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Long Color Poems | Long Color Poetry

Long Color Poems. Below are the most popular long Color by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Color poems by poem length and keyword.

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Long Poems
Long poem by Louis Borgo | Details |

My In Heritage

To know your history is to know your literature a lesson to learn, which will Stand the test of time and what one founds of their in heritage no matter how enduring and grim it may seem it something you should embrace- I came from a small city with big roots and routinely I was ask “where are you from”, especially from girls, if it wasn’t that it he thinks he cutie? And I’m asking why I would say something like that. Or He thinks him smart, God!!! I’m just answer the teacher question? But when I got older, older woman told me they probably think that ascent was sexy and I’m thinking where in high school what do they know about sexy? Man is her computer seat warm? America woman I just don’t understand them? I wonder what they do if they heard me speak a few difference language at same time? Thank god I’m quite because it not like they can read my mind. But it got me thinking from and questioning My Roots- What I found was the name Borgo had many difference Ethnicity & meaning with it as well as nationalities and that Borgo is Small Island between France and Italy. And if history may not mention it was a Borgia who captured Napoleon? How do I know where did it take place? BorgoBaby- No wonder I like Caribbean woman and it is this one that get my heart beat beating up to 400 beats per seconds if that is possible I can’t say it is a forbidden love but what I will say is breaking the ice and melt when think out loud? And yes she knows my name but why ask not why but why are some lyrics so deep my dear? Remember some old friends asking don’t you make beats? As I have some bread and tea. And that Bourbon is a drink, a Pecan Pie and a Street I’m thinking man if I have girlfriend What date it would be- Then I dig deeper and found the prime sources that seem to let to these events the Borgia or borja married into royalty which happen to be Louisa Borgia who married Philp De Bourbon or Philip V of Spain. He was rejected as King Louis legitimate son because born out of wedlock but later accepted but Philp never forgave and where he could have been both king of France and Spain he was just the king of Spain. Question I ask do any one know today the real reason why France has no nationality? Hurtfully to write or hear but i heritage mean full name as should other take to one, I have heard rumors that true bloodlines of nations of Kings that don’t rightfully take the throne it is a reason for that but not my place to say the way history is written is just to say to remember men wrote history but literature holds another tell? Who can tell the differences, but one question for god I always ask Why so much war my lord, I truly feel like a man without a country and Just walking away- I myself never came from money I start literally from nothing but as I got older I was given legitimate connection legitimate ideas and principals and the understanding of wealth but so trying of spending night and days with no day off of a seven day week wonder if I can make those principals work for me as sick as I am there are reason undefined why I do this things and money is not the endorsement my life is more complication then eye may receive to capture but if you listen you learn more than just hand written if you get the drift- I was never told of my in heritage put as one will it something like a scare or tattoo I had to found to adjust to my nick name is “Jason” but my full name is Louis Antonio Borgo III as I’m about to fall to sleep and lost all aim of conscience I see a email with my full name spell out in Ancestry.com question how did they know I was search for them and if I ever be accepted from this other half as I am a man literally without a country and in love with French woman more than American the phone rings and a woman from Canada called speaking French I drop the phone and finally I fall to sleep and As I sleep dreaming could anyone imagine wanting to go home but where? Remembering the ringing noise of girls ask ” where are you from”...


Long poem by Frederic Parker | Details |

Describing Change

The black moving night,a covering shawl
Circles the world before the golden dawn
While we underneath are always in awe,
of the changes in light we look upon
Beautiful colors appear from this change
And enter the eye of the artist's mind
As pages are filled, decriptions exchange
Poets write colored pictures to remind
The reds and blues depict from flowing quills
Give color to words across the pages
And though artist words will never fulfill
The colorful skies seen through the ages

Bow to the artist who paints the red sky
And for the poet's words , used to reply


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Long poem by anne p. murray | Details |

Botticelli Dreams of Sweet Purple Calicoo - And You

Your image appears through a purple-hued haze of silence… 
weaving its whispered dreamy spell, while you re-connect the strings of my sleeping heart
You go about undressing my soul as I watch your image drift in my celibate reality
I hear the melody play it lonely tune ~ but, it is absent of the warmth of touch
For its only your image I see, my heart's held hostage by the cry of the songbird 

