Long Bequeaths Poems
Long Bequeaths Poems. Below are the most popular long Bequeaths by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Bequeaths poems by poem length and keyword.
women of dusk and dawn
who love to feast on their senses
in a banquet ripened by love and courage,
chilled to last till the moonlight
bequeaths more hours for stories
about earth's flesh...
oh, let the first drone of music
praise the female spirit voluptuous
as hips sashay in gaiety wildly wet,
empresses hunting for the eyes of god in men
softly flowing in veils of mystery
that hover in the fragrance
housed in chambers of rich legends
and reality: taste their tears,
cuddle the apples of fertile breasts…
yet no one can touch their essence
or own life’s primeval wombs;
women are women like their children
defying any explanation.
Contest of Chantelle Anne Cooke Favorite Free Verse
2/4//2019 Repost
As woodland drifts, the clouds hang deep
While birdsong trails with rows of sheep;
Outlined by duskfall I can see
How beautiful the night’s marquee…
That in a hush all shadows creep.
When budding flowers fall asleep;
There, moonlight red comes out to peep
On cabins, lakes, and every tree
As woodland drifts.
Then fragrant air begins to sweep
Across horizons…oh to leap;
In criss-crossed threads of potpourri
Revealing autumn’s lustrous spree…
Till dew of morn bequeaths its heap!
As woodland drifts.
10/30/2017
Contest of Janice Canerdy: Write Me A Rondeau
Love trembles, a heartbeat,
Echoes through the soul,
Bequeaths joy, so very sweet.
Lends hope, making hearts whole.
Love erases the darkest night,
Whispering with gentle grace,
Reflecting the song of its light,
Brings wonder in every embrace.
Love breathes a prayer of hope,
Stirring the dreams, the muse,
Guarantees the soul can cope,
Singing a song that won’t confuse.
Love rouses the beauty inside,
Feelings so extraordinary, so alive,
Conveys perfection to ever abide,
Kindness that will eternally thrive.
Love reaches through the fears,
Conspiring with faith that lives,
Wiping away the most painful tears,
It’s serenity that just gives and gives.
Love pours out smiles of praise,
Arising to be a friend, adoring,
Light that is forever and always,
Its sensation is kind and restoring.
Love bonds hearts and souls,
With a magnificent beyond verse.
Love so powerful it completely controls,
Saving hearts from doubt that can coerce.
‘Most of the dandelions had changed from suns into moons.’ – Vladimir Nabokov
The humble dandelion Earth bequeaths.
Oh, golden bloom which ancient lore bequeaths
that fortune ‘s woven into bridal wreaths.
The dandelion turns from sun to moon.
A dandelion morphs from sun to moon
for wishes cast so young and old may swoon.
The Shepherd’s Clocks are pacing march of time.
My Shepherd’s Clock is marking march of time
as day would turn to night with stars sublime.
The moonlight whispers capture early twilight
of moonlit scenes betwixt erstwhile twilights—
a transformation silence cloak the night.
The fairy clocks now spent, they dream of sheen
of mornings when they shone, showily preened.
Written: October 19, 2023
Poem in the Fragmented Form Created by Poetess: Constance la France
The good work is done by people with jagged, broken edges because those edges cut things and leave an imprint, a design. By Harry Crews
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Love's blades tear within as a dull scalpel with teeth
Leaving merely a crushed, dead chunk of flesh
It shreds, gouges, and weeps till the heart bequeaths
Offering its heart gambles will be accepted fresh,
Being hugged frowns as it gulps the vile reality
The dagger sinks further, piercing the frailty of sanity
A heart still bleeds while succumbing to sociality
Pathetic, petrous parcel with pebbly peaks
Jagged-toothed dome rising into bespeaks,
Each is engraved, erose, and has surface breaks.
Swallowed by a murky quagmire of an abyss beneath,
Snapping at heels all life, laden with vessel mensch,
Unfathomable evil clings to grief and jagged vitality
Vow to thrive with every word your soul speaks.
