Long Arcs Poems
Long Arcs Poems. Below are the most popular long Arcs by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Arcs poems by poem length and keyword.
Towering
factories,
arcane,
silhouetted against
a violet dark sky
bruised lead-gray
clouds tumble.
heavens heavy in
thunder and lightning
turn in arcane patterns
of oblique, obsolete
across facades of machinery.
lightning arcs, carving
ruins in the angry sky.
ravens fly, high, black specters...
shadows dance in the dark
engines spark, whirr, burn,
hiss and steam.
lights of a necropolis
flare on horizons seams
towers of crimson, echos
scream, nightmares of industry.
bastions of empire
razor spires climb, high.
of bone
in ancient stone
something secret opens
alone
factories of arcane divinities.
dark eyes shown
righteous rights echo
hand carve ruins
in ash upon stone
smoke of infernos
billows into velvet skies
these dark minions roam,
into the unknown,
pluses of infinite power
dark towers,
arcane factories
reaching
silhouetted
against
violet black sky’s
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.
Contrast of cupcakes
decorated with vanilla frosting
and Spring flowers.
A New York City girl -
I say girl, she’s eighty-five,
yet she swivels those hips; and her lips
are flaming cherub swords, feisty with grace.
Her friend, arrives for the final act,
in black and white, so elegant.
Her sleeves flowing, skirt swirling,
bestowing bows and arcs.
The lithe dance,
like a ballet,
uninhibited yet pure.
A Holy Spirited spitfire
engages her friend in the hot seat.
Legends’ made in such corners
of the world, contesting to fullness of life,
the contrast of light and shadows,
black and white.
Ancient detour
Route to nowhere;
Stray moments meet
~~~~~~~~~
Inward journey
Mind seeks heart;
Soul matters most
~~~~~~~~~
Blue moon arcs
Misty mystic mood;
Stillness blooms
~~~~~~~~~
Touch of sad feel
Emotions linger;
Loss entangles
~~~~~~~~~
In your eyes
Truth is telling;
Charming gaze
~~~~~~~~~
Dusk comes now
Abrupt sweep;
Attires dark sky
~~~~~~~~~
Stray purple hues
Floral exclamations;
Garden gate creepers
~~~~~~~~~
Family gathering
Cheery promontory;
Celebrate good cheer
~~~~~~~~~
Beauty greets grace
Touch of fond face;
Time allures space
~~~~~~~~~
Leon Enriquez
02 September 2019
Singapore
Ode to Joy
by Friedrich Schiller
translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Joy, bright spark of divinity,
Daughter of Elysium,
lit by the fire You inspire,
we enter Your immaculate home!
Here we’re bound by strong enchantments;
nevermore may custom divide;
every man becomes a brother
where Your gentle wings abide.
Whoever has achieved the prize
of abiding friendship, warm and free,
whoever has a loving wife,
join us in this Jubilee!
All who have at least one friend,
join us in our song of praise!
But he who never helped a friend
must leave in tears this song we raise.
Every creature drinks of joy
flowing from kind nature's breasts;
just and unjust, each requires,
all alike, to taste her gifts.
Earth bestows vines’ wine and kisses,
and when we face a friend’s sad end,
though the worms must have their feast,
still the gentle Cherubs attend.
Joy commands the tensioned mainspring
of the clockwork universe;
Joy, oh Joy!, the wheel revolves
through the arcs our lives rehearse.
She coaxes buds from newborn flowers,
suns from distances supreme,
she rotates spheres through vast expanses
the human eye cannot discern.
True friends stay true unto the end
and even the worm must do its duty;
as the Cherub stands before God,
the heavens revolve in glorious beauty.
Then gladly, like those heavenly spheres
which He placed in the firmament,
brothers, you must run your race
like a hero bent on conquest.
From the Truth’s emblazoned mirror,
the searcher sees Her reflected smile,
and for all those who are girded in honor,
She continues to the last mile.
High on Faith's tall, sunlit mountains
Oh, see how fair Her banner flies!
Through the breach of opened coffins,
see how the Angels’ choirs rise!
Gods can never be requited,
suffice it, in their image, to be.
Grief has never won a battle,
so persevere with gaiety.
Hate and vengeance die forgotten,
but Love can woo a mortal foe;
though tender teardrops cannot touch him,
kindnesses may bring him low.
Rescue from the tyrant's fetters,
mercy to the villain mean,
hope for all in their dying hours,
pardon at the guillotine!
All the dead shall live in heaven!
Brothers, drink and all agree:
every sin shall be forgiven
and hell forever cease to be.
Amen!
A child's swing, propelled by laughs and giggles,
arcs into the air: reaching for the sky.
And as chains chafe the bark of an old oak
flashbacks of my youth begin streaming by.
Emerald: colors an evergreen hedge,
bestowing tranquility to the scene.
And reds, yellows, purples, and pinks abound
where clusters of wildflowers offset green.
Wild roses, tangled in the undergrowth,
dispense a sweet, fragrant scent all around.
And as lilac bushes sway in the breeze,
violet petals confetti the ground.
A pair of Mallard ducks scurry away
on a pond with a silver mirrored sheen.
