Long Beaded Poems
Long Beaded Poems. Below are the most popular long Beaded by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Beaded poems by poem length and keyword.
Bubble-Itch
By Odin Roark
Like a wheel of endless births
Our personal bubble rolls and undulates
From first breath to death
Through meditations of desire
Shopping malls and jails
Farms
Caves
Rotten downtowns
Penthouse isolations
Cemeteries and urns
Especially unmarked graves
Of dirt and ocean anonymity
Whether sluiced by life’s briny water
Colored toxic flows
Or pure spring eruptions
The mind reconstitutes
Its textural translucence
Separating and recombining
Its minuscule droplets and grains of experience
Into sub-atomic particles for infinity’s grace
Seemingly
But not crushed
Under time’s animation
Such are the varying treads
Of wide circumferential roadwork
A modern terrain of fractured tar flecks
Once molten everything’s anything
Now but survival’s dust
Unscheduled
One’s bubble idles its roll and tilt
Atop the tightrope passage
Brain to that legendary heart muscle
Patiently pumping the thrill and troubles
That defined this organ’s attachment
This non-stop muscle that wants and grieves too
Even as it heals its slashes and teasing death threats
Where sleep and pleasure
Remain the swell of beaded spasms and waves
Floating
Rolling plodding
Reaching to become
History’s repeating mantra
Until
Mind and heart
Reluctantly giving up
Gasp
Hold
Await the next iteration
Knowing one’s vacuum
This morphed and re-morphed
Sublime emptiness-transmorphing
Is but eternity’s bubble-itch
Looking to be scratched
One more time
Symbols and sigils flood the forebrain as I walk through the metal and wired glass doors. With an whoosh of air, they close as if mocking the breath I had held in too long. Fear beaded in the sweat on my upper lip. What had once been the blissful gold-tinged vessel of apple blossom days had now turned into the hollow boned reality of a Dali summer, a loveless leaden pit of dread. Constant incessant sobbing, gagging, rocking did little to quell the practice’s belief that I was deranged.
parents watch
through the window:
paper cup pills
He was bald, and full of hmmm’s, nodding as I babbled. A seventies summer started with first love in a hayfield, ended in a heroin fright. The local quack had assured me it was all a communist plot to overtake the youth of America. Really, one should never tell their parents the truth. They certainly hadn’t checked in with their brains when their seed and egg mixed a proclivity for alcoholism with a dollop of bipolar mania. “Ahhh, hmmmm,” The Doctor said. “Two weeks rest should do you fine.”
First Published in Tincture Journal, Australia April 2014
two boys racing
dash, dart, tear
airburst in a clearing punched open
arms of piston pumping disperse white funnels
dandelion fluff curling
scattering flowered stems
as water streaked, streams down joyful faces
clearing,
a clawed out seclusion
child claimed freedom unspooling in summer heat
pulling back its gauzy veil
pushed to disarray
in this seething space, holding promise
two boys, breath weary, tumble into the tall grass
laugh and roll,
confessions shared like wanting to drift somewhere
- imaginary to real
claiming turf needing no repair
stories whispered before they're pushed off the page
in a green clearing, its window-heavy future
till tall tales take a different slant
to rest like beaded sweat
upon lined brows
Poem composed February 21, 2023
What is this thing
called, Divine Love?
I felt it strong, in a
fiery daze; touched by
it, though my mind and
soul feverishly ablaze!
Cooled was my beaded
brow -- and swear I heard,
Eternal Love is with you
now --
What is this thing called
Divine Light? Saw it bright
on a raging night. Bullets and
shrapnel fell every other member
of my troop -- suddenly, surrounded
me, a Divine loop -- and again, not
knowing why nor how...I heard a
voice -- Divine light is protecting
you now --
2 times I felt, all hope seemed
lost. 2 times I felt, life is
a gamble~ Pal, this time you have royally
lost! Stood before me, a demon, extending
his lethal claw. Not seeing from where, nor knowing
how -- again I heard, have faith~ be brave, My Son --
in the past, delivered you from evil I...and will not
forsake you now!
He paces steadily in the ash of evening
while a neck cranes to watch the darkness fall:
an armor on his back hardens amidst
the chatter of leaves at the far end
of a sea where danger waits.
Through a haze, a fearless turtle
stands guard against the rage of winds;
his beaded eyes cautiously
scanning predators as flowers bend
for comfort of night’s droning hum.
Displaying an ancient legacy, he traverses
the mossy dune with shell and flippers
kneading stealthily in cunning motion…
oh, bearer of water and earth
evolves like a mystical ninja turtle
carrying the load to find a jeweled star.
Cyndi MacMillan's Free Verse- Turtle Contest
by nette onclaud
In Autumn Fair
The Old Oak stands strong in dappled shade,
with sunlit greens and browns upon the misted fields,
who yield their timeless gaze.