Chalkboard solitude eats at my mind
My fingers leave scars in the written words
And behind me a herd of sheep cries out
As the remaining words run red
And blood drizzles down the board
My thoughts were abhorred
But my actions were lauded
What a twisted juxtaposition
Mindlessness is a cancer
So critical of every flawed detail
But envious of others despite their ineptitude
And fire could burst from my fingertips
You'd never know it from all the silence
And when I finally turn around
What a surprise it is
To find me alone in the white walled room
Dreaming of yesteryear
But there's paint chipping on the wall
And I dig away at it
And behind the whiteness of the walls
Is a mold that runs deep
That's been festering for over a decade
These white walls are merely a facade
For an ugly truth buried beneath
That bequeaths me with sorrow
And when I turn back around
The chalkboard remains
Without any words
Here, I pray, is a sonnet he may have written upon his passing on, ironically, his 52nd birthday, April 23rd 1616...
The Bard Bequeaths
'Twas two and fifty years of mortal worth,
This twenty third of April owned thy fate.
Thy soul commence and hence departs this earth
In midst of spring as summer's passions wait.
Those passions drip from quill like dagger's tears,
The blood of inspiration spake and writ,
Like life itself, upon the stage appears
Until, at last, a poison potion sipped.
Though ne'er a day begets where peace doth dwell
There, hidden in the chaos is reward.
Though, like the Queen of Scots, there was no knell,
Thou tarry not, before the henchman's sword.
Mine heart doth pray that thou hath left behind,
Conception's want that cannot be confined.
Every sin laid upon me, left its stone.
Each dream denied, buried deep, is a stone.
Unkept promises haunt, their weight cold stones.
I walk, hunched by forgotten oaths, their stones.
Suffered wounds unseen, each bruise casts a stone.
Given pain returned sharper, molds its stone.
The choirs refused my ears each hymn, a stone.
Heaven closed; its silence bequeaths me stones.
Mud clings to my steps, the ground spawns stones.
The self is prison, walled in jagged stones.
Under skies, burdened breath, life begged for stones.
I build ruin. To endure is to move these stones.
The poet dreams, and with a simple glance
at trees or sky or at a mountain spring,
begins to write, endeavors to enhance
each sight of beauty with imagining.
He paints midsummer as a day of gold,
the song of birds at twilight as the tune
for his beloved, whose aspect is extolled
and likened to the splendor of the moon.
At times, his heart is pained. It seems that doom
pursues him in that chasm where he grieves.
He finds he still must write. . . and there may bloom
sweet wistful roses on his journal’s leaves.
Though meager be his assets, he bequeaths
to us a treasure with the words he breathes.
Entered 10/22/2020 for Line Gauthier's Have You Published Poetry Contest
From my chapbook: Dancing the Unicorn: Lyrical Blooms 2
I had won a chapbook deal for my Lyrical Blooms 1 entitled Dreaming the Unicorn, and I followed it up with a part 2 Dancing the Unicorn, a 44-page chapbook pubished in 2008 by Shadow Ink. The book contains poems of various themes with about two poems per page and organized by types of poetry forms. Blue roses are scattered through the book. Shadow Ink sadly stopped publishing.
Universally yours she never bequeaths an empty womb
because she is space, containing the sparkle of all eternity
She is a matchstick sulphuric light that never extinguishes
but churns into the deep without dupe, full of blue
cherry bomb thoughts arrive at the base of my skull to rev
the fantasy of a magical combustion made by great intent
She's a star shine chit made for wishing, only jarred
by the purple hues of my dreams, she's quite a sight
universally ours she caresses our eyes with an explosion
of atoms and molecules alike. An element of chemistry
she's a wash bath of cool, like the sighs of an evening high
planetary surprises await while we barely open the gate
so transfixed are we by mundanity that we never deem
the mystery of her capacious heart. Only God is privy to
her masterpiece from on high. She is not a sophomore
but rather an antiquity that fascinates me to no end .
Feb. 20 2019