Long Arabian Poems
Long Arabian Poems. Below are the most popular long Arabian by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Arabian poems by poem length and keyword.
I do not want to die
Like each virgin you bed
When you have ravished her
It's off with pretty head
I do not want to die
But…Oh to be with you!
The supreme ruler, KING
So handsome, yet so cruel
You wanted your revenge
On woman who betrayed
The one who broke YOUR heart
So you must have them slayed
But what am I to do
When brought before the throne?
When you have had your fill
You’ll bow to oath you’ve sworn
And here I am tonight
The Vizier's flesh and blood
My beauty may not save
So knowledge I impart
A story sweet I weave
As in peace you recline
On cushions of damask
In scented room divine
You’re lost in what I say
Your interest...at its height
And there I stop the tale
To be spared on this night
You ask to lie with me
Demurely, I refuse
I promise you delights
When I'm no longer Muse
And so you let me leave
The richness of your bed
Wanting to know the end
My tale plays in your head
Each night I leave undone
The story on my lips
And wantonly you beg
While grasping shapely hips
One thousand nights have passed
I stand before you now
With no tale left to give
Will love suffice somehow?
You come and touch my cheek
I look up in your eyes
"I've come to love you now
You are my love, my prize."
And so my life is spared
You whisper, "Sweetest Dove!"
My stories all forgot
You've fallen for my love
You tell me through the night
Your own love story fine
And now I let you taste
My flowing luscious wine
No virgin girl…now Queen
My love has set you free
And now Arabian nights
Are filled with ecstasy!
Eileen Manassian
I thought I had grasped it once, like the Arabian myrrh.
Then it started fading like dew before the morning sun.
Legends say that the musk of a deer dwells within its fur.
Ignorant knowing or knowing ignorance is soul-spun.
A tinge of infidelity is pleasantly blended.
Though it provokes the spirit, its toxin brings dizziness.
Our inquisitive questions, like childhood tales, ended
Our feeble thoughts, words, and deeds have been filmed with flimsiness.
Those little surprises with which we won each other's hearts
Those syllables of sensitivity that we uttered
Those thrill-filled waits to share our meals with flavours of all sorts
Have quietly demised as in slow death, mind gets fluttered.
Come, love. It's not late yet. Let's leave those nightmare memories.
Let's set new goals. Share. Care. Let's fill our hearts with mysteries.
Cotton Bootie Enlistment
by Odin Roark
How innocent the booties of birth
If only their cast remembrance
Might remain but nostalgia
Instead
Their bronze symbolism
Merely encases a once simple smile
A semblance of purity
Lost ever so soon
History
Like a voracious virus
Infects this childlike innocence
Creates its own immunity
Thrusting virulent audacity
Minimizing one’s virtuous cotton footwear
Naively seeking only durability
A faux synthetic
Or tanned leather
Yet
The species remains bent to create
The next test-tube imperviousness
Minimizing rugged soles of
Arabian oil based rubber
But yesterday’s chapter
High tech miracles
Deliver
Gripping
Climbing
Running
Advancing
Attacking
Conquering
Foot cover impervious
Yet never forgetting such simple beginnings
Ultimately
The acrid smoke
Merging into our heated global atmosphere
Further heats subjugation's resolve
Only the last chapter of earth’s historical tome remains
Postlude
The vortex of history’s repeated resting places
Where roadside bombs facilitate
Body bags of findable parts
Where calloused bare feet of refugees fleeing
Know only purity never lost
Even Salvation Army’s handout footwear
Good for the tucked fetal position
Beneath homeless cardboard shelters
Remembers the booties of birth
Somewhere along the line
Leaden boots seemingly rendering freedom
Remain beholden to the heel and toe of control
Where dominance patiently waits
Try as we may
Weighty footprints
Foretell the future
From birth to death
Their ponderous reality
Remains often guised
But forever remaining
The ever threatening
Leaden boots of tomorrow’s
Cotton bootie enlistment
If she arrives soon
it will be too late.
The one who makes you weep
like sparkling rain,
happy to be her joy, her pain
that one will come too soon;
for you will be gone
your longing
just an echo in a music box.
Kismet is for Arabian Nights.
The bright points of departure and arrival
are always moving, nothing is fixed,
some blink on; some blink out
as if they were long lost wishes
upon a star map.
When she waits for you
you will have found another.
When you seek her
she will always be beyond
the next streetlight
in a foreign city.
The rain will weep,
the poetry of loss
will remain unfound,
yet if she returns
entering your life
out of a missing yesterday
then let that be your future
a tomorrow that arrives
as timeless
as a song yet unsung.
In Arabian singsong, the dancer began
Searching for tempo in desert sands
Torso twisting and turning to the rhythm of time
With a toss of her head and a shake of her mane
Tambourines rang, spectators clapped
the dancer transformed, shot into his lap
Wriggling her belly and lighting his fire
she struggled to control her desire…
… At the end of the night, slumped over, frail, spent
too many years barely paying the rent
Eye's as pretty as Arabian Pearl's.
Eye's as shiny as Ghana's gold.
Skin as delicate as rose petals.
Skin smoother than Russia's steel.
Hair lengthier than China's thread.
Hair as soft as Indian silk.
Voice so glorious as angels rising.
Voice sweeter than Ethiopian honey.
Hand's mightier than Rome.
Hand's sharper than Zeus's spear.
Legs temping as Billion Dollar's mine.
Leg's as gracious as Neptune's Chariots.
Mind as cunning as a Fox.
Mind as wicked as a phyton.
Heart whiter than snow.
Heart purer than a Dove's.
I smell love in sea's.
