Long Cactus Poems
Long Cactus Poems. Below are the most popular long Cactus by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Cactus poems by poem length and keyword.
In the hollowness of the desolate wasteland
a sunburnt solitary tree languished for a long while,
cast nonetheless on the parched crumbled ground
a sensuous shadow, my forlorn secret sanctum.
A crystal path I’d built to the realm of retreated yearn
along the contorted contours of disguised desire.
There the roses blooming amidst the spiculed cactus
wafted me away on mirage to the oasis of reverie.
In the motif of morphed vision of my unclosed eyes
the lanced landscape turned into garden of paradise.
Flying fringe of cloud captured colors of horizon’s pallet,
southern breeze serenaded the seducing tune of twilight.
Like an angel you came floating on the flair of stardust,
radiant in amorous glow of silver embrace of moonshine.
You lifted the shroud of secrecy, entered my hidden abode
where I dreamed a dream that night, I was the full moon.
Written : February 18, 2019
March 12, 2020
Contest : Strand Choice D, Any Form, Any Theme
Sponsor : Brian Strand
We looked out across the Canyon
It looked like a painting from above
Like you'd fall onto it, not inside.
The farther in we trekked
The more 3D everything became.
Like hiking an optical illusion.
The canyons wall were gray,
But you'd never know it.
Painted red from the canyon dust
The cactus flowers at full bloom,
Next to yucca plants and prickly pears.
We moved downward to Plateau Point
Like an island underground
Surrounded by the rushing river
Down via Devil's Corkscrew.
A route that lived up to it's name
Until we got to the bottom
Jumping into the icy water
Looking back up to the top
I wonder if I looked like part of the painting
Of this Canyon, so very Grand
March 22, 2022 Sponsored by: L MILTON HANKINS |
On the journey to faith and understanding
There are places where we must not stay
Temporary temptations of past mind transforming
Where the old to the new finally gives way
If our cries of pain can become song
Then Power of the Prince of Peace
Will carry us from these petrified forests forlorn
To a new found hope filled release
Then will we arrive on the fragrant palm lined shore
Where the bees make honey from the orange blossom
And the petrified pine is no more
Here the pain of longing into obtaining turns over
Among the rows of cactus and lime
Where the cows eat up the clover
And the sea waves count out the time
Here faith turns into knowledge
And the cold wind of death into life’s melody
That saves
I longed for the days when the earth will smile again and the penitence of its mind will humble itself before the benevolent sky and the assemble of peace will be trod bountifully through the street.
I long for the days when the hill and the valley will meet and walk hand in hand in the street and greet the people we meet and pass on a word of encouragement to those that fall from the heavens. And time will tell how he constructed that hypnotic well to release his mind from the pit of hell.
I longed for the days when the sun will smile with the rain and cool the desert flame, the cactus will grow in abundance and moisture will cover the desert land and the plants will flourish all over the land and the sun will obey its command.
I long for the days when I can dine outdoors, and watched the waves riding on the shore, I will write a verse or two, and listen to the music singing in the wind. I will breathe in the fresh air from the atmosphere and write a romantic poem for thee and absorb the moisture in my flesh from the sea.
It is the touch of love that will ride with the vision from above and somewhere out there in the atmosphere; you will feel the difference of time racing with the spirit of the divine.
I long for the days when I can walk in my old school again, and bring the place alive just like old time. I will walk along the corridors and mesmerize my golden sorrows and the path I took that gave me a hundred books.
I will dance underneath the trees, just like how it used to be, I will bring my friends alive and reminisce their sacrifice. I will recapture the memory of spending long hours in the study room and could not take a shower until the following day at noon. I will go to the gym and workout on the tread mill and hum my childhood hymn.
I long for the day when I can travel the world again and meet people from every, race, color, creed, nation and culture. We will have happy times together, have buffet meals for supper and sing Kaluki at noon. We will learn about each other’s culture and play games together, and when the evening is done, we will stand on the board, walk and gaze out yonder and our heart will be together.
I long for the day when I will meet all my television friends, we will have lemonade on ice and we will tell stories in the moonlight.
And the cemetery was still and serene
A palette of muted greens, browns, tans and warm gray scene
Fence-post with barbed wire surrounds the garden
Seashells and caliza, sage brush, cactus, and mesquite trees harden
Tall cold stones erect sentries
Standing on sacred ground granting entry
In the garden of seashells and sage brush
A cemetery of generations of families
Grandmothers and grandfathers
Their parents and family before them
Tugging at our memories
Whispering shadows of their secrets
All lie with crowns of stones
As their names are etched on marble stones
While others with ceramic photographs of the dearly departed
So they, won’t be forgotten
All with stories to tell
My head down with sadness
My heart skips a beat in my chest
I stand and look at the headstone of my once beautiful grandmother
And lay a bouquet of red roses at the feet of the stone
I kneel and clean the surroundings of weeds that have sprang up
And dust of the ceramic photograph
Wistful thinking
Her smile with a flicker of spark in her eyes
All the good times we used to have
She taught me not to be afraid,
To drive her white 1958 Impala
And the cemetery was still and serene
I know it’s an empty vessel that lay in the sandstone
As her soul grew wings long ago
And in heaven she’s watching over all she has left behind
5/20/2016
Free Verse Form
Contest: And The Cemetery Was
Sponsored by: Broken Wings
Spiritually Fulfilled
Gazing at the sky
Spiritually fulfilled
Cherished memories
I would stay for hours,
Waiting for a nice bee to land,
On the small purple flowers of a fuchsia, or heather,
I would wait for hours,
As if the future of the planet depended on it,
I would stay under the discreet sun like a cactus
Innocent and patient,
I would stay in November until Saint Catherine,
Waiting for a bee to declare its flame to a flower,
I would stay for hours, like a bronze statue,
Waiting for my little bee, I think of you,
I would stay for hours,
Waiting for a little black or white bee to fly,
To see her land on a daisy joyfully,
Or on a star blooming in my garden,
I would stay for hours,
As if my life depended on it, or another life,
Because happiness lasts only one spring,
Because life is too short, or unfair;
Because bees are brave messengers,
Thanks to them, we marvel at everything,
We are human, like flowers from a vase,
We can write, « La vie est belle».