The bird of prey ; she soars eagerly on lofty heights,
soon swooping down amidst the soil.
Triumphant now she bears her rodent crown,
the mice had run amuck
but now perchance their final destiny called;
from feathered heights
and sunlit hills
and diamond-beaded cobwebs all a-glistening in the glade,
while the Earth hushes a lull
and Autumn gives her great Embrace.
Leaves entwined in a flurry of a breeze
Caught up in the air like a charm
to be later tramped underfoot, amidst much crunching and laughter
by carefree deftly footed children
Only hampered by the imaginations of their parents ,
‘Shhhh, tread softly now!’
‘Don’t ruin your shoes!’
‘Walk, don’t run!’
And so the uttermost pleasure of Autumn is for-stalled, until adults chatting altogether, in a semi half gaze, forget the delights of childhood and wonder why they dare to dream no more….
Meanwhile the children run and jump and dance, for the leaves are making music as they play.
For surely the only life worth living is life through the eyes of a child.
NaomiRainbow
Some would call me homeless. I call myself a traveler. In this city I traverse the wonder of human art and nature's beauty as if the two have melded together as one. The ornate iron railings seem to grow into the sweet smelling vines and flowers that live upon them. Hanging baskets with pink and purple impatiens and verdant ferns chuckle gently in the moist morning breeze as they adorn each balustrade. Hidden gardens beckon me as I walk past their gates painted with worn layers of lover's hands as they steal away behind secluded walls. They say I'm confused, yet I search to understand. Here, the past calls to me and I listen. Walking the streets and alley ways there is a sense of history, of lives that have loved and lost, of souls that linger in the heart of the buildings. Always searching, the walls can not contain their bewildered wandering. Inflicting confusion and sometimes pain on those they touch, they bath in the fountains and babble longing desires into each mind that seeks the peace of their soothing, gently bubbling water.
petals blush gently
the patient garden awaits
sweet stolen kisses
"For Sale," reads the sign on the window of the house before me. Delicate filigree rails frame the porch as I approach the old glass pane and peer through it. Inside I see a small room with peeling paint. Worn wooden floors trace the lives that have lived here. The ghost of Christmases past linger in the broken toys strewn across the floor. Brightly colored beaded memories of ages of Mardi Gras dangle from hooks on the wall. Upon the small corner desk I can see papers written in a fine pen like that of a poet's notes waiting an eternity for the completion of a long forgotten refrain. I feel the joy that once lived here and the pain of loss that remains.
stains of memories
the children's laughter lingers
a tear on my cheek
01/15/16
THE REBEL ARTIST Why do you paint pictures of silent days?, Lonely roads, lonely streets; of beggars groping their way, holding hands to each other, making beggarly music to awake crushed passions. Is this your country? Once flowing with milk and honey! Now a beggar, begging from those he once fed! Independence Day? In those days, we trekked far from hinterlands to freedom square, expectations high against odds to receive golden salutes from heroes past...Those days of innocence, when civilization slapped us in the face...when euphoria of this treacherous sovereignty beclouded us not to see this end that comes... Why, Rebellious Artist, why do you paint pictures of baby-strapped women saddled with loads, why images of riotous youths, corpse-Iittered streets. Paint pictures of these green-white flowers, adorning our great country. Paint him, our man, the president. Oh! It was beauty last night glistening all over the Aerodrome as he beaded farewell to his countrymen, boarding the air to Saudi Arabia!
Bespangled
she sashays up the shore
from a sequin gowned sea
wearing the undulating waves
of aquamarine and ambrosial sheen
adorned with shimmering and shivering seeds of excitement
A thousand beaded fingertips
trace her coral curves
whispering sweet nothings
in the luscious language of brine and blue
drizzling down
her sea-salted soul-case
teasing and tempting
her cooled honeyed patina
to passionately impearled pertness
Enraptured as he is
enticed by her dreamscape
the yearning senescent sands sigh~
longing for relics of rose-water regrets.
Susan Ashley
February 8, 2017
~ Fourth Place ~
Premiere Contest: #400
Sponsor: Brian Strand
I’ve gone outside to sit nearby my tree,
which bloomed this April, and on the first day!
With pen in hand (the good old-fashioned way)
I pause – to let impressions come to me.
More than a blushing willow do I see.
The thing most striking is that winter’s grey
has vanished! In its place, a vast array
of nature’s jade gives spring green majesty!
The dingy cloak of winter now is gone.
My eyes adore the jewelry of spring -
the leaves and grass of emerald and on
my pretty tree, in sunlight glittering -
those rose quartz gems! Right now above my lawn,
from beaded boughs, a bird begins to sing!
April 8, 2018
For Brian Strand's 'LATE APRIL 2018 PREMIERE CONTEST,ANY FORM OR NONE,ANY THEME,UPTO A MAX OF 20 lines' Poetry Contest