Long Airy Poems
Long Airy Poems. Below are the most popular long Airy by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Airy poems by poem length and keyword.
On the edge of silence
beyond mossy-muffled stone walls
a wind chime chants—faint
like falling sparkles of stars;
honeyed musings
of a wind-spirit on the move,
west to east
a bridge of broken chords.
Cosmic animation
stirs my domestic pulsation.
In a supple sweep
from beyond the western dusk,
soft notes jangle in sweet saunter—
so like you,
an angel’s riff on an airy whiff.
O wind chanter,
I hear your chimes
as I linger
in undying love for him
…yes
I hear you, singer!
Sing to me of his approach!
For alone,
on the cold stone of a lifeless dusk,
I mourn the most.
Like a moth vibrating
around the lantern’s glow,
I feel the brush of his touch
amid breezy flutters;
flirtations
with a long blonde tress
and the white frills
of my nightdress.
O bittersweet enchantment!
O wild yet tender wind—O embracing visitor!
But how do I hold you?
How do I hold the wind, my love?
Always! Always!
You slip away
on blank paper wings!
My human nature aspires to fly
but my every heartbeat; rib-caged.
Ironclad in mortal armor.
Obliged to the grasp of gravity’s greed.
Damn the bane of my spirit’s capture
and love’s coupled yoke
that did not die with you!
Damn the bane of my lifeblood
bound to its artery stream bed!
Though my lovelorn river
pulses with throbs of a tide robbed
not even a river’s rapture
can compete with the thrills
of your unbound freedom—
oh death’s freedom!
The ringing sleigh-bell singing
of spring peepers intrudes
O wind chanter, distant wind chime,
your tinsel talk fades.
He is lost to me again—
Lost!
Lost
lost….
The American Morning
We ride smoothly, deliberately, in this old cruising caravan,
Across the ancient American avenues and boulevards,
Of the once living, and now, the finally dead,
Of the once famous, and now, the finally forgotten;
Of tattooed memories applied in the American morning, cooking
In the back kitchen, with yellow-yoked eggs frying rapturously,
Like monstrous hoards of buzzing locusts, out to kill,
In black pans, sizzling and searing sensationally;
With mysterious, soulful realizations of disappearing time,
The heavenly odors of bacon fat, rising to the old-fashioned clouds,
We come here to turn the radio dial, in this summer of winning and losing;
But now it is all turning, turning as the shadows of life should turn,
For life is the now of when and why; and we all know now,
What ‘s waiting and lurking behind the curtained door.
“No, kind sir, you go first through the door, sir, if you please.”
But as we ride now through these blighted snapshots in time,
This creeping caravan from the American morning comes to a halt.
Through the windshield and into the American night, old eyes see
A crowd of black ballplayers, gathering in Harlem on East River Avenue,
Looking to get inside the big ball yard, with the Babe, the Yankee Clipper,
And the Iron Horse, hitting fungoes over the EL station, over there,
Dressed in over-sized pinstripes, dripping in dirt and tobacco juice,
Tipping sweat-stained caps to the roaring, crescendoing ovations,
Thundering upward and through the airy reaches of the big ball yard,
Somehow do not reach their ears; still, they run fast, as if being chased,
Run faster than all the dead baseball gods of the American morning!
But now it is all turning, turning as the shadows of life should turn,
For life is the now of when and why; and we all know now,
What’s waiting and lurking behind the curtained door.
“No, kind sir, you go first through the door, sir, if you please.”
“I know my heart will never be the same
But I'm telling myself I'll be okay”
Sara Evans
My heart no longer
beats the same,
as I’ve wiped away
tainted tints on
vain valves.
Bleeding out
shattered dreams.
Colors of fallen
needle-shaped leaves,
emanate shades
of memories,
lost along a clamor of
fragmented pieces,
where linchen-dusted lies
confused my
flower-patterned spirit,
adrift in a pastoral
landscape of melancholy,
scumbled in roseate oil,
calligraphed from
the fragrance of
forget-me-nots,
but sunflowers no
longer bloom,
although I still
see a thread
of salvation
surfing through the
airy breeze that hides
behind green
grass across
untouched,
yet butterfly nested
water mountains.