My unknown lover, kidnapped by the makers of dreams and fantasies 
experiencing the uncertainty of the child that lies sleeping deep within 
Alone, with the clever artists of dreams and visions encountering the forever of my loneliness 
brushing off the blurred images with softly painted hues of repeated memories 
designed by the masters of dreams and schemes, sleeping to be hugged ~ dreaming to be loved

Oh yes... I've dealt with kings, queens and dragonflies
in the dancing reverie of the fragments of my reality, 
gliding in and out of the dust of Heaven's stars
sprinkling me with their sweet purple dreams gliding over shimmering evening skies 

In lavender scented breezes, I make my way through the night's crimson threshold
in starlit dreams that melt across ancient seasons
shimmering purple shades of shadows painted in serene,  pastoral Botticelli scenes

I sleep in soft billowy clouds, spreading my wings in God's peaceful heavens
my journey - painted in purple pastel colors of love...
peering through misty clouds and diamond stars by His Divine presence from up above 

They make their nightly visits into my fantasies, my thoughts
 painted by the makers and weavers of dreams, coming out of their secret, hidden places...
they silently reveal their amethyst, painted masterpieces 
lightly kissed in dewy, lavender scented bliss
My Botticelli dreams...softly swaddled in dream woven swathes of purple calico...
and you

The sweetness of long remembered thoughts tickles my memories in delicate ambrosial perfume...
redolent of lilac scented blossoms- each flower's fragrant sphere, lingering sweetly in the air
Ancestral shades drift in and out of what was... what might still be
singing their lavender effulgent melodies in lovely violet shades 
through soft, flowing wisps of dreams, lingering in meadows of glowing moonlight...
and you 

Your sweet scent, so succulent in lilac memories urging your return
they delicately float across my dreaming heart waiting so patiently for your sweet scented whispers
to wrap seductive chiffon fingers around my sleeping soul on Morpheus' silky crimson screens
across the evening's deep indigo blue horizon 

Between the cracks of earth and sky I succumb with on soaring wings toward your biding arms
catching falling stars in the mist of twilight whispers, where scarlet lilacs are sprinkled...
dreaming together of the end of our days
until your sweet love finds me neath’ the evening's indigo, starry art
painted in Botticelli dreams of purple calico...the delicate lavender wings of dragonflies ...
and you


Long poem by Ruben Hernandez Diaz | Details |

The Bleeding Roses

Roses in the garden,

Roses in the world,

Barrened roses,

Roses impearled,

But now roses curled...

 

Peach roses show modesty,

Peach roses show gratitude,

However, they are often insincere...

 

Yellow roses seem to care,

Yellow roses show friendship,

However, they are often joyless and jealous...

 

Pink roses communicate sweetness,

Pink roses radiate elegance,

However, they are often unthankful...

 

Orange roses have desire,

Orange roses show their pride,

However, they are often impassive...

 

Purple roses are majestic,

Purple roses express love at first sight,

However, they are often repulsed and unenchanted...

 

Green roses are harmonious,

Green roses carry hope,

However, they are often unpeaceful...

 

Blue roses like dreaming,

Blue roses are imaginative,

Blue roses desire to know the unknown,

Blue roses are mysterious,

However, they are often elusive and unattainable...

 

Red roses are emotional,

Red roses are devotional,

Red roses are respectful,

However, they are often remorseful, sorrowful and mistaken...

 

Gold roses are occassional,

Gold roses like memories,

Gold roses are preserved,

However, they are often misinterpreted and confused...

 

White roses are pure,

White roses have innocence,

White roses are spiritual,

White roses carry secrecy,

However, they are often arrogant...

 

Silver roses are rare,

Silver roses like to grow,

Silver roses convert fantasy into reality,

However, they are often lost and uneasy,

But they seem unpredictable and mystical...

 

Black roses are mysterious,

Black roses are rebirth,

However, they often remain elusive,

They often symbolize death and loss,

But they are unpredictable and silent,

Though, they are often harmed...

 

Roses in  the garden,

Roses in the world,

Barrened roses,

But now roses swirled and twirled...

 

Although, now peach roses are lying,

Yellow roses turning jealous and browned,

Pink roses being unsweet and unthankful,

Orange roses being impulsive and compulsive,

Purple roses being repulsed and revulsed,

Green roses losing hope and harmony,

Blue roses being undiscovered and lost,

Red roses being regretful and voided,

Gold roses bewildered and confused,

White roses losing purity and innocence,

Silver roses turning black and unused,

And black roses silenced and unborn...

