Long Adjectives Poems
Long Adjectives Poems. Below are the most popular long Adjectives by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Adjectives poems by poem length and keyword.
Did Shakespeare ever fall in love?
A rose by any other name would
stink as sweet!
What would Y'eshua say if indeed
Magdalene was his favorite disciple?
What miracles would he impress her
with
So as to savor her forbidden apple?
O woman!
Is that why god made you last of all
nature's enviable beauty?
If before he said let there be light
You were the first thing his devine
eyes saw
I bet creation would have been a
different theory altogether.
If love at first sight was a figure of
speech
Then I swear I love you like a
metaphor
And your smile is a typo
They meant to say a simile
I will kiss your face like a blank page
And my lips will be the tip of my
pencil
Drawing drooling hieroglyphs like
the hand of god
Inscribing Ten Commandments of
Love
On the tablets of your breasts
Because my name is Moses
A stammerer on a voyage to save a
lonely soul
From the shackles of cynicism
On love affairs.
I would love to laugh while making
rough love to you
On the dark floor of my solitude cell
Where torn pages of amatuerish
poems lay as a carpet
Because you are my words:
Maybe your face is the sky
And your eyes are the stars
Maybe your laughter is a symphony
Of a million harps from a million
virgin angels
I have written about love a million
times
And still you remain elusive
A mystery
Are you an acrostic;
So each letter tells your tale?
Maybe a couplet or limerick?
Are you a sonnet? Or a ballad? Or a
metre without a rhyme?
Maybe you are a mere syllable I
mumble at every sudden ******.
Your body is a symmetry of regular
ryhthm
Consumate from five to seven
And back to five
Haiku:
Japanese poets should build a
pedestal for you
And all lustful lads
Should come and slink the slank at
your feet
Indeed lady,
Your gait and pride and smell of
shaven armpits and eyeballs might
make a eunuch have an ********
And that to me
Is amorous injustice!
Tell me,
What can a scribe do?
When all I write about is human
weakness
And wickedness?
When writing to me is an escape
from adjectives I can't utter over a
cup of coffee?
To me,
The strand of your hair alone
Deserves atleast umpteenth stanzas
of praise
A prerequisite.
If I say I love you
Will you giggle at my palpability?
Why bore you with parables
When all you yearn for is a touch
And forever?
I will say no more.
Another lost noon,
engraved as unforgettable
memoirs within my mind,
I’m rethinking of rewriting
and rewinding revoked
reflections of a love rekindled.
My eager heart
is now hanging in the void,
yearning to swirl
through desert dunes
to exhale one more
dandelion dream
in the same air as you,
where quill and paper
were no longer needed.
For times that I
was inking
meaningless phrases,
were buried
deep down under,
as you were softly
scribbling dewy verses
of desires upon
my desolated skin,
rescuing darkness
with starving sincerity,
illuminating and hydrating
my urges with
prolific praising,
moulding every
imperfection of mine
into an abstract art,
naming them
with prismatic gems
on the night of confession,
beneath a sky full of stars
that were burning.
I’m now left with no
adjectives to alliterate,
how this sunflower
soul’s cry bloomed
within your
healing embrace,
where hailing
emotions were eased;
I knew then,
that’s where
I’ve for so long
wanted to belong.
The whirling gusts of
greedy gardenias
may say
roses aren’t fragrant,
but why am I yearning
to be the Juliet rose
in your graceful garden,
where petals glow
like rainbow-hued stardust,
I’m on a virtual venture,
wishing I had
Aladdin’s vintage lamp;
to grant me my
dose of you and I.
If only I could ride
above Arabian valleys;
on an amethyst
magic carpet,
stitched with
crystalline crescent sequins.
If only you could feel,
I’ve been dreaming
of daisy meadows
and dahlia lawns,
where memories
are fatal,
pushing me into a
labyrinth of
mourning magnolias,
searching for
balanced brightness,
although you
still wander
through a
foreign land~
faraway from “us”.
