Long Chalices Poems
Long Chalices Poems. Below are the most popular long Chalices by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Chalices poems by poem length and keyword.
“Just because you are soft doesn't mean you are not a force. Honey and wildfire are both the colour gold.” ~Victoria Erickson
Tonight the moon sanctioned
her golden halo
to unfurl butterfly wings
rinsed with honey
and champagne ribbons,
as feathers of lunar crust rise,
to embellish the sky
with silver sequins,
drizzling second chances
upon fickle hearted dragonflies,
gifted as weapons of
deception to the sweltering breeze,
that wrapped my weakened knees.
I’ve always known trusting
is a losing game with no winners,
but why do I always feel
like an intruder sinking deep
into the depths of spiteful seas~
where planktons and stinging marine
nettles prick my untouched skin?
Yet I am still searching for
a singing star that wouldn’t
need written renderings of
how my black tinted glass
heart was left to drown.
Who would have thought,
there’d be more to the
onyx glittered
ripples that stream,
in teal blue waves?
If only they’d hear
every unspoken tale
of shipwrecked ruins
resting amongst graphite
motions of frozen intuitions,
forgotten through forsaken
lagoons amidst
fleeting monsoons,
left as memoirs along
soft coral mists swiftly
passing through patch
reefs in abandoned atolls.
So let me take my splintered
spheres to a realm of no return,
forgiving sinful anthems
that lured me to believe
that friends were more
than enemies in sweet disguise.
I am soft, not fragile,
neither am I a
shrunken blossom.
I am a tiger lily,
fragrant yet fierce,
ready to face whatever~
hypocritical fangs of fate
may serve in merlot wine chalices.
The necter of Gods garden
is the essence of our love
come let us inhale deeply
of her perfume
let us cultivate together
the colors
of its bed
In unity plant its seedlings
and tend her germinations
let us extract the fragrances
and robe our lives
in the sweetness of her care
kissed with her fruits
and her bouquet
how comely are her furrows
whose plantings are of love
a balm and ointment to sooth
her place of rest for all the
weary
ambrosia is her drink
and incense is her prayer
she supplies our chalices with joy
as does a spring meadow
gather her blossoms
and decorate your halls
and banquet together
in the produce of her fields
for she brings forth richly
from the storehouses of her wealth
Come pluck her fruit
and drink of her presses
her cistern flows saps of maples
and within her the tastes are sweet
source Song of Solomon
COPYRIGHT © 2011
Superstition! that horrid incubus which dwelt in darkness, shunning the light, with all its racks, and poison chalices, and foul sleeping draughts, is passing away without return. Religion cannot pass away. By Thomas Carlyle
Incubus weaves a titillating tale.
Swathed in a velvet flame that stirs the soul.
Trembling and relieved, I sought trial,
In the little death of the cyanide hole.
I dip my toes deeper into the sand
The ocean feels akin to a million diamonds.
Clad in azure plaid, I lie a breeze in my hand
I have the sense to fall in love with this island.
Epoch is similar to a roller coaster.
Yet I'm not tied down properly.
Perhaps I shouldn't proceed any faster.
My hands are busy with the air around me.
Sporadically I worry over the future
I wonder how much fear I have allowed.
Struggled to maintain, came up to bode suture
That seems to be the marvel among the crowd.
But now, I've attempted to understand
I must be the one controlling the wheel.
Whatever the future holds, steadfast stand.
Without trepidation, all triumphs might feel.
I'll be here no matter what happens tomorrow
I shall thus desist from being a layer of the hive.
It proves to be the root of my shared sorrow.
Will I favor water over wine yet still be safe to drive?
Were we given to a succubus or an incubus?
Stars veiled by a few straws will soon appear.
The final site has incubus tombs or mage insipidus.
It cast a dark shade across the earth and is near.
I'll be there no matter what happens tomorrow
In the midst of anguish, that would compel.
I'll be there no matter what happens tomorrow.
With eyes and arms, a soul never hurts to love well.
Let us adore ourselves before it becomes a crime.
The white moon is caressingly rising in a blue sight.
How acute a day, relies on how well you are sublime.
This story makes my future appear so bright.
1st place contest winner
Written: March 07, 2023
Pick-A-Title, Vol 35 Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Edward Ibeh
(A Poetic Prophecy)
He walked not with crowds, but with silence.
