Long Argent Poems
Long Argent Poems. Below are the most popular long Argent by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Argent poems by poem length and keyword.
and your young men shall see visions and your
old men shall dream dreams.
—Acts 2:17
She stood unflinching,
a silver figure in the heart of a waterfall.
I gazed in wonder
my frail form shaken by the roar.
A winged lion flew out of the raging rapids
its outstretched claws plucking me off a high ledge.
Carried upon a disappearing sky
I thought of my son
how he foresaw this dream of mine.
Now in my infirmity she returns to me
incased in an argent fire.
I knew then that we had delivered a child
who's spirit would melt this iron kingdom
and I then must dwindle away.
Your mother has grown younger
you are ageless.
Now you look from a shining mirror
seeking an aged
long spilled seed.
Written: December 09, 2025, for contest Sponsored by: Tom Woody
******************
My fingers are stone—
numb knuckles carved by the night’s chisel
Feet drag as anchors through drifts of powdered glass
The compass of my breath falters,
And silence gnaws at the marrow of my resolve.
I have always worshiped the wild
Scaled ridges where condors carve crescents in the sky,
wandered valleys where rivers rehearse their rhapsodies.
They warned me: "not alone, not in winter."
But I have always been a misfit pilgrim,
a shadow that strays from the procession.
Above me, the moon is a lantern of bone,
It's a halo crown of cold fire
I can hear as the air is so silent
the quiet of galaxies swirling,
the tiny hum of everlasting
despair hangs through me
similar to a worn-out cloak,
I wish to shut my eyes
to break down into the lull.
Yet—
In the argent glow, a vision unfurls.
Not a face, but a flame-shaped silhouette,
weeping rivers of light,
calling my name with a voice
that trembles the frost.
It is her.
My wife, my tether, my echo.
A surge rises—
not mine, but borrowed from some celestial reservoir.
Words ignite in my skull: "Rise. Rise."
And the mountain, once a labyrinth,
unfurls a path as a silver ribbon.
I stumble forward,
hearing voices braided with wind.
“Is that you? We were sent to find you.”
Before the dark folds me under,
I whisper, “Who sent you?”
And the answer drifts,
soft as snow,
bright as salvation:
"Your Guardian-angel."
Lone He's playing the bassoon
Pulling down the argent blinds
He shuts out the sight of moon.
Half bare, half cloaked
in an ebon velvet coat
Her limbs dances to his tune
He rejects her Winter-light
through the marble- mosaiced room
Lone He's playing the bassoon
Pulling down the argent blinds
He shuts out the sight of moon
He sleeps longer with the night
In his dream dust rides each tide
Casting shadows upon the edge
of an early compromise
Lone He's playing the bassoon
Pulling down the argent bllinds
He shuts out the sight of moon
Fog have made him become blind
Frost kept him forever cold
He couldn't feel , He couldn't see
All those beams of molten-gold
Glistened on the pebbled shore
which lead always to his door.
He shuts out the sight of moon
Pulling down the argent blinds
Lone He's playing the bassoon
Playing with the vacant night
with the wind,the rain, and tide
He stopped playing the bassoon
just to watch the crescent moon.
The first fulguration stooped to kiss a shard,
Not the thunderhead that boasted of its flame;
A broken bottle in an orchard yard
Held one white filament no night could claim.
The beech unlocked a thousand argent leaves;
Each fern leaned nearer, listening through the rain.
A kestrel loosed the wind from both its wings;
The granite seemed to soften in the plain.
Then lightning missed the heavens altogether.
It entered quartz, wet lichen, antler, thorn;
The river halted underneath its weather,
While moss recalled a coastline never born.
An oak drew brightness downward through its roots.
The fox stood still beneath a hawthorn's breath.
One acorn opened, showing not its fruit,
But rings of summers harvested from death.
When morning searched the hills, the sky was gone.
The birds flew lower, as though nothing changed.
Only the broken glass kept filling with the dawn—
Until the sun looked in, and turned away.
Emblazoned on a metalic field
Leeds coat of arms displays an azore shield.
Upon a sable chief, this deep black bar,
Three mullets argent, silver stars.
On a chain of or, beneath the chief,
Hangs the finest golden fleece.
Surmounting the crest, rests a wreath of blue,
Perches an owl proper,of natural hue.
Supporting each side,two owls with plumage brown,,
Ducally gorged with a golden crown.
Underneath, inscribed on a scroll
PRO REGE ET LEGE it does extol.
Latin translates ' FOR KING AND THE LAW'
A motto born after civil war.
7/ 29/ 2015.
The city of Leeds
In the county of Yorkshire
England.
George Barrie Seal.
Beneath the blazing chariot of the Sun,
The fields lay golden, harvest nearly done.
Apollo’s lyre still hums in heated air,
While dryads dance with loosened, flowing hair.
Yet whispers stir where russet leaves descend,
And Zephyrus his gentle breath will bend.
The Horae turn the key to autumn’s gate,
And winter waits with silent hands of fate.
The nymphs retreat as chill invades the glade,
While Persephone walks the twilight shade.
Her mother weeps; the furrows lose their green,
Demeter mourns what once was summer’s sheen.
The grapes grow dark, and Bacchus drains his bowl,
As frost begins to claim the mortal soul.
Now Artemis with silver shafts will roam,
Through amber woods where stags have made their home.
Her hounds pursue beneath the copper sky,
While fading swallows trace their southward fly.
Fair Chione strews her crystal veil on earth,
While hearths grow dim and silence mocks their mirth.
