Long Blue air Poems
Long Blue air Poems. Below are the most popular long Blue air by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Blue air poems by poem length and keyword.
Over the fruitful forests, I saw the trees
I hoofed over sleet, slush, ice, rain n' snow
On my any which way journeys
Wandering kookily at the yearn of heaven's glow
I bear on my back a bodily spirit flow
Whilst traveling in tracks undreamed of
In vasty wind depth visits, so
To kiss the creator's old sod of soil ruff
Many I saw, rip current ocean shores
Sunny and clear, potshot rain sprees
Great stones and rock on steepy cliff floors
Umpteen alpine in the deep forest trees
More than that, wild geese in clean blue air
In elevation over n' under
Heading home across the landscape fair
Hasteningly, avoiding hunter and thunder
In all my travels, I found no answers. Only wonder!
To avoid the pale blue pain hue
I do not visit the river shore any more
If I do sometimes by chance
One by one
Our spent moments
Both closed and open
Come in a long bluish queue
And in the snow of thought grow deep blue sores
Hospital odour
shreds of blue in the air
Prayers seem hollow
Blues inexorably follow
The river-shore blue beauty
Is elegiac and unbearable for me
Do you remember
The blue river shore
Would madden us more and more
The blue air from your hair
That we ecstatically shared
While dissolving our lips in the mutual cups
In the veins
In the blue lanes and bye lanes of our laugh
Would gallop the horses
Now they are dews on forceps
Of the frightening time
In tattered rhymes
All chimes robbed of
As one day all on a sudden you fell
The current went pell-mell in the river
Leaving me sobbing
In those blue myriad cells
Very pale by your sudden departure
Into the ethereal air
Never to return
Time sits in urn
When I come here
The moment broken seemed irreparable
The embracing blue unbearable
____________________________________
2/11/2016
Fall is getting prompt for its chilly main part.
Spread each leaf until the forest floor is strewn.
Joined by bright leaves waving to the summer's past.
Differing old layouts, and not a trice too soon!
Spread each leaf until the forest floor is strewn.
And the heron shriek out above the clear blue air
Differing old layouts, and not a trice too soon!
While the white clouds emerge to shout "beware!"
And the heron shriek out above the clear blue air
The swollen creek has no time to fade away.
While the white clouds emerge to shout "beware!"
The Fall charm waits for our parent's offer lay.
The swollen creek has no time to fade away.
A woodpecker beats on a tree searching food.
The Fall charm waits for our parent's offer lay.
Mixed together, they make for a timing, good.
A woodpecker beats on a tree searching food.
A parade of old thoughts walks within new sense.
Mixed together, they make for a timing, good.
And nothing is lost when the mood is intense!
A woodpecker beats on a tree searching food.
A parade of old thoughts walks within new sense.
Mixed together, they make for a timing, good.
And nothing is lost when the mood is intense!
A parade of old thoughts walks within new sense.
My heart is racing as I latch on to beat.
And nothing is lost when the mood is intense!
The kernel of Autumn's singing is so sweet.
My heart is racing as I latch on to beat.
Joined by bright leaves waving to the summer's past.
The kernel of Autumn's singing is so sweet.
Fall is getting prompt for its chilly main part.
Written: September 02, 2022
Autumn Pantoum Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Caren Krutsinger
Once we were a world apart,
we wrote daily,
they were just the usual love letters,
but now I see clearly
they were statements
to affirm we were still here
in this wide world,
still lonely; making time
to physically lift a pen,
to write upon old blue air-mail letters,
sending them
into an unpredictable future.
If we had been truthful to love
we would have admitted
that we knew nothing
except this thing named ‘you’.
We were a mirage,
a hope
we had created of love.
When we arrived at the same place,
we stopped writing and sending.
Years later, after the parting,
we are again sharing e-mails,
again not knowing why.
She was beautiful,ever so graceful, sitting in the Zen garden,
In the quietude evening of summer,painting a mural,
Art is her muse,as she herself looks like art,a precious and priceless one,
Her eyes shine like gems,so pure,so white,but blind,so sad,
Talented she is in art, although blind,
Fairest skin like porcelain, beautifully clear,almost translucent,almost,
Flower fields of blue roses I reside in,
And blue air I exhale,
Home is what I see when I gaze upon her countenance,
Oh her countenance home to Rosy cheeks and sparkling ruby lips,
I find myself lost within the world of her orbs,
Xue fang,her name,her name,fragrant snow,
Red she wore,with golden flowers and coy fish detailing,
It curved her beauty so effortlessly,
Strings of lush hair cascading down her young spine,
A hairpin,a gift from her ancestors in place,
Her talent she used so elegantly,she blesses the paper so delicately,
What she don't know is she painted her figure right in my heart,like a stamp of an emperor's seal,
There she resides in,known but unknown,
Xue fang,oh fragrant snow,
You are my fantasy land,
A dream,a dream I want not woke,you are,
You are my love,
You are my muse,so priceless you are,
Gazing at you,my fragrant snow,
Feels like a thousand years of bliss.
My basket lifts from ground; I, eager, stand
inside it as I drift into blue air.