And barring a picture of paradise,
this is the most tranquil place that I've seen.
A scarlet sun bleeds, as daylight departs:
slowly retreating from Twilight's attack.
And flowing, like a billion bleeding hearts,
crimson rivers color the edge of black.
Stunned I stare from a rocky shore
As eagle architects swoop and soar.
Avian aerobats stretch my mind.
Carving arcs in cerulean air
Building an aerial cathedral
Framing clear high walls across the sky
With headlong three-sixties upside down
Form gothic spandrels toward the ground
Flickering feathers turned them around
Racing sunward as a fleur de lis
In a uniting swirl upward bound,
Forming a pole for staffing a cross
Construction stopped at the sight of fish.
As if their cathedral struck the sea
Eagles spun in tsunamic circles
Diving for salmon they taloned tight
Flying swiftly off, soon beyond sight.
I shrugged, amazed by what raptors do.
Jet jockeys may but sigh and admire
Eagles flight gift with dreamy desire.
When nylon nights
trade crystal colours
in the stalls of nimble
butterfly wings,
I blossom as an
irenic origami
fervently fabricated
with snowflakes of
greedy gloom,
stealing royal violets
from the smokey estuaries
flowing beneath the
heavens befogged
with indigos, glistening
in periwinkle-arcs of
abstract auroras.
I reminisce those
amaranth stars
that whisper
graphical pantoums in
pearlescent pixels
of plum pentagon-
shaped skies,
as everytime when
porcelain acrylics
get spilt upon mauve
pages ribboned
with hydrangeas,
my orchid lips spin
a twist of leathered
spells amidst
frozen fahrenheit of
frostbit textures.
Painting heliotropic
oxygen with brushstrokes
of peony petals,
I carry unspoken
words of iris,
so that artificial aroma
within sculptured truths
remains caged
behind these dark
magenta carnations
printed upon
cashmere curtains
of hallucinating hyacinths.
Do photogenic pansies
never get frozen in iced pyre
of parched patchworks?
For, I believe that,
drowsy poppies
too have streaks of
wine stories
to narrate in their
ages of ache.
Perhaps, I'm a
glasswinged sorceress
of arctic hailstorms,
tracing phlox-
fluorescent forests
with tropical crayons,
as oiled hues of
multi-dusks flutter
across lavender orbs,
sprinkling mauve
dewdrops upon
watercolor dusts of
pencil-shaded luna
who unlocks
silver secrets
with skeleton key,
washing my bones
with lilac fog.
So, when these
thistle shaded leaves
crack their crystal
cocoons and
the sun sheds its
fluffed feathers
of hibernation,
meet me along the
horizons where
bright Veronica
takes the shape of
the moon and
reincarnates as a
crocheted sangria
memory along the
translucent sleet of
snowy sights.
My skin is softer
than raisin pearls
of mulberry seas,
as my spirit is stained
with glamorous grape
dyes and amethyst-fresco
distemper across bitter
skies has discoloured
every apathetic shade
that doesn't seem to
define my airbrushed
heather heart.
As the blazing king from far eastern horizons
Glows and smiles on wee infant toils beneath,
He's by man's ever-sprawling greeting praised,
Basking in vast kudos by eyes and bared teeth.
The new sovereign savors every regal sign
As he arcs past the virgin noon's latent line,
Unwilling to pause despite cloud-born snags,
Undeterred by jealous dusk's advancing tags.
Against evening's envies moves that demigod,
Still unshaken by all enemy barriers miles high.
Into puffed twilight barricades he finally sinks,
And once-lauding eyes dim as doom taps nigh.
Like our gloom-deposed emperor here-above
Is each offspring born of mortals' carnal love.
Salutes of great joy hail them once they come,
And rise beyond midday into life's ebbing term.
When time's long-halted scythes finally strike,
Men's veiled flattery's replaced by cold dislike.
Tranquil air trembles,
a soft shimmer rising through the chaos
as thunder blooms like a distant memory
I’m only now remembering.
Lightning unfurls in slow, impossible arcs,
buzzing with a language older than breath—
a whisper of light tasting the edges of my skin,
tingling like a secret waking up.
Ionized molecules drift toward me,
metallic, fresh, impossibly clean,
as if the world has been rinsed
in some celestial river.
The scent vibrates through my body,
a quiet acceleration,
energy gathering in spirals,
lifting me into a place
where nature feels sentient
and I feel seen.
The storm humbles me—
not with force,
but with its strange intimacy,
its dreamlike certainty
that everything is connected
in ways I can’t quite name.
Anticipation curls with uncertainty,
a beautiful madness,
a sensory tide rising higher
than thought can follow.
Passion sharpens,
focus deepens,
power moves through me
like a benevolent phantom.
Joy becomes a luminous pulse,
a euphoric high that feels
half-spiritual, half-imagined,
as if the sky itself
has leaned down to touch me
with affection made of thunder.
And when the crash finally comes,
it doesn’t break the dream—
it completes it,
a cosmic heartbeat
echoing through my own.
Caroline foister 1/19/2026
Robert James Liguon Tempest contest