"yearlong" poems
Dear beautiful evergreen
rooted down in the field
strongly upholding itself
like it has an impenetrable shield
The one that has experienced blazing summers
and freezing winters
not only seen warfare
but watched it from the center
winds blew it west and east
but it never went left or right
had blood on its leaves
but never got into a fight
Dear beautiful evergreen
That stands there all yearlong
keep your roots rooted
and continue to be strong
Dec 13, 2019
Dec 13, 2019 at 10:20 AM UTC
Marooned
Vapid beauty of this room
Frothing carpet, ocean blue
One wall me, the other you
What lies between is residue
Scribed on soggy, shipwrecked parchment
Questions asked, time forgotten
Who are we?
What do we know?
Into these questions Summer flows
And thrashes at your Autumn’s brinks
Yearlong they torment my brain
Infringing on every season
If not for the manic scheme
To love and having loved be loved
This correspondence to a distant land
With stars, more numerous and brightly lit
Than my burgeoning highway exit
Would by no means have left my hand
But if, against all odds, it will prevail
Extolling truth’s folly, my sorrowful tale
Quells with reason my groundless pride
At having docked on your passionless harbor
Unloading platonic cargo during our youth’s ebbing tide
Must not create union of body or mind
You swallow my horizon, like the sun twilight
Though, one need not chase that orange orb for tomorrow
In this night without fortitude, lewd humor consumes me
Singing with the mouth on my head and your voice inside
I plunge into darkness
Skimming its silky surface
Before zipping it behind me
Shall I drown, as I have lived?
In vain, my dreams your subjects
Taken for ransom in your heart’s Tripoli
Not surmising recompense, I forfeit this
A note belying resonance
Of my heart’s last echoed throe
One desperate effort, giving up
Feed every vestige to the void
Wading, torso encumbered
Each sullen relic of your memory
Falls to the deep’s frigid ebony
Then, only too late am I cognizant
That my own breath is tribute yet spent
Therefore if I were to float or swim
I’d give you every ounce of who I am
Convince you to relinquish me
From your tepid, spurning sea
Then lying beneath moist underbrush
Slowly, breathe no more
Aug 9, 2010
Aug 9, 2010 at 4:24 PM UTC
there are million of words
left unsaid inside this gut.
similar to every volcanoes,
there will be
time
for this gut(ter) to blow up,
burst of processed thoughts
that kept inside for yearlong.
whether you like it or not,
give a **** or not,
ain't no **** were given
'cause it's about the time.
Nov 1, 2018
Nov 1, 2018 at 9:48 PM UTC
See, as the carver carves a rose,
A wing, a toad, a serpent's eye,
In cruel granite, to disclose
The soft things that in hardness lie,
So this one, taking up his heart,
Which time and change had made a stone,
Carved out of it with dolorous art,
Laboring yearlong and alone,
The thing there hidden-rose, toad, wing?
A frog's hand on a lily pad?
Bees in a cobweb?-no such thing!
A girl's head was the thing he had,
Small, shapely, richly crowned with hair,
Drowsy, with eyes half closed, as they
Looked through you and beyond you, clear
To something farther than Cathay:
Saw you, yet counted you not worth
The seeing, thinking all the while
How, flower-like, beauty comes to birth;
And thinking this, began to smile.
Medusa! For she could not see
The world she turned to stone and ash.
Only herself she saw, a tree
That flowered beneath a lightning-flash.
Thus dreamed her face-a lovely thing
To worship, weep for, or to break . . .
Better to carve a claw, a wing,
Or, if the heart provide, a snake.
2.1k
after his lips
brazed mine, i understood what
churches meant to saints;
death and rebirth and homecoming and
ease. the artistry of our
flesh meeting flesh,
gentle grassroot heartbeats finding
heaven in the moles on our shoulders, our
inner thighs. he hums a hymn of becoming and i
join the chorus: a
kingdom of quiet wednesdays and
leaving forget-me-nots on my pillowcase to bloom.
murmurous, he sweetens my melancholy; our
naked bodies left bare to the seasons,
over and over again, unafraid. i
part my gracious fingers and
quilt for him a makeshift
rosebush beneath blue eyes and
summery glances. our
testimony is this:
underneath july starlight,
victory is found in the
warmth of our
xanthic chapel; a
yearlong love story left
zen in our delicate rapture
Mar 3, 2018
Mar 3, 2018 at 8:39 PM UTC
Her attractive skin, mostly bare, in any clime looks alabaster,
Her heart, dark, envious green granite, rarely seen anywhere
had a hole drilled to pass right through it's coarse middle,
quite befitting for a 'crown crusted cobra', to snuggle within,
and inhabit, perfectly concealed, day and night, yearlong,
not on the eye shot of the prying world, it would remain
the unknown secret at the core of her enigmatic, existence.
Her eyes, shimmering embers of coal would entice,
any one smitten by desire, who dares to look at her face,
that vision of her from the very first sight remains frozen
though warped by spherical error, incorrigible!
