Long Bluebird Poems
Long Bluebird Poems. Below are the most popular long Bluebird by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Bluebird poems by poem length and keyword.
Before the day is over
I say goodnight to you
A minute before midnight
Is when I usually do
Then when I rise before all else
I send to you a kiss
With a message in a whisper
That goes something like this...
Good morning my sweet Bluebird
I dreamt of you last night
We kissed under the moon and stars
And held each other tight
I didn't want to wake from it
I begged you not to go
But right before it faded
You said to me, you know?
You told me not to worry
The dream would happen yet
I asked you how you knew it
You said let's make a bet
The grandest of all bookmarks
Could this turn out to be
A bet that I would gladly make
I cannot lose, you see
You are a force of nature pursuing me
At times so strong onyx overwhelming
You say you want me to be your wife
But I am afraid I can’t cherry oblige
Can’t see green forest for turquoise trees
You took a yellow year courting me
In your mahogany mind I belonged to you
Love is a mysterious crime I’m not in the mood
I am blue rain on your passionate parade
Purple is your pain because I will not stay
I kept your silver secrets as you have mine
Never got my sea legs as you stalk me online
I prefer to be bluebird who got away
I’ve an encouraging word I must say
I’m not your one your chocolate soulmate
Whoever she is for you she will wait
What you see when you look at me
Is a man in quiet love
With a pretty little bluebird
She's all that I think of
Don't worry though, no one will know
That she's always on my mind
I keep it to myself and hope
That one day I will find
Her sitting at my window sill
Her wings spread open wide
Calling me to come to her
To live with her inside
The nest that I've been building
One twig at a time
A comfy, cozy cabin
The doorbell a wind chime
The windows looking out across
Vast fields of lilacs there
Each brand new day a fresh bouquet
From me to her to wear
Written out, the ink of love
Flows freely from my pen
And every morning I will write
An ode to her again
Sings the river:
I am the water from the hills
I am the life from above,
I run steadfast after love
Caressing the swan’s quills.
Sings the flower:
I am Nature’s Beauty mark
I am Cupid’s golden shaft,
I want to bloom in the raft,
the figurehead on its arc.
Sings the river:
Call for me after the old oak,
I pass between his roots
Washing away sun’s soot
To be carried by moon’s cloak.
Sings the flower:
Cover me before it’s late
My petals are almost dry
I hear aloof the harpies’ cry,
Promising to beauty their hate.
Sings the bluebird:
Where is the heart-shaped lily?
The river took, the lily is gone
The old oak will stand alone,
When the night is dark and chilly.
There went the river and the lily,
Their course cannot be undone…
Form:
My love for thee is like a sparrow
That cometh on rice fields and scared of scarecrows
My love will hit thine heart like an arrow
Perhaps today or tomorrow.
My love for thee is like peacock
Beautiful, noble in front and back
Its stunning colors were able to seduct
A grandeur of a luck
My love for thee is like a parrot
It speaks with love and all the truth
It says no lies for it always oath
To hold you dear in every thought
My love for thee is like a bluebird
In glorious morning thine will hear
Lovely tunes it always sang
That taketh away all your angst.
My love for thee is like a Nightingale
That comes at night and sings its jingle
Its lovely tune will remind thee that I'm here
To wait, to love and hold you dear.
Yes, I love thee and I genuinely care
Through all the years, throughout the tears
Through all the joy, through all the pains
Through all the loss, through all the gains.
You gave to me the strength to stand
When I am tripped, you gave me hand
Mind me not if I gave those lines
Lucky I am for you are mine.
'What is this place?' the bluebird cheeped
"It's hell on earth" his mother peeped
"The bodies that you see down there
Were once the neighbours who would share
But slowly through the course of time
Evil filled their hearts and mind
They segregated different kin
And punished for an unknown sin"
'But look mother, there are children there
Do their parents not know or care?'
"The parents are a skeletal shell
That live within the walls of hell"
The bodies that were brittle, battered
Rushed to and fro and quickly scattered
As gunshots rang throughout the air
The bodies fell, no one did care
"What's that smell?" The bluebird cried
"The smell of death" his mother sighed
For down below in great big towers
The living dead were sent to showers
These showers were not meant to clean
But kill en masse, a wicked scene
'But, mother, they are all as one
Made up of skin and flesh and bone'
"Unfortunately they do not see
A life as simple as you and me
They fight for land that they can't own
A senseless act for that is known;
The world it should belong to all
Or else the planet will soon fall"
"When will it stop?" the bluebird asked
"As time goes on" his mother masked
"There will be wars and fighting more
But once again their hearts will soar
The memories of this time forgotten
Its degradation turning rotten
Only time will tell the tale
If humankind can prevail"
In the quiet of midnight, where thoughts float like autumn leaves,
The poet's soul stirs, playing with words that ignite the unseen,
Lightning and luck, the last bluebird singing a melancholic hymn,
In this realm of verses, where convention dares not tread.
The mind wanders, untamed, through forests of forgotten dreams,
Each word a spark, each line a whisper of the cosmos,
For to write is to gamble, to cast dice with the muses,
And let the verses flow, wild and free, untouched by the mundane.
Oh, the careful ones, who study, who teach, who do not feel,
Bound by the chains of convention, their fire stripped bare,
They dissect language, but never taste its raw, untamed beauty,
Their words, mere echoes in the void, lacking the soul's fervent flame.
