Long Carmine Poems
Long Carmine Poems. Below are the most popular long Carmine by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Carmine poems by poem length and keyword.
(Tribute to the original poem "Tomorrow's Light)
Waking in the smother cold
Breathing ashes of discarded souls
The chills of old withered hopes
Binding those into Hell's traps
Screams of begs and pleas fill the crimson meadows
Craters filled with poisonous promises
Light of grey and carmine paved the ruins
Scent of rust and debris cover all untouched
Branded by the Reaping ignorance
Watching in the crimson thrones
Sparring no favors but sounds of laughter
These eyes heavy of dirt and rumble
Needing to rest upon bloodied heavy doors
A rarity of true light's warm fills the cold vessel
A breath of blooming life blazing an ember
Reaching a wrinkled, broken hand of hope
Within the abyss of harden abandonment
A soften tear runs down one's defeated features
Wishing for the retuning light to ablaze again
Sink your poisoned dragonfly wings in my chiffon atoms of smothered skin,
As I lay supine, along dusk's apathetic horizons, husky and hoaxed,
For, I'm a kin of blood-moon, gnawing at ivory moonstones and ocean's fins,
As a broken carmine harp, that blooms kohl-orchids from chartreuse stems, smoked,
If my fangs pierce through sun-sequined dawns, am I not grim reaper's broken ballerina?
As a wistful wildflower, I float in harbours of helium, weeping acidic dews,
Inhaling watercolor volcano's lifeless heartbeats, akin a frosted firebird,
Carving legends of medusa, on lilith's marble-canvas and mahogany adieus,
Rising as a seascape-myth on glossy shorelines, ebbing in onyx spirals, savoured,
If pine leaves strangle the trinkets of my throat, am I not a broken snowflake's last breath?
"I'm an orphan of poised Mars, swirling in solstitial meadows,
Of shipwrecked sonatas, saturating in igloo-hues of coiled shadows..."
A HEART OF GOLD
A
Symbol of a
Seraphic being you are,
For to the hopeless, without a
Behest a chest of hope on a platter
Of silver you offered, and the cold
Maimed, with your fur, warmth
You gave.
To
The feeble minded
In the battle against cruel fate.
Courage for conquest you gave.
To the ravenous innards, through
The darkest ravine undaunted
You trod to feed.
The
Cleaved hearts from
Belied oath of love,
Solace, found in your
Salving speech.
The solitariness fissured hearts
In your companionship suture found.
Nothing
Have I seen,
That you would begrudge
For a heart of gold you have
Even your life, you would as lief
As the celestial liege give.
For his nature, in you reflects.
He, though, just a pearl had, but on
The altar of love down laid him.
For the hallowed carmine from his
Sinew our flaws to blot.
Oh
How like the sun you are
For though we are by distance barred.
Yet, the warmth of your benign rays
Here I feel.
(DEDICATED TO THE GIVER)
In the heart of an ancient city, where time whispers through the leaves,
Lies a garden where roses murmur, and the soul finds its reprieve.
Down in the rose garden, where shadows softly fall,
A harmony of color, enchanting one and all.
Crimson and carmine, petals silken and bright,
A fragrant feast for senses, a dazzling, sweet delight.
The sunbeams dance and shimmer, on leaves of emerald green,
Whispering secrets to the roses, in a world unseen.
Their petals, velvet soft, unfold with grace and ease,
A promise of beauty, whispered on the summer breeze.
Among the blooms, a single rose, its thorns a fearsome sight,
But in its heart, a hope resides, a beacon burning bright.
For though its beauty hides a sting, a pain with every touch,
It whispers of resilience, a lesson learned so much.
Each bud that bursts, a symbol, of life's enduring grace,
Though challenges may prick and wound, hope finds its rightful place.
And as the petals fall and fade, their scent still lingers near,
A memory of beauty, for those who hold it dear.
So, wander through the rose garden, let your senses be beguiled,
By colors, scents, and whispers, in this world so sweet and wild.
For in the heart of every bloom, a promise you will find,
That hope will bloom eternal, leaving beauty in its mind.
And there, among the roses, where time and beauty blend,
Lies a truth as old as time, on which our hearts depend.
For every thorn that guards the path to love's sweet, fragrant face,
Is but a guardian of the beauty that we all embrace.
In youth's full bloom or life's waning light,
The rose remains, a timeless sight.
So let us cherish every bloom, each thorn and velvet petal,
For in this garden, life's great lessons are met and then are settled.
With every step on paths of green,
We learn what it means to live, to love, to dream.
And as the day succumbs to night, and stars take their place in the sky,
The roses close, and in the quiet, a hush falls by and by.
But fear not, for with the dawn, their splendor will be reborn,
For in the rose garden, hope is never forlorn.
Late,
the morning glories rise
passionate, royal, magenta blooms trumpeting,
helloes and goodbyes;
novice neophytes falling
into lavender blush dream states
succumbing to a mellowed change in weather
cooler days awakened by pale aging sunlight
soft, restless breezes
in the trees shedding leaves;
twilight for the foliage
a lurid golden year half-light dulcet dawns,
scarlet carmine sunsets, waning,
whispering not shouting
carnelian nights humming a lullaby,
serene, euphonious,
clouded eyes struggling to remain awake
buddings small and petite,
placid emollients of day;
shaded out of scathed hunter greens
falling to lemon camboge
limed colored oranges,
harvest time citrus afterbites
commencement to vermillion bleedings
September full blood moon phasings,
in crisp kaleidoscope etchings
of a well-painted palette
sepia rusettes, auburn,
ambered melancholia disturbances;
sanguine shortened days,
arboreal sleep, brittle and dry
les Feuilles Mortes.