I smell love in the mountains.
My heart races like a cheetah.
My mind craves it like a hunter.
So I await your entry into my heart.
So I await your entry into my house.
Thus, She truly is as "The Queen Bee".
The Death of Art
He was an artist, a painter spending much of his time
in his mother's garage painting when not out drinking with his many friends who were art lovers too, although some were hangers-on enjoying what they thought was a carefree life.
His family came from an industrious group who
had investments in many commercial enterprises and therefore were concerned about the clan's reputation
they regarded his attempt to develop his skill as useless
waste of time.
One day I came into the house having spent hours in the garage trying to get the color right in a landscapes
painting and failed, the clan waiting for him
they told him how great it could be if he joined the firm
paint he could do for fun
The family won, next day he appeared in a suit and came to
the office quickly grasped the trade of making money
he was good at this and soon advanced to higher-up
waiting for his turn to be the next president and perhaps
a title and fawning respect.
To make the picture idyllic of perfection and success
he had a beautiful wife and two lovely children not
a stable with Arabian horses and several dogs, but his mother, perhaps the only one in the family was worried
she missed her son.
He avoided his friends, no, he didn't want to talk about his art it was for passing the time. He now had a calling to make the business selling fertilizer products worldwide, but we saw in his eyes his deep desperation, a soul crying in the night
One morning the horses were neighing, dogs barking
he hangs from the rafter in his stable.
He got a stately funeral, flowers, and wreaths from afar
his mother was sad she had lost him so many years ago she had been crying
A herald announced the joyous news that a king was to visit my hometown!
Jerusalem was abuzz anticipating seeing a royal king wearing a regal crown!
I could visualize his majesty arriving on a prancing Arabian steed,
Or being borne upon a lavishly bespangled camel of exceptional breed!
I'd also heard that kings were borne in magnificent coaches gilt with gold,
And that with great pomp and blare of trumpets their procession was foretold!
This I wanted to see so I joined the milling throng and got a curbside seat!
Thousands of jubilant celebrants lined both sides of the city's dusty street!
"Here He comes!" shouted the mob! "Hosanna In the Highest!", they cried!
I strained my neck to see a real king in purple robes, the nation's pride!
The exultant crowd spread their cloaks and waved palm fronds along the mews,
Shouting, "Hosanna To Christ The King! The promised Messiah of Good News!"
This king, this King of Kings, rode a lowly donkey as His means of transportation!
I was told that a prophet Zecharia said He'd ride one for His triumphal celebration!
As He passed by I fell to my knees! He looked directly AT ME!, smiled and waved!
From that moment I became His disciple - straight paths for me He hath paved!
The man next to me said this man, this King, was born in a stable cave,
And that of His power to heal the ailing, blind and lame He freely gave!
Unlike earthly kings, He even promised eternal life for a sinner like me!
From this day forward I'll forever follow that good man from Galilee!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved
He uttered…
"What is it with beauty and asset?
They are a silent hue to be faded away slowly like the setting sun."
What is it with glory and fame?
They are a view of running Arabian horses…swift, arrogant, irresistible."
She saw…
In glory, in faith, he uttered each word with his lips
He had his secret hide-out there.
Unapologetically , he left the track of a regime.
A regime of a darkness.
Whispers of night.
A sense of restlessness.
A tale of a broken heart, impaled…wounded.
“I lived. Through all these whispers and whims, only for a reason”.
She asked, “Do you know, what is it?”
And she asked. Anonymously.
And I was silent. I was forgiving them both. For, I had to let them go…for good.
As I earned a word. Floccinaucinihilipilification.
FILLY’S FAMOUS STORY
Although I am pink, don’t ever think
That this filly is just frilly and silly,
For I am a thorough bred filly who instead
Of eating just oats, for my owner dotes
On me, am fed in a pasture of my very own,
Whose green grass is a sight to be seen,
And oh, so pristine!
What is my mode of work you might ask,
It certainly does not involve any task,
For I am shown off to the rich and elite,
Who think it’s an absolute treat,
To be shown a beauty like me
I do sound vain but where else would
They find a pink filly to see!
My mane is brushed every day,
With a gold plated brush by Fay,
She is so proud, I always draw a crowd,
And is quick to explain, I’m a descendant
From the stables of the ex and late
Senator Nicholas Brady, I’m no ordinary lady!
Fay has desperately tried to find me a mate,
But am truly fussy, I know my destiny and fate
Is not from the regular horses around, but to be
Found amongst the Arabian horses abroad, for imagine
A local brown dowdy horse, I’d be fraught!
Yes I’m a snob, my mate must be a real heart throb,
For my vision and dreams are of never
Ending meadows, and flowers, and trees and streams
And a handsome horse of the same breeding as me,
Maybe even a Lipizzaner who has a reputed background,
They have been around for quite a while, Fay reads
My thoughts and gives me a smile, hey Frilly don’t
Stress pretty friend, for it is my eternal intent,
That you be matched one day with an aristocratic
Horse, and together you will take a romantic course,
And have little foals, of which one might be pink,
So never, ever think that your predominant,
Pink genetic line will become extinct, you re such a
Refined fine filly, nothing about you is silly,
You will go down in history and be recorded,
As the most beautiful pink horse ever born,
Have patience, you will be rewarded!
Frilly looked at Fay, and gave her a neigh,
She loved Fay so, would Fay ever know, Frilly
Hoped so, for if Fay looked deep into Frilly’s
Eyes, Fay would know that she had won
Frilly’s heart as first prize!
Entering contest "A Fairy Tale For Children"
Sponsored By EVE ROPER
2019/01/27