Long Brevity Poems
Long Brevity Poems. Below are the most popular long Brevity by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Brevity poems by poem length and keyword.
A BRAIN STORM
Hey my dear darling appendage,
My vulnerable grey matter,
The necessary part of me,
Since that fateful night,
When a truck breezed by
And bruised us badly,
From my brain
Right down to my pinkie toe,
I praised God,
For we survived, was it written,
Was it meant to be, was it fate, was it all
Just contrived,
Yet I know now that my brain
And my hand, think differently,
I think (a little with my brain),
But write with my soul my spirit
And my heart,
Perhaps that is how it should have been
From the start!
Entered for ‘Brainy Brevity’ poetry contest – sponsor - Maureen McGreavy
I am a woman
Just like other women
That speaks with sagacity
And encompasses understanding
Not only for self alone
But to other women as well.
When speaks, words are wise, and gives instructions with kindness.
I am a woman
Like all women
We are given a gift
Of tender touch
A caring heart to
our child or children ,
Those whom
We treated as our
Children ,
And people
Who are
Around us.
I am a woman
A woman clothed with
dignity strong, valiant and fearless,
Not afraid of challenges
Along the way
Because we have the
Spirit of brevity .
I am a woman
Equal strength
Of mind and skill.
I am a woman ,
Not just a woman,
But a woman
That a universe need
that completes
HUMANITY .
**Syllable counter checked, 5-7-5, 5-7-5, 5-7-5, 5-7-5, 5-7-5, 5-7-5
A brevity trails
of life's bounty, engaging
the elements nigh,
be they neath, be they
sides, be they all around, starts
of a summer June
saffron breaths of warmth,
ochered until the leaves fall,
recalls September's
colorful hints tinged
orangey hues soften cools
an autumn breeze cease
harks December snows,
delight sprinkles of white dust
bouts colored lights,
until March begins
a greener spring, another
year starts a new trail.
My haiku pond sits
in the corner of my garden~
small as a teacup,
deep as a breath.
Frogs sit like syllables
on lily pad commas,
punctuating the stillness
with soft green thoughts.
Dragonflies skim the surface,
writing bright, brief lines
in their iridescent ink~
three beats, then gone.
Even the reeds whisper
in measured cadence,
counting their own shadows
as the wind turns the page.
What’s in it?
Only what belongs in brevity~
a ripple, a pause,
a moment that refuses to hurry.
Why?
Because every pond
needs a place
where the world grows quiet enough
to speak in seventeen heartbeats.
Small silver explosions
mob the expectant air like paparazzi’s flashes.
Soon, giant hydrangeas bloom fluorescent,
spread like a bouquet of slow-motion Big Bangs,
and are blotted by night.
But the dark can’t keep up,
as burst after burst of strange flowers,
mourning the hydrangeas,
wreathes the sky in an outpouring of dyed fires
to a requiem of crackles and booms.
Then, out of the black mystery above
tumbles a weather of headlong prisms.
Some, recognizing the same brevity
yet coveting the bright,
hurl themselves into the spraying neon sparks,
and are gone in a hiss unheard.
Others, beckoned by a destiny of gravity,
continue on,
slipping through the crossfire of fiery tentacles,
and are lit up momentarily.
Above us, then,
a skyful of rising light and falling white.
Continued from Part 2
Beyond the suburbs, farmers’ fields (where donkeys often brayed)
inhale gray gusts of barren dust where living seed once laid
and in the haze a scarecrow sways, impaled upon a spade.
Green trees gone dark in palace parks (where kids once paused to play),
watch lifeless things on phantom swings (like statues made of clay)
guard marbled tombs in graveyards groomed for grievers bent to pray.
And castle clocks, unwound, defrock with speechless spinning spokes,
unfurling blight of reigning Night by sweeping off her cloaks,
and flaunting dun oblivion, her Baroness evokes.
The sun-bleached bones of those who'd flown lie scattered down the lanes
while other souls who’d hid in holes left bones with yellow stains
of plaintive tears (shed insincere, for no one felt the pains).
The wraiths that scream in sleepless dreams have ceased to terrify
though terrors wrought by conscience fraught now stalk and lurk nearby
within the shrouds of curtained clouds, frail fabrics on the sky.
And fog no longer seeps beyond the edge of doom’s café,
for when she trails her mourning veils, she fills the cabaret
with sallow smears of misty tears in sheets of shallow gray.
The City’s still, like hollowed quill with ravished feathered vane,
baptized in floods of spattered blood, once flowing through a vein.
The fruits of life, destroyed in strife... ’twas truly all in vain.
