Long Canvas Poems
Long Canvas Poems. Below are the most popular long Canvas by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Canvas poems by poem length and keyword.
If I'm an advocate for anything, I'm an apostle of movement,
To venture far, to roam unknown worlds and dreams,
To cross oceans of time and rivers of memories,
To lose yourself in others' footsteps, to taste stories written in aromas, in colors.
Each journey is a mosaic of souls, a map of unseen emotions,
Rise from the comfort of yesterday, open your mind like a blank canvas,
Go, explore, embrace the unknown with the courage of a dreamer,
Each step is a gain for the heart and soul, a dance of freedom.
Move, let your heart dance to new rhythms, to rise
Like a kite caught in foreign winds, to understand the world's desires,
Each path a poem waiting to be written with your steps,
Leave your place of safety, throw yourself into the world's arms dreaming.
For movement is life, and life is a perpetual journey into the unknown,
In every encounter, a note in the symphony of life, a whisper of stars,
Live truly, for only then will you understand and know,
Wandering through universes of desires, you will rediscover the essence of your being.
i awoke this morning
to the sun
licking dry any dew
that remained from the night,
or from dreams
that flickered like lost stars
in my deepest thoughts.
i never surrendered my mind
to this water-colored day
that sat on a half-painted canvas
awaiting for me to dust off the night's glow
from my own smiling face.
who said dreams are made for night?
nights seems too short
to trade in for one day,
one day to dream, broken thoughts
as they weave in and out of my mind,
much like the sun did with the clouds,
but i too drifted, winded across the horizons
and generated almost as much heat
as the day itself.
night had come again
and i watched as the sky exploded
into an array of colors around me,
wrapping me deeper in my own thoughts
as i dreamt of you once more.
Deep into scientific facts, I do not want to go,
Though - why? And what? - Questions of reasons often in me glow;
I wonder at the mystery of the magic sun, here,
How he splendidly, with his brush, brightens up the moon's sphere...!
An amalgamation of orange, red, white, and maroon,
On a canvas, sober and solemn, set like a sand dune;
As though brutal murder is committed and blood is shed,
On peripheries of ponds and lakes, red rays flow ahead...!
The Vagabond clouds try to caress and kiss it gently,
The breeze, sometimes slow, other times fast, taunt it intently;
A little darkness from some unknown horizons hovers,
As though tears on someone's farewell, there are also showers...!
A manifestation of an accord made with the sun,
In myths, with the bloody red moon, many stories are spun;
In amazement of human paths of pilgrimage, perfect,
The blood moon is a gorgeous chariot with red gems decked...!
Though a mystical shadow, depending on the nature,
The blood moon has extraterrestrial legislature;
Harbinger of the apocalypse or Parousia,
Speaks volumes! The red moon is an encyclopedia...!
A poet wears their work in place of wounds,
Their words are scars of light and darkness on the canvas of the soul.
In the flow of consciousness, I wander through gardens of melancholy,
Wearing the verses that sing both suffering and joy like a cloak.
Each metaphor is a carefully closed wound,
A drop of bleeding transformed into pure art,
Each stanza, an echo of their heartbeat,
Expressing its call through whispers of eternity.
In the depths of the night, when silence becomes a cathedral filled with dreams,
I weave my pain with words, each letter a balm,
An act of alchemy where suffering turns into gold,
Where tears become stars and sadness a constellation.
A poet weaves their work like a silk canvas stained with blood,
Each wound a portal to unknown universes,
Each verse, a mirror reflecting the entire cosmos,
And the darkness falls, but the light continues to shine in their heart.
In the flow of my thoughts, rivers of emotions run,
Where each ripple carries an untold story,
A longing, a sadness, a strange joy,
In each verse lies a part of me, a fragment of my eternity.
My poems are amulets that protect the soul from life's wounds,
With each word, I open windows to new horizons,
A world where wounds become sacred signs,
And suffering transforms into symphonies of an unknown harmony.
I wear my words like a shield against time and oblivion,
Each verse, a flame burning in the depths of the night,
A light guiding through the dense darkness of non-existence,
Each written wound is an unfinished healing, an endless quest.
In the flow of consciousness, each stanza is a cathedral of fragile truths,
Where each wound turns into art, each pain transforms into beauty,
A play of shadows and light, where I discover who I am,
And where, with each written word, my wounds become sources of light.
A poet wears their work in place of wounds,
A testament to the struggle and victory despite the pain,
A living tapestry of their soul, where each thread is a story,
And thus, in the endless flow of thoughts and feelings,
My words will continue to dance in eternity,
The emblem of a heart that chose to turn wounds into light,
And suffering into an endless song of life.
Scintillating hues disperse on blank canvas,
electric essence sparks azure palate mauve;
incandescent lightning leads to the ballroom--
of galactic blaze.
Vivacious seagulls draped in white fly afar,
sing to forlorn sandcastles on tranquil shore;
breathtaking notes vibrate subdued strings of breeze--
pearly mist of harps.
Inhaling sultry waves of hot topanga,
I flicker with burning golden lantern wick;
awaiting tides adorned with velvet mirage--
your silk memories.
Moonbeams rejuvenate my drowning desires,
I write your name on sand to be washed away;
your halo descends to embrace me with love--
on my yearning pier.
