Long Carnations Poems
Long Carnations Poems. Below are the most popular long Carnations by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Carnations poems by poem length and keyword.
I wanted to plant flowers at your grave,
and you so loved roses and carnations;
now, their beauty dances- sways in a wave,
roses stand at your grave as guardians.
Charming clusters of carnations enchant,
graceful jewel-toned roses so joyful;
in the sun like a painting by Rembrandt,
not mournful, but peaceful and blissful.
Flowers in a place remote and pampered,
where chipmunks and squirrels run and birds sing;
where teardrops fall on bright roses treasured,
and on the gems butterflies wing and cling.
Until my time on Earth ends- till that day,
then- can the flowers lay in sweet decay.
___________________________
October 9, 2017
Poetry/Sonnet/Flowers For Mother
Copyright Protected, ID 17-9482-13-0
All Rights Reserved. Written Under Pseudonym
Submitted to the contest, Best Sonnet Oct 1- Dec 31, 2017
sponsor, John Hamilton
Seventh Place
_____________________________
Written for the contest, Roses and Coronations
sponsor, Julie Rodeheaver
Second Place
The whole truth
and nothing but the fu(king truth
That laws, and math, only help solve
local temporary problems,
All of which fall way short
on the infinite needs scale
were we rely on estimates, theories,
and other manmade truths
Still here we are,
alone on a goldilocks planet
All 8 billion of us milling around,
living our lives
guaranteed nothing
other than this moment
and whatever came before
To think otherwise
would be presumptuously human
As for choice is there really any
other than try feed ourselves
and sate the instinct to survive and thrive
We are a civilisation built on
disparate societal values and creeds
Each day is an imperceptible handover
from one generation to the next,
with no guarantee they’ll do a better job
But the real problem is not truth,
It’s why!
Why anything at all,
Why life
Why the fu(k am I asking these questions
I’m apostate, No!
I have little faith, No!
I am honest, No!
A nihilist, No
It’s because I have a sentient,
curious, unapologetic mind
that compels me to ask why!
Sometimes I think
i’d be better off a sponge
floating in crystal clear turquoise balmy oceans
Soaking up oblivious unintelligible surroundings
Indifferent to mortality and the universe,
popping off a few buds every once in a while,
or whatever sponges
brainlessly do to further their species
Such basic life is so very tempting
but just doesn’t sit right
Never to experience love
however fleeting,
Never to endure pain
However crushing,
Never to feel like throwing in the towel,
Even if just to mop blood
off the floor like a sponge
See, I’ve had moments
unimaginably beautiful,
Alongside unconscionably awful ones,
Moments so real
they can’t have been synthesised
by any stretch of any imagination
I believe a God or the universe
created me as a vessel of interpretation
to perceive itself
from my unique perspective
Well not unique per se,
more a personalised handicapped view
I am nothing and everything
in the grand scheme of things
No more! No less!
One that uses swear words
language you may not like,
yet clearly understand
The weirdest part is not the feeling
I’ve written this fu(ked up poem
in previous carnations
It’s my swearing
just seems to be getting worse
By
David Kavanagh
When nylon nights
trade crystal colours
in the stalls of nimble
butterfly wings,
I blossom as an
irenic origami
fervently fabricated
with snowflakes of
greedy gloom,
stealing royal violets
from the smokey estuaries
flowing beneath the
heavens befogged
with indigos, glistening
in periwinkle-arcs of
abstract auroras.
I reminisce those
amaranth stars
that whisper
graphical pantoums in
pearlescent pixels
of plum pentagon-
shaped skies,
as everytime when
porcelain acrylics
get spilt upon mauve
pages ribboned
with hydrangeas,
my orchid lips spin
a twist of leathered
spells amidst
frozen fahrenheit of
frostbit textures.
Painting heliotropic
oxygen with brushstrokes
of peony petals,
I carry unspoken
words of iris,
so that artificial aroma
within sculptured truths
remains caged
behind these dark
magenta carnations
printed upon
cashmere curtains
of hallucinating hyacinths.
Do photogenic pansies
never get frozen in iced pyre
of parched patchworks?
For, I believe that,
drowsy poppies
too have streaks of
wine stories
to narrate in their
ages of ache.
Perhaps, I'm a
glasswinged sorceress
of arctic hailstorms,
tracing phlox-
fluorescent forests
with tropical crayons,
as oiled hues of
multi-dusks flutter
across lavender orbs,
sprinkling mauve
dewdrops upon
watercolor dusts of
pencil-shaded luna
who unlocks
silver secrets
with skeleton key,
washing my bones
with lilac fog.
So, when these
thistle shaded leaves
crack their crystal
cocoons and
the sun sheds its
fluffed feathers
of hibernation,
meet me along the
horizons where
bright Veronica
takes the shape of
the moon and
reincarnates as a
crocheted sangria
memory along the
translucent sleet of
snowy sights.
My skin is softer
than raisin pearls
of mulberry seas,
as my spirit is stained
with glamorous grape
dyes and amethyst-fresco
distemper across bitter
skies has discoloured
every apathetic shade
that doesn't seem to
define my airbrushed
heather heart.
Roses were glazed red
My fertile heart to woo
Cankering jealousy did spread
Bright petals now jaundiced hue
Violets were silted blue
Noble ambitions to thread
Blossoms with intemperate juices did stew
Now mildewed petals cloak our shallow bed
Tulips were glossed yellow
My cerebral chords to cue
Anon, savory tips did mellow
Now stale cortex in dark milieu
Carnations were flossy white
My purer instincts to hew
Your waxed petioles lusty suitors did invite
Now browning leaves on tendered stems accrue
Now barren soul rimmed by bland fescue
Heart heavy from chilling night's dew
No garlands around glib psyche to strew
Only drab, dense weeds to bid me adieu
White is for rice and brides - ready to commit.
