Long Carnation Poems
Long Carnation Poems. Below are the most popular long Carnation by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Carnation poems by poem length and keyword.
Valeria Valdermare once was a young ballerina who coveted a pair of red ballerina shoes. Oh! how she truly longed to grow up to become a prima ballerina! But alas! She was last in her class. All of her peers sneered and ridiculed her not only to her face. But behind her back in her absence. She possessed neither beauty nor grace. How could she continue bearing her heartbreaking disgrace?
Valerie worked harder and longer than the other ballerinas in her age bracket. Her teachers and their assistants took pity on her. They wanted to have her parents discharge her. Why should they waste their hard earned money on more lessons? Maybe Valeria should try something simpler by becoming a book worm? She certainly did not have any athletic nor dancing abilities!
But Valeria had a secret weapon. She had her very own fairy godmother, Blue Morning Flower. Her charge Carnation Pink Mayflower, was a younger fairy godmother of her exact age. It was Carnation Pink Mayflower who was awarded the higher honors.
When Valeria laid sleeping in her bed, Carnation Pink Mayflower. Tap her brown haired crown three times. Proclaiming each time,"Valeria, your wish has been granted unto you." Valeria dreamed she saw her in her nighttime visions. She had always believed in both fairy godmothers and pixies. Her parents never tried to get her even once to change her mind.
The next morning, there was a carnation pink wrapped present besides her princes' bed. She discovered her coveted red ballerina slippers. Grabbing her presents in her small hands. She ran downstairs and showed them to her astonished parents.
The next ballerina class session, Valeria put on the red slippers. When they began the practice warm up routines. Valeria noticed the difference they made. What used to be very difficult became easier. Her dance routines were also vastly improved. She astonished her whole class! How they envied her red ballerina slippers! Her childhood dreams of being a world renowned prima ballerina had just come true! She would dream and dance in bright colors!
Love as always,
Roxanne Lea Dubarry
Roxy Lea 1954
Roxy 1954/ October Country
June 01, 2020
***Inspired by Hans Christian Anderson's "The red shoes."
Love is always a majestic,
long-suffering
beauty of destiny.
The humble daisy breathes
in undying devotion.
The colorful chrysanthemum
endures tempting fate.
In the teary angle's
embrace nestles unswerving
rapture.
The sunny violet entombs
a merciless vanity.
The moonlight of a soulful heart
seeks shelter from ongoing
despair .
The dark side of sunlight gleams
in mountainous seas.
The agonized sky never
hides its eagerness to still
a flaming ire.
Its bloody tears always etched
on the unrelenting hyacinth,
its verdant smile always forgives the
, accidental failures of life.
Its fragrance frequently waters the
unfeigned red carnation.
Love's angelic song is worthy,
when it does not care about
delicate, temporary lily .
Black daybreak never touches it,
it is a past history..
Put on a happy face
when I release taut fingers
from your pallid cheeks.
Promises and empty lies
are sported clichés
that spoil a silenced vocabulary.
A quieted understanding we've
vocally committed to;
barks a matted-jackal’s constitution -
perceiving morose consequences
of blind subservience.
Put on a happy face
and fetch me dinner.
Ever flickering nuances,
once ignited a Brigadooned morning sunrise -
where woolen-blackened comforters
backlit our sordid differences.
Now, our prom attire has been burned.
The carnations, the orchids - have perished.
The beguine hasn’t begun.
It has ended.
Finalized and fortunately forgotten.
A pale orchid-colored icepack,
for your left eye,
would match your handbag and shoes
quite nicely.
Put on a happy face
and lint-guard the
disheveled derelict.
Forever falling forward, we've suddenly landed.
No need for saline solution anymore;
I cry when I hap hazardously laugh.
A silenced vocabulary realized the words
tryst and trust was separated by one letter;
why or you…or me, for that matter
completes the unfinished symphony.
The disenchanted beguine
floats into a tear-filled
Cinderella dank nightfall –
as I stare into the cornea of a
brittled pink carnation.