Her slur sounds music to her fawning admirers.
She was a metaphor, for a perfect baneful construct.
Dec 15, 2014
Dec 15, 2014 at 7:45 AM UTC
Sweet Sixteen Years
<••>
had to get the calculator
cause this brain refused
this math,
2024 - 2008 = 16
yearlong furlongs
a dustance existential
impossibility:
She selected me from the
millions of riffraf looking
for a living romantic love,
which perhaps while
not a complete miracle,
but something, that had
been as elusively beautiful
as a running back shedding
11 tacklers and well,
scoring a touching down
(n.b. it’s a Sunday)
a touchdown elusive
and once thought,
a deluded inconclusive
belief from the realm of
music and poetry,
an aberrant belief
in a life of mundane
and oft much pain
that periodically stubbed
one’s toes with streaks of
sparks, but never was carded
for one who had not
learned
the definition
of longer
lasting,
open ended,
unimaginable,
genuine
to expect, believe
that it was a
validity,
nothing but a
legal fiction
never to be a word in
my finishing diminishing
vocabulary
there will be no candlelight
dinner, no popping corks,
no mad jewelry hidden in refrigerator,
maybe just some
outshine lemonade icicle popsicles,
a modest treat
for an e-xtra oh-never-ordinary
travelogue with no final
destination penned in
blue-black ink
for the record:
she picked me out,
she came late to
our first date,
and fully agreed
on a third date,
that commitment
was a pressure
neither desired,
agreeing with a
hearty high five
so here she is,
always a present,
always an available
sujet for one more
onlylovepoem
to scribe, and
complain
how a poet goes
on and on and on
which is a reminder to self
to quit writing too much
when there is still a
tomorrow to add to this
poem
Dec 15, 2024
Dec 15, 2024 at 7:12 AM UTC
a lonely heart
thinks of the girl with eyes like diamonds in the rain,
and her eyelashes that float like dandelions.
thinks of the day
she ****** the warmth from the sky,
and watched the sunset down her throat.
her tongue broke like waves on the shoreline,
“I don’t know if I love you.”
lies awake,
up late, on a yearlong night
pouring alcohol,
trying to put his pain to rest,
only to watch his wounds erupt into fire,
and give birth to
a child caught in a trap of burning bones,
waiting for someone to hold him and say, “I know you.”
he wanders a desert,
chasing mirages, that are only clouds of text messages,
that swarm like nagging mosquitos,
before vultures pick him apart.
and he knows
no one wants to adopt homeless shadows
before the dawn.
and now,
deep behind the ribbed gates of his chest,
his veins are snakes in the garden.
looking to eat the end of
a lonely heart.
Mar 9, 2014
Mar 9, 2014 at 11:40 PM UTC
Fields
of my
ancestors
-stalks of
cane sugar-
surrounding
It yields
yearlong:
for the sun
-garish- in
its wake
leaves thirst
quick
to slake
Nov 30, 2014
Nov 30, 2014 at 5:51 PM UTC
I'd rather work with numbers
than work with people.
*Reason:
they give you the right answer
numbers are never wrong!*
They can never be,
they tell the truth yearlong.
It's not that I hate people, or
have an issue with trust, or,
they don't use their noodle.
It's because they can lie.
see numbers can't,
nor can they deny.
My love for numbers is as endless as Pi,
because numbers can NEVER lie.
Jul 29, 2014
Jul 29, 2014 at 8:58 AM UTC
The universe makes random jokes
Like, to know me is a curse
My personalities make it worse.
The introvert in me is ugly painted with gloomy clouds, stalking demons in the alley loves to mourn as a firstborn sick With numb eyes flick,
tears don't exist anymore.
The extrovert in me is silly painted with colours people never been seen, his smile is flawless and always wander around clueless about why he smiles.
The **** in me is a song or people like to call it wrong, a yearlong gong he writes 'lol' in people's wall with a fluffy cloud inside his brain,
it reads tetrahydrocannabinol,
notorious for his vocabulary,
can **** with an epistolary.
The Dib is a broken rib, spoon-feed bib
He writes out of syllabus with sketchy nib,
runs in a solo trip his life says 'rofl'.
©sarcasticbong
May 25, 2021
May 25, 2021 at 2:08 PM UTC
I find the beggar’s face happier than me
At the street corner where I see him daily
In unkempt hair and stretched shriveled palm
He doesn’t look as ruffled or as me bereft calm!
He isn’t a bit perturbed none asks him his name
Not complains of clothes barely hiding his shame
Holds on to a lingering smile never leaving his face
Gathers besides the coins comes whatever happiness!
Scar him wrathful season’s sun storm and rain
Yearlong his beggar’s toil keeps him in the open
Yet never stalks his face the slightest trace of gloom
The dark shades of despair like on my face loom!
The moment you fill his palm he bows in courtesy
Reciprocates with blesses for you and family
I have seen him sharing crumbs with the dog on street
Showing there’s a good heart a mind that is sweet!
