Long Bronzed Poems
Long Bronzed Poems. Below are the most popular long Bronzed by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Bronzed poems by poem length and keyword.
Mother said to carry Dad's little green luggage,
Godzilla my foe, I can do a step not a hundred,
Mother said to put in you--that, it's all bronzed,
Ugh, zip-phew Godzilla you stink your breadth.
Godz I gotta look for Dad Mom I ain't no angel.
Godz I told Mother that I heard the car engine.
Mom prayed for the car using holy oil, via olive.
It needs that. It'll start with a tad of that liquid.
Mother said Dad knows. He'd already glimpsed
it'll drive that bobbing--pistons Mom--amongst
other something, than cars. Like? Stew borscht
Mom says. I say that's not Russian. Mad, whilst
it'll be Mother's last words said, Russia's worlds
are rightfully theirs, and we own ours. Traipsed
not, glory ste..get-MA, PA, joy go I-run anxious.
Eyes of Anguish
His eyes are the same steely gray
as the gathering storm clouds.
As he turns toward the distant hills
his stare becomes vacant and haunted.
He sees through visions or memories,
of another day, another life, long ago.
There were many lines upon his aged face.
They've been drawn with the quill of time.
His wrinkles could never have concealed
the hopeless anguish etched so deeply
into his bronzed and weathered skin.
Humility and pride fight bitterly
on the battleground of his features.
The boldness in his stance is evident.
Emotions pour from his eyes and his soul
as the sorrow from his heart silently cries,
"This was once mine, never more to be."
Who was the heathen? Who ravaged the land?
Not this man who respected Mother Earth.
He sadly dreams of yesterday's glory.
He soared with eagles and rode with the wind,
but he knows it is all 'suvate' ~ finished.
Time was the enemy of this Native American.
His spiritual world was taken away when
the greed of man desecrated the need of man.
Now, he can only mourn for a life that was,
a life that now lives on only in legends.
Gazing, at its own reflection is the Magpie.
A magic bird, a mystical creature, with a soul
and the power to see things, the power of scrying.
It sees a tomb in ancient Egypt. It sees death.
A soul locked within a glorious bronze mirror,
Cleopatra and her Maid in a bond unbroken.
Time passes in silence as deep as the unbroken
promise of endless wisdom, gifted by the Magpie.
whose caws the Maid hears, within the depths of the mirror,
calls to the Queen, her Cleopatra, to her soul.
Magpie speaks to She on the Eastern Barge in the afterlife of death,
and to her Maid entombed. The sacred bird so near scrys.
The Magpie sits within oasis staring into the pool. It scrys
for all this time, its vigil, its protection, never broken.
Even when the sarcophagus is carried to the necropolis of the dead,
without, unknown, the bird speaks wisely through reflection, her Magpie.
Entombed, his Queen and her Maid, their bodies but not their souls,
Queen, Maid and Magpie, each cast a last gaze, alive within the mirror.
The Vows of Innocence, the Maid bespeaks the mirror.
Pleas to the Swallower of Shades, both Queen and Maid have scried
to The Burning One, and claim no lie, upon their soul.
As the light dims within the Maids eyes, in tomb unbroken,
she sees the life of her Queen and their Magpie
pass fast upon the brass, last breath of life and dying.
Oh, too soon the end, moans the Maid, I am dying.
Her life's reflection moves bronzed upon the mirror.
She screams, "My Queen," but hears only the caw of Magpie.
All around her other servants succumb and cry, whilst she sits scrying,
and the Magpie flies above in life entombed, eternity, unbroken.
As she beseeches all the Gods to save her soul.
The Magpie's spirit self moves within the mirror's soul.
He swoops gathering Cleopatra's essence, past the dying,
and brings her to the Maids side unbroken.
In afterlife upon the Eastern Barge they join the mirrored
whole, for he, the bird of magic, Magpie, has called and scried
it so. Part light of life, part dark of death, the Magpie.
The essence of each entwine united within this eternal mirror
for the Magpie cannot bear their deaths. He will protect and forever scry
in life the mirror sits unbroken a stolen bauble, and in it they dwell with the Magpie.
