Long Carol Poems
Long Carol Poems. Below are the most popular long Carol by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Carol poems by poem length and keyword.
Carol didn't have the elegance or the charming smile
of beautiful Mona Lisa...although being much younger;
perhaps she wasn't the wife of a wealthy man?
Considering her modest dress made of white
cotton, lighter than clouds on a resplendent day of summer;
what made her look a bit too melancholic was her wide frown.
The blank, somber look seemed to delve into a deeper sadness,
she must have been very surprised by her indissoluble surliness;
Robinson painted it in nineteen fifteen when the First World War
broke out, so her mood dipicted that event thinking of her soldier.
A bright background still couldn't make a favorable contrast
with a face that wandered far and seemed completely lost,
but he completed it despite the uncertainty of the response,
he realized that red cheeks replaced the absence of essence.
Entered in Debbie Gucci's contest,
" Ten Picture, Ten Poems, Ten Poets, Ten Days "
Written on 1/ 7/ 2016
Poem # 2
He’s been on the lawn
Every year…for 40 years
A four foot tall plastic
Glowing, snowman
I sat with him yesterday
As he looked a bit down.
Asked “what’s up old friend?”
He sighed, slowly spoke
Asking “where are all my friends?”
“There are no angels across the street
No bells chiming down the way
I haven’t heard one Christmas carol
Or seen one silly Christmas sweater”
I hesitated to tell him
The Grinch had actually
Stolen Christmas
Or at least held its joy hostage.
He flinched when I told him
“some even take offense at you”
Because of what you symbolize,
What you stir in the hearts of children
Reawaken in the hearts of alleged adults.
My neighbors are trying to figure out
Why I was sitting on the lawn
Singing Frosty the Snowman
Loudly and somewhat off key
Have you not heard of the legend
of Terror Turkey Tom?
Who roams the woods punishing those
who do Thanksgiving wrong?
The bird with an unending hate
for those folks that he sees
putting up their Christmas décor
exceedingly early.
None now how the bird for like this,
though many have their say,
some thing a Christmas-hating witch
cursed him to be this way.
Others think he’s a demon-bird,
sent from the pits of Hell,
or that he watched Christmas Carol
and didn’t react well.
Whatever made Tom so upset,
and no one knows the truth,
what’s clear is if you put up lights
early, he comes from you.
On one chilly November 1st
he found a big box store,
and destroyed the fake Christmas trees
they’d put out on the floor.
The next day he happened upon
a blow-up Santa Claus,
the kids cried when the found St. Nick
shredded up by his claws.
One of those light-up reindeer was
the next foe on his mind,
he tore poor Rudoph’s antlers off,
as warning to his kind.
When he saw blinking lights strung out
before Thanksgiving Eve,
he pecked out every single one,
how greatly did he seethe.
He saw one woman putting up
garlands before the snow,
pecked her shins ’till her yoga pants
no longer could be sown.
When festive elves went up after
the night of Halloween,
he pecked their eyes so all would know
exactly what he means.
Most say that he is sill out there
hunting the green and red,
if seen before Thanksgiving Day
then you will know his dead.
You’ll hear his gobble in the night
and you will know the pain
of what happens when Holidays
don't stay in their own lane;
So mind the seasons as they come,
don’t push Christmas too far,
or else Tom the Terror Turkey
is coming to your yard.
"The wait is over,
the northern wind whistles carol,
for Christmas is in the air." - Quote by Poet
Merry Christmas time is in our joyous sight,
embraced by the frosty December ambiance,
as the sun-starved days fade away fast
in the gripping fold of the freezing night.
The leaves of fir trees flash as the stars shine
with the gloss of the gleaming splendor.
In the firmament of our enchanted hearts
elation shimmers bright with the divine light.
The northern wind whispers the winter tune,
mingling with the church bells that toll in solitude.
With the elated children the sleighs slide
on the buried pathways of the meadow white.
The cadence of the carol melody floats
in the air from afar with the heavenly flair,
rides the whirling waves of silent snowflakes,
sparkling with the sequins of mesmeric moonlight.
The portals of our minds will open to insight,
perceive the essence of His boundless kindness
permeate the cauldron of our devotion,
we’ll offer Him from the core of our devout souls.
The sinned will be saved by His munificence,
glittering as the star of the ornate fir tree,
that will glisten with the radiance of kinship,
inspiring us with the belief of Christmas spirit.
Our minds flitter like the beguiled butterfly,
collect the color and scent of sensual flowers,
filling up the cornucopia of delight to the brim,
that we offer Him with dedicated soul full of joy.
The lighted candles will drive the darkness away,
the star will descend on the Christmas tree,
that will glitter with the patina of happy time,
making our hearts pulsate with the festive rhyme.
Your Erin green eyes, piercing my soul at night.
Beseeching my soul to pick up a pen and write.
Your flowing Auburn hair, with a " Distinguished Gray " .
How do I make my pen express feelings, WHEN I HAVE NONE,
So Sleek, Suave, and Debonaire, how I wish we had some time to SHARE.
I ponder with pen in hand, Where do I get feelings from: they must be out THERE
I seem to remember, along time ago: I knew the feeling of LOVE.
But She went away August 25th, On our Everlasting DAY.
I know that I will never be a poet, for I can Never have another One,
That can show me how to write, the true feelings of my Heart.
With no feelings: No Knowledge of feelings, How do I write with my Heart?
