Long Brocades Poems
Long Brocades Poems. Below are the most popular long Brocades by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Brocades poems by poem length and keyword.
Affluent and formal
pink lilies deck the tables;
we await the
sweet, affected
laughter of our friends.
Bedecked in bouffant hair-do's
perfumes, ermines, jewels
brocades and buckled shoes,
we dazzle, yes! We dazzle
with our mirrors, and our decals,
our precious art, and plaster,
exotic candelabras,
but I can't wait to make my
exit to wander in the gardens
and let the scented air restore
my soul
To get completely
lost in moonlight and
fragrance of the night
never to return,
to that balcony, nor
endure, the boring empty twitter
that temporary glitter.
I can barely wait till daylight to
mount my noble horse
and gallop miles and miles
and miles away.
To feel the solid earth resound
beneath his flying feet.
I have crossed that fragile threshold
into madness.
I can no longer be a Duchess
Suzanne Delaney
The weightless float of morn throttles
like a softly-bathed woman: white, tangy and bubbling
with a sprig of mint and dew;
petals’ chests opening a gate of chastity, undressed.
A path of upturned twigs rips free and slides along veils
of bridal mist; misty in a way leaves become pastel
strands ; where footprints of grasses become delicate
as it is daring , calling forth my name,Eos...Eos.
Brocades of lace robe my wind—a breaking moment
for these flushed arms to sprinkle the pour of studded foliage
cradling morning's wake...soon,new lovers play
the choral flute bearing freshly-wed fruits: the smell
of earthy breeze drifts upon my mantle of humid, winged caves.
Gently daylight wakes, as I, Goddess of light and dawn
open the first rose shimmering ' neath my tapestry
weightlessly white, no one dares to speak.
Who Are You Contest
What do think of Gay Pheasant, the Lord, she asked me.
Meg had apparently invited him to her afternoon tea.
He is a bit persnickety and prissy I said to my cousin.
Meg is always being sought by suiters, sometimes a dozen.
He seems to like me Meg told me, I can kind of tell.
I could see that she did not know him at all well.
He likes his male companions the best, I said.
Meg did not get the picture, was she right in the head?
He dresses so fancy in brocades, silks, and satins too.
I think we would be such a sweet couple, don’t you?
He seems to best get along with our cousin Boy Sue.
If that was not the best hint, then what else could I do?
I stare at your mythic eyes
That bear black onyx in disguise
And the long brocades you wear
That are just as mesmerizing as your hair
And your clear soft skin
Pigments perfectly mixed
Makes me always wonder how
My eyes aren’t playing tricks
You shine brighter than a fire;
The one that I admire
And more royal than a queen
I can say without a doubt
You are the greatest I have seen
But now the hair — no longer care
The eyes I now despise
The skin now but a thin
Flesh thrown in my kin
And the fires were all just liars
To call you queen now just obscene
I can say without a doubt
It’s you I wish I hadn’t seen
Blue Stone
Sagittarius piano fingers waltzing splendidly upon my laptop.
I can hear your nervous ticking heart clapping and tapping—
Collapsing there— as the meat philosophers send their brocades—
You never told me your name— whether real or frequently imagined—
As you came through my back door with nyloned legs shaking,
Your virgin-scented pearls shining inside my blue-eyed machinations,
Your curious feeders seeking certain electric favors with lip gloves.
Now you give your blue stone to me as one would gift a rich beggar,
To regale the climes with thousand island cadenzas and madrigals.
Sagittarius piano fingers dancing like salad fire upon my laptop.
There was a homeless lady,
one afternoon, outside the hospital.
Was she homeless? I don’t know.
She had a ladened shopping cart,
which, on TV, is kind of a signature.
We were inside, waiting for an Uber.
She was outside, in chiaroscuro relief.
Dressed in bright, multilayered, mismatched
florals and brocades, she reminded me
of a gypsy. There are still gypsy caravans
in France. Are there gypsies in America?
She wore boots and long strings of beaded jewelry.
They would have had to have been glass, I supposed,
but tinseled with the glitter of those pop spangles,
she looked, en bloc, the richest and the poorest of us.
She wasn’t young and she wasn’t old. She sat alone,
on a short retaining wall, her cart within guarded reach.
I noticed her because every time I glanced over, she
was watching me with the dark unblinking eyes of a bird.
She had an easy confidence, in the wild, sitting safe
and protected by her clam, obstinate shell of boredom.
What must I look like to her - with her tangled hair
and unwashed face? Me in my permanent pressed
hospital wear, diminished by over-washing. A doll
behind glass, whose whole life is patterned by plans?
Our Uber pulled up, the number matched and as Lisa
opened the car door, I gathered my things and looked
back but the gypsy lady was gone, leaving a blank space.
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chiaroscuro = an art style using strong contrasts between light and dark
en bloc = at once, both