Long Brimmed Poems
Long Brimmed Poems. Below are the most popular long Brimmed by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Brimmed poems by poem length and keyword.
The one I planted, nurtured, watered with my own blood—
You bloomed the prettiest flower, where butterflies always hover.
Nectar brimmed with love, unbound blessings of a mother,
Standing alone, spreading its euphoric vigor.
You could never be weak.
You didn't bloom to be suppressed;
It might be hot or freezing cold.
Never stop climbing,
destiny awaits at the peak.
Be light piercing dark, sun thawing cold.
My warmth is trapped in you,
Stay fearlessly bold.
Rise against hands stained red.
Never get imprinted by their cruel marks.
For you are the provider, the nurturer herself—
Never be afraid; always be yourself.
You're the beginning,
You're the untimely end.
The flower they could never break,
Even the storm couldn't bend.
I saw you for the first time today as a lady.
You were sitting in the sand in the late day sun,
Your face framed by the broad-brimmed hat.
You smiled so beautifully under that,
That even your father could see the lady inside.
I saw you for the first time on your birth day.
And I thought I’d never seen a song til then.
But angels whispered and parents prayed
So fervently that angst was stayed.
And the Father blessed the lady inside.
I saw you for the first time as a woman.
It had somehow not occurred to me til then.
That you could have a life apart from me
Or anything other than this family.
But even fathers, someday, must see the lady inside.
Why would someone yearly toast the birthday
of a poet like Edgar Allan Poe?
And on that day toast his grave the same way,
leave the bottle, three red roses, and go.
The man locals nicknamed, "The Poe Toaster."
in the mid-30s; remains anonymous.
But each Jan.19th, like a morbid poster,
Poe's grave and his toasts were synonymous.
Wearing a white scarf and wide-brimmed hat,
he'd arrive there in the early morning.
But in 2009, stopped, just like that,
and disappeared without any warning.
For 60 years, this phantom toasted Poe,
whether friend or foe, we may never know.
(Sonnet)
9/20/2018
It was Christmas we were all gathered at the hall, as usual I was alone
with a plate full of food she ushered me to the seat next to hers
she began talking as the snow began to fall, she said she was far from home
she then raised her glass to encourage all to Merry Christmas cheers
who was this woman who I was sure I’d never met
she made me feel at ease at once and I hung on every spoken word
she talked as if she knew me but she was someone I’d not forget
as she spoke my fascination with her grew more absurd
I was amazed at her honesty in sharing her feelings with a stranger
and I was sure my ineptness at communication showed
she brimmed with gratitude and in the room I felt it linger
my stomach fluttered nervously and my curiosity overflowed
she gave me her number and insisted I give her a call
I felt a sudden sadness in my stomach once I knew she was gone
and as I looked about the room I felt my presence getting small
my head heavy with confusion and my emotions overdrawn
as I made my way home I saw the sky was bright with a brilliant star
and pondering its meaning made me smile
for I had received my Christmas wish- he sent me a friend from afar
and she has stayed my best friend for more than just a while.
Pulling this wagon by the scruff of my neck,
is like relaxing cross-legged on feeble bike handles.
The gentle gusts of your hurricane dazzle me.
Humouring the limitless requests of an oxymoronic cloud that swoops over your vision,
second by hour,
are the 3 batteries connected through the flat sides, powering my crowd of maggots.
The pedagogy of every goddess' life without the gods;
the arthritic juddering of a pencil after snapping between one's fingers that fell off;
spurs that sympathetically pierce the apple after hearing of the triangles;
wide-brimmed umbrellas drunkenly spiralling down to the epitome of existence -
"Mercy!" screams the provided resolve to them all, rekindling its might and willpower with its insecurity.
"What is the bread but flowers?
If the orchid and the rose would through the solemn winter implore,
Would we lie here in fantastical distrust?
And when the clock is returned unscathed, will you cower in it's presence?
What will it whisper to you, should such words of passion ever exist?"
The sake has been forsaken,
The sole has been consoled;
In which ethereal distrust should this fantasy subside?
For, in ours, I see a merely extinct world.
And the caterpillar has started its pledge across the tapestry again.
In the realm of shadow where memories are born and die unnaturally,
And stars watch in silence, reflecting celestial nostalgias.
The Moon dresses in the silk of night, preparing for union,
With the night's dew, in a celestial dance, a wedding whispered by the stars.
I often dreamed of being the thief who steals your tomorrow,
Through weaves of thoughts as lost as clouds over hills,
To share with me the same sliver of universe and the same bread,
And the coming years, in destiny's chain, to lay as our spread.
At the feast of our souls, the cup brimmed full,
With old wine mixed with joy and bitterness, on the spent table.
Minstrels of pain divining in strings hidden memories and regrets,
On the branch, a rare flower hangs its head, in a frosty song.
Waiting for you, seasons came and left without touching my threshold,
And the cherry tree, once witness to our frolic, now sheds its love like a halo.
On the arcade time has woven a cloak of times and ages that has defeated us,
In an eternal cycle of laughter and tears, leaves lose their nature.