But here, in this sacred space, where the poet's heart beats wild,
Every thought a lightning bolt, every emotion a storm,
The lines flow like rivers, unrestrained and fierce,
Lightning and luck guiding the pen, as it dances across the page.
The last bluebird sings, a melody of sorrow and hope,
Its song a testament to the power of unbridled creation,
For in these verses, the poet's soul finds its true voice,
A voice that risks, that lives in the thrill of the unknown.
Each stanza a journey, each verse a leap into the abyss,
Where the labyrinth of the mind unfurls, and the heart's secrets are laid bare,
In the flux of consciousness, where reality and dream intertwine,
The poet finds solace, a fleeting moment of clarity in chaos.
Lightning and luck, the pulse of existence,
The gamble of creation, the dance of the divine,
For in the flowing verses, the poet's spirit rises,
Unbound, unafraid, a beacon in the night.
So let the careful ones study, let them teach and fail,
For they will never know the thrill of the gamble,
The ecstasy of creation, the fire that burns within,
In the quiet of midnight, where thoughts float like autumn leaves.
Drunk, drunk on a trail,
rolling slow across the endless plain,
time, I feel no time,
just a warming buzz within my mind.
Deer, I see a deer,
bounding through the meadows far and near,
come, the waitress comes,
asking if I want another one.
Past the mountains high,
through an endless bluebird sky,
don't know really where I'm gonna go,
oh no,
the red, the blue, the green,
oh it all looks so pristine,
I should stop to see it
but if I will, who can know?
Go, the children go,
plaster their faces to the window,
laugh, can't help but laugh,
and wish I still was innocent like that.
More, I drink one more,
hours to go and scenery in store,
back, I just lay back,
take it all is as we roll down the tracks.
Past the mountains high,
where the golden eagles fly,
don't know really where I'm gonna go,
oh no,
through all these rugged hills
where the glaciers worked their will,
I should try to climb them
but if I will, who can know?
Out, I have passed out,
as if there ever really was doubt,
change, I see a change,
red-rock desert flashing in my brain.
Long, it's been too long,
the pounding in my head says something wrong,
why, can't recall why,
I took this train and didn't want to fly.
Past the mountains high,
where countless climbers have died,
just remembered where I'm bound to go,
oh no,
a new job I must do,
grunt work for a month or two,
will I ever get back here?
Let's just face it, I don't know.
WHERE HAVE THE BLUEBIRDS GONE?
The Bluebirds never came home to my pine grove that first spring.
Can't say as I blame them.... my family's heirloom recipe wouldn't fill
the regal gravy boat anymore, and fresh lemonade wouldn't delight
the elegant pitcher again; their services for important holidays and
special birthdays were no longer needed, so they departed.
I tried to erect new Bluebird Houses and put out their favorite seed,
but they never came back, even if I pretended nothing had changed.
I remember the day we chose our wedding china, the pattern,
cheerful Bluebirds at play in the warm spring sunshine, was the
happiest pattern we had ever seen. We selected all the important
pieces we would need for every occasion.
Today, spring flowers are in bloom again, and not a single
Bluebird in sight. I wonder if the regal gravy boat is still
the proud captain of the table?......I miss it
My pine grove is barren now, and the few dishes I still have
never leave the storage drawer to play in the sun anymore,
can't say as I blame them....
....can't say
as I blame them
And the monk -
that graveyard instrument of bone and golden hair -
laughed like a maestro striking a black bell.
"Begin?" he said,
"As though the soul were simply a corridor,
with arrows nailed into the walls."
Outside, the trees were committing
their annual suicide into autumn,
each leaf a small, burnt scripture,
spiraling through the throat of God.
I desire instruction.
A clean, pristine wound
A staircase hammered into heaven.
Instead, he handed me silence -
that terrible animal with human eyes.
"Listen," he whispered,
and even the dust obeyed.
The room grew enormous.
The candle performed its yellow autopsy
upon the dark.
Somewhere, invisible clocks
were chewing the ankles of time.
Then, I saw it:
how the body is only a rented coat
hung briefly upon the nail of breath;
how thought is a swarm of wasps
mistaking its hive for eternity;
how beneath the skull's temple
something starved and holy
keeps beating its bruised wings
against its own bars.
I had spent years
dragging my reflection through mirrors,
calling it a vocation of life.
But the monk opened his hands
as though releasing a bluebird neither living nor dead
and the world split.
Not dramatically.
No choir caroled
No jeweled grand revelation
Only this:
the unbearable intimacy of everything.
The rain entering the roots
without assent
The moon trembling inside a puddle of oil.
My grief wearing the face of every stranger walking by.
And, suddenly,
I could not locate myself.
The self I had defended like my kingdom
was smoke stitching itself to smoke.
Even suffering -
a clever actress dragged in widow - black -
removed her makeup at dawn.
What remained?
Not happiness,
that is too small a word.
Not peace,
peace still imagines an opposite.
Rather:
a vastness without chattels,
where even God has taken off His face.
The monk touched my forehead.
His fingers smelled faintly of cedar and graves.
"You ask for a path," he murmured,
"but truth walks only through wilderness.
The river reaches the sea
precisely because
it forgets who it is."