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Sestina Beautiful Poems | Sestina Poems About Beautiful

These Sestina Beautiful poems are examples of Sestina poems about Beautiful. These are the best examples of Sestina Beautiful poems written by international PoetrySoup poets

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Details | Sestina |

What Thing More Beautiful?

If there be some one thing more breautiful
Than to lie with you in warmth and dark,
I would fear that it might burn my soul away
Before the purging purity of light
Its perfection must diffuse.
Your love is all the beauty I may stand.

I carry what we make within this dark,
Our human near-perfection, out into the light
Each day; each moment as I stand
Against the ravages of life I take away
Those stains that fall diffuse
Upon my careless soul, and mar the beautiful.

It is the love of you that brings the light
Into the confusion of my doubtings' dark
Securing what fitful fate may bear away,
That grants the strength to stand
Opposed to all things foul, in alliance with the beautiful,
Committed to a hope as noble as it is diffuse.

There is a light that will not pierce the dark
As we lie conjoined, our love diffuse
About us as the night in little measures leaks away;
It would but blind the eye, if seen, this sacred light
Before which no ill thought may stand,
This light that paints the unseen beautiful.

All worthy things are also most diffuse
As are the light, the dark, the beautiful.
Their meanings advance, recede, then turn away
From our poor apprehension's gropings dark,
Even as our hope moves us to apply what light 
We may, to illumine that before which we stand.

So in the end, my mind, struck dumb, turns away
From the mystery, in consult to stand
With the heart within the lovethick dark
Where you lie near and shining without light
Within that sphere of all good things diffuse
About us, incomprehensible and beautiful.


No; there can be to me no thing so beautiful
As the light of you shining in unbroken dark:
Your love is all the beauty I may stand.

Copyright © William Masonis | Year Posted 2007


Details | Sestina |

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.

Copyright © Sam Beloved | Year Posted 2014

Details | Sestina |

Love

My demeanor, the aftermaths of recklessness 
A child once, a man to soon
The glory to my name gone, the grace faded
Change do I offer no opposition to 
Derogatory remarks, have I afforded restraint    
A new cry heard; my steps subtle.

Your age, can I speak not of 
Every moment, filled with more youth than the first
Memories created; gems remembered
Your hand in mine, a single entity we formed  
For each other, were our lives
The joy spent, a cost to you. 

A meeting of hearts, the night inspired
The ecstasy unspoken, but felt
Our naivety the error, unconsidered
An unthought conception, implanting itself
Impulse driving our passion, forth
Creators we became; the end I found. 

Your figure lost, its voluptuousness 
Atrocious had you seemed, to my young mind
The tips of your caress on my palm, offered no connection
Conditions to my love, a reality 
Together could we be, never again
The burden was yours, my eyes were free. 

To witness I chose, an obligation it was
The lights so bright, intensity I felt
Your tears and screams, nourishing life
The mistake shadowed, by bare beauty
My hands were gifted with purity; my luggage fallen 
Reconciliation was to late, but my hands knew no release.  

My depart planned, my destination unmoved
His gentle touch, redirecting my path
The regrets unknown, my chin's resemblance I admire 
Your forgiveness, I do not desire
Mutual feelings, the base of our relations
A conditional love, the root of an unconditional one. 

Once a burden, now a source of joy
The end of had I decided, devoid of reconciliation
His subtle cries, owning my love.

Copyright © Keshan Govender | Year Posted 2016


Details | Sestina |

My Studies, You Drive

My incentive, you provide
Behind me, your seat was
My mind, stolen by your thought
To help was my ask, accepted you did
Animosity, was it all in my mind
A fool like me, you are not

Stressed was I, as my entrance was made
A book, had I ignored its presence
Claiming that difficulty, there was none
Your settlement, showed no panic
Stability, was yours to own
Calmness did your sight, share

My questions, did I pose
Seeking answers, was I not
Importance were they little, to me
Your voice, the only motive for my ask
To hate, you showed no intent
My ignorance had not dissuaded your care

Glances, did I steal many
Awkwardness was it a conception 
Your beauty, a pride in itself
My wishes to bring back what was, intensified
A norm did I want renewed
Change was my belief, not you

To write my paper, were there no obstacles
My passion, no longer constricted by an absence I moulded
A shackled heart, unshackled by you being
Forgetting you, was a choice no more
Art would be nonexistent, if your image was smoldered
A driven pen am I, when my side is not alone

Confidence was my bask, a length
Idiocy had you relieved me of, through purity
My actions had you not reflected
A wrath remembered by myself, but forgiven in your eyes
Study did I, conceding that your genius was of heart 
Whilst mine, a stem of love

Changed had my pen's drive, only
Dissuasion of my love, had I attempted through belief
Your sight a root of the potential, a fool claims

Copyright © Keshan Govender | Year Posted 2016

Details | Sestina |

Moonlight Adventure

The beautiful day begins in the house.
At the end of it, all that’s left of it is the moon,
Shimmering in all the night’s light.
A door to another world opens.
The only movement is a page turning in a book. 
Suddenly, without notice, an inconceivable object drops.
	