I wounded a year and a dream, through fields of poppies aflame with the daystar,
Understanding gazes sought to overturn on the brow a butterfly's kiss.
So, was it love or just ripples upon a tranquil lake?
We, to answer, bleed unraveling skeins of time betrayed.
Desire has dried on lips, like an amphitheater devoid of applause,
Pitchers of promises overturned on paths where time breaks,
And the thorn, in the wing's embrace, blushes an ocean of petals in silence.
The sleep of the seasons sifts waves of rustle over tired eyelashes,
When bells ring devoutly, in volleys of song to the courts of the open heavens,
And angels unleash the dawn, letting light fall into clumps of dream.
On paths, dirges fade, among leaves, in mysteries that gnaw in foreign words,
When I awoke with a smile on my face, in the folds of my soul now serene.
Yellow lilies in turquoise pots. Smiling happily, smug even.
But as happy as their cocky orange spotted cousins? Maybe not.
Their blue-red dark lily cousins had appeared for the first time this year.
They were outstanding; so remarkable, it was practically embarrassing.
The yard was aglow and alive; more spectacular than she had a right to be.
Showing off in a casual, yet fanciful way, without even trying.
Cardinals, robins, and wrens were gliding in by the dozens,
attracted by the plethora of colors. The feeders were full of course, six in all.
Feeling the love of this Shangri La created out of a piece of God’s country
was every creature in the grass, on the barks of the tree, and under the bushes.
Butterflies, dragonflies, honeybees,
and wasps were preening around the flowers.
And there were five gardens, plenty of spots for everybody.
An older lady in a wide
brimmed hat was collecting bits and pieces of dandelions
to spread around in the
vacant spots. She was the curator of the yard.
The dreamer who had thought this
up twelve years ago, and built it up out of a simple prairie pasture.
She played for hours on her heaven-on-earth, and it showed.
God’s masterpiece, enhanced by one
lone woman and plenty of appreciative creatures.
The day we lost our first baby
An unforgettable day that was crazy
We had so much excitement
Looking forward to the challenge and commitment
We had magazines, books, anything we could
Making sure we knew and understood
It was a special time, hearts brimmed with happiness
It all changed in instantaneous
We do everything right to keep our little one safe
We felt her soul and imagined her face
It was all for naught as she passed over
No time for us to have closure
A long day in the hospital followed
A tough hard pill that we swallowed
Our little bundle of hope was gone
Only the start of that day was undergone
In our desperation and grief
Sat a person who was a thief
The monster in law took our sorrow
To do something cruel and hollow
We couldn’t grieve our little one
Because her war on cruelty had just begun
She tried to get her committed
Our pain made her livid
So she did something unimaginable
The grief and loss so unmanageable
Hours after the most horrific thing
It should of been over and able to sing
The callousness towards her own daughter
Brings my eyes to water
I broke her out of the hospital room
Not letting that poison was witch consume
She spread her lies saying the baby wasn’t real
Despite being witness to the ordeal
She is a narcissist who commands attention
A disgusting person beyond comprehension
This was the day I knew monsters existed
Beyond my own family that’s twisted
Loosing a baby broke us in many ways
Grief hit by many delays
The anger for a time was uncontrollable
As well as being inconsolable
This is why this day is scarred in my brain
And can never forgive this women again
Today is Edgar’s birthday
And the third year in a row
That the famous caped “Poe Toaster”
Has decided not to show.
From 1949 for sure,
And maybe years preceding,
The Toaster visited Poe’s grave,
And not to do some weeding.
With wide-brimmed hat and scarf and cape
To keep his ID hidden,
He’d sneak right up to Edgar’s tomb,
A visit most forbidden.
He used a cane with silver tip
To navigate the ground;
And in the morning, at the site,
The following was found:
A Martell cognac bottle
With its contents halfway filled
And a trio of red roses,
Which helped make the legend build.
In 1998, a note
Explained the torch was passed;
A Toaster “son” would be the one
To hold tradition fast.
On Poe’s 200th birthday, though,
The year 2010,
The Toaster missed his calling
And has not been seen again.
The ritual’s become, alas,
A faded bit of history;
But Edgar Allan Poe fans love
Its enigmatic mystery.
Warren Dunes
Kevin Davis 2024
Sitting in the sun, back when we did so without worry,
It felt warm and right to rest on this towel with no hurry.
A gentle breeze whispered the secrets of future and past,
While waves danced softly to music we hoped would always last.
Children’s laughter echoed—melodies tender and sweet,
Warm sand between our toes, the earth steady beneath our feet.
Time itself moved slower, turning each moment into a treasure,
In the golden lake light, where we found our simple pleasure.
Sky and far horizon stretched endlessly blue,
Dreams lifted like gulls in the bright open view.
Memories were painted in hues of joy and light—
In those sun-washed days, absolutely everything felt right.
Now we sit and remember those hours so free,
When worries were shadows and hearts brimmed with glee.
Sitting in the sun lives on in memory—
A season of peace held gently in our history.