 

All there is to see are roses vanishing,

Roses burning,

Roses trembling,

Roses surviving,

Roses aching,

Roses battling,

Roses crying,

Roses suffering,

Roses drowning,

Roses drying,

Roses fading,

Roses trying,

Roses wiltering...

 

All there is to feel are roses withering,

In a bed of bleeding roses...


Long poem by Chris Boskovski | Details |

Goodbye my Summer Love

Though the midnight summer rains
as we sit together under the geraniums,
hanging low and at full bloom,
we hold hands and talk of old times;
times that were kind to us and our youth.
As summer storms light up the night skies
We kiss the storm away, as it rolls through the grey skies
and the lighting cracks the clouds in half,
riping a hole in the universe, as we kiss the night away.

We sit throughtout nightlong summer dreams
and talk, and we hear the storms roll into the golden hills
of summer meadows filled with roses and a field full of daisies.
Love rests in time to see us grow old together,
and love strengthens its walls and pulls us closer together.
We shall go now, as day turns to night,
into our chamber of love and sleep the night away, together.
Hold us close to each other, as I rest my head on you sweet bossom,
and you nurture me to life of talks of love and beauty.

Nature whispers and sings us songs,
as we kiss and go for walks through the countryside
looking at the golden hills soaked in the rolling storms
that summer offers every year, upon a silver platter.
Sooth me, my love as I tell you of the sorrow I have witnessed.
Embrace me with your curiousity and tell me of the beauty in
the secrets of life and its hidden messangers
that hold secret letters from Devils that send temptations
to destroy something that we share, that is so beautiful and true.
Tell me that life will be okay, and my love is still true and with you.
Tell me my sweet and beautiful love, tell me if everything will be alright.

Love has seen us come and go, through the narrowed and sprinkled streets,
as we move through life fused at hands and eyes blind, not noticing the possiblities of death at any moment stalking us with knives jabbing at our backsides.
We are blind, for we see each other and only each other.
As we live life eyes a blazed looking at the sun, we do not notice the obvious between us.
Caring from me, at my time of need I never noticed the betrayal of our love.
My heart sees, but I deny the obvious and see what I hear.

As I see the knife drive deep in my heart,
you with a suitcase in hand,
I stand on my front steps and I watch the summer storms
come back over the golden hills to say, "hello"
Love is the same everytime, like a summer storm;
beautiful to watch, but when it leaves, it is depressing to say, "goodbye"
Now I sit, as the geraniums dry up and die
and the wrinkles at my eyes make me blind,
I see love walk past my house and mock me with lone kisses.


Long poem by Benjamin Alexander | Details |

4 Knights

4 corners, 4 knights
4 different ways to fight
As they geared up for battle 1 of the metal men shouted,
3 on 1 
thats no fun 
It hardly seems fair, so they argued and they debated until a plan of action came about 
Ok instead of 3 or 3 we go 2 on 2
You all got that, everyone plans to fallow through 
The knights all shook their heads, 
As they brought out their swords 
All 4 stood facing the knight that they thought should go toward
Now it's 1 to 1 to 1 to 1 
Each one of us will be done, done, done, done
And we won't be able to have, a true knight, to have won!
"Fine" said the smartest of the 4
Black to white, and green vs blue,
Now we each have 2 groups of 2
They all agreed each took their battle poses, and then attacked 
Each fighting valiantly for their color 
White nearly missed blacks throat, green knocked blues helmet off, blue injured greens leg, 
And black 
Kept knocking white back
After a while of fighting it had seemed that they all were equally matched 
Each one out of breath but full on determination to be the winner
However blue, the smartest of the 3 
Was board as could be
He wanted the match to be done 
He was tired that it was a 2 on 2 fight
Nor did he wish to battle the winner of black vs white 
He wanted to win now
So he devised a plan
Was it cheating, yes.
Was it cunning, even more so.
Was it wrong, no.
Because dead men don't talk
As his 1 on 1 match with green steadily progressed 
He carefully watched black and white's fight at their best
He knew opportunity would come when least expected 
He kept defending against green until opportunity would strike 
Then out of the blue white let his guard down 
As the blue knight kicked dirt into the helmet of the white 
Blacks blade fell down as it was still in full flight
Black killed white, while green stood still in shock
Blue seized opportunity where it was abundant, and killed the motionless knights of black and green
He stood on all three and said, 
3 vs 1, you should have picked, and I might have been dead. 