My hand, like a fringed strop,
needs to remove the strains of
a “Mea-Culpa” leitmotif and flog
the iniquities of one’s self.
Put on a happy face, goddamnit
and tell me
why you’re gone!
Toasted marshmallows is a perfume
created for misguided Girls Scouts.
Fervent mongrels who refrain from selling
photo-pressed carnations and
poisonous orchids - dumbly courtsey
when idiotic
adolescent daydreams prevail upon
the blatantly obvious.
Thirteen stitches
and a numerous array
of callous welts
reprised our endless beguine.
Passion is said to perish in embers.
One last charcoal
for us
to eye and envy.
A burnt carnation.
A scarred, trembling orchid.
The smoldering remains we'll inhale -
when this lost and lonely
soldier removes the
smudged greasepaint from
his broken fingertips and eyelashes
to painfully and pitifully
put on a happy face
just for you.
“A lover asked his beloved,
Do you love yourself more than you love me?
Beloved replied, I have died to myself and I live for you.
I've disappeared from myself and my attributes,
I am present only for you.
I've forgotten all my learnings,
but from knowing you I've become a scholar.
I've lost all my strength, but from your power I am able.
I love myself...I love you.
I love you...I love myself.” Rumi.
When you cry,
I wish I was those tears,
rolling down your cheeks,
dripping upon your strawberry lips.
I yearn to reflect like rainbow dust,
so you mirror like a confetti mosaic.
But in the duration of distance,
I walk barefoot upon a path of
dead roses, whose thorns are
covered in crimson drops.
In between the phases of pearls
and eternal embers in our sky,
I cannot sleep when you remain awake.
Afraid the moon will steal our dreams.
Time is an impatient muse,
but my adoration is timeless.
If only we could pause
and move in slow motion.
With the humility of Rumi.
My words are a colourless chore,
my mind a moth-eaten blank canvas,
but when you appear before me -
I'm a poetic waterfall of ivory ink.
In periwinkle petal phases
of personification, place my
choral carnation blossoms
in chronological chapters -
inside the personal memoirs
of your porcelain soul.
We are fragile figments,
but our serenade is not a fable,
so I keep writing orphic poems,
portraying your innocence and honesty
through an opulent sonnet,
reflecting your moonlight majesty.
Revealing desires of an enkindled heart.
If prose is too simple,
I'll create you a mausoleum of metaphors,
so when silence suppresses my speech,
my arrows of alliteration
will protect you until your last verse.
Before my last breath,
I may not create a perfect masterpiece.
So I wonder if my words will be worthy
or will you forget me
like the others who wrote before me?
In your analogies of abandonment,
I am a pristine scarf in your suitcase.
When I surrender to time,
will you wrap me around your skin,
until the end?
If rain poured
in susurrating sounds
of unshed tears,
will ungrateful dialects
change their insincere
expressions of speech,
or will this unheard
voice forever be
lost as echoes within
glass walls,
where lilac-feathered
letters of farewell
written in red diamonds,
illustrate illusive
narratives of an onyx heart
haunted by
holographic
harmonies,
in glitters of retro line art~
to graphically craft
cacophonous chronicles of
unexpressed trauma,
engrossed in cursive candor,
while this quivering quill remains
dipped in purple
pansies and primrose poetry,
glorifying indigo intuitions
that bleed in
blue-black and burgundy
But, I still keep
surfing in sizzling silence
towards saffron-streaked
sunsets resembling
the wisteria warmth
of your embellished embrace,
awakening from lucid
dreams of sparkling
silhouettes of us,
when I was uncontrollably
lost in your
pillow-shaped eyes,
counting silver stars hanging
on long lashes with lilac dust,
forgetting the times
I was caught in the
riveting rhythm of
lemonade lies.
For in your
amorous arms,
every qualitative question
within incomplete
puzzles of life and loss,
unravels appealing answers
with carnation compassion,
upon corners of
crumpled pages,
where initials of
your flowery
name is a
timeless token,
of love that still exists~
in this woeful world
of hate from heinous hyenas.