A hush clung to his steps like a prayer.
The wine of the world he did not drink—
He stored his storms in chalices of fire.
The daughters of dust followed him not for touch,
But for something they could not name—
The way the stars bowed when he passed,
The way his shadow did not crawl.
He wore no crown, yet kings feared his glance.
He spoke no miracles, yet time obeyed his breath.
He bore a flame—hidden, ancient, clean—
Unlit by lust, unfed by want.
His hands had never struck,
Yet his presence broke empires.
His eyes were not soft,
Yet the broken found shelter there.
They asked him, “What god do you serve?”
He answered, “The one within,
Whose temple I guard with fasting flame
And unbroken bread.”
And still the women wept when he passed—
Not for his beauty, but for their own mirrors.
He showed them the hunger they fed in vain,
And the feast they had never tasted.
He was a man.
But more than man—
A keeper of thrones unseen.
The lion in winter.
The sword that sleeps.
I guess I’ll cry~
a million origami stars,
watch them form
an endless sea of unwritten poems,
of how, once upon a sunrise,
you broke my igloo heart,
left me bleeding
rustic rhymes,
oblivious to the moon that
breathes within….
Sometimes there is
not enough time,
to write all these disappointments,
when life is a constant battle
between light and dark,
while I remain the
empress of the sun,
still standing my ground,
amidst the bullet-powdered dreams,
and pentacle
of seven swords,
unfolding reversed cards of
learned deception.
Yet I still hope for rising
morning jewels,
kissed with raining jasmines,
to wipe away these onyx tears,
for I’ve long been fighting
dishonest thoughts
clouding my hollow skies,
with greyest of fogs,
merged in the blackest of storms…
These woes I scribble
in zig-zag,
wishing someday, maybe,
someone would see beyond
these hazy words,
the paper-cut pain between
eclipsed metaphors.
Maybe when swirling
sapphires crack,
and twirling topaz breaks,
this aching soul shall sing,
create my own constellations,
design a cave of chalices filled
with undying chemistry.
but to seize
the gold of
your
splintered sun,
must I
m o v e dreams
across
tables of trickery
placed with
forks of forgery
and chalices of deceit
c r a
d l
i n g
the
dust of life and
ticking truth
s l i
t h e r
i n g in silk
among writhing serpents
awaiting the
stroke of
midnight thorns?
and to confuse
my patience with
a pawn is a
miscalculated mistake
for I refuse to
be chained
in citrines~
engrossed in
cruelty
served in
sinister spoons;
threats from
an egomaniac
soaked in
m u
s k s
of dusk
so tonight,
I bid adieu
to
the
eccentric accent
of a ruthless strategist;
the end tastes
sweeter than
sips of silence~
your speech mocking
the stem
of an aching rose,
illustrating p e
t a
l s
glazed by the moon~
as maleficence
in the
narcissistic narratives
there is no
line of empathy
in my arcade of angst~
for the fallen star
armored with daggers
protecting the
cave
of chaos.
I walk through mass graves blessed by complicit priests.
Their chalices vomit oceans of bones.
Every psalm they chant tolls like a hangman’s rope.
Their angels, vultures, feast on the scorched flesh of the defeated.
They branded my ancestors with burning irons,
Then wrote their names in the ledgers of hell.
Prayers never extinguished the flames of the pyres,
They fed them with hypocritical blessings.
I am the offspring of a grave never sealed,
A pain trivialized in the throats of our dead.
My cradle, a mass grave,
My inheritance, a diabolical will smeared with dried blood.
They speak of humanity with lips coated in ashes,
But their hands still tremble from the chains they forged.
Their human rights are epitaphs carved on violated tombs.
Their racist stereotypes howl like shrouds in the wind.
I have no heaven to behold,
Only the soot of colonial furnaces.
I have no future to invoke,
Only wandering shadows in my fractured veins.
Let them pray to their cannibal gods,
I will pray to my scars.
Let them promise a deceitful paradise,
I will kneel before the darkness of my demons.
I am a standing specter,
An unburied revenant.
I live among the ruins of a world that never loved my skin,
And I breathe the tainted air of slaughtered centuries.
Come with me.