I hear your wings
adorned with
orchestric ornaments
ascending into
the celestial fields,
leaving me in an
astral connection,
with a jar of memories,
where I still keep
falling for you,
time and time again,
as you are my
beginning and ending,
the amorous poet
that wouldn’t
take love for granted~
like the pirates of
this heart-shaped odyssey.
And I shall forever be reliving
the fabulous February,
spent in your golden presence;
although, days together
were somewhat short
and nights were long,
we will rephrase this romance
relentlessly
into an everlasting love story.
IN A TIME OF MICRO-IDENTITIES
At my Unitarian Universalist Society
no one is Jane Doe or Jack Spratt anymore!
A person being introduced or referenced for their
political, social or spiritual wisdom, their positive
impact on business, industry, education or community,
inter-faith connectivity or even their potential for
simple friendship and warmth, must be presented and
pre-validated by their ethnicity and race, their religion,
place of origin, their sexual irregularity, behavioral
irregularities, and any number of special pronouns or nouns
that have multiplied like weeds after a soaking late spring
rain or like non-native species of flora or fauna,
imported to address problems both real and imagined,
that have become prolific and invasive, pervasive and
problematic in unintended ways, like the popular new
sport called “daring us to get it wrong”….
These micro identifications give the person being
presented an unnecessary social asterisk that divides our
collective focus, fogging up the intended message, diluting
the joy of engagement, perhaps rendering inconsequential the
reason they are even there!
They are no longer simply folks but a type, a brand, perhaps
another public admonition to check our social attitudes, maybe
scold ourselves a little, and it makes me irritated rather than
appreciative, jaded rather than enthusiastic, somehow
cornered rather than free, a little wary of presenter and
presented, more weary of division, classification and the
perpetually annoying tactics of moral correctitude!
My pronouns, as you can see, are he, him and his, as normal
as water and oxygen in our planet’s biosphere, but more
important are my aspirational adjectives: open, giving and loving,
which admittedly, I’ve discovered, are subject to tidal fluctuations,
my diurnal disposition reaching out and pulling back. But this
disclosure not-withstanding, let the person and the message speak
for themselves like the sun speaks of light and the moon,
like my wife, speaks subtly in phases about sunlight at night!
Let our penchant for insight and moral validity allow us
to determine if speaker and word bring us clarity and truth,
encourages our efforts to find ourselves in each other in this
reckless adventure we call humankind!
He lives between two worlds.
One that an average, or sane person, finds him or herself living day to day,
and that of a fictional writer, who allows his creative side to pull him into the dark spaces of his mind filled with fantasies and mysteries.
Artist capture these visions in these inner journeys and put them to canvas,
Writers enter this illusionary world searching for a tale their creative side bangs out in millisecond bursts. He withdraws from the creative chamber only to scribe to paper his understanding of these flashing insane hallucinations.
In deep thought, he ponders, and molds words, and picks adjectives that best describes what this illusive world has flung at him. Sentence by sentence he works, and reworks and once satisfied he re-enters this dark chamber again to do battle with his mind's eye, beating it to death day after day, night after night, until the his imagination has run dry.
Exhausted, he now knows it is done, it is over, he can do no more.
But, he now wonders, did he interpret it right ? Does it make sense? Is it the best it can be?
He re-reads it time and time again. Will the reader understand what he tried to say?
Will they clinch their fist in anger at the right moment? Will they laugh or cry? Can their mind’s eye visualize what unfolded in his head?
So, what is left for this creative writer who has finished his work. Dose he stack it in a closet on top of so many others, or does he deal with the other world; the one he hates. The world of the common public that accepts their monochromatic existence.
He is not a salesman. He is not comfortable with this part, and would rather return to the chamber, and let others sell his works, but the more he returns, the more it seems these encounters are taking over his life. He’s now hearing voices, whispers, barely audible, but they are there. He begins to fluctuate between sleep, fever, delirium and reality. Till one day the chamber closes its escape hatch behind him and he is trapped there forever.