June 11, 2020
Pick-A-Title, Vol 19 - 4 Sapphic Stanzas - Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Edward Ibeh
Title Chosen: Simulacrum
~Winner: 1st Place
I know that there's a grand design for life
That we're all formed in wonder and intent
So nature's palette blooms with color, rife
To daub its hues on all that's heaven-sent
Each sparrow, leaf or twist of amber grain
Is kissed by the Almighty's sacred breath
And every breach we cross, is not in vain
But ordered so to guide us, birth-to-death
Such miracles - we're each His masterpiece
The will to choose, so granted from above
Conceived in His own likeness to increase
And framed with deep capacities for love
God makes us each the canvas for His art ...
And paints life's precious colors ... on our heart.
~ 1st Place ~ in the "Brian's Choice Z, Any Form, Any Theme" Poetry Contest, Brian Strand, Judge & Sponsor.
~ 3rd Place ~ in the "Hope Old Or New" Poetry Contest, Carolyn Devonshire, Judge & Sponsor.
(Ten syllables per line, counted at HowManySyllables.com)
In a city where dreams intertwine with the shadows of dull days,
society turns away from those who dare to dream,
as if they were committing a crime against the silent laws of time,
because their dream is a flame that disturbs the gray tranquility of the city.
We are all travelers on a sea of memories that slowly fade,
but some carry stars in their eyes and desires that cannot be extinguished,
and these cannot be forgiven, for their dreams are silent rebellions,
an explosion of color defying monotony and gray sadness.
Perhaps society embraces those who steal moments,
those who trap light in cages of concrete and sell it in pieces,
but it will not understand the one who carries their soul like a living canvas,
where each dream is a splash of color, a cry against routine.
Ah, traveler of dreams, wear your burden like a mantle of light,
for the world does not know how to forgive those who look at the sky with longing,
and find in it an infinity of possibilities that cannot be contained,
while the earth murmurs its secrets beneath the hurried footsteps.
In a world of shadows, where light is a collateral dream,
We wander through the labyrinth of times, with heavy steps and heart in hand,
We string our thoughts on a canvas of clear sky, but what is clarity,
When everything is just an echo of times past, an amalgam of illusions?
Once we believed that clouds hide the light, that the future is an open book,
But we awakened to find our souls in a starless night,
And the path to knowledge is a trail hidden under leaves of forgetfulness.
Who is there to guide us when we ourselves have lost the compass?
In times when light was a mere dream, we hoped for an awakening,
But what did we find? A world that embraces ignorance like a warm coat,
"Fear to know!" cries the motto of the times, and how many times have we bowed our heads,
When we preferred to close our eyes, not to see what we do not understand?
And yet, within each of us, a spark ignited once,
A longing to know, to open gates locked by fear and prejudice,
But the spark, if not fed, becomes ash in the wind,
And we return to shadows, to the comfort of unknowing.
Perhaps one day, when the clocks will sing of awakening again,
We will cast aside the veil of fear and step into the light,
But until then, our path is a melancholic dream,
An endless quest for light in an age of shadows.
At the six-thirty PM of our lives,
when we are retiring from the places where we were at dawn,
where we wandered through the labyrinth of time,
with memories clinging to the corners of our clothes, with dreams forgotten in our pockets,
we gather, like birds returning to their nests,
packing up and cleaning the mess of the morning and noon,
like craftsmen of the moment, trying to make sense of the chaos,
to bring order to the disorder of the day,
and maybe, just maybe, we choose a game,
for sometimes the evening becomes monotonous,
like a clock ticking softly,
do we play chess? Poker? Or people?
No, we left the game of people for the earlier hours,
when we still had the energy to get lost in glances,
to seek each other in smiles.
Now, at the six-thirty PM of our lives,
we straighten our wrinkled dresses,
we pick the frayed threads of our thoughts,
tired or less optimistic,
we no longer fix our hair; it's fine as it is, it’s getting dark;
no one will really look anymore,
we don’t do a makeover;
the sun is setting; everyone is looking less,
we sit on the canvas we painted at nine AM,
how beautiful is yours?
How ugly is yours?
We appear attractive in our simple dresses,
trying to get used to the departure of light,
trying to get used to the dullness.
And at the six-thirty PM of our lives, the irony begins:
we see more with our squinted eyes,
we smile more with all the visible lines,
we are wiser with our distorted minds,
we rejoice even if we cannot leap,
we are physically frail and mentally strong,
like magicians who have learned to read the stars,
but whose feet can no longer walk on earth,
we find beauty in simplicity,
we find peace in the silence of the evening,
at the six-thirty PM of our lives,
when the day retreats like a dream,
when night approaches like a promise,
we return to ourselves, to our essence, to that deep tranquility,
to that melancholic magic that fills our souls.
Upon my palette I find one shade,
so deeply rich it’ll never fade,
pure purple, my favourite hue,
that mystical shade where red meets blue,
I take up my brush and begin to paint
bold strokes that show no artistic restraint.
I picture myself a Queen in a Royal gown
a giant Amethyst atop my crown,
I confer protection to all in my sight,
my violet aura shining bright.
At my feet the thistle flowers
a symbol of my nobility and royal prowess.
The colour of energy fuelled by passion
dubbed the “new black”, just ask fashion,
the shade of kings with courtly power
my canvas a wash of Pasque flower
it’s peaceful coolness brings me calm
purple’s my magical healing balm.