Short Defunct Poems
Short Defunct Poems. Below are examples of the most popular short poems about Defunct by PoetrySoup poets. Search short poems about Defunct by length and keyword.
To some he was a punk,
to others quite a mystery.
A jailbird and a drunk?
A fan of film and fistery?
But now that he’s defunct,
finally, Bunk is history.
A curse
This Coronavirus
Beyond cure
At Worse
All at homes like in curfew
Annoyed
Virus
Less than a piece of hair
On Nobel heads
Defunct
Enough is enough
Walk up
Deliver!
What is the perfume perceived? "Rose Meadow",
The one defunct for many a year.
Scent's waft spins in the room of my childhood -
Mater's return... from father's home.
5/10/2023
Ice King
By Karl Marszalowicz
Null in the numbness
Defunct system collapsing
His blight in my hand
Abuses don't melt
Reliving a time of need
Cold words blistered me
Crying icicles
Shattering a childhood
He liked me frost bit
Live
To
Forswear
Quondam days
Bygone belongs to
A defunct place without return
Hereafter outcome is uncertain in the present
Only exists the priceless here and now to create a plenteous life plan journey
4-6-2016
In your mind you say hurry across the borders in your heart you say hurry across the borders within all this disorder and the defunct dysfunction you dismay your troubles
Double in trouble~
10/26/20
Written words by James Edward Lee Sr © 2020
only the things we have lost
and misplaced still matter
tomorrow is hung on old key rings
unused words duct-taped
to a gathering silence
rubber bands perish in sunlight
allow blooms to weep
their blessings
in the defunct circuitry
of a garage microwave oven
the god you can imagine
pins you to a future thought
of whatever comes next
I am in that basement ward,
the disused one,
the one they park you in
on the way to the morgue.
The usual clutter of broken wheelchairs,
torn screens,
long defunct electrical equipment.
I sense that this is where you are left
until they figure out what to do with you.
In the morning I go to work.
I want to be somewhere else,
when they come to get me.
The plasma screen was dissolving,
was actually weeping
Something had happened,
something had shocked the television
out of its usual studio-based blah.
A trembling voice announcing:
explorers had discovered the unbelievable.
Whole continents
of defunct and dead lands
were emerging out of a once living past.
We were all amazed, everyone was upset
though not sure why.
In human bodies heads become parts.In World bodies heads are ruling smarts.Came from Star dust thinking,Silver hair to shine on top of these Kings,unlearned or forgetting everything learned at schools, ailing to walk, failing to talk,tightening the belts on no bellies but both sides of bones,smile to defunct on abandoned faces,how they think right these souls to rule the youths and all learned schools of thoughts?
I dreamed
I was picking
flowers for you again,
like I did the summer before
you died.
Sometimes
I dream about
flowers, and as I wake
the colors fade into the tears
I cry.
I dreamed
you died.
Sometimes
I cry.
I learned from "Amaze: The Cinquain Journal" (now defunct) that in finely written modern Cinquain the first and last lines in each Cinquain should make a "mini poem."
If those buried beneath us
could rise today,
would they run to any patch of sunlight,
make snow angels, heap-up snowmen,
stick blackened bones into white bodies?
Would they fashion a bright face
from tooth stumps and icy eye-sockets?
Sadly I imagine that some,
(the frost-jelled and un-melting),
might return to crumbling factories
or defunct offices,
their briefcases or tool boxes
stuffed with snow
to labor over epitaphs.
He works alone
in cavernous stockrooms,
or as a night watchman
guarding unwanted things.
He is never behind the counter.
He is the man
who has the social skills
to fill racks.
Occasionally he is found
as a clerical error,
still at work in a defunct depot
long since depleted
of function.
A yellowing Rolodex
may yet yield a contact number
like a mythical footprint.
Someone may need to call him,
but what shall we call him?
He works alone
in cavernous stockrooms,
or as a night watchman
guarding unwanted things.
He is never behind the counter.
He is the man
who has the social skills
to fill racks.
Occasionally he is found
as a clerical error,
still at work in a defunct depot
long since depleted
of function.
A yellowing Rolodex
may yet yield a contact number
like a mythical footprint.
Someone may need to call him,
but what shall we call him?
Down in the dumps
Ducks drop in dams
Design the due in daily dots
Documentary life dreamt as a slept dog.
Do or die
Doesn't go down
Deplete or defunct
Dim fights betrayal in doo-wop
Dancing daily in dams
Daily bread, daily living.
Right as rain
Remembering the rainfall drops
Real green relaxes under the rules
The rule of evidenced remedies
The ribs remember the rigs
Ro-setta stone coins
Real life repeats.
13, April. 2018
Once, the fairy tale vein do I embrace,
once upon a time
in the past not mnemonically distant,
were we the two poles of a magnet-
if you be the South,
me the North Pole.
If I be a flying matter,
You were the gravitational pull.
If I be the water,
You were the wave.
If I be a bridge
You were the pillars under it-
Yoking stasis to dynamics.
Now, as stasis and dynamics are unyoked,
I am all water under the now defunct bridge.
No apologies
No criticism
Significant abhorrence
Distorted transfiguration
Angsty mornings
Disheavled evenings
Annoyance , frustration , disdain .
Paradoxial inception
Analytical depression
Muffled whispers
Defunct agression
Ultimate paranoia
Unconsciously decisive
Submissive arguments
Disoriented contortion
Twirling whirlwind of suppression
Tumult of words
In finalè
Pure satured composure guided by
motives of predestined animosity
Night falls and darkness roams about
Fear and doubt overwhelm the mind.
People from afar stand and shout
Vision is defunct and glasses are to no avail
Blood pressures are running high, hearts
begin to bail
The blessed sun has gone away
Many from the hills ask, "Has it gone to stay?"
While those few from the valley cry to the
heavens, "I see a new sun arising."
Yes! Light, love, peace, strength, and happiness
we see coming on the horizon
The Dark Delaware on my left
The defunct canal on my right
And me in the middle of both.
I’m heading south on the towpath
Peddling my hybrid all the way.
As to where? I haven’t a clue
It doesn’t really matter where
Just as long as I’m still able to
Peddle along this special place.
I’ve biked here since I was a kid.
Two things have changed since that time:
Back then I had a three speed Schwinn
Today I have twenty-one speeds;
Back then I was young, today… old.
If those buried beneath our boots
could rise today,
would they moan, turning shriven features
to the frozen earth,
or would they run to any patch of sunlight,
make snow angels, heap-up snowmen,
sticking black bones into white bodies?
Would they fashion a bright face
from tooth stumps and sockets?
Sadly some,
the frost-formed and un-melting,
might hitch rides on the windows of cars,
return to defunct offices
(briefcases stuffed with snow),
to labor over epitaphs.
Saturday Night...
You’re here, in the flesh; tall and handsome, where nothing stands between us
but our breaths... softly, yet eagerly exchanging warm, casual greetings
Tonight, in the absence of distance, time is defunct; obsolete...
And if these walls could speak, they would tell of the blazing sparks that fly
when our eyes meet and how quickly I have to look away
or I would melt like fresh, creamy butter in sunlight at noon!
~*~
9/7/13
For "Mr. Incredible"