Long Capturing Poems
Long Capturing Poems. Below are the most popular long Capturing by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Capturing poems by poem length and keyword.
You, I've loved you ever you've been with me!
None supported me as you did, so far.
On my eighteenth, you shone elegantly,
Capturing naughtily what eyes didn't see
When I held closely the mini skirt star.
So, I've loved you ever you've been with me!
In the dark night, when I tread cautiously
To the robber you gave a nasty scar.
And, strong and proud, you shone elegantly!
She came and shunned you for being shabby
She replaced you and you gazed from afar
Still, I've loved you ever you've been with me!
Then one day she left me in state sorry.
I threw her gift to hug you as you are.
Dear of mine, you shone elegantly!
I was not rich man when you came to me
All crushed and bruised you took me to my gloire.
Lovely shoes, I've loved you ever you've been with me!
I love the way you shone elegantly!
27/08/16
Contest: My shoes
Once we were a room,
a space for the spilling of pagan oaths,
for the pleading of primal prayers.
Now that room rages
upon an emptiness only my blood hears.
Bondage was good for us.
“You’re not my master”, she would say,
“you are me taking me”. She was right,
I would lose myself in her.
She’s related to George Washington,
at least by sexual union.
A man of his time.
A black girl for all times.
As her descendent she shared herself with me.
I imagine her now as she arranges
the form and flavors of desire.
Her skin a sensual braille for my shaping hands.
Her limbs submissive yet grasping a
binding chimera. Flesh capturing silks;
blind Labial dances preface
a choreography of complying violence.
We struggle with the glottal language
of inarticulate gods,
we’re deep sea divers bound to an erotic gravity.
This place is a womb
for the birthing of tattooing hungers.
Rooms enter rooms until dark suns
open our mouths with their electric flares.
Somewhere in another story,
an aged Washington shoves
his shriveled member
into another girl – another room.
A place we were pleased to burn down
again, and again.
Planning a dream vacation traveling through Africa.
An African safari, our dream to enjoy capturing the memories
by photographing. We’ll mingle and learn about the people
with different backgrounds, cultures, and traditions.
And enjoy the energetic ritual dance and rhythm of
the African drums. Camp under the ebony stars
with the wild scent of firewood.
Explore the wildlife in their natural habitats.
Marvel at the sight of the massive gray elephants
beneath sapphire skies as their butterfly-wing ears flap
in communication and to cool down. Observe their long,
dexterous trunk, a nose, and part of their upper lip,
used like a tool to drink, feed, work, and communicate
with people and their own. To enjoy in wonder while they walk
in a group like hills across a sea of bush or forest, putting one foot
in front of the other in a pendulum-like motion in a graceful
movement lifting dust into the air, as they travel to the nearest
river to drink and bathe in a peaceful color wheel. Of warm
golden hours of fiery oranges and deep purples.
12/23/2025
GENTLY MY MIND PORTRAYED
AN EMPTY SADNESS WHILE I'D CRADLED
THEE NESTLED THOUGHT
LEAVING THE INFAMOUS BONDARIES
AWAITING THE VIEWING
OF THOMAS MANN'S QUIET SETTING
BETWEEN THE SOLID STRUCTURES
OF STILL RUNNING WATER SEEPING
OVER THE GOTHIC STONERY
THAT CARRIED SILENT WISHES
BENEATH THE FOUNTAINS CORE
TRAVELING BEYOND VOSS SHORE
WHILE CRAVING TATTOOED SMILES
THE UNSEEN GESTURES OF MINES
THROUGHOUT THE GALLERIES
OF INDUSTRIAL SOLITUDE
WHY I'D BEGAN TO OPEN PACKAGES
OF MEMORIES SAFELY TUCKED AWAY
BESIDE HOPE AND CHARITY
WHY I FOLLOWED MADNESS
CREEPING THROUGH THE FOREST AGAIN
AWAKENING SUDDEN EMOTIONS
BOTTLED I SUPPOSE GRAVELY
DANCING TO THE TUNES OF BROKEN
FOLKLORES TALES WHISPERING
THE SONG OF POVERTY CATERING
TO BAYOUS OF HASTE
WHERE SACRED GROUND OPENS
EXPOSING THE VALLEY OF DRY BONES
MY SOUL HAD MASTERED A QUICKENING
BALANCE A MEANINGFUL GATHERING
HOLDING ON TO COPENHAGENS
SECRET TUNNELS WHERE KOFF
DESIGNED BLUE PRINTS AND PATTERNS
CAPTURING MY EMPTINESS OF REMEMBERING
THE WHITE LAB COATS THE CRYING LAMBS
WRITTEN BY
MRS YOLANDA JOY NICHOLSEN
3/9/2013
FROM MY HOSPITAL BED
IN TAMPA HEART ATTACK
A card is an origami of the cosmos,
a square of twilight folded twice,
and folded paper breathes with hidden life.
It is a tiny, quiet theater
where the heart’s unspooled desires
perform a silent, glowing waltz.
We press our love into the pulp of trees,
capturing the soul’s geometry—
a constellation of unspoken things.
The envelope, a vessel of crisp white frost,
guards the fragile alchemy within:
a drop of captured sun,
a winter’s thaw,
a map to where the lonely find a shore.
Open the gatefold,
and watch the topography of care unfold.
Here, embossed forget-me-nots bloom in neon frost:
And velvet ribbons tie the loose ends of a quarrel
into bows of shimmering, impossible light.
The words are not just manufactured rhyme,
but chronometers of grace,
designed to stall the marching hands of time
upon a loved one’s face.
Within the matte embrace of vellum,
a mother’s unsaid courage drips like honey,
a father’s pride stands rooted like an ancient oak,
and friendships that have weathered bitter storms
are poured like stardust into handwritten ink.