No umbras hum with jagged tongues nor sing a silent psalm
nor lade pale lips with languid quips to pierce the deathly calm –
they've seen, you see, life’s brevity, beneath a neutron bomb.
EPILOGUE
Beyond the Silent City’s walls, the victors laugh and play
while celebrating PEACE ON EARTH, the devil’s sobriquet
for neutron radiation death in places far away.
End
The Grand Canyon is like the brain
with deep, unexplored fissures and tributaries,
the main route well known by now.
I am walking, walking inside my mind,
a grand canyon, a planet of canyons, a system
of planets. The exploration may become dangerous
I might lose my job, forgetting to go or losing
sight of its importance. But the job is gathering
pinyon nuts and agave fruits, it is the main
river, deepest cavity, how I find the unexplored
canyons and tributaries of my neighbors
and my enemies. But is it a religion,
a reason for living. It is a marriage, for better
or worse, with all the other living. The concept
of life's brevity, temporary compared
with the time taken to carve the canyon, does
not interest me. Each moment has a weather,
is a mirror of all other moments. The naming
of things goes on. Cliff rose and wavyleaf oak,
new mexican locust and sagebrush among ponderosa
and pinyon pine, juniper. Once I know
who they are inhabiting the canyon, the raven's
flight is meaningful. The raven's rock cave,
search for seed and carrion, my home and job.
Contemplating on my brevity,
I find sincerity in my integrity-
I’m a visionary with a muse so deep
I write with intensity.
Reflections and introspections
bring alleviation and deliberation-
My sedative is to be meditative,
as I get lost in thought and
concentration.
Introversion and deep illusion
bring me no concrete conclusion-
When I objectify and rectify
all I see is this delusion.
Inside I hide,
and outside I confide-
But when caught in
between realities,
I truly coincide.
Self-examination on my creation,
brings thoughts of intimidation-
But the bigger picture’s explanation,
gives light to this strange fascination.
I think I may try to live
another day of grace,
but you can tell I’m weak
from the lines upon my face.
I wonder if my depth is
deep enough to survive,
but I’m shallow and hallow,
for I cannot stay alive.
May 14, 2017
Still suggesting there is a place for some cricketing rhymes in these Testing times?
In the land of lengthy cumulus curiosity amazed by the velocity of the atrocity
The crazed ferocity of ghoulish foolish monstrosity which blazed across the ditch
Where Off his Head did bewitch on the pitch so quick slick should've got a stitch
For what it's worth pithier levity aptly sums up the rum girth of the mirth of Perth
Travis’s temerity, depravity of sporting gravity, severity of brevity of Ashes rebirth
No devil may care, hoping us coping rightful heir not moping at the Gabba, repair
Dare to dream in Aussies’ despair lair ending their frightful mind bending nightmare
Cheers to elite broadsheet peers who it appears our fears, sneers, jeers & nadirs share
Ignore more hackneyed score from seedier bottom feeder media on tour, Go All Square!
October Country's the darkened moonlight sky is reflected in your eyes.
You have nothing hidden, and do not wear a disguise.
Whenever did you learn wisdom, and the golden keys
to becoming wise? You no longer are easier to know.
As your night's become even longer.
Wintertime's season's follow you as the weather grows colder.
But to me it means primarily I am only grower another year older.
Your day time cloudy skies are a comforting shade of grey.
But for other's only blue skies and sunny days, will chase all
their blues away. They only wish your greyer skies would no longer stay.
Your tree's leaves are turning orange, red and brown. They are busily falling over all of your cities, and your towns. Your leaves wither in my hands causing me to understand the brevity of the life span of humans. When were younger than today, it seems as time would last forever. October Country, I will never grow as old as you. Yet every day is brand new. I behold the signs of awesome wonderment in your eyes.
October Country's shining moonlit stars are shining brightly in your nighttime skies. People gaze at your moon and your stars with awesome wonder in their eyes. Searching your heavenly stars for signs and wonders they picture in their minds. There is no blindness for humans when they gaze at your luminous moon. Another year will come and go as long as the earth remains. Seasons will stay the same.
I was born October 04, 1954 four and last year I became sixty-five years young. I still arise with the beginning of a brand new day. I try and face my younger winter time's age with grace and wisdom. Remembering to always have courage and be kind. Keeping my faith helps me to grow in wisdom
and grace. Soon, I will be traveling on a journey beyond the sun, the moon and the stars, to my heavenly promise land.
Love as always,
Roxanne Lea Dubarry
Roxy Lea 1954
Roxy 1954/ October Country
January 19, 2019