Long Carved Poems
Long Carved Poems. Below are the most popular long Carved by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Carved poems by poem length and keyword.
As the pulse of your loving heart beats in mine
Scent of your charisma, graced by your beauty,
Evokes jubilation of blossoming spring revelry
Lilting elegantly within prairies of my memory.
Summer of dreams still wears your happy smiles
Surfing cerulean waters on cresting ocean tides
Recalling aspirations of sand-castles you built
Carved carefully on the beaches of my reveries.
Music I hear strums tunes of dulcet melodies
In evening that echoes cheers of verdant hills
Being enchanted by the passions of our first kiss
Applauding the symphony of romantic feelings.
When it was time to part, we never said goodbyes
As you departed with a gift of love appended,
Cherishing our vows blushing-moon witnessed
Promising a return, to build sand-castles again.
But alas, I waited till your imprints faded away,
Thoughts that now linger have not much to say
Except how time changed everything we meant
When our seasons greeted advent of new days.
Yet, I dwell silently in glow of your gentle ways--
Precious bond you bestowed, I will never forget,
Though winds of fervid dawn have since drifted
I remember how gaily aurora of love brightened
When spectrum of your aura gilded my horizon.
May 13, 2020
Placed 2nd: I will never forget poetry contest
Sponsor: Silent One
HM: Brian's Choice H Contest
Awaiting she who cares to find
this special world where hope resides;
the paradise within my mind
where dreams were long ago defined,
aroused by dawn's alluring show.
Throughout the vibrant morning, skies
are glowing hues of distant love.
The color burst excites my eyes,
dispelling anguish in my cries,
and leading me where dreamers roam.
'Tis here where I'll behold the face
of one whose light is shining bright.
A kindred heart I will embrace
when touched by her romantic grace;
entranced within her gentle gaze.
Then, with her blessed hand in mine,
we'll find an Eden of our own.
As joyful spirits intertwine,
two separate lives will then combine
within this realm where love unfolds.
A story told like none before
is carved upon a mountainside;
our spirits captured evermore.
And when we pass through Heaven's door,
our legacy will still live on.
WHEN I WOULD BE GONE
There are times to be loved and to love,
that was what I had believed for so long.
You, my beloved, came in my life like a dove
on the winds of time, you proved me wrong.
You came flying in the secluded sky I made mine,
winds with scent of romance never stopped to blow
with love from the hued horizon of sunburst shine,
unfading flowers bloomed in our hearts in astral glow.
A sparkling stream you flowed with fluidized grace
cascading in rocky valley turned jade I carved for you.
The course to serene sea we pledged together to trace,
at its blissful depth to discover our melted hearts anew.
The journey we made across rugged terrain wasn’t easy,
lost in cold dark nights you found me, didn’t know how.
You became my second shadow faithfully following me
from the beginning of our time to the twilight hour now.
The mute introvert’s mind couldn’t express these words,
I write for you in verbose verse, the last and the only one.
You’d return at dusk from my sky to nest like other birds,
find my inscribed lone feather I’d leave when I’d be gone.
December 16, 2018
The Only One
Motionless moments,
Unfading scenes,
Dreams that refuse to depart,
Flowers that never bloom.
A world that does not turn,
Wine that has lost its taste,
Endless longings,
Poems that will not reveal their meaning.
My fingers write and write—
Yet the silent veena I do not touch.
“Play,” it cries,
“Let music rise!”
That music alone
Set me into motion.
I walk and walk,
Yet the road does not grow shorter;
Weariness grows with every step,
And stretching my tired limbs,
I seek a place to rest.
Wherever I pause,
Carved paintings of exquisite beauty appear;
But I do not sit—
I lose myself
In their silent splendor.
With both eyes
Filled with the beauty of Kasini,
When I open them—
There is no world,
No time,
No poetry…
—A Discourse Beyond Empires
You come to Beijing in polished shoes,
Wearing history like a crown of thorns,
António and Ursula—names carved from conquest,
Eyes soaked in the smoke of fading empires.