But these starry stones
of turquoise trust
shall be the
clandestine clemency
that holds this
unwritten tale of survival.
For, I am unapologetically poetic~
rewriting fuschia future
on pastel colored
paper parachutes,
letting go of twisted
tones cloaked with
jealous January winds at dawn,
as cinnamon gold sequined
skies reflect magic within
misty mirrors,
to begin again
as April crawls back,
knocking on the
laser-lavender portal
adorned with teal-cerulean
wings of our whimsical fairyland…
First person shooter,
on a hate tour of duty,
swinging a bullet sling blade
Buying a death row ticket,
worth fifteen minutes of fame
First person murder shooter;
womb-to-the-cradle-to-the-grave robber,
using your Automatic Revolver
to solve your anti-social mental problems
Sharpen that sling blade
on a coroner grindstone wheel
Gather the scythe-shredded corpses
from the harvest killing field
Take the bullet-riddled body bags,
with warm blood dripping still ...
and kevlar
coffin
bury them on Tommy Gun hill
Guns and Roses —
Automatic Revolver 15 bullet salute
Let the gun pallbearers put ‘em in the ground,
and the saltpeter pew mourners
put the rose flowers on the graves
AR-15 bullet salute ...
Guns and Roses —
giving society another senseless violence eulogy
Guns and Roses —
weapons of war killing innocent children of peace
Guns and Roses —
ricochet death purchased with capitalist ease
No background check to vet tranquilize
the uncaged rage,
wearing a Second Amendment disguise
Empty thoughts and prayers,
full of politician hypocrisy
Thirty pieces of silver tongue lip-cluckers
offering a gun lobby: no gun control policy
A paid, no-money-back Judas apology
Snake oil teary talk rubbed on dry soul skin,
allergen empathy-free
Guns and Roses —
sacred shell religious philosophy
Guns and roses —
kinetic death violence theology
Gun manufacture worshipers
love deifying the work of their hands
They love to praise their golden trigger head
silver handle arms
brass chamber belly
lead barrel legs
paper green toes idol
Saying: Let your scimitar banana-shaped heart
always remain sharp
And may your lead scythe sling blade soul
never be dulled
Guns and roses —
waxy ears don’t hearst hear it ...
bulletproof hearts so iceberg smoking cold
Guns and roses —
plastic carnation petal spirits ...
metal detector salvation black market sold
The first light I saw,
flashed in the first month of the year,
the epitome of rotational time transition,
and the harbinger of hopeful new beginning,
symbolized by the novelty of Jenus.
Born with the cardinal zodiac sign of intractable psyche,
an archetype of carnation flowering and perseverance,
prepared always to take discerned control of destiny.
Ruled by the planet Saturn, the strength of garnet trait lies
in the innate sense of my duty and responsibility,
making me a capable achiever, ambitious and determined,
oriented toward contemplation with intrinsic awareness,
regarded as down to earth, practical and pragmatic,
not faltering to face with fortitude the days of winter.
The sliding time crosses the fringe of the worn-out year,
nascent dreams are woven in the tapestry of the future.
The unsung songs are sung in sequence of the spinning seasons.
As along the destined path begins the new journey
to reach happily the destination at the edge of the time plateau,
I yearn to see another new sun rise with promise in frosty horizon.
After the auburn autumn departs with the rustling leaves of fall,
the tawny terrain becomes the serene canvas of white brilliance,
designed by the descending divine artwork of snowflakes,
blanketing the bare landscape with snowy shroud of stillness.
The sky stained with the shifting shades of ash grey,
cast the diffused light on the frozen landscape.
The defoliated trees of the tranquil thicket stand as sentinels,
the ephemeral metaphoric embodiment of silenced life.
The chromatic splendor of the setting cold sun
shapes with the spectrum of the twilight tinge
the spilling palette in the pallid landscape,
turning into a sheath of sparkling diamond,
suffused with the shimmer of silver sequins,
dancing with the ballerina of swirling snowflakes
in the congealed concerto of silence.
