Long Browning Poems
Long Browning Poems. Below are the most popular long Browning by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Browning poems by poem length and keyword.
The Youthful Month of June
Hummingbirds hover amid the fragrant air
O’er honeysuckle flowers and roses fair.
Free doves to fly and rain confetti and rice,
Where in the garden my bride and I abide
In the summery view of the charming moon,
In the youthful month of June.
Moonstone ring and pearl string adorn her finger and neck
Whereupon my chest, her head gently rests
With the softest touch, that says I love you so much.
And I savour her beauty in words of poetry,
Quoting Byron, Browning, Shelley, and Keats.
Aye, she melts my heart with her French accent
“L’amour est une chose merveilleuse entre moi et vous
(Love is a wonderful thing between me and you).
Toujours vrai (forever true)”
In the youthful month of June.
***
Note:
“June” is the first month of summer, and has the longest day of the year (summer solstice), around June 21st. The name June comes from the Latin word “Juvenis”, which means young people; and is a popular month to marry. June’s birthstones include moonstone and pearl. Roses and honeysuckles are June’s flowers, which symbolize love, devotion, and generosity, while the dove is the representative bird for the month.
Missed floracious valley quams;
Thunder rolls across the plains;
Rolling hills valleys arms;
Distant grasses shrubs grow wild and high plains;
Praising reaching the heavens skies;
Glorious bounties floral gardens dry;
Browning from the Sun blazing boiling dawns;
Midsummer air frightening ablazing battle bear all now rain falls;
Those the woodlands grassland fires rage ;
Where are the common calming cool waters sage;
This that thirst to make mud;
Where are the coming cool waters;
That lust for the puddles;
They make dirt and water;
Mixed together makes mud distilled liquids;
Seeping out a human body flowing out wicked
Plasma clear mix it with the atmosphere turns red they call it blood;
Where does the dirt the sand the clay, the grasses, the mud go when there's a flood;
Only the terrain knows for sure;
Valleys harvest shores?
8/19/21
Written words by James Edward Lee Sr © 2021
"How do I love thee? Let me count the ways."
by Elizabeth Barrett Browning
~~*~~
I loved you from the very first glance,
from the first dance I was in a love trance;
when you spoke it was the sweetest depart.
I loved you then and it was for all my days;
and each day was a passionate romance.
I loved you from the great depths of my heart;
and I promised God we would never part.
I loved you 'cause you made me smile and laugh;
many words I wished for your forever epitaph.
I loved you with the love of an entwining maze,
I loved you and never regret taking a chance;
I loved- and death will never break us apart,
I LOVE you, though two made one is now half.
____________________________
November 2, 2019
Poetry/Rhyme/I Loved You in Countless Ways
Copyright Protected, ID 19-1193-257-02
All Rights Reserved. Written under Pseudonym.
Written for FTI Blog Series 16 - Love
Brian Strand
Podium Place 1
Today I’d like to talk to you about how meter plays a part in
how we write a poem and sometimes in how we speak
The above lines, which are not at all poetic, are written in a specific
rhythm, or meter. Go back and read them again. You’ll pick up on
the rhythm: da DUM, da DUM, da DUM, etc. (unaccented syllable,
accented syllable, etc.)
The meter most commonly employed in poetry is iambic pentameter:
An iamb consists of an unaccented syllable and an accented syllable.
“Penta” means five. Therefore, five iambs create the meter called
iambic pentameter. Now, we’ll look at the top two lines again, this
time dividing the words into three lines: 1. Today I’d like to talk to you
about 2. how meter plays a part in how we write 3. a poem and some-
times in how we speak. This plain, literal language is written in the
rhythm used in many poems—iambic pentameter.
Literary examples, followed by everyday language, all in iambic pentameter:
“That’s my last Duchess painted on the wall.” (Robert Browning)
My rubber ball went bouncing down the hall! (Yours truly)
*****************************
“Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?” (THE Bard)
Let’s stop and buy some gum along the way. (Yours truly)
****************************
Ask me for trochees, dactyls, anapests,
and spondees. All will take me quite a while.
Request tetrameter and trimeter.
Will do! But none of these will make me smile
like writing five neat iambs in each line.
I most enjoy this well-established style.
August 1, 2018
Contest Title: Reads Like Music--Haibun-Look poetry contest
Sponsor: Line Gauthier
When Thor struck his hammer
upon the flat ground on Earth
it was the pieces withstood the blow we named rock,
constructs we came to know as the mountains.
Even before that time
I crossed my fingers
wished I'd one day experience
...you.
I knew you before heavenly purity grew wings
before angels blessed hearts
invoking what we now know as love for our brethren .
I held you in the sphere of my understanding
as the lover I'd never meet but always carry
in the most cherished of my thoughts.
When Zeus handed me his quill and inkwell I knew
I would only use his gift for my inspired notes to you.
Though I was not blessed a poets words
like Robert Browning
he who took Elizabeth Barrett into his heart from the first time he read her
so I did with you.
Only laid blood on parchment
to declare the love you inspired in me.
Like a schoolboy's first kiss
was the day my eyes embraced the body of your work.