For fifty years, you called us rivals—
Now you call it friendship.
But friendship built on suspicion
Is nothing but diplomacy’s ghost.
We are not like you—
You measure greatness by how far your flag flies,
We measure it by how deeply we understand ourselves.
You conquer others.
We conquer the self.
Why do you enter our halls
With the tone of spoiled kings,
Telling us to condemn
When your own hands drip with silence?
You mourn Ukraine in white silk,
Yet you clothe genocide in Gaza
With golden indifference.
Do you not hear your hypocrisy
Howling through your noble speeches?
You demand that we kneel
To your morality—
While your bombs speak your true tongue.
You speak of business,
Yet you enter our gates with prejudice.
Can trade survive when trust has died?
Can partnership grow
When one partner still believes he owns the map?
Europe, you are not Rome—
Though you dream as if you were.
The days of dictating to China
From across seas and centuries
Are dust now,
Scattered in the wind of rising civilizations.
You say modern philosophy was born in your soil—
Then where is your wisdom?
A world awakens,
And you still sleep in glory long expired.
For decades, motor cars
have driven past in haste,
eyes not straying far
from the highway to where,
set back and obscured
by scrub,
an abandoned farm
is slowly succumbing to rot.
I catch a glimpse
of an old cart out front
and stop.
Nothing moves or makes a sound
as I approach on foot.
It's as if the spirits
of the place have paused
and have taken refuge in the quiet,
my trespass an interruption
to their daily haunt.
There is a farmhouse
and a number of sheds all
in a dilapidated state.
Rotted weatherboards
still hang onto
the farmhouse frame,
though a few have fallen off
where rusted nails
have given up their grip.
Corrugated iron sheets
replace window glass sealing in
secrets that have slept
in darkened rooms
for what now must be more
than fifty years.
I lift a corner and peer in.
Empty except for rubble
strewn floors
and sagging webs
as if still weighted
with captured dreams.
Whoever lived here must have
taken some pride in what they
carved out of the bush,
their labor fuelled by hope.
A family with kids perhaps.
There is a rope tied
to an old car tyre still strung
beneath a red gum
that would have served
as a swing. The remains
of a dolls pram
and a broken cricket bat
continue their decomposition
in one of sheds.
Their lives now have dissolved
into anonymity. In the privacy
of my own quiet, I call out
as would a visitor might have done
to announce their presence
at the farmhouse door.
No answer. I leave,
slowly dissolving
into my own anonymity.
High above the harbor's flow,
amongst tall peaks and late snow,
where the krumholtz trees will grow,
to Lake Tear-In-The-Clouds I go.
Up here in this rugged spot,
a place explorers once sought,
echoed sounds and quit thought...
water spills through ancient rock.
Through the wilds it will wend,
by small towns it twists and bends,
winter's flow and icy spend,
until spring sun brings and end.
Above eagles dive swiftly
at trout below, swimming free.
Rafters paddle frantically
down channels fast and stony.
Rush water, clear and cold,
carved a gorge by the Blue Hole,
racing river, ice-age old,
through land that cannot be sold.
Down-river it's not the same,
where the Hudson's calm and tame,
and polluted, we're to blame,
but way up north it remains.
My Dear Carolyn, I want to Thank-YOU for YOUR Contest “ The Work You Do? ”
I usually Do not Brag, but I’m going to in this Piece I also may throw in Kitchen Humor
I Dedicate this to YOU : Carolyn Devonshire My POETRY “ TEACHER “ LOVE, HG
The first two quotes I heard in the beginning of My Career
“People will always Eat” ( Chef Lis ) : “People eat with their eyes” :
( Mr. Franklin Whalen ; ) Owner of The “Barrington House Restaurant”
Forty-Four years later, the Sonata of these words Still Rings in my ears
The Aromas, sweet and spicy, sour ,tart, fruity, meaty, waif through my nose
I remember the smell of burning starch, elbows set in ice cold water on the stove, two hours
Taste buds come alive, epicurean; connoisseurs : enticing The palette soothing the throat
I read my breath, in the dire cold of the freezer: a block of ice becomes A Heart of Swans
The Center Piece of Mr. & Mrs. Posner’s 75th Wedding Anniversary Dinner
On a Pedestal , in the centre of the “Swan Heart : I carved the “POSNER" Holding Hands
How Sweet, When they asked me “Would You makes us one of YOUR Classic Dinners?”