The thing jumps and twirls and once again drops.
A person from another time, the future, enters the large house.
The man, pacing back and forward, finally sends away the hovering book.
He magically transports it to the glistening moon.
Something like a black hole, a portal inexplicably opens.
The book vanishes in a fading yellow light.

The visitor sees something bright, a room full of light.
And inside, a piece of paper from the hands of a child drops.
The door of the room slightly, quietly opens.
A child and her grandmother are drawing and inscrutable house.
In a circle and a beam of inconceivable beauty appears the moon.
On the page, like the hovering object, once again, is the sight of a book.

The child explains that she has, many times that year, read the book.
But her grandmother slowly shows the girl the true “light”.
Now, the girl understands that she was wrong, and now appears the moon!
It comes closer and closer, and then, like a shooting star, down it drops.
The planet has gone down from the sky to have a conversation in the house.
The moon elegantly flies in, as large as an elephant, and its mouth opens.

And now all of the people come close together and a road opens.
The grandmother and child are guided by a rather large book.
In time, the home disappears; they have left the house.
The book vanishes, and all that leads them is a guiding light.
The key to a room, calmly, as if carried by the wind, drops.
“Come in and let’s have a talk,” says not a person, but a face in white, the moon.

The grandmother is surprised, for she is seeing the real, live moon.
A beautiful and long conversation through all the night opens.
Then as dawn arrives, blood-red, the tone of their voices drops.
Grandmother and child come out of the wonderful book.
Outside it is day, a new beginning, another lively light.
They walk o’er their field and talk till’ they reach the house.

In the morning, the otherworldly man leaves the house.
Also, he disappears in a now magnificent golden light.
That is the end; there are no more pages in this book.

Copyright © Alan Grinberg | Year Posted 2005

Details | Sestina |

A Sestina you would Harley notice

Paul C. Burk

A Sestina you would Harley notice.

No mere mortal will ever ride a Hog 
that shines and gleams in all its chrome 
and paint. It’s a steed to search for one’s spirit, 
a quest one hopes will never come to an end,
 forcing one to ride an endless journey clad in leather 
and boots.  All this. one’s armor, makes one feel like a god. 

The power I control is that of a god 
because it feels unlimited upon this Hog.  
I learn to love the feel of the beautiful black leather 
and the way it looks on me in contrast to the chrome 
of the beast that could easily end 
my existence and destroy my spirit.

A Harley-Davidson is the best way I set my spirit 
free. They call me Thor, the god 
of Thunder, for I control all that I see and all this end-
less power stems from one source, this fantastic Hog.
All strength and fury are reflected in my chrome 
heart as well as my mighty hands wrapped in leather.

Deep within this man, beneath studded leather, 
is a powerful force, a relentless spirit 
that shines free, as much as the sun reflecting off the chrome 
exhaust pipes, which call out, as does this god 
a force to be reckoned with a man and his Hog.
If you cross one, you cross both, which will be your end.

The iron horse is my true friend.  
Tougher than an army grunt or any leather-
neck marine.  It’s a vicious machine, the awesome Hog.  
Within this beast lies a relentless spirit 
that needs to be controlled, and controlled by a god.  
We need each other; our joy is glimmering chrome.

The man and the beast like paint and chrome 
forever together riding always until the end 
when one day I will be called to answer the gods 
wearing my boots and clad in my best leather.  
I will answer them truthfully with a strong spirit 
that I share as one with the mighty Hog.

There is nothing finer on a Hog than bright beautiful chrome 
which reflects a spirit whose power will never end 
and is as strong as leather and as omnipotent as a god.

Paul C. Burk

Copyright © Paul Burk | Year Posted 2010

Details | Sestina |

THE CLOSEST COMPARISON

A cherub with a rosy face
and plenty of curly hair
that the breeze loved to lull,
more than the daises so fair;
and that was the closest comparison...
to the beautiful child he once was!


The youngest dreamer ever to be born
with eyes as bright and lively as stars,
such were his to take imagination
beyond every possible dimension;
and such was the closest comparison...
to see himself as the beautiful child he once was!


He grew up too fast with an instinct
that was immensely blessed;  so keen,
privileged and gallant seemed that fearless
kid not to be able to earn one's keep,
to make perfection the closest comparison...
to the beautiful child he once was!


The shady paths covered by the swanky pine trees,
were as dusty as any country road which needed rain,
and it came without ever wishing for it;  and he welcomed 
it by getting wet, to lose himself in its gentle peace;
and what other closest comparison would he have made?...
If not that of the beautiful child he once was without worry and pain!   


Entered in Deborah Guzzi's poetry contest


Copyright 2009  by Andrew Crisci

Copyright © Andrew Crisci | Year Posted 2009