I chose to be
content alone,
with me and my
heartbroken bliss,
over passionate
petal-like serenades,
that caressed
my midnight blues.
So, forgive the stars,
named with our love,
as I bid
farewell to half-adorned
illustrations
of a perfect sunrise,
stolen by the past
that always punished me,
with trust issues,
obscured in somber clouds
that follow my
silhouette, faithfully.
As she drinks nectar from a flower, sweetness from heaven falls like dew
anointed with a gentle rain amidst sun showers she appears as if on cue
Lifting her wings she lands on a Zinnia beneath a tinted sky of April blue
flight of fancy fanning fast, fabulous marvel, she is beauty true on true
Tis the vernal hour when nature's luster peaks and winter dirges no more wend.
Airy notes from feathered breasts, dutiful drones, bejeweled butterflies ascend.
Upon the indigo daze of an afternoon, my angel in lepidopteran disguise
danced along this florid patch with plush pirouettes, calling "Rose, arise!"
"Still here, a bloom to seek and hold." Groggy, dolt, my petals of discontent...
quiet cold stole my blush, then by cruel degrees, I learned snow's resentment.
But in a sun-lit-breeze ballet, God as big as the butterfly, weighing like nothing
revealed the signs of a world renewed, and ushered me thru the rite of spring.
Away on a Cloud Ship…
Away on a cloud ship
Not a care have I
I play with the breezes
Way up in the sky
I ride on the rainbows
As cloudy storms cry
Then sail with the eagles
And soar on their sighs.
The cool air floats past me
Like gossamer wings
I float on the air streams
That rise like wellsprings
And join with the nimbus,
As cloud songs we sing -
To somersault, hopscotch,
In airy handsprings.
I high five with thunder –
See glory ablaze –
Then gather up sunbeams
For dark rainy days
And make chains of moonbeams
From soft, moonlit rays
To raise up to God’s ears
A new psalm of praise.
Upon swallowing first or second named laxative
or sprinkling Mix-in powder pack,
within 8+ ounces of water,
not aesthetically pleasing major drawback
foisting human waste heavy as a full coalsack
sometimes burned and scorched black
movement came swift, on par how fast
snaky Mister liquid Plumber doth attack
obstructed potty bowl.
Well now... monumental poetic challenge,
I now craftily abbreviate
(think clogged toilet synonymous with blockage)
waste matter after days did accumulate
ready to apply corkerasp
regarding rectal blockage to alleviate.
Imagine impossible airy mission to defecate
which debilitating scenario (mine) accursed fate
frequently recurring more often as yours truly ages
i.e. latter day saint Matthew Scott got older
rectal affliction compromised me
ordinary easy going demeanor to boot
disallowing, disenabling, and not permitting
me - effecting, emulating, and exhaling
Tony the tiger's catchword grrrrrreat
if queried about my constitution
when alas... absolute ecstasy found me
expelling bowel movement with effort
weighing approximately 0.71428571 stone
though relieved, nevertheless
the toilet bowl clogged,
prompting me to correct historical records
on two accounts despite
causing potential ruckus
disaster buffs may incriminate
nsync notion huge bowel movement
(mine) took down (analogous
voyage to bottom of sea) toto Lusitania
and actually additionally
caused separate incident
complex edifice (think Titanic)
both sturdy ships of state
former rendered, lifted, foundered...
latter purportedly crashing
into iceberg mate.