The emerald eyes: say IT all: No longer can you use " LENORE " as a wall.
My heart hears the faint call: of feelings :Yet with pen in hand, my mind says :Stall.
So many lonely years, so many tears I've cried, another with Jade colored eyes.
Through her and her many Peers : Tamiviolet, Bill, and Charlie; so Profound.
And the Great Matriarch Poetess : CAROL BROWN.
I beg of you all help me learn to pen feelings, as I read in your words.
Bringing to life : Clouds, Flowers, and Birds.
Sometime I to Will BE A POET
Your voice all quiet now
Your laughter never to be heard again
And yet it still echoes in my head..
Your smile still plays in my mind’s eye
Feathery kisses blown from above
Floating around brushing against my face
The sadness sometimes overwhelming
When the wind blows and the flowers dance
Their multihued colors magnetize even the butterflies
Just like you always use to do…
I can’t help but smile,
remembering your love for them.
When I look at your daughter,
She reminds me about you
Even though you left too soon,
you taught her well...
At the age of thirty five,
The battle were no longer yours to fight…
Contest : Reflection
By : Wilma Neels
7th Place
In the spring of 1880 young Clifford Griffin immigrated from England to Colorado.
The death of his fiancee left him bereft and he was searchin' for his El Dorado.
He settled in Silver Plume where he and his brother bought the Seven Thirty Mine.
Clifford and his brother Heneage became very rich from ore that assayed very fine!
With all his riches, Clifford chose to live in his lonely cabin above the town.
His only companion was his treasured violin which he played with some renown!
His melancholy melodies wafted down from his mountain aerie 'most every night,
To be heard by the whiskey-guzzlin' hard-scrabble miners to their delight!
Clifford always dressed in black, enjoyed fine cigars and was quite the dashin' bloke!
He seemed content with his solitary life and in business was as solid as an oak!
Alas, death cast its gloomy pall high above Silver Plume one moonlit night.
Instead of sweet violin music, a single shot was heard that left the town affright!
Next morn his mortal remains were found in a grave he'd dug for himself alone.
His heart-broken brother found the pistol with which his brains he had blown.
A grand monument was erected atop the mountain just above Silver Plume,
At the very spot where Clifford lay midst the ponderosa and Columbine bloom!
Mysterious events now occur on that lonely mountainside accordin' to local lore!
'Tis said on moonlit nights sad violin music is heard below on the valley floor!
Folks have seen a black-clad phantom smokin' a cigar and drawin' a bow,
Playin' melancholy music and a wraith in Clifford's likeness a-swayin' to and fro!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(c) All Rights Reserved
Entry for Carol Eastman's "Story Poem" Contest
Kimberly
Christian, poet, caregiver, avid reader
Loving daughter, devoted wife and mother, sister
Lover of chocolate, family, Christian and country music
Who feels compassion, restless, insecure
Who fears rejection, large bugs, spiders and cancer
Who needs Jesus, friends, solitude
Who gives a listening ear to whoever needs it,
A helping hand whenever possible,
Words of encouragement
Who would like to see the hungry and homeless fed and housed,
An end to all violence and hatred,
The Holy Land
Resident of Niceville, Florida
Merryman
9/20/2012
For Carol (Sunshine) Brown's
"Life These Days" contest
We dressed him in an ivory lace christening gown,
That had been handed down generation to generation;
I asked my mother and grandmother if it was okay and they said yes,
My baby boy was perfect and he looked so very sweet, just sleeping.
I held him to my heart and my husband did too,
We kissed him and whispered our forever love with tears;
And when it was time, sadly we both gently placed him in his little coffin,
That day was a nightmare that I will relive over and over, till my end.
There was a long row of cars winding down the road,
The cemetery seemed to hush, even the birds were quiet,
And then we were standing at my baby's grave, oh the weeping,
The sounds drifted in the air and amongst the many drooping trees.
Even the angel statues in the cemetery turned and wept his death,
I stood there with my parents holding hands, my husband stood apart;
Oh his face was set in cold stone and he took his deep grief to his own grave,
As they lowered the coffin it started to rain- and I lifted up my face.
My mother whispered in my ear, even the angels in heaven are weeping,
I go to his resting place often and bring a white rose for my little baby,
And as I walk that winding road, the angel statues lower their heads and weep,
For in my eyes- is a deep pain that will shatter your heart if you dare look.
_______________________________
May 2, 2016
Poetry/Verse/My Baby Boy
Copyright Protected, ID 16-784-857-0
All Rights Reserved. Written under Pseudonym.
Submitted to the contest, First Place Only
Sponsor, Laura Loo
Second Place
_________________________________________
Submitted to the contest, Your Own Favorite Poem
sponsor, Carol Eastman
First Place
__________________________________________
Submitted to the contest, A Poem You Are Proud Of- 2
sponsor, Skat
Fifth Place
__________________________________________
I’d love to be with you in a canoe
accompanied by summer’s softest breeze,
enjoying the verdant valley view
while drifting on a river lined with trees.
Ahead would be a peak that whisks the sky.
We’d look above us from our little boat
to where the eagle and the osprey fly
as in the quiet glow of dusk we’d float.
We’d dock on sand and find a cozy spot
to roast some hot dogs in our campfire’s heat
and spread the luscious picnic foods we’d brought;
then relishing tranquility, we'd eat!
Amid dark, silent pines, by fire's bright light,
we'd snuggle happily into the night.
For Carol Brown's "Picnic Time" Contest