Long Arabesques Poems
Long Arabesques Poems. Below are the most popular long Arabesques by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Arabesques poems by poem length and keyword.
The town pond was drained,
revealing minnows
wriggling in the residual water
they milled and turned
in silvered arabesques
choregraphed by a rippling wind.
Large ocean-going gulls
descended out of a troubled sky,
they walked among the writhing small fry
plucked out the little fish
employing just the tip of their great beaks
as if sensible of the delicacy of such morsels.
Dark clouds foretold a storm,
strange but the gulls did not fly off
to feast on Lake Erie’s plentiful bounty,
they lingered here on this little pond
like diners at a buffet
skewering only these bitsy sprats,
while squalls fermented the Great Lakes
and much bigger fish flew unmolested
through those high cresting waves.
Little ponds it seems,
do not at all mirror
the courage of the free.
Roads of gold and gates of pearl are thoughts solidified, finding resting place here,
having been purified, first, in a trial by fire-
in the bulwarked organ
of love's pineal desire.
Here.
Hyssop, Catmint and Cinnamomum share
her spirit animal, with makeshift technicality,
borrowed by her scent of purity.
The pervasiveness
of jasmine in the air in ulterior beguilement
the enstylement of my drive.
You are a banshee on the side of deserted highway,
a shiver of creep peaking near as I take a leak there.
A light orbing the mountains
and darting into the sea.
A 4D shadow cast upon 3D tolemetry of space and
time and think.
Was your curtsey before God pleasing?
Your arguments for my torment convincing?
An Elemental in a ballet of playthings.
O Ballerina of Love's rhetorical spectre,
boomerings-like crowns wearing.
Dancing in shadows, whispering in the night,
You ignite a fire, called daylight,
to show your darings.
But your love is fleeting,
a melancholic melody, of eel.
Leaving my heart in perpetual reverie,
I yearn for your touch, your tender embrace of feel.
Every graceful sway, every delicate step,
a conjugal congeal,
captures the essence of a love deep
at my core deficiency appeals.
In twirling pirouettes, passion's heart is kept,
and in arabesques, emotions start
to weep whispers as I sleep in Elysian fields
of milkweed and lobelia and nightshade,
chin on window cill.
Mesmerized by the Amber waves of your influence,
One hundred percent times two in-stilled.
I’m ready for investing in some ballroom real estate.
The music starts at nine o’clock; we’ll get there half past eight.
Be sure to wear your sexy dress. I’ll wear my sexy pants.
The rooftop lounge is under glass; let’s go downtown and dance.
Listen to the magic of that Spanish guitar.
It can take us far and away
Swinging past the limits of the evening’s expanse,
Gliding through the night like in some gothic romance.
We’ll tango through the crowd like irresponsible gazelles.
Then sip some fine champagne and eat dark chocolate nonpareils.
If I may seduce you with a mischievous glance,
I’d like to take your hand and have us go downtown and dance.
Savor the abrazo as we caminata;
Abrida with your foot touching mine.
Ocho walking backwards when I make my advance.
Gancho as we tangle in a sensuous trance.
Now don’t expect ballet with arabesques and pirouettes.
I never met Gene Kelly; didn’t work with the Rockettes.
But I’ll never let you fall if you piernazo by chance.
So, my pretty senorita, let’s just go downtown and dance.
My Dream Within A Dream Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Constance La France
9/16/2025
Edgar Allan Poe: "All that we see or seem / Is but a dream within a dream."
My Dream Within A Dream
Somnambulant dreamer,
Dancing in time to silent music,
Pirouetting arabesques,
And grand jetés performed as on stage.
While all around her people stared,
Astonished by what this darling dared.
Leaping, spinning, and body rolls,
She danced through her dream out of control.
Tumbles and twirls, tempo frenzied,
Her youth and beauty were so envied.
Lithesome grace utterly entrancing,
This young beauty caught dream dancing.
So lost in the dream, her steps faltered,
Lovely dancer, soon to be martyred.
Upon the pyre of lust and greed,
Selfish desires of the watchers' need,
Pulled against the dancer's grace,
And brought a tear to the lovely face.
The crowd's screams broke the count,
Her mistakes began to mount,
Until what once was sweet and pure,
Became something so unsure.
The dream, a nightmare instead,
The dance, a thing of terrible dread,
Our lovely dancer dreams no more.
On the grand stage of the world, under lights of dreams and flickering charm,
We dance our illusions, beneath arcs of sun and mysteries fashioned through dreams vast and warm.
Freedom, a chimera of thoughts and rustling leaves lost in the ether,
Carries us on golden wings, as our souls transform into vapor.
Under life's curtain, lights dance in frenetic arabesques so febrile,
Illusions woven in the distance, with threads of moon and dreams fragile, under subtle lights so real.
But when the price rises like silver spears illuminating the entire earth,
The curtain lifts, and truth becomes hungry, burning like the very word.
Then, under lacy shadows, the decor shatters into waves of broken illusion,
For the magic of profit falters on untamed and warm crystal shores, a mere delusion.
Chairs and tables are ghosts, vanishing in an instant, nebulous illusions falling apart,
And the brick wall gazes at us with a truth unclear, mysterious like shadowy art.
Under the veil of deception, the moon spreads stardust from celestial heights,
Dream puppets wearing heavy, sad masks, hiding their faces beneath silent rites.
But when the spell fades and the light becomes bitter, cold as the lost dream,
Truth grips us like a river rock, silent yet unwavering beneath the mute word's theme.
The curtain rises, and fictional whispers evaporate like clouds of dawn,
Under the sky's cross, illusions die, memories breaking at dawn, fraying in an hour gone.
