palm.
push the button. change the channel. roll over and fall asleep. it’s all been said, done.
it’s the weight of history that crushes us. maybe a.d.d. will cure us of our inertia. maybe.
maybe is democracy in ashes.
no.
the cat is sleeping, quietly by the fire. i remember envying him once; a quiet life, pins
and needles— i was born for.
the cat is neutered. he spends more time licking himself now, and he’s grown fat.
we’re not so different really.
i am willing the embers from the fire in his direction.
i asked johnny once, “if you could make the world anew, shinny and perfect...”
his face lights up in anticipation. a million abstractions, he’s been waiting all his life.
“what would you keep the same?”
he doesn’t know.
“Television. I would keep Television.”
my face is gently bashed in.
oh, mild america...
one day, when the oil runs out and the apartment buildings reach the sky things will
change, they have to.
where there was silence—whispers. a fast talker now a lisper. whisper down the cities.
shudder down the buildings.
man’s love, man’s work- is made worthless. we’ve been pissing and moaning so long that
it’s coming out screams and yawns.
no.
blessed! we are blessed!
w/ suffering and desire.
w/ big macs and rubbing thighs.
w/ quiet eyes and shaky hands.
w/ heartache and lone.
w/ genitals in my coffee.
w/ 10,000 thoughts in my pockets.
the simulacra of the ‘good life’ is a pacifier. i’ve had enough.
no.
no. no. no. no. no.
in the living room i am empowered. i have willed an ember from the fire onto the cat.
kindly he remains asleep.
i told johnny “the cat is on fire.”
johnny nodded.
the cat continued to burn.
THE WEEPING WILLOW TREE
Listen to the weeping willow weep, its cries echo against the
Mountain sides, gentle is she the long lashed Spanish moss,
Whom tenderly wipes away the each tear drop as they fall?
Oh so softly mother winds caresses this timber child of the
Wilderness, speaks ever so delicately hush now, everything
Will be alright, in the swaying breeze doesn’t nature rock this
Wood land spirit, lulling it to sleeps dreamy embrace of
Everlasting beauty!
Beneath the nights quilted blanket of darkness, the winking
Stars of twilight watch over she, the weeping willow tree,
Shinning nay not too brightly, as not to awaken the cradled
Startling nestled within the forest nursery, hush now
These sky beings softly whisper!
The nearby babbling brook falls almost into a silent stillness,
Crackling against the rocky rapids in smooth waves of
Tranquility's peaceful motions!
The pine giants spread out their forest canopy umbrella’s above,
To comfort this newly planted forest child, beneath their ancient
Evergreen wings of grace!
Along the alpine mountain sides, the sunrises warmth baths
The wild flowers within the dawn’s awakening rays, trickling
Downwards in a golden cascade slowly, ever gently whispering
It’s time to arise unto a new day!
The creatures stir within their sleeping dins, drinking deeply
From the morning dews refreshing crisp autumn air,
As the first sounds of forest wilds sweep across the
Green valley floor, announcing to begin life renewed
Once more!
Retracing shadows of the night fold inwardly within
The hallows deepest depth, and the moon yawns
With a slumbering goodnight's farewell, until sunsets
Finally bidding calls upon him again, this ancient
Timeless gentleman, hanging amongst the illuminated
Universal heavens!
Shifting clouds pass ideally by, seamlessly spreading wide
As to allow the sunshine to gently spread sun kisses
Upon the forest clover, growing at the base of the every
Tree.
Yet the weeping willow still cries, and when the others
As her why, she responds in a somber moment’s reflection,
I’m doing what is in my nature to do, I am after all
Called the crying tree of the forest!
BY: CHERYL ANNA DUNN