Oiled and bronzed
In cupped pose
Her wetted hair
The want in me grows
Silhouetted
Against the moonlight
Beside the blue lagoon
Her curves of delight
She turns her head
As she looks into my eyes
Sultry and steamy
On the cooling sands we lie
Tethered together
By capturing arms
Under the light of the moon
We share our charms
In sync we caress
With the sounds of the waves
Our tongues fencing
As our lips crave
Two become one
On this moonlit night
The love of two
In wonderful delight
We arise from the sands
Beside the blue lagoon
Walking home hand in hand
Our hearts in loving bloom
http://www.thehighlanderspoems.com/love-8.php
For National Cat Day, October 29, 2022
Egyptians worshipped and revered them;
Superstitious people feared them;
When wicked witches commandeered them,
They rode on brooms and sometimes steered them;
In cramped pet shops owners tiered them;
Exotic dealers bred and reared them,
Sometimes bobbed their tails and eared them
Then cool and casually auctioneered them;
Poets lauded them and cheered them;
Children's writers buccaneered them;
Hateful boys have chased and jeered them;
Careless motorists have smeared them;
Allergics sneezed each time they neared them;
Sculptors bronzed them; groomers sheared them,
Trimmed their toenails and veneered them;
Toy makers stuffed and puppeteered them;
Jewelers brooched or lavaliered them;
Geneticists have engineered them
And for research volunteered them.
Though man's endured them and endeared them,
He's barely tamed, not domineered them.
To humans history has adhered them,
But their nine lives have persevered them.
And that is why I tip my hat
To the legacy of the cat.
Even this hard heart's been smitten
By a furry ball of kitten.
Cats have kept us fascinated
Since the first ones were created
And perhaps hung out with Adam's other half.
They have been both pets and passions,
And served as well as fads and fashions,
But it really is enough to make one laugh.
Men may ply themselves with worldly honors,
And of slavish dogs play prideful owners,
But to aristocratic cats…
They're merely staff.
Author's note: Cats may have been domesticated as early as 7,500 BC. They are the second most popular house pet in the U.S., behind…go figure!...freshwater fish.
I often watched him tirelessly sifting
Grains of native corn in a rusty mill-
Those arms a kinetic flush, quicker than
July’s heat, as if glazed limestone rubbed
A wavy mane blown by summer’s tossed air :
Perhaps, I have imagined him laboring-
Muscular taut and bronzed by scorched hours
His gait languidly aloof fetching water
Across the pond, a lonesome vignette,
This image cast-off like a bag of disused husk
Far out behind, steep as the upturned leaves...
Eyes doleful flickering on late noon’s hardened toil.
While upon paddles, a man’s life seemed to rile
Where golden-rod turned to nickel's work,
That down old chutes rolled musky sweat of flesh:
I have beheld him amid dusk’s aftermath
Of sadness roaming there in faint overalls,
From his glimpses, the mill of pit and death
And each lily I clutched for him wilted, sagging-
For in my own aloneness, I dared not meet him.
Gristmill Contest for Craig Cornish
6/3/2018
Peter (my bf) and I are at Heraclee beach for the weekend.
It’s a little sliver of heaven, about 11 miles south of Saint Tropez.
It’s too early in the season to swim - being breezy and 72°f -
but it’s still the beach. I’m a neophyte beach bum,
but I’m willing and eager to learn.
I’m valuable even if I’m not being productive [I self-affirm].
something poetic-ish..
The sun’s a drowsy tyrant, not yet willing to unforgivingly scorch.
The beach is like glistening sugar, the sand still cool enough to walk, rogue west winds occasionally whip it to an ankle stinging sandpaper.
Majestic umbrella pines are dancing the hula. The shrub-like understory is dominated by drought-tolerant lavenders and rosemary that dense the air with perfume which complements the mediterranean brine.
There’s laughter, off somewhere, like wind-chimes playing clear, just above the ever-roiling sound of the surf. Birds are everywhere, gulls walk around like they’re bored, cory float on air, like kites and petrels skim against the wind, centimeters above choppy waves.