In the abyss of the stage, the wall watches us with granite eyes in secret shadow,
We, the dreamers, become wanderers through a finite tableau, wax-free, hollow.
The stars ignite for the next act, the moon retreats into its spherical penumbra,
And behind us remains only true wisdom, fleeting eternity, a dying stanza.
Without sets and masks, only a deaf and smooth truth beneath the clear gaze,
Under the fallen veil, we become part of a preached tale, never to be phased.
Thus life carries us, in shows without ends, devoid of ephemeral beauties,
The illusion of freedom, enchanted and lost in foreign ruins, brings breezes.
But the walls speak, in their silent stone's forever changing tug,
And we, wanderers, forever seek the light in the night, like fog-bound ships in silence snug.
Extant autobiography devoid
of livingsocial, I berate
whatsapp pining now resultant
outcome coping poorly did create
courtesy, sans avast kindled
linkedin self denigrate
predicated series of unfortunate
events buzzfeeding ill fate
capital one after another pinterest
newpages writers block did generate
countless blank pages interspersed
with scrawled sentences untrained great
fully dreadful bully heavable
box scarred tortured letters humiliate
head arabesques twisted abc's...
...xyz's, a field day for graphoanalyst,
wrought cribbed hand did obviously illustrate
chicken scratch inferiority complex intimate
lee evinced worthlessness, intimidate
dead visibly withdrawn frightened
undersized lad meek nasality intonate
head out button nose invalidate
ding any professed parental love
adopted, believed, coaxed...
hermetically sealed inviolate
coda sustaining purposelessness
reinforced silence no matter irate,
when glared, jeered, mocked,...
defenseless scapegoat remained isolate
internalizing harassment groveling
bowed boy smarting as hectoring did lacerate
quotidian repeated bajillion times
hence, where death could liberate
academic, demonic, horrific struggle,
now unable to shuck off residual
emotional fallout thru poems literate
attempt to expunge counterproductive
thoughts smoldering like kindling
gray matter festered toxicity did marinate
skool of hard knocks did matriculate
pharmacological cornucopia doth mitigate
in tandem with therapy delivers soul asylum,
a theme yours truly often doth narrate.
Today her silks scatter crackling arabesques in the shimmering air
today she’ll dazzle the casual eye with her sweet metallic gleam
today she waddles, awkward as a cow
today she packs a punch like a fresh shot arrow
today she reverses polarity
today she groans in a furrow, slick with sweat
today she daintily steps through a violet mist
today she sloughs off gummy stuff
today her laughter is quicksilver
today she’s a clammy grey rubbery stone with bristles
today her waterfall hair sheds intoxicating unguents
today she dances without knowing it
today the beauty peels from her face to reveal a hatchet
----------------------------------------
I objestigate between arabesques and sleep,
fugaciously spasmodic in fluxes and leaps.
I'm indifferent to the misanthropic mocking,
that welltering inflection that I call plockingism.
It's their cheeky syncopated schisms that I rebut,
and yet they slantathunt for the right to boff.
Well, blanderluse I refuse, so let them scoff!
I derogate their impultritude and arrogance.
Drapple their smirking repudiation of my dance
for they know nothing of the dark decoctions
spating rapidly through my vendacious veins,
nor of the mastacular alter assemblage
of the miscelany grey and white matter in my brain.
The mordant humor of this absurdity
is that I am irrationally rational...
psychotically speaking, perhaps,
I am dripping with percipience
sagaciously intelligent beyond the measure
of those cretins who kvetch, pule, and postulate
their hate. I am strabismic and nonsensical as a loon.
Mayhap writing in this style is as tedious a method
of torture as it would be to dispropart a heart!
After reading this ranting of gelastic absurdity,
it's become mereticiously opaque to me
that my discourse is oxymoronic, OR
I present my ischemic side as a dimwitted addlepate.
I'm a conflagration of animation or maybe I'm just lazy.
I'm not of the artificial intelligence variety,
but there's more than just one kind of crazy.
Vogonese is a language that few will applaud.
I see it as a form of whimsical words, without a reward.
If this is the third worst type of poetry in the world...
keep the first two ridiculous rooskits in sails unfurled!
Insanity is bred in flompous fields of clantigendice clover.
Moreover, before I drop my plasmergent pen on the floor
I find myself crossing the threshold of depravities' door.
*Don't ask for an interpretation. I have no clue.
The Pond was drained,
revealing umpteen minnows;
they wriggle in the residual water
turning in silvered arabesques
choregraphed by a water-rippling wind.
Large ocean-going gulls descend out of a troubled sky,
they walk among the writhing small fry
pluck out the little fish
employing just the tip of their great beaks
as if sensible of the delicacy of such morsels.
Dark clouds loom foretelling a storm,
strange but the gulls do not fly off
to feast on Lake Erie’s plentiful bounty,
the linger here on this little pond
like diners at a buffet
skewering only these unseasoned sprats,
while squalls ferment the Great Lakes
and bigger fish fly freely
through the cresting waves.
A crescent of high cliffs
rooted into a plateau of heathland.
From all directions cloud mottled wings,
dart between the light and shade -
falcons, their wingspans
aerofoiled for instant chase.
Heads and beaks
seem to part the sky,
as the raptors javelin the air.
Peregrine’s dive through
their own wind-dancing arabesques,
their streaked silhouettes
skimming over the towering rocks.
Camera's gaze to hold and capture,
lens's fishing for those ever passing
bolts of speed.
Malham's soaring cove
seems to be both their nesting
acre of sky,
and a place for plodding minds
to only follow.