A certain joy came ringing about 
From being the cleaver knight with out a doubt 
But Minutes passed and so did the hype 
Silence fell upon him, no one to talk to not one to gripe.
If the match had lasted a little longer 
Maybe his pride for winning might have been a little stronger

4 corners, 4 knights, 
4 different ways to fight,
3 graves, 3 fools,
3 vengeful ghouls,
2 horses, 2 knights 
2 unfair fights
1 winner, 1 cheater,
1 cleaver creature 


Long poem by Chris Boskovski | Details |

Love will Triumph

Love will Triumph
when all is lost,
and nothing is gained.
Love will Triumph;
when hearts are broken,
and friends cry upon other friend's shoulders,
as love has fleed the countrysides,
but Love will come again
to triumph over the souls that eat away at evening dreams.

Love will triumph
when all is lost,
and the enemy takes victory
from the bloodsoaked battlefields,
as the hearts break with a somber kiss goodbye,
Love will triumph once more.

Friends turn enemies with a blind eye
and a sorrow kiss goodbye.
Blue eyed Death comes with a knock upon my door,
Charles Haigh Wood,
You painted a picture
that describes that sorrow in my heart,
that one wish, that one dream,
that if I believe hard enough
that Love will triumph again.
Believe, when a friend steals my love away,
they kiss and kill my heart,
hand and hand, they sing to each other,
as I clench my fists and hold back my sharp tongue
and evil and dreeded thoughts.
As she holds me back from him, My tourmented soul cannot handle
such pain and suffering.
and I wanting to get revenage, but having no courage, I am no coward.
I scream in my thoughts and my heart sheads tears.
Why me? I ask, why does love trample over my soul?
Leave me now, you have what you wanted,
you stole my love away,
take her,
love her,
show her what I couldn't show her,
teach her!
I shall turn the other cheek
listen to the nightingales sing in the morning sunrises,
and listen to the phrase that plays one thousand and one times
in my mind,
Love with Triumph, Love will Triumph, Love will Triumph!!!

Oh with love comes such betrayal and hate,
it seems everytime love Triumphs away,
someone else is happy in love's fanasty
and my heart is trampled all over!
My heart crushed by dirty shoes,
and dirty and sinfull hands that take my love away from me.
Love will Triumph as they say,
but no more shall I go though that pain again.
Over and over and over again,
Love Triumphs all over,
but no victory in my name, no victory for my heart.

As I sit at the foot of my bed,
the fog rolls on through
and takes me by surprise.
Love is like a fog, that burns away with the first rays of sunrise.
Love will Triumph in the days of Betrayal.



-9/21/2013-

For the Contest: Charles Haigh Wood


Long poem by Jorn Kolding | Details |

Out of the blue

Out of the blue I searched for you,
Under yellow skies I walked,
With scarlet red the things you knew!
The black lace talked and talked

I found you thumbing on the road,
Drifting south for a change of pace,
Your suitcase was hardly a load,
My heart began to race.

A game was lurking in your eyes,
I wanted in to play your sin.
Fortune’s wheel did not disguise 
The roguish plans you held within.

You took the keys and off you went, 
With gaping mouth I stood 
My heart inflamed with discontent,
I whimpered all I could.

With bold resolve my feet did go,
Dust and sweat led the way.
What did tempt I did not know,
But hidden fires held my sway.

Marching like a highway man,
Of dreams untold to think about,
I tried to chart your steps and plan,
Whose saucy tease I had no doubt.

Feline ways invite soft prints,
Invisible shades eyes large make,
I saw the method in your hints,
By subtle fumes my nose did stake.

I tracked and looked and never quit,
To find your world and magic curve,
But at some point I had to admit,
I wondered if I had the nerve.

I hung my head, I sang low tunes
Echo’s hope was just a trace,
So I took to heed the passing moons
Oh your purring heart did I chase.

As though you saw my forlorn look,
My ears you tapped with engine fire,
Behind me came your line and hook,
Smiling in my car you took.
Get in you said with lips to bend,
With a grin that spoke of lazy miles,
To you my vows could but commend,
So sure were your entrancing styles.