Before the first pine broke the ground, the first lark sang,
the first orchards rare enchanted the rainforests.
Before the first chameleon blended
into the multicoloured break of dawn.
Before infinite rows of wheat invitingly waved from the fields to greet Hera.
Before liquid rose to separate into
creeks, swamps, rivers, lakes with fish of all kinds
wasn't it me who rode the first seahorse just to make you smile.
Anything, all...
possible
with the swirl of a letter
the turn of a word.
I found an immense love tracking the shores of your fine poetry
always a chill that ran up my back.
No one.
No one!
Only you.
Your fine talent,
gifted,
honed
perfected...flaws and all...
moulds
sculpts,
breathes life into ordinary words,
creates poetry
owns me.
September 26 2016 MY
Everything’s Perfect
by Odin Roark
Rio’s open market day
Bag fillin’
Day old mango and limes
Under tarpaulins-sweating
Tank topped ladies
“Baratas Baratas”
The call for cheap cheap
Bananas on barbed iron
Catching high noon light
Pleading to be eaten
But browning at mach speed
Two teenage girls
Gathered food in bags
Off to sell their own produce
Flesh made servile for men
Men’s every day refusal to pay for love
Lessons learned painfully early
Little goes as they’d like
Unless of course
They aspire to nothing
Back in cardboard city
The mangos prove over ripe
But the limes squirt their juices
Splattering beautiful eyes
Making thankful tears of joy
Another day’s survival
Many believe
Everything’s perfect
Whatever that be
Spring brings cold rains upon my window sill
And clouds the glass I see before the dawn
As it wets the air, from a Winter's chill
To nourish the grass and flowers brought on
Summer's quiet fragrance comes from these days
Where butterflies with colored wings come to dance
And lovers sit by streams, where sunlight plays
To hear beauty from bird songs and heart's romance
Autumn brings colored leaves that tumble and fall
Caught by north winds spreading across the land
Where lovers once lay, their names now scrawled
Beneath the browning leaves that time demands
Winter came quick and the snow was cold
Tree leaves have parted, as Nature stills
While days grow shorter and time grows old
I wait for Spring rain, upon my window sill
for the contest Memories on Branches
sposored by Gail Angel Doyle
One of my friends recently suggested
I write one called “Cracker Jack”
Who better than the cracker himself
Who's wheels have left the track
I've never professed to be poet
In the ilk of Browning and Keats
A rebel, a renegade, an enigma of sorts
Marching to a different beat
A bit of a “cracker” I've always been
Take pride in being off beat
Don't have a choice, it's who I am
Travelling down a different street
Always write in the purest of forms
Simple verse most of the time
Since a very young age, always thought
Of poetry as a needing to rhyme
Forever been one to revel in creativity
Searching new vistas each day
It sure turns my crank and floats my boat
Wouldn't be happy any other way
Thank you my friends for the inspiration
To express what makes me tick
We're all cut from the very same cloth
Till we find a pathway that clicks
Fabulous is summer’s zeal, rustling its vibrant appeal
Allured by song of robins, warbling from willow trees
Rhapsodic in revelry of frolicking shamrock prairies
Enticing lovers’ exuberance waltzing on ocean breeze
Where sandy footprints amble, exuding playful hints
Eagerly invoking love through kindled vibes of fantasies
Luxuriating on beaches, reminiscing sensual musings
Longingly indulging in smitten hearts’ fervent dreams
Tantalized by multicolored choreography of monarchs
Orbiting scented blossoms, articulating random dance
Seduced by fiery vistas invoking passions of romance
Ubiquitous in changing colors beckoning advent of fall
Meticulously browning fields where cattle lazily graze
Mesmerized in twilight blaze, scintillating orange-red
Ebulliently painting horizon in decaying crimson glaze
Ruminating autumn’s brilliance in summer’s farewell
October 8, 2020
Placed 1st: Pick-A-Title, Vol 23 – Seasonal Acrostic – Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Edward Ibeh
Title chosen: Farewell to Summer
Did Robert Browning say it best when he
wrote, “winter takes the old ones”? Possibly.
Bronchitis, pthisis, whooping cough, T.B. –
they ran amock in 1863.
I trust it’s not too jarring if I jump
from modern miseries (ecoli, Trump)
to mid-Victorian London’s social rump,
and John Snow (doctor), and the Broad Street Pump.
The City Hall had never heard of germs.
They dealt with filth and foliage and firms,
and knew that there were parasites called worms.
But cholera? They couldn’t come to terms.
The water pump in Broad Street was infected.
Bacteria, back then, went undetected.
“Miasma” and “air pressure” were suspected:
how could the population be protected?
Oh lucky London! By sheer happenstance,
within the metropolitan expanse
young Doctor Snow was working, and by chance
had learned of recent studies made in France.
“They’re tiny animals, too small to see.
I’ll prove it, if you trust the Pump to me.”
Officials sneered with incredulity:
but, faced with daily deaths, gave him the key.
He knocked on every window in the quarter,
and showed (despite initial mayoral hauteur)
that cholera was carried in the water.
And, single-handed, John Snow stopped the slaughter!