I find the beggar’s face far happier than me
Admire him but more than that I do him envy
Don’t doubt it and I'm ready to lay a wager
I cannot be as happy as that street side beggar!
Jul 18, 2014
Jul 18, 2014 at 7:28 AM UTC
i kept this love for you hidden in my veins like drugs or alcohol, like you could just find it on my breath if i leaned in too close or too soon. i blink and i hear your voice/feel your touch. i blink and i can almost rewind to those sweet winter days, the spring, the summer, the days you called me beautiful. falling for you was not seasonal. it was yearlong and so heavy lidded and blissful.
i still want to grow old with you. i want to ask you, “honey, did you feed the fish?” i want to go on our one hundredth date and still get butterflies. i want to look into those beautiful eyes and know that right then, right there, i’m looking at my whole ******* world. i want to wake up with your body so tangled with mine we could be mistaken for a singular, otherworldly being. i want to come home later in the day and tell you about my day at work as i’m in the recliner and you’re massaging my shoulders. i want the purest softest love the universe can muster.
you make me sure of one thing, and that is that love transcends. period.
everything about you is a reminder of what love is to me. and i want to protect that love more than anything in the world, okay?
Sep 29, 2017
Sep 29, 2017 at 12:06 AM UTC
huddled beneath the ***** dark alleys of the past
there's a girl
rubbing her hands together
for a semblance of warmth
the cold bites deep
through bare clothing
chilling her to the bone
as the frost flurries through
and bright Christmas trees
set her eyes alight
she shakily pulls a small
matchbook
from her pocket
with a breath,
she mutters a prayer
and strikes the match
to watch it burn
one last time
the flame wavers
but continues to burn
'till there is no fuel left
just as the light dies
she, too, dies
and the ghosts come
to take her hand
to a safer place
where it's Christmas yearlong
and warm embraces await
for the little match girl has left
for somewhere, something beyond our reach
Feb 12, 2019
Feb 12, 2019 at 9:05 PM UTC
When I'm There
After all of the noise
Of all the days
Of the all time spent prior
When I'm there
All that's left is silence
All that's left is the sound of the wind as it breathes
Through the spheric nature of me
Nov 15, 2018
Nov 15, 2018 at 7:13 AM UTC
As armed ants advance
Beautifully beyond blasted borders,
Crazed caterpillars create
Demoralizing defenses
Engineered effectively.
Fiery fights form
Gracefully. Gleaming gear
Hints hardily
In ill-prepared insect incisors.
Jowls juice. Just
Keep killing. Keep killing.
Lordly lust leaps, leading
Maniacal maggots mercilessly.
Not nearly neat nature now. Nasty new-horror negates
Original order. Overlords order;
Paternal pressure pokes
Quills quintessential,
Reaching re-riled responders. Rest rowdily royal
Slaves. Soon shrill sounds shout silently. Sun-break signals
Too-terrifying travesty
Under umbrella’d
Vulcanism. Voracious vulgarities
Wrap war wistfully whilst
Xeroxed Xanadus
Yearn yearlong. Yawing
Zephyrus’ zeppelin: zephyrs zoom zilched zealots.
Jan 7, 2020
Jan 7, 2020 at 6:21 AM UTC
Absent arburn air
Baffled beautiful boughs
Causing chaotic conflicts
During dead days
Even erethreal energy
Forged forgetful fiends
Greatful greactious gains
Handed handwritten hearts
Instead intricate idiocy
Joined jumping jesters
Keeping kites killed
Leaving lonely listeners
Mourning more music
Nourishing nothing new
Overtime opening options
Presented painfully personal
Questioning quaint qualities
Returning resourcefully righteous
Simply slauted seriously
Tempting tireless tapestry
Usually using updateable
Volumptuos ****** value
With wanted water
Xaern xany xenatious
Yearns yearlong yet
Zappy zazzy zanyism
Dec 28, 2018
Dec 28, 2018 at 10:10 AM UTC
Let me evade myself into the Beauty of your heart
Where the Roses are Red and Rose all the yearlong
Let me breath the air from your Lungs
Where only pure air can be dragged from
Let me explore the beat of your Heart
Where every beat Sounds similar
To the syllables of my name
Let me Get lost in your Voice
Where the ocean of passion screams words like,
Oh Love,
My Love
Nov 28, 2016
Nov 28, 2016 at 6:29 AM UTC
Drop by drop i saw
Shedding in the leaves of leaping flame
Have you seen deadpan tears ?
They are melt of .
Broken fire ,broken dreams ,and broken soul .
All my little eyes saw in bruised broken bangles.
My little heart balked to revolt ,but too much was her endurance !
It was not a tale of yearlong ,
But long a long
So long that nobody want to remember
Even my pen don’t want to spread much ink
As it brings a flood of red tears in black December .
Dr Pragya Suman
copyright@pragya suman
Jul 21, 2020
Jul 21, 2020 at 9:44 AM UTC