I see below - the slowly shrinking land,
above my head, a giant yellow pear.
She takes me high, and as I’m looking down,
I view the checkered rows of each green lawn
around the center of my little town
and tiny houses. . . Soon they all are gone.
I breathe the clouds. . . then happiness-immersed,
I skim tall mountain peaks; I’m sailing wind.
And if my big balloon should tear or burst,
my soul will not forget. Death can’t rescind
the flush of living. My! What fills the sky?
A flock of snow white geese comes rushing by.
For Brian Strand's
YOUR PICK any theme/form max 14 lines Poetry Contest
The highlight of my Alaskan vacation was a singular
unexpected breach of a humpback whale.
— by Poet
MY DREAM VACATION - ALASKAN WHALE TOUR
What’s a routine blubberflip, is a marvel to humans -
a breathtaking splash of epic proportions, a whirlwind
propensity to pail - empty salt-sea into the sun-blue air.
The striated humpback, in blubberbreach, sates
in eye appeal, strums in rhythmic entrainment, and
a solid gold breath erupts through the human blowhole.
Mood lighting of the sea and sky, the heavens riding
the wave of creation’s emotion - God’s largesse smiling.
Gratitude of the cruisers from this unexpected explosion
through the give way sea, the crop yielding a hundredfold.
The humpback’s beauty is in his creativity of timing, sublime
in oceanic movement, his fin-finish finer than a diver’s.
Furthermore, the cleansing of his blubberhide - ridding
himself of lice and barnacles — morass that when it lingers
annoys but triggers the acceleration to release his form
to exaltation - he swims the blessed air for a few seconds,
with flipper wings, angel kisses and applause. Neither
proud nor humble, as he pressures through the deep.
What’s a routine of man - to exercise his sea legs,
to gorge on the monsters of the sea, to breathe in
all that life can be — tremulous, terrifying, out of sight.*
3/8/2022
Sponsor: L. Milton Hankins
*out of sight - extremely good, excellent
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I walked through the woods this morning, nary an animal crossing my path. The only sounds I heard were birds chirping, small animals collecting nuts, and my feet as they gently landed on autumn’s leaves and the decaying pine straws.
I rounded the bend and paused just in time to witness the sun’s gradual ascent into the enormous Texas sky. I closed my eyes and stood perfectly still letting the silence envelop me. In the distance I heard them, geese honking. The blue air above me was filled with a skein of wild geese flying in V-formation.
They glided together effortlessly through the sky, homeward bound for the season. I stood in awe watching them noticing the geese had a pride about them, as if they were aware of their own magnificence.
fall equinox brings
skein of geese flying above
interrupts silence
wild geese, sunlit sky
V-formation heading south
seasonal journey
boldly unimpressed
by opinions, fears, and doubts
geese trust the Knowing
R a i n ~ a misted mirror
coated in petrichor pain ~
fused with memories
pirouetting through the
veiled salt of the earth,
caressing the Pina Colada dreams
adrift in the icy-blue air,
amidst clouds soaked
in prismatic hues ~
arching like opalescent canopies,
to hide the despair I’ve draped
in dragonfly hues that no one knows
but the moon and his
merciful silver, forever stroking
the silken surface of s i l e n c e ~
homed within my
heart that aches…
And along with the thunder ~
came confetti of scars,
a piercing flash of metallic truth
revealing midnight rays
of how I’ve long been the storm ~
a murky sky of cracked constellations,
a rush of roaring torrents,
driving my thoughts to the honed
borderline of tremors and torture ~
teetering on forsaken fragility.
O dahlia dawn ~
I am the splitting tempest,
the spectral outline of
electrified lightning.
I taste the bittersweet flavors
of opaline stars ~
trembling in angst,
as fleeting sparks of the buried past,
too, feel the hurt beneath
the pansies of paradise,
where angels unfurl their
wings, sprinkling tears of hope
upon the battlefield of
shattered dreams,
lamenting the endless war
that burns in the olive-green
orchard of the grief-struck mind,
where fairy-lights
flicker neon hints of
prejudice through broken twigs ~
a pitiful perception,
amplifying the echoing embers
floating above puddles
of weathered lilies,
stained with dust and powder,
weaving a requiem for the
f a l l e n jewels,
walking through the trails
of bruises and tilted tulips,
bleeding poetry ~
beautified with
polychromatic phrases
and falcon ink that cuts
through paper promises,
leaving nothing but a restless reverie,
breathing in the quivering
warmth of quietude…
¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦ I loved you.
¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦
I gave you ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦
bed of earth, blanket of blue air--
As I get further away ¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦
I see ¦¦¦ more clearly.
¦¦¦¦ souls should have been immense ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦
not what they are,
¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦
I gave you ¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦
blue of the spring morning,
¦¦¦¦ you didn't know ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦
you wanted more, the one gift
reserved for another ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦
¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦
you will ¦¦¦ find ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ in the garden,
among the growing plants.
¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦
¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ the bird's flight
¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦
which begins ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦ echoing
¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ from the white birch
to the apple tree.
(Blackout of Retreating Wind by Louise Gluck)