The beach isn’t crowded - French kids are still in school - but a few hardy, oiled, bronzed and sculpted bodies are sprawled on the pristine sand, like offerings to the god of leisure.
..
Our hotel has its own private cove, with adirondack wooden lounges under yellow parasols. Pastel blue-vested wait-staffers circle, on the quarter-hour, eager to please.
“Deux (two) American Martinis, S'il te plaît! (please),” I ask, expectantly.
It’s a nude beach, but Peter got an alarmed look when I joked I might go topless. “Annick (my older sister) always goes topless,” I informed him.
“I’d like to see that,” he’d said, and when I gave him a raised eyebrow, he amended, “That came out wrong.”
.
.
songs for this..
Summer of Our Love by Triangle Sun
That life by Unknown Mortal Orchestra
The kiss of Venus by Dominic Fike, Paul McCartney
Meeting you here at last grasping
every thought every meaningful
gesture I'd wrap myself up in the
essence of your bronzed glow
slowing lowering my minds eye
to the depth of your soul capturing
this bountiful energy that seemed
to restore over and over again
mastered to the faint beating of
my heart mimicking ancient drums
of an untimely epoch insecurities
hidden beneath ageless notions
why I'd opened the doors to a nurtured
love paradox remembered without
effort concealed with truth a natural
fruited appetite for passions found
unmeasured an yet we'd balanced
yesterday and tomorrow today
Mrs Yolanda Joy Nicholsen Holy Woman of God
God bless America
Because of it, we laughed as grass is green—there is she not common.
Realizing how it is I became, such implied in her with favor.
--
And, being left off distant of, but near to her, I thus became—
whose teeth, white, flashed: the sun as she was now to smile and show them.
--
I was drawn inside by her sweet, minty breath she made as was it.
I inhaled with each profound look; I rediscovered.
--
Lost, then finally found within dark caves of sound, so deep
and smooth, so rich and throaty, singing music all the time—
--
never ravaged but by scotch and time and filtered cigarettes.
--
Though detached, always above, I look again there down below.
Such is an undulation, a visitation—
invisible muscles moving up and down.
--
A young woman on the beach, she hurries past us, saying,
drawing briefly it aside: a red and white bandana.
--
“Made,” she said, “in China.”
Hot, a sweating mask, I looked far out beyond it.
Bronzed her body was. I think of her with violet posies,
confusing she with her.
--
“Does your Lady and the Mister wish to take it to the ocean?
Does the Lady and the Mister wish to wash it lightly off?”
--
One day, in time, each grain of sand and foam, she did—politely—ask.
--
I decided that, if it comes when I, and if I must,
that this next verbal jolt—when it hit—could fly a kite without a tail.
Certain repercussions of those acute remarks left me thinking:
as hearts are won, then thoughts be lost.
--
She with her, and I—this afternoon—could still maybe be; the sun is hot.
--
I concentrated on both. By my seat a well of deep emotions.
With a careful, deeper why, I trust my mind to find it wanders.
Kept thus safe in time, inside I've grown to know and ponder as to why.
--
Wistful—he for she, her much, and subtle—
this my love could be her double.
Once was I of kind, like mind—
a person drifts at times so far away.
--
When life, like that, just walks away, or simply floats right past us,
then washed amongst the rocks and foam, the wind—it blows away.
--
The breeze was temperate as we both lay
upon our backs and stared up at blue sky.
Two birds hopped on the grass as if at play,
and buds on untrimmed bushes blushed nearby.
The oak which we reclined beneath was old.
You loved the shade it gave us, so you said,
“I find this tree more valuable than gold.”
I think I laughed at that and shook my head!
Seeing your sweet eyes and bronzed complexion
compelled me to declare, “Well, you must see
obviously my own prized possession!
It’s he who brings eternal love to me -
the one who gave me a new lease on life
in this and every other season - who
has made earth heaven for his loving wife.
I think by now you know that someone’s you!”
Aug 4, 2019
For Michelle Faulkner's "A Summer Day Redo" Poetry Contest
Ten required words used in poem: temperate, buds, lease, possession, heaven, complexion, eternal, gold, untrimmed, shade.