ETERNAL MIRACLES, "MEDITATION "
PLEASE NOTE: (B STANDS FOR BREATHE, AT INTERVALS)
WE ARE ALL ETERNAL MIRACLES INDEED. SPECIAL, BEAUTIFUL,
AND LOVABLE. SO OFTEN WE FORGET THAT WE ARE TRULY
HUMAN. WE NEED TO TREAT OUR BODIES AND SOULS WITH
GENTLENESS AND SELF RESPECT. THE SOUL IS AN EMPTY
BASKET, (VESSEL) WAITING FOR ITS SUSTENANCE. (B)
ITS WICKER SOFT AND PLIABLE, WITH AIRY SPACES THAT
NEED TO BE FILLED. IF NOT GIVEN THE PROPER OBJECTS IT
SHALL BE WEIGHTED DOWN, SO KEEP IT LIGHT. (B)
HOW OFTEN DO WE FIND OURSELVES IN PLACES THAT DO HARM
TO THE SPIRIT AND TAKE AWAY OUR JOY. TREAD LIGHTLY WHEN
CHOOSING A PLACE TO STAY AND CHOOSE WISELY THE OBJECTS
THAT YOU PUT IN YOUR BASKET. CRADLE IT AT LEAST ONCE A DAY
IN THE SUN. TAKE IT TO BEAUTIUFL PLACES AND FILL IT WITH
SOULFUL DELIGHTS. FILL IT WITH THINGS SUCH AS PEACE, LOVE,
BEATUY AND KINDNESS. (B)
WE ARE TRULY HUMAN NOT OTTOMANS OF THE EARTH. LET US
CELEBRATE OUR SOULS PURPOSE WITH AN OPEN HEART AND
AN AWARENESS THAT WILL MELT AWAY ALL THE THINGS THAT
DON'T SERVE ITS PUPROSE. LET US RESPECT THE SOUL AND ITS
BENEVOLENT NATURE. (B)
The midsummer sky, so vast and wide,
Takes on a hue that's acerb to describe,
A canvas of blues, so many shades,
A masterpiece that never fades.
Deep indigo, almost back,
As twilight blue, a hint of black,
A sapphire blue, so bright and bold,
A baby blue, so soft and cold.
The clouds dance, so light and airy,
A white so pure, so bright and merry,
A gray so dark, so heavy, and so low
Pink is so soft, akin to a gentle glow.
The stars twinkle, so bright and clear,
A constellation, so faraway but near,
A moon so round, so bright and white,
A sight so grand, it's quite a sight.
The midsummer sky, a treasure of art,
A beauty that touches every heart,
A point in history, so pure and free,
A memory that will always be
Written: June 6, 2023
Over ¦¦¦ fields ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ through the ¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ purple clover,
¦¦¦¦ letters a message ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ for every vagrant rover;
¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ dells are abloom, and a ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ brook calls after,
Feeling ¦¦¦ kinship with us ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦ of dreams and laughter.
¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ elfin voices are calling;
¦¦¦¦ from ¦¦¦ misty hills ¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ greetings are falling;
Whisper ¦¦¦ grasses ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ murmuring gleeful and airy,
¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ pixy-led, seeking ¦¦¦ haunts of faery.
¦¦¦ wind is our ¦¦¦¦¦¦ comrade wherever our free feet wander,
Over ¦¦¦ tawny wolds to ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ meadows yonder;
¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ stars go with us, or ¦¦¦ rain ¦¦¦ swiftly flying,
Racing ¦¦¦ over ¦¦¦ wastes where ¦¦¦ hemlocks and pines are sighing.
Across the ¦¦¦¦¦¦ dim, ¦¦¦¦ through ¦¦¦ beckoning hollow
¦¦¦ we go ¦¦¦ far and fast ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ feet of care to follow!
¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦ fire in our hearts for ¦¦¦ wilderness ¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ luring;
Other loves may fail but this is ¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ enduring.
Other delights may pall, but ¦¦¦ joy of the open never;
¦¦¦ charm of ¦¦¦ silent places ¦¦¦¦ win ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦ us forever;
¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ walls we leave with never a glance behind us.
Under ¦¦¦ lucent sky the delights ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦ shall find us.
(Blackout of The Rovers by Lucy Maud Montgomery)
Thin petals shine like rubies on a radiant plain,
solar flares are congregated in votive candles.
Vowed to gleam, regardless of the morning rain,
ambiguity was minimized by sunrise anvils.
In the gloom, the mist vanishes, executing a sane.
As the roots expand, the sprouts grow in kind,
we will apply a dome to secure it from rainfall.
We admire them when they finally grow up and bind,
perceiving our trees naked, we bear the sprawl,
returning to the ancient oak, they are to remind.
Oh, Moon, relax as you quietly fade out of sight,
an Arc of vivid sapphire hues, an Airy-haven Edenic.
The stars vowed to keep the night sky bright,
nature, your brushwork is vibrant and scenic.
Venus nodded as the moon flickered at her site.
Written: October 08, 2022
THREE STANZA POEM IN QUINTAIN (SICILIAN) Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: L MILTON HANKINS