No one will hear him, for his cries bounce off the walls of this dark chamber echoing on top of his previous cries. He has found true hell. The hell that awaits all mystery writers who will allow themselves to find too much comfort with the voices within.
“You try to be faithful
And sometimes you're cruel.
You are mine. Then, you leave.
Without you, I can't cope."
Rumi
in the kingdom of love,
nothing is simple,
not even musings,
so tell me:
in your annoyance
do you still think of me
or am i just another
common cliché
in Rumi's philosophies
for cosmic connections,
must we be a
contradiction of circumstance
when our story has been sung
beyond the reach of stars,
so despite the dystopian demons,
i keep hope in the invisible
golden harp strings,
yet to compose our swansong
oh mistress of medusa
in splitting seasons,
when serpents spit venom,
your British horizon soul,
coupled with your
climate change heart,
procreate porcelain patience,
where rhythms of rage
lead to breathless silence,
but i never forget you
it can be tiresome
battling against
ebony lashes from
metaphorical daggers
when vertigo eyes
hunt for their prey
and i wonder if i
was at shooting distance
would you pull the
trigger to rip my
heart like shredding
secretive documents
but despite bonfire breaths,
my samurai spirit has
become immune to
momentary flames,
adopting a mermaid mind,
finding sanctuary in
deep waters until
the last ember dies,
as at the end of each storm,
when rainbows reappear,
i resurface upon your
ivory shores,
for what am i,
but a sea urchin and
you the empress of the sea,
so each time you are cruel,
i wait for the return of
tender gestures,
as i know it is your
veil of vulnerability
you hide from the world,
but in the intricacies of conflict,
i am still the moonlight
glowing upon your ripples,
as i know the code to
your handcrafted heart,
floating in wandering waves,
as you still ignite intimate spiritual
sparks of soothing sensuality,
so never abandon me - forever
in the imperfections of love,
in my abundance of flaws
i know you adore me
internally and externally,
for we are refuge and
safe haven for the broken,
like a masterpiece of
alliterative adjectives
glowing like gems
in topaz textures upon
mookaite mosaics
I know I'm no
Leonardo Di Caprio,
I've never been as
romantic as Romeo,
so love me for
what I am today,
I am not your past
of wasted sunsets,
so ascend with me like
tomorrow's sunrise
1) haiku* untitled:
october winds
of scattered maple leaves
~ handwritten poems
2) a three-line poem titled:
OF AUTUMN LEAVES AND ALL
a three-line poem is open to free verse, alliteration or rhyme
October winds wakening the muse within the silence of each mime
advice to all that if you can’t do the time don’t do the crime
3) a free verse poem titled:
SO LONG AGO
in the flurry of October winds
the dance of scarlet maple leaves
reminded me of how I loved you so
*HAIKU RULES
I joined a national Haiku club to discover they are sticklers for rules and there are MANY MANY haiku rules ~ HAIKU is exactly the opposite of free verse in every possible way ~
In a nutshell ~ haiku are supposed to be observations of a moment in nature without embellishments, no passing judgment, no use of fantasy or abstract concepts. It's basically two simple ideas with a ‘turn’ that is essential: it's almost like the punchline of a joke but haiku is not really meant to be funny per se.
Here is an informal list of HAIKU GUIDELINES:
1. 5-7-5 is the max syllable count – “haiku should be read in one breath” so there can be less syllables per line.
2. ALWAYS NATURE-related with usually reference to 1 of the 4 seasons: spring, summer, fall, winter.
3. OFTEN the ‘turn’ is on the second line (takes the reader in another direction).
4. NO unnecessary capitalization.
5. NO title (if you must, use first word(s) of haiku).
6. NO unnecessary punctuation at end of lines.
7. NO use of abstract concepts (must be concrete).
8. NO personification.
9. NO unnecessary adjectives or adverbs.
10. NO full sentences: it’s a poem of few words with much left unsaid.
11. NO use of fantasy.
12. NO similes allowed.
13. NO explanation of haiku in last line.
14. NO heavy emotional words (should be felt not read).
15. MUST have a feeling of the present moment (NO past or future).
16. MUST be more than a description.
17. MAX 2 ideas (scenery + thought).
18. Rare use of I, you or we.
Sometimes we love what we created and it goes against many of the haiku rules ~ there's nothing wrong with creating “haiku-like” poems, they can be quite effective… we just should not call them ‘haiku’.