“The Rack of Lamb, with the Plum- Mint Jelly” “ Don’t forget his Famous “Béarnaise Sauce”
A Vegetable Bouquetire , Cottage Fries, with a special “Flaming Cherries Jubilee” for Desert
Perhaps, as they did when : Young : Their eyes found each other, as they fed each other
The Gleam in their Eyes, reflecting the Jubilee’s flame Opening the Mirror of Their “ L O V E “
As a Chef The work I do is very Rewarding and I shall Cook until I die( and even Then!! )
She was an enigma -
Complex and beautiful in her chaos
A painful hunger consumed her being
Not for food, but for an untouchable perfection
Disappearing was routine,
Yet it didn't stop her from wanting to be seen
She was a victim of continuity -
Of privilege, ego and power
Of a world still ignorant to her differences
To a world who still criminalised black kids
She lived a life her parents lived
Continuity was the burden she carried
Not of her bloodlines lack,
But of a world who hated black
Picked apart, she was dissected
Visible but unprotected
Her life was a series of persistent questions
Not to hear her side, but to reject it
To use her trauma against her
To gouge a reaction,
To stereotype, to label, to call her 'dramatic'
Her world revolved around survival
Of slipping through systems trying to be quiet
Not from shyness
But to make it out alive to get justice
To hold the world accountable -
For crimes against her peoples blackness
She didn't want to be a statistic -
Just a girl who lived among racists,
But, who escaped to become an activist
Whose legacy was a safer place for future generations of black kids
So, yes she was an enigma
But her impossibility carved her a path into a new era
[Verse 1]
They built their fences high and wide,
White porches where their secrets hide.
Laughed in rooms where he’d never belong,
Called him Beast when he walked too strong.
No shoes, no name, just dirt and fire,
Scars from hands and hired liars.
He kept his voice down, learned to crawl—
But they still prayed he’d never stand tall.
[Verse 2]
She came in lace with a crooked grin,
Smelled like roses, spoke of sin.
Eyes like winter, cold and proud,
A whisper soft, a promise loud.
"I’ll fix him," Belle said behind her glass,
As if a soul was hers to pass.
Took his hand with a velvet chain,
Smiled sweet while she carved his name.
[Chorus]
But oh—
This beast was never broken.
He wore their slurs like armor, unspoken.
They called him shadow, called him shame—
But he held the mirror to their names.
She called it love, he saw the trap,
Her hands too smooth, her heart all black.
And when she lied her final breath,
He kissed the ground and wept her death.
[Verse 3]
She wore her beauty like a crown,
But spit on every soul bowed down.
Danced through halls built on the backs
Of beasts and boys they painted black.
He saw her gold, her powdered face,
And heard the screams beneath her grace.
No sword in hand, no royal blood—
Just truth that rose up from the mud.
[Bridge]
When justice came, she tried to cry—
But even roses learn to lie.
And every beast she ever named
Stood at her grave, unashamed.
"You feared my face," he said aloud,
"And wore your privilege like a shroud."
"You smiled while calling me the curse—
But now you see who needed worse."
[Final Chorus]
Now fox and man, now claw and hand
Walk side by side across the land.
No more masks and no more chains—
Just soil fed with old bloodstains.
They called him beast, but he forgave.
He carved a world from what they gave.
And in the wind, you’ll hear his song—
The one they feared… was right all along.
[Outro]
"Beauty ain't in mirrors made...
It's in the hands that plant the grave.
They feared the fur, the flame, the scar...
But the monster's not the one who starves."
Racism is the wicked twist of all!
Note: Grateful for an 2nd place finish in the A Wicked Twist On Fairytales Contest.