White’s for ghosts and clouds or even carnations
but it should never, ever, be used for privilege
or worse yet, as poetic inspiration.
I’ve been waiting for the urge to write
while facing an ugly screen of white.
Waiting for the vowels to fall into place,
for words to congeal and finally displace
the awful, foreboding, blank white space.
Learning is our struggle, our crown of thorns.
The more we study and prepare for fall,
the more excited I get to reenter those halls.
34 days until classes start. For fall weather,
and the bee hum of crowded life in the dorms.
My roommates and I are like a single, nameless thing
- an emolument that happens to have 6 heads.
We’ve beaten the freshman “imposter syndrome,”
and we’re ready to bring sophomore year home -
together - no muss, no fuss - I love that for us.
pink carnations ~ ~ cloud drifting
visage in the redolence of autumn
unpretentious goosebumps
countenance of this old lady, pretty cool
calculating glory in seemingly little things
sampling of gifts ~~ ultra mysterious
everlasting gobstoppers, multi-layered*
showstoppers, glory after glory
ever growing, ever glowing S U N R E S T
the Artist never stops creating bliss and joy
ultrasensory H A P P I N E S S
carnations that remind me of my mother
God winks in this parking space
before the arctic air ~ fresh air scented
gifting reminds me of my God
my God, my God ~ His name
is written everywhere
cloud drifting ~ my mind afloat
my inner smile with reticent grief
zephyr-peace of gladness
opalescent paradise
January
Journey into the New Year named after Janus,
the god of beginnings and transitions.
Another year of New Year’s
celebration and resolutions
of new beginnings,
putting the past behind us,
and going forward into the future.
Under the Wolf Moon,
also known as the Cold,
Snow, or Winter Moon,
coldest month of the year.
Zodiac signs Aquarius and Capricorn,
birthstone garnet,
flower carnations.
Considered the month of deep reflection and celebrating
Coptic Christmas to remember Jesus Christ’s birth
Year with cheer and success.
~
January 25
~
8/9/2015
“Let me be strong, for to be anything else is to languish in the abyss of compromise and to descend to places of impoverishment so destitute that they will squelch my soul and crush my heart.”
Craig D Lounsbrough
When left to languish in lament.
Metaphorical swords become tired
from words portrayed through bloodshed.
Misery is a master of manipulation,
pulling strings of sorrow,
personifying portraits of puppets in pain.
When dreams and desires disappear,
nonchalantly negating nocturnal nigrifying nightmares,
a heavy heart hoarding hurt is helpless,
crawling like a caterpillar without a cocoon.
In an anthology of anguish,
spirit withers in a lyrical language,
lost in lanes of latent lament,
so we search for signs to our secret sanctum,
to heal broken wings of bandaged butterflies.
When hope, like carnations of death, crumbles,
resembling crying chrysanthemums.
Tepid tears of tribulation,
trickle in trails of tired tinges of insecurities -
yet we still yearn for an expurgated Eden.
In the internal insanity of suffering,
sanity searches for a relief from repression,
as our existence can emanate into
a chalice full of missed challenges,
if we do not learn from life's lessons.
When trauma reverberates on repeat.
Words are as fragile as a beautiful ballerina,
without a ballad in a ballet of broken hearts.
Yet our pens crave to dance on virgin fibers.
Our souls are an essence of evanescent emotions.
There are no winners in battles with silence.
In the rationale of reason.
raging rutilant ink pleads to pour
puddles of purifying poetry,
gracefully releasing breaths of suppression -
A speechless saviour for timid tongues.
Take carnations
tender child
till the hand
hardens
holding thorns
beneath petals
without crying
chasing kites
butterflies
rainbows colors
dazzling
from
dawn splendor
to the scarlet
gold horizon
dreaming castles
treasure islands
pearls and corals
sparkling
juggling stars
with cherubs
smiling
on moon slice
gliding
through
snow lit
Christmas
galaxies
blue and red
shimmering
till clock hands
on rose stop
thorns of time
piercing
time to pay
love with love
with
or no
applause
melting ego
in us ocean
in God's help
trusting
when too heavy
grown for parents
His strong arm
holding you
spreading
charity
lighting path
with God's love
pace and joy
unending
Gold Trophy Winner: Brian Strand-Your Option-2/2/24
Fourth Place Winer: Brian Strand Premiere 1204-3/30/23
First Place Winner: Brian Strand-All Yours-2/4/21
First Place Winner: Brian Strand-All Yours-11/1/20
Fourth Place: Julie Leigh Rodeheaver-Roses And Carnations-10/11/17
He tells stories. Tells them to plastic soldiers,
to the camouflaged sergeant frozen
in mid-grenade throw, tells tales to the green crocodile,
half reptile, half puppy dog. He tells the wrought iron
gazebo in the park with its red carnations
that bleed for all fallen heroes.
He relates the sorrowing’s of defective dragons
that can no longer breathe fire.
He speaks to the leaky batteries
and the broken springs of rubber monsters.
Pirate legends bloom in puddles Scrambling over trash cans
he explores lost plateaus. A poisoned dart finds him,
he carries the wound home,
to tell his mom how he died.