I’m telling you child,
In midsummer along the canal,
Industrial waters run still.
Tread softly and you may just hear
A hammering on tiny anvils -
A guild of workshops cut in miniature,
The secret unseen labour of the woodland jewellery quarter.
Child! Here, wrought iron branches of the hawthorn
Line the towpaths with clasps, hooks, and buckles,
Burnished by the soot-black beak of the raven.
Come child! Go peek under the bramble -
Seek the woodlouse in his apron of gunmetal leather
Polishing a cluster of cabochon blackberries
With his apprentice, the buff-tailed bumble.
Come with me, child!
See field mice fashion acorn cups into chalices,
Plated and silvered by moonlit splashes.
Hunched, eye huge through his jeweller’s loupe,
The toad crafts and cuts knots of amethyst lavender,
Heavy in the scent of summer.
Come child, come further along!
A short-clawed otter is panning for gold,
Glimmered reflections of the melting sun
To be passed to the badger for smelting,
And forging signet rings for the kings of old.
Child, be dazzled as the glazier dragonfly flashes by!
She snips fragments of light,
Soldering them into stained-glass windows for fairy cathedrals.
Come look, child!
Below in the hollow of a stump -
A loveliness of ladybirds enamel tin boxes
To hold trinkets of hope, and lockets for treasured memories.
Now listen, child,
For the frogs in their pearl-buttoned waistcoats,
Record a precision of pocket watch orders,
Fragile timepieces of dandelion clocks,
Worked by the blind mole in his escapement under the soil.
Child, I’m telling ya,
Here there are neither tickets nor tabs.
For in this workshop of this tiny world,
Everything is priceless.
when you said you were
horny i didn't think
meaning on your
head
so far i just thought perhaps
centaur but a horse
of course is not
what
you are beyond the feminine
you are by far not one
of them but then
again
kissing hair other then there
and feeling static legs
that equal
mine
even her pursuit seems stronger
then flutes yet devinely
vowing to allow her
to have
me moves to the groove of a pan
pipe's melody which then
seeing i'm loving and
drinking
with a lustful beast as much
i to meet with need and
do concede to her
goat's
Goddess tongue as cups of wine
from chalices flow in streams
waterfalling from her
breasts
she
she
she can
have all of me
any time
Form:
I am a poet
I sprinkle hearts
With verses, flowers
Rhymes and kisses
In front of this mute
Beauty
Which moves away
And that I ogle
Oh! Woman
Madam
God has opened up the Heaven
To meet and greet us
Two chalices of honey
Are near the oasis
You and I are going for a swim
In the middle of summer
And afterwards, on the beautiful pavement
We will go for a walk
What an evening of beauty
Of love, of peace
Of joy and gaiety
In front of the bay!
Copyright © October 2024, Hébert Logerie, All rights reserved.
Hébert Logerie is the author of numerous collections of poetry.
Je Suis Un Poète
Je suis un poète
J’arrose les cœurs
De vers, de fleurs
De rimes et de baisers
En face de cette beauté
Muette
Qui s’éloigne
Et que je lorgne
Oh ! Femme
Madame
Dieu a ouvert le ciel
Pour nous recevoir
Deux calices de miel
Sont près du réservoir
Toi et moi nous allons baigner
En pleine saison de l’été
Et après, sur le beau pavé
Nous irons nous promener
Quelle soirée de beauté
D’amour, de paix
De joie et de gaîté
En face de la baie !
Copyright © Octobre 2024, Hébert Logerie, Tous droits réservés.
Hébert Logerie est l’auteur de nombreux recueils de poésie.
Soy Un Poeta
Soy un poeta
Salpico corazones
De versos, de flores
De rimas y de besos
Frente a esta muda
Belleza
Que se aleja
Y que yo miro con los ojos
¡Oh! Mujer
Señora
Dios ha abierto el cielo
Para encontrarnos y saludarnos
Dos cálices de miel
Están cerca del oasis
Tú y yo vamos a nadar
En pleno verano
Y después, sobre la hermosa acera
Daremos un paseo
iQué tarde de belleza
De amor, de paz
De alegría y de júbilo
Frente a la bahía!
Copyright © Octubre 2024, Hébert Logerie, Todos los derechos reservados.
Hébert Logerie es autor de numerosos poemarios.