Ce qui me rend heureux
Je resterais des heures,
À attendre qu’une gentille abeille se pose,
Sur les petites fleurs violettes d’un fuchsia, ou d’une callune,
Je resterais des heures à attendre,
Comme si l’avenir de la planète en dépendait,
Je resterais sous le soleil discret comme un cactus
Innocent et patient,
Je resterais en Novembre jusqu’à la Sainte Catherine,
Attendre qu’une abeille déclare sa flamme à une fleur,
Je resterais des heures, comme une statue de bronze,
À attendre ma petite abeille, je pense à toi,
Je resterais des heures,
À attendre que vole une petite abeille noire ou blanche,
À la voir se poser, sur une marguerite joyeusement,
Ou sur une étoile éclose dans mon jardin,
Je resterais des heures,
Comme si ma vie, en dépendait, ou une autre vie,
Parce que le bonheur ne dure qu’un printemps,
Parce que la vie est trop courte, ou injuste ;
Parce que les abeilles sont de braves messagères,
Grâce à elles, nous nous émerveillons de tout,
Nous sommes humains, comme des fleurs d’un vase,
Nous pouvons écrire, « la vie est belle ».
Volga – 4
to the homoeopathy phial
standing on the traffic-island
why it appears
within her womb
the number of germinated nights
stolen without a kiss
is too little
is then it true
if all the chanting of Harinam
can’t be withdrawn from the alcohol
the body-odour of the running tamarisk-shrub
will enter into the circuit-house
and that devouring of the parchment
brings to the feelings of the non-veg ant-hills
the let’s-go-cure
gathering in the sauce-island
Volga - 5
coming to this ironed canal-side
every auto-rickshaw
wants to know and let other know
the mystery
behind the rice-rain
from the cirrus
the shame in the eyes of the seal containing signs
supplies the whole-sale dealership
of the civil disobedience movement
to the locality
the role of the hammer also
wakes up early in the morning
to put under its own tongue
an antacid
is it possible that the spits
used in the observatory
be made a little more fast-moving
manuscript of the basement of a well
the biography of the pond-heron will be scripted
even-then the productivity of the merry-go-round
wouldn’t be uttered for a moment
no sir, such has never been expected
in the liquefied banana-blossoms
too many hot breads resulted from the season-change
continues to bat vehemently
and climbs to the peak of heart-throbbing runs
they in a group will go to the
aqua anetha of the mole hill
to organise a folk-song
to understand this
no arbitration of the cactus is required
notwithstanding
it is heard that the thread was pulled
by the violin of the wife of the moon-god
from behind the screen
here in the eye-front
is the basement of the morning-well
on its one page lies the faulty crow-caws
and on another some sun-shines
swinging on the hanger
after some pages in recurring …the chicken-pox … the boot-polish …
within the two covers of the dance-drama
also comes the creepers and herbs
grown around the melting point
of the arm-chair
whose legs are broken
if each pore on the skin of the river-lily
becomes so much known
then in the background of this low land
let us have one game more
Day One was Our first
meeting...........
Enamoured in love with your
charm,
I left my house to meet you.
As fresh as the morning dew
shining in the sun.
My heart throbbed in solicitude.
You stood as dry as seaweed
beyond waves reach,
Endearment like a cactus in
barren land,
perseverance like a piano,love
tug at heartstrings.
Feelings of affection less ardent
in you.
As I wore my heart upon my
sleeve,
And unfolded my fists to show
your heart in my hands,
That the love swamped your
heart like a tide.
And blinded to the differences
with infatuation,
We returned with essence of a
strong predilection for each
other,
Dusk of Day One, inception of
new chapter in our lives !!
As I am watering your withering white roses,
I wish I had separate simple tall glass vases
To share each and every white rose with family
Who loved you as their mother and our granny.
But really symbolically this glass vase is rather
As transparent as we are when we're together,
So I never want to see us separate nor shatter.
Times we shared are the stems of each flower.
Just as we come and go thru life and death,
I'll water these roses until their final "breath."
Though your suffering lasted until the winter,
News of your final night pierced like a splinter.
I'll water these roses and your cactus plant.
I'll think of you as I sing to songs like a chant.
I still love you, I wish I could know if you know
I have a lot of self-growth I am going to show.
Sometimes, it's cloud formations.
At other times, a line of Fall trees.
Less often, a rising sun, but
Frequently, it's a setting sun.
Sometimes, it's simply being awe-struck by green grass;
Or being mesmerized by the beaming yellow of a cactus blossom;
Or realizing that hospitality is defined by two words that
follow a request for directions: "Follow me".
Sometimes, it's the thought of a kindness that provokes a tear.
Or recalling the first sighting of the Chicago 'skid-row' in 1967.
Or the smiling face of a homeless man at my dinner
table in San Francisco on Christmas day in 1985.
100622PSCtest, Captivation Poetry Contest.
Julia Ward