Red soft velvet, forever in my mind,
purple and blue, every color of the rainbow.
White to near black emotional displays,
their meanings hidden in the multitude of their colors.
Once I shared my secret with you,
the flowers I see in people important to me,
the beautiful purple of the pea in bloom
and the mixed color of the cotton petals
that were my father, pragmatic, yet complex.
The rose when I was young, strong but gentle,
though watch her thorns, is my mother,
slowly fading to pastel carnation as she ages.
The lilies and violets came early and withered.
The friends of Japanese cherry and wild prim rose
are but fading and melting memories now.
Then there was my orchid so unique and beautiful,
always transforming from passionate red rose
to lovely tibouchina and phalaenopsis then dendrobium,
now dried and hidden away awaiting the breeze
to, ever so slowly, blow those colors from my life.
Such complexity are the associations I see.
Now, there are the flowers of you.
So many there are, the blue pansy in your eyes,
the glossy red anthurium of your lips,
the spider lily of your slim body and creamy skin,
plumeria and plumbago, azalea and moon flower
and the universe of colors and fragrances that are you.
Even when you are angry I see the toxic beauty
in the subtle white glow of your oleander rage.
I see you in every color of every flower,
the petals that fall from the dogwood trees,
the dancing hues of the crepe myrtles
as they playfully twirl on the evening breeze,
the perfume of the orange blossom and magnolia,
but, perhaps, I see most in you the simple elegance,
the bold unfading flower, the amaranth,
undying in its beauty yet humble in its nature,
always bowing its head in deference to others,
yet bold and strong with the everlasting beauty
that will always define you and never be forgotten.
03/05/2018
I love pink rose flowers Kept safe by thorns on the flowers Big smiling sunflowers Wide face opening up to the red sun, flowers Ruffled white carnation flowers petticoats worn beneath the flowers Many colors of lily flowers Their cups make the perfect rain catching flowers Beautiful purple lilac flowers Each bud comes to make it's own flowers Daffodils known as buttercup flowers Beautiful little yellow spring flowers Big or small orchid flowers The smell from one fills the room like a bouquet of flowers The yard is filled with dandelion flowers Make a tea-make a salad flowers Yellow or white petals from daisy flowers He loves me-he loves me not flowers
Date Written: 8/6/2021
8/8/2021 Poem of the Day Winner "Beautiful Flowers"
"And"
2 Place
9/1/2021 The Marmite Poem Contest Judged: 9/1/2021
Sponsored by: Natasha L Scragg
As a burgundy mane of curls envelops her fair complexion,
Arturo whisks her up in his arms seductively...playfully
He is not just a beast but a sensitive lover to her
complex and intimate needs..she longs to feel him
embrace her body, soul and mind
and ride the waves of exotic and deep pleasure,
For Arturo has long been misunderstood
seemingly confident and serene
inside he swirled and churned..
he knew of his deepest and wettest desires
as he longed for them amongst the strokes
of pleasure and climax,
He watched the moistened petals part
and wanted his own intimate flower
to seduce with his intoxicating words,
Although Arturo could weave a bewitching spell,
he cared for her with the scarlet mane,
Their passion was timeless yet a tempest that blew
winds of hypnotic and earth shattering ecstasy
He longed to plunge her to the wall
and take what is his while she raged with emotion
He craved the taste of her neck and her sweet spot all the more...
he couldn't help himself..he ached for thew smallest sip
and then drink from the berried rapture,
She ravaged him as she turned and convulsed deep inside her body
He drank of her carnation tinted buds of beauty
and swallowed her whole and hungered still for more,
She writhed in pleasure as he was a vapor swirling above her hair,
her long wings opened wide to show him of their beauty and hidden places
within one another
He stiffened at the length of them
and desired to taste them in his mouth
and bring her to ultimate heights
in the midnight skies as his darkened eyes
looked into hers and the breath drank of the other
in pitch black night of erotic wonder...
Arturo would not ever stop loving her
his precious flower scented with the essence
of incredible need and passionate lust.