AP: Honorable Mention 2021
Posted on May 19, 2021
The Lost Art Of Composition
too often my thoughts and the ability to express them
are taken hostage without a clue to the cause
this is an affliction familiar to many a writer
as if madness wasn't enough
it proves to be immune to every method I've used
to relieve my minds constipation
it enslaves your ideas and duct tapes the mouth of your soul
binds your fingers and hands so you are unable to write
I Whiskeyed and Scotched it self medicated with drugs
the addiction that resulted I thought could be bribed
held a knife at its throat threatened, bullied and beat it
poked and scratched at the eyes
Kicked it in the balls
pleaded and begged even got on my knees and prayed
all my efforts were ineffective
it only pissed it off more and tightened the grip
around my Muse's neck
I had exhausted my resolve to this disease that consumed me
there was no other option but to surrender
I decided to give up , knuckle under call it quits
not answer the bell for the next round
I disconnected my computer and turned off my cellphone
the typewriter on my desk just for show
I've had since college every once in a while I have at it
so I stashed in the closet with books by Sexton, Wolfe and Burroughs
Cisneros, Bukowski and Gonzo
I turned down the lights and lit some candles
sat at my desk to prepare my suicide note
what happened when the ballpoint touched the papers surface
was the key opening the front door lock to home
an energy manifested that I had known long ago
before Technology had deadened it's nerves
it sparked the transfer of thought into a word
forming the shape of a sentence
this cosmic electricity flowed into my hand holding the pen
then designed a paragraph the child of chapter
I touched every noun felt each verb envisioned the adjectives description
heard every "ly" in the adverbs reply and ignored the rules of punctuation
I had discovered the remedy to restore my inspiration
the cure I possessed all along
The lost art of composition was my salvation
my own prescription is what I wrote
the poet is an artist that paints in the darkness
a poems words the colors that create light
a writer is blessed with all of the answers
cursed in the search for what questions to ask
Judge Burdon
A discombobulated couple that landed in the new world with hopes that left the bitter taste of rejection in their mouths
No family , no friends, just man and wife, 2 university degrees that meant nothing
One mother tongue that was broken
Now, with swollen belly with a baby inside
Because no matter what, this baby was coming
And they thought to themselves, for a split second, was it worth it to put all of our money into the dream of a country that is swallowing us whole
And papa look’s at my mother’s eyes
And sees loneliness living where the Iris was
Wants to give her a home in a country that looks at her with the word visitor wrapped around their tongues
On their wedding day she left an entire village to be his wife,
And now she left an entire country to be a warrior
And when the winter came, they had nothing but the warmth of their own bodies to keep the coldness out. And like two brackets they faced one another
To hold the hold the dearest part of them, their children,
Close.
They turned a suitcase full of clothes into a life and regular paycheck to make sure that children of immigrants wouldn’t hate them for being children of immigrants
They worked too hard, You can tell by their hands
Their eyes were begging for sleep but our mouths were begging to be fed
And that is the most artistic thing I have ever seen
It is poetry to these ears that have never heard what passion sounds like.