I swaggered in next to fate,
Forever gone, here was now,
Praying for mercy on this date,
Still like a mouse hearing meow.

You throttled up and off we flew,
The wind and hair was just a blair,
If my better half only knew,
The forbidden things I would dare.

The ride was smooth and oh so cool,
Skin touched skin and all was one,
Kissed by heaven’s secret rule,
Ay there’s the rub, just have some fun.

Salvation’s road leads to crime,
Heat and sweat are natures beat,
Lemons aid the bitter lime,
To overcome what might defeat.

Out of the blue I searched for you,
Under yellow skies I walked,
With scarlet red the things you knew!
The black lace talked and talked.


Long poem by Marc-Enzo Alexander | Details |

Love Song - I

        Explain to me the language of your body, 
    Assure to me its ulterior meaning, 
       Pure like an angel's wing, or else, 
              Perhaps, 
                   Let me discover 
              The ghosts of its meaning,          something more akin to the 
                 Fleeting flecks of the flowers in our          irises,        or 
                            The fatal hints of the Siren's whispers, 
         Where words meet their end and slowly         becomes a barrage of 
               Touches—meaning finds       itself more comfortable in 
                            The oils of our                skin than the notes of our tongue. 
              
        The burnt pink tips of my                fingers brushes across fields of purple wheat, who's 
                     Edges are scorched a soft   brown, like a frothy nebulae... 

It asks: 

            How is your hair like the wheats of the English? 

How are your           lips like the kiss of the Italians? 

Your eyes like the    glances of the Arabic? 

   A pink summer, 
          Duly fitted around the pale azure of     your oceanic figure, 
and softly beckons to the oval 
              Leaves that were          left, 
         Bled from                      decaying trees... 

     You love me, 
   I want to assume. 
     For what other reason 
       Would anemic sunlight be              weaved into you 
      Hair that's speckled with mourning dew? And lately the walls have been 
green with some    Festering memories from 
   Yesterday but 
     The faint and sweet smell of sugar is enough to
               Convince me otherwise of oblivion. 

    How are your eyes like the cosmic s c a r s, 
         Laced with an ardent yellow between an all-consuming purple and 
Flecked here and there with        
           Pollocks of white and blue, streaked with 
    Light orange along the dark celestial                                   rip a charcoal black…? 
                 
I love you, 
    Perhaps…
          
                But can a door compose its candor without rusty hinges? 
Perhaps…


Long poem by Sam Beloved | Details |

Sestina In The World Of Worm

Contemporary and vast in imagination is the girl lost in her own world.
Concealed between the paragraphs and ink typed pages of the book.
Remain cross-legged, as if in meditation, toes tickled by grass.
Here the battle of yin and yang, good and evil, is not waged but in balance.
Falling from the tree to rest in her lap is the red apple.
Just like the plot of a book; within and eating it's way to the outside is the worm.

Weaving in and out of the core, consuming the plot, is the worm.
Pulling the reader through the red shiny skin into its world.
Hours could fly by hidden and protected by the apple.
The letters purge into a blur and no longer seen is the book.
Hero, villain, and romance achieve their balance.
Feet sprout roots into the grass.

Becoming immobile with the soft cushion; short bladed grass.
Breaking through one skin and into another goes the worm.
Coursing through the bloodstream, distorting balance.
Eyelids fall as if to be curtains closing out the remaining world.
The key to the gates lay open; the book.
Perched on left knee baring one hole; the apple.

Slipping through the tendrils of a dream riding aboard an apple.
Wings flapping on either side, improvised as grass.
The landing pad looms in front; an open book.
Waving a light for a signal and a hand for hello the worm.
Created solely by the subconscious is this world.

Hitting the pages stumbling from the stem with lost balance.
Skin melting red spilling into the pages; colorless becomes the apple.
Brandishing a pencil, he begins to build a new world.
Kneeling in the grass,
Coloring in the apple purple is the worm.
Dancing in circles around and upon the open book.

When finished, he nods slowly and closes the book.
The scales return to their balance.
Burrowing deep into the apple goes the worm.
Once purple and now red again is the apple.
The roots from feet recede from the grass.
Opening eyes back into the already created world.

Reaching complacency within the world of a book.
The grass, a support for balance.
Leaving the door ajar of the purple apple, waving a sad goodbye to the worm.


Long Poems