Then Boreas with icy fingers sweeps,
And silent Pan among the snowdrifts sleeps.
Selene rides her argent path serene,
O’er fields that sleep beneath a glassy sheen.
Then Nyx extends her ebon wings on high,
And veils the frozen world from starry sky.
Through shadowed paths where mortal footsteps cease,
Swift Hermes guides the shades to realms of peace.
And Orpheus, whose lyre once charmed the dead,
Now strikes a mournful chord for warmth that fled.
—The Blade of Grass—
I sought no empyrean throne beyond the wheeling blue,
But found one adamantine dewdrop trembling in the grass.
It did not scintillate.
It beheld me.
Then every pinion became articulate flame;
The raven's augury, the blackbird's argent hymn,
Were borne upon one unoriginate Breath I could not name.
I watched the lion heave the primordial wind,
The lamb receive its inviolate ordinance.
Neither litigated Eternity.
Rain descended remembering firmament.
The brook relinquished its mountain,
Yet bore its genesis.
Then desolation entered.
No seraph sundered the stillness.
One mortal hand entered mine.
Its benignity outshone
The constellated treasury of heaven.
That night the firmament exhaled one eternal Breath.
The stars did not descend.
The earth ascended.
The adamantine dewdrop withdrew from the blade of grass.
Since then—
Wherever aught lives—
Or abides—
I have never again encountered a universe bereft of God.
I watch you unfold—
an argent bloom of bone and feather—
the quiet thunder of an angel
shivering beneath your skin.
I should let you rise,
let your beauty cleave the air,
let the wind kiss the hollows of your ribs.
But I do not.
I bind.
I weave my hands into the delicate lattice
of your wings,
folding them back like prayer beads,
tight against your spine,
so that you will not soar too far,
so that your light
does not leave me in shadow.
I love the angel I see in you—
the way your feathers catch the sun
like living silver—but
I love the ground too,
and the thought of you above me
terrifies me more than the night.
Every time you stretch,
every revelation of yourself,
I feel a crack in my grip.
I pull you down,
tether your glory to my chest,
and whisper that flight is dangerous,
that the sky might swallow you whole.
I am the keeper of your wings,
the jailer of your flight,
and in my fear,
I mistake my tethering for love.
I am the shadow
you have not yet flown beyond.
I watch as she curls
into the corners I have built for her,
her wings folding in on themselves
like soft paper,
creasing under my careful weight.
The shimmer dulls,
the light bends back into the shadows,
and I whisper to myself:
“Better this way. Safer. She will not leave.”
The angel forgets the song of air,
the pulse of open blue,
the taste of horizon on her tongue.
Her heart, once a drum of rising,
beats slower now,
syncopated to the rhythm of my fear.
She learns that wings can hurt,
that flight is not a gift but a trial.
And when she looks at me,
I see the quiet acceptance,
the soft resignation,
and I convince myself
that this is love:
that binding is protection,
that grounding is care,
that her shrinking wings
are proof of my devotion.
But the truth lingers in the cage’s shadow—
an angel in gilded bars may survive,
but she will never soar.
Let tonight be red,
red as a glowing conflagration usually is.
As a fiery meteor crashes upon the earth,
so these argent moonbeams kiss your eyelids,
and enkindle the fire of concupiscence,
which, for me,
is more psychedelic than the lunar bliss.
In you I observe my microcosm;
the sleek plateau of your forehead is
covered with silken strands of hair which
resemble the numerous tributaries of Nile.
Let me bathe in your scarlet cherries—
those lips whose waves are as graceful as
the breakers of Florida.
Tonight is short; before the vapoury clouds
blur the moon, let us explore
the mystic alleys of love; let the moon
teach us the craft of hallucination–
delirious sacred love, devoid of sanity
and composure, floats on the turbulent
current of Atlantic, without a destination.
Can we forget the bounds of superego?
Transcending the stagnation of mind and soul,
take me all the way with you,
to the utopian paradise, that we may
resemble the first parents of mankind
before they were unashamed of their nakedness.
And you, my Eve,
with you I crave to savour
the senses, the gustatory exhilaration.
Thus with the language of silence,
ah, singe our desire, gifted by God,
without transgressing His mandate.
Close your eyes, fade into an inebriated trance;
from the burnt ashes of love, a new Phoenix will rise.
26th February, 2020
Behold—the sky in argent fire ignites,
Where thought strikes flesh, and rends all mortal sights.
The wind coils tight through root, through bone, through stone,
Its language pure, no tongue of ours to own.
Clouds spiral sharp as synapse, black and white,
Their pulse exceeds the heart, the hand, the sight.
The eye hangs still—a mind within the sphere,
A silence louder than the world can hear.
Rain splits the air, a memory unbound,
It shreds the ground, it wakes what sleeps profound.
Thunder speaks not to you—but through your skin,
A question carved where fear and knowing twin.
Lightning forks—its script is jagged, raw,
It marks what mortal thought could never draw.
Spirals, folds, and torrents form the storm’s own prose,
No mercy lent, no gentle path it chose.
The world bends, trembles, answers, twists, obeys,
Each gust a syllable of ancient ways.
No guide, no priest, no comfort for the flesh,
The storm itself—its mind, a living mesh.
Water hums, wind thrums, and lightning writes reply,
A ledger of what lives, what falls, what will not die.
Stand still, O mortal—witness, not command,
Your pulse entwined with what you cannot brand.
Departing then, the sky exhales, subdued,
Yet veins still thrash, still hum with gratitude.
All silence now is conscious, and the hue,
Proclaims a mind that thought alone ne’er knew.