There are no words in the English language that can articulate
that kind of beauty
I can’t compact their existence into 26 letters and call it a description
I tried once but the adjectives needed to describe them don’t even exist
So I ended up with Pages and pages full of words
followed with commas and more words and more commas
only to realize that there are somethings in the world that are so infinite
They could never use a full stop
So how dare you mock your mother when she opens her mouth and broken English spills out
Her accent is thick like honey, hold it with your life
It’s the only thing she has left from home
Don’t you stomp on that richness
Instead hang it up on the walls of museums next to
Dali and Van Gogh
Her life is brilliant and tragic
This is a poem by famous poet Rupi Kaur
Tumbling, whirling are the sounds of gears
The wheels spin, turn generate; electricity
A well-oiled machine or perplexed finery called the human mind
Irrelevant, an idea has sprouted like seasonal plants coming to life
Gone again, the sun has vanished beneath its shield of lightening and fierce clouds
A perfect day for a drifting pessimist
The day has brought a surprising horror destroying from the inside
Though like a brick, cold and unmoving, he steels his face and embraces for impact
To witness once again the sight of watching his mother cry
Weighs too deep, too deep
Just enough to feel his own eyes swell and feel the watery self-induced rain fall silently
Depression, has it really hit; a sickness without the symptoms?
Everyday life, it’s enough to distract the normal human
But then again, this pessimist is far from normal
Dispersed to the deepest horizon of imagination
There is no greater comfort than being surrounded by the illustrious illusions in your head
Nor is there a greater demise than being fooled by those very illusions
Questions, the key to curiosity
Questions, the guide to becoming a genius
But when questions collide with a silent mind, what does it conclude
An anonymous genius with a tendency to be a dunce verbally
Thus the story has already been told while the pot-holes are all awaiting the chance to be filled
Sorry the satisfaction is dismissed
While infatuation is still the chauffer in this limo labeled reality
Where there’s reality often misery follows like a loyal dog
Focus, where tends to be the focus
Sadly elsewhere
A well-oiled machine with the flaws of a general man
A notion desperately attempted to run quickly away from
Individuality, an individualist at best
Accompanied with pessimist, illusionist
Adjectives with valuable meanings
Apologies…humble apologies
A knot in my chest, twisting and contorting
Prevents the words to come out right
The distraction sent to erase all torturous things
Null and void
Buzzing like a thousand bees in strong pleasure to attack and sting
And like 10 bags of ice lingers a chill so cold
Simultaneously felt when seeing the tears of a mother simply fall
Don’t allow such a thing to be viewed anymore
Just…Just don’t
Plethora of humans (think overpopulation)
directly linkedin to planet Earth dire strait
re: environmental catastrophe, née debacle
teeters along brink tipping point inevitably
pitching civilization headlong into oblivion
*****sapiens (minus those living off grid)
admirably self sufficient unto themselves,
perhaps ecological intentional community
while yours truly, one guilt ridden scrivener
laments impacting minimal carbon footprint
(courtesy these thankful little feet size nine+)
nonetheless psychological torment wracks
lovely bones garden variety/generic human
specifically comprising complex edifice me
Matthew Scott Harris riven with loathsome
abomination, constipation, indignation, et al
mustered, tethered, yoked into capitalistic,
commercialistic, consumeristic ditto et alia
versus altruistic holistic, simplistic again re:
call synonymous words regarding contrast
between belching, exhausting, and polluting
(naming three adjectives describing impact
predominantly nsync with prophetic albeit,
profit oriented profligate, profane paradigm
unleashing immense global carbon emissions
see following website for further details: https:
//www.scientificamerican.com/article/co2-
emissions-will-break-another-record-in-2019/.
Impossible mission to uncouple accountability,
(no matter minuscule - veritable drop within
figurative bucket when quantity contrasted/
compared alongside industrial waste courtesy
major corporations), yet helplessness prevails
survival (mine) inextricably bound trappings
twenty first century allow, enable, and provide
exploiting even dollop so called nonrenewable
resources, I could sacrifice corporeal entity -
body, mind and spirit within eyeblink exhales
last breath before becoming repurposed - inert
cremated ashes randomly scattered across all
points encompassing terrestrial world wide web.
Obituary -
Despite havoc primate species did wreak
from the afterlife I figuratively speak
and applaud millennials whose peak
performance accorded courtesy
your token "aged hippie,"
and long haired pencil necked geek,
whose disembodied spirit
now volunteers as Halloween sideshow freak
incorporating gallows humor tongue in cheek.