Mystic Rose contest of Hello September
9/17/21
The Players In The Park
by Edmund Siejka
An errant breeze slipped in
Somewhere from the West Village
Caressing a couple
As they walked out of the park holding hands
Shoulders touching
Running her fingers through her hair
She stopped to look up
In return he smiled
His arms bringing her closer
Their lips meeting.
Nearby, the park musicians called it a day
Tired, the old man carefully put his violin back into its case
Next time they might try something new
Perhaps something from Verdi’s Aida
Leaving the park, he passed Our Lady of Pompeii
Hurrying across Carmine Street
He adjusted his cap
Before making the sign of the cross.
Overhead, a rainbow orange sun slowly dipped beneath the City’s horizon
Transforming a warm day into a cool September evening
Weekend crowds
Started arriving
Loud and boisterous
They swarmed the streets
In threes and fours.
Walking home he worried
The crowds at the park were getting smaller
The young never had time for opera
But why did they make their lives so hard
Just to push ahead?
The old man had no answer
Holding the violin case closer, he knew one thing for certain
For him another long day was over.
A fuming, fierce and moving target
On yor species will you place yor bet!
Aiming the blade into shoulder blade or beating heart
all toreadors hope to throw that fatal decisive dart!
This bullyboy to score a bloodied bullseye in bullfight!
O'course not for the fainthearted that gory sight.
Well, that counts timid me out from any bullring
naturally I a bulwark against this lurid thing.
I find in the sport a sort of sadism
Like cockfights it must reek of masochism.
The carmine cape, the only screen between him and the jaws of death
or should I say rather, the sickle horns of death
Oh no, what if the matador ain't ever allowed to catch his breath?
For promoters a thrilling spinechilling
Spanish folk art in arena
For objectors a bloodsport
they wish as dead as the myth of Athena.
The Spanish might be divided about their picadors
on this sporty bloody battle between man and beast
No telling till when spectators will throng to watch those matadors
while I wonder do they on the trophy bull then feast?
Ah ban it to history
or fan it to the future
Call it cruelty or not, oh the thrills of our humankind
Tis fair play or fair game for the raging bull tis half blind?
Yet if any bloodlust instincts be satiated by those stuntmen toreros
matadors maybe far better than murderers and war heroes.
I am the
cascading radiance,
between apricot
glows of gloaming,
when mauve mists shift,
mirroring sage seas of love,
I look beyond silvery skies
whilst selfless stars sprinkle,
sizzling streaks
of sunflower sparkles~
upon wrinkled
waves of weariness.
it is in sangria silence, I see
seraphic silhouette of
the mauve moon~
incarnate elysian empires,
where rosemary rivers
flow in righteous rhythm,
awakening stainless
lotus rituals,
soaring amidst the
ardent ambience
of butterfly bliss.
now my heart twirls
to riveting themes,
captivated by the
charismatic credence
of your charming finesse~
swirling beneath
purple paper balloons,
ornamented with
pristine pansies,
to weave fuchsia faith
with
dahlia dreams.
yet, sometimes
I question
the eclectic light,
lulling my aching soul,
would life be a
pensive pilgrim
without your
angelic wings?
what if I had never found
the sanctified sanctuary,
shielded with
golden gates
adorned in
citrine-pearl calligraphies..
would I then
still be drowning,
alone, engulfed in fears?
for I’ve found
silent scriptures of serenity
through carmine carvings
on the mystical walls
in your poetic palace,
there love is the
astral language
of crooning constellations,
guiding poignant peonies
to a holistic sphere
of artistic healing.
so tonight, I’ll unlock
cosmic windows to
the root chakra,
where you are the
enlightened king,
and your
altruistic anthem,
rings musically
like soothing
singing bowls,
echoing forgiving heartbeats,
and I, will remain faithfully
engrossed eternally,
like petals blossoming
within your gardenia grace.
My once passionate life,
Charming crayola broads.
Came to a halt,
When she was sent from God.
But heartbreak burned,
As I dripped to the floor.
I cried waxy tears,
Like never before.
She still crosses my mind,
Though a little bit darker.
She ran off with him,
A crayola green marker.
Now tears of red,
So frequently stream.
As the pain of my heart,
Is so easily seen.
These ardent veins,
That gushed passionate red.
Have no reason to flow,
Since my burgundy fled.
Shades of maroon outline,
This broken carmine heart.
These crimson thoughts,
Want love to embark.
But my burgundy dreams,
Will never comeback.
For all of my happiness,
Has melted to wax.
(A Chain Verse)
'Tis a special night
Night of the blood moon
Moon's shimmering light
Light so softly strewn
Strewn across the lawn
Lawn shines crimson now
Now, that's why I'm drawn
Drawn to darkened brow
Brow of the hills glows
Glows erubescent
Erubescent pose
Pose that's pearlescent
Pearlescent blushing
Blushing round moon face
Face with joy gushing
Gushing with good grace
Grace rubicund pours
Pours on the hushed earth
Earth and all its shores
Shores swell with moon's mirth
Mirth of the moonbeams
Moonbeams' ruddy reach
Reach my pleasant dreams
Dreams that all bounds breach
Breach my world, red moon
Red moon rising slow
Slow my heartbeat's tune
Tune of carmine glow