These are holograms of memory,
projecting laughter over oceans,
casting warmth into the coldest, darkest rooms.
It waits patiently in the mailbox
to bloom again in the garden of another day.
To give a card is to offer a piece of your own chest,
a paper lantern released into the dark,
a folded sanctuary where the soul can rest.
It tells the receiver: You are seen. You are held.
Even when the physical miles divide us,
our spirits are forever intertwined,
within the beautiful, surreal origami of humankind.
Life as a River of Poems
As the poems flow in thousands, you realize
that you have created very little in the grand tapestry of existence.
Everything distills into rain, sunlight,
the relentless pulse of traffic, the endless cycle of nights and days,
the countless faces that fade into the fabric of years.
Leaving this world will be easier than living in it,
while I type another line, a man plays the piano through the radio waves,
the greatest writers have whispered profound truths in few words,
while the worst have drowned in an ocean of verbosity.
I lose myself in the flow of thoughts, a mystical labyrinth of consciousness,
where each poem is a raindrop,
fallen on the canvas of an ephemeral world.
My poems, like rivers, flow through the valleys of time,
capturing sunlight and the shadows of night,
shaping the fleeting faces of days and years.
I now understand that creation is an art of simplicity,
a line written in a silent night,
while a piano plays in the background of a restless life.
The greatest truths are often hidden in silence,
while empty words can fill endless pages.
I let myself be carried by this river of poems,
seeking the essence in each verse,
knowing that true greatness lies in the power of unspoken words,
in the silent magic of existence,
in the simple beauty of rain and sunlight,
in the quiet between heartbeats,
and in the melancholy of endless nights.
AS WE EMBARK ON THIS JOURNEY CALLED LIFE, A COMMON QUESTION ALWAYS SUFFACES. WHAT IS THE MEANING OF LIFE?
FOR SOME, SEEKING HAPPINESS AND FULFILLMENT, FOR OTHERS, IT'S CONNECTIONS WITH OTHERS, AND FOR SOME, IT'S CONTRIBUTING TO SOCIETY OR TO THE WORLD IN SOME SHAPE OR FORM.
FOR ME, IT'S CAPTURING THOSE MEANINGFUL MOMENTS THAT DEFINE YOUR LIFE. ALL THE SMILES AND TEARS AND WINS AND LOSSES, ACHIEVEMENTS AND REGRETS AND DISSAPOINTMENTS. IT INCLUDES ENDURING STORMS AND DROUGHTS, CREATING NEW LIFE AND SAYING OUR GOODBYES.
EACH EXPERIENCE IS SOMETHING THAT SHAPES US AND DEFINES OUR EXISTENCE.
Unseen upon my heart,
capturing every nuance,
always awake and aware though the whole world is sleeping,
my mother's ears, like sensitive sonar, are listening.
An umbilical tether, pulling, tugging,
alerting me to your danger and your joy,
my mother ears discern your need.
My ears feel you like a surgeon's hands,
sensitive, probing, seeking out your heartache.
Laughing, they share your joy
and taste your victories,
delicious mother candy.
Since before your birth,
these mother ears have known the unknowable,
thought the indescribable,
anticipated the best about you.
They do not frame my face;
my mother ears frame my heart
and are shaped like love.
© Faye Lanham Gibson, May 4, 2015
Playing a game on a checkered board
No need for armor and sword
Only a decisive mind
Thoughtful strategy and enough time
Concentrating with a stare
Capturing pieces without a care
Characters used straight out from mid evil books
A knight making hops and hooks
There is a castle that is called a rook
Without a ‘c’ they watch from the tower having a good look
Funny the Queen moves are filled with power
While the King limited probably a coward
There is a spiritual artistic depiction
Going forward is its only restriction
Always challenging ending up in an invisible tangle
Bishops slide along on a mystical angle
Finally there is the little pawn
First one to move on the battlefield lawn
Slowly stepping down then line
Clearing the path allowing the power to shine
If the mission was a success
Royals find out and are impressed
Getting to the other side
A commoner is promoted since they tried
Having this new position on attack
Puts fear in the enemy King and makes him pack
Then ends falling into a trap
Surrendering before taking a nap
Hearing two words ‘check mate’
A friendly message not having any hate
Using these figures at their finger tips
Could be a nice way to say ‘get a grip’
Has war been around this long?
Doing things basically that is wrong
Fighting battles for no reason at all
Watching neighbors and former friends fall
Centuries long ago they socialized with a game called chess
Soothing an angry attitude presenting a mess
Human emotions have not changed
Tempers still have that maturity range
Maybe we should talk about competitive aggression released in sporting peace
Giving life a new lease
Not counting the deceased
Word Lyric #6 for Music
“You Could Hypnotize Someone”
Turn away your blinking blue eye,
It is searing my brain with wind and sky,
We are at pause here in this fountain of mystery,
We are standing here to reset the pulse of history,
Your rolling turning eye is silently sucking me in,
It cannot possibly change what might have been,
It is capturing my sadness, and stealing my soul away,
Please turn your blinking blue eye away, I say.
Like looking down the barrel of a burping gun,
There is no doubt, you could hypnotize someone.
Oh quiet lady, cast away your scary stares,
Into far-away space, beyond all chants and prayers.
Turn away your blinking blue orb from my sight,
It is draining my heaving convulsing body outright.
The weary world stumbles ahead drunk with wine,
Please quiet lady, turn, turn toward the sunshine.
We are at pause here in this fountain of mystery,
We are standing here to reset the pulse of history,
Like looking down the barrel of a burping gun,
There is no doubt, you could hypnotize someone.