Long Chill Poems
Long Chill Poems. Below are the most popular long Chill by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Chill poems by poem length and keyword.
M-oon gazer at midnight
A-lways awaits the sunset;
R-eady to stay awake,
J-oining not the woeful fret.
O-nce she gazes at the moon,
R-apture she'll truly feel;
I-n spite of the darkness,
E-vening shadows and chill.
E-ach ray from the moon
N-ever will fail the gazer;
D-azzling star nearby
I-s pleasant to the beholder.
E-very night she watches
R-adiant light from the moon;
A-llowing the brightness to bring her the big boon.
C-almness and serenity
O-f the moon are both felt;
N-ightmares and fears
S-hall all eventually melt.
T-enth November midnight,
A-s she looks upon the sky;
N-either moon nor star
T-ries to make her cry.
I-n her bed she can't slumber,
N-either eye can sleep tight;
O-pen to see the gleam, moon gazer at midnight.
I did not sleep that night,
the hotel room was already taking on
the chill ambience, smell, and sounds
of an intensive care unit.
Occasional distant laughter
in a corridor where people are carefree,
I pretend to laugh along
but thoughts croak and tremble.
I mean nothing to Cincinnati,
the city has no memory of me yet,
and If I die in its University Hospital
I will still be a hole within a hole
of a book never read.
During the 4 a.m. G.P.S drive
it rained a soft black rain
as headlights plowed into
the unknown.
Back in the hotel room,
I am still packing and unpacking
while somnambulant eyes
try not to see the looming Hospital entrance
emerging from a gray faced dawn.
The entrance is an electric mouth
that withers. puckers and reflates.
Beyond sliding doors, the day blanches white.
Blood Red Moon
Deep devouring passions bleed now from this solar eclipse
As black blood flows from an evil army of “undead” beings
Whose fangs hideously and cruelly pierce the veins of their
Mesmerized and unsuspecting victims who are held at bay.
In such silence burdens prowl inside deep sad heartbeats
As ghastly living shadows creep eerily in and knot the
Tortured guts of a twisted scared bloodless life falling
Under the dark macabre gaze of the Blood Red Moon.
At night uncanny black magic spells are intoned in the
Old Latin scripture as large spider webs cast a gloomy
Presence and envelope now all those trapped by them as
The misted breath bleeding hearts howl to Heaven’s roar.
Standing upon a rugged and lonely mountain crossroad
There can be no release from the devilish glare of the
Vaunted “Blood Red Moon” whose evil presence pervades
Every breath you take and casts a demonic derisive stare.
My senses are now frozen in place as a deep chill shakes
My soul to the very core of its primordial existence as I
React to the cutting cold of a dawning maleficent darkness
Invading every corner and space of my psyche and existence.
The wicked jaws of a rabid beast seek now to bite and rip
All beauty from me and all thoughts I hold close and dear
As I gasp now for life and painfully feel my tired heartbeat
Slow as my immortal soul numbs and cries crocodile tears.
I’m cursed now to walk alone forever as my spilled remains
Are cut now and my ties of human existence have disappeared
Putting me on the ground on all fours as I ponder my ultimate
Fate in the hands of a supernatural force beyond any mercy.
As the shadow of Lucifer’s Blood Red Moon passes over my
Tortured face I spy a look at one demonic siren prompting me
Now to follow her as my body is placed on a sacrificial alter
And my life ebbs away as I’m kissed by spirits of the damned!
Gary Bateman and Liam McDaid – A Collaborated Poem
Copyright © All Rights Reserved – October 11, 2015
(Narrative Quatrain)
By Phan Tan Hai
1
Drizzle glides back through my dreams,
soaking an age of memory;
old tales whisper like poetry,
floating into my sleep.
Mother lulls me with gentle words—
praying the rains will bless the rice,
praying the world will rest in peace,
praying all who wander escape the flames of home.
2
Far rain sweeps across the plains,
carrying longing down a thousand paths.
Mother teaches me my first letters,
teaches me to become river, become mountain.
She says I must learn to love all beings—
three realms, countless distant lives.
How could one count all debts of kindness?
Live each fleeting moment with reverence.
3
Night rain carries the forest’s fragrance,
returning to embrace our little town.
I hear Mother teaching me tenderness—
for a sunbeam, a flower, a blade of grass.
She teaches a gentle mindfulness:
love the chicks, love the mother hen;
watch your step for ants along the road—
remember to walk softly.
4
Late rain brings its chill into the night;
I hear Mother reading me a page,
rainfall threading through the porch,
and I sleep within its quiet tapping.
Mother sings old lullabies—? oi—
praying I grow whole in my learning,
praying I never stray from wholesome paths,
praying each word I speak carries the Dharma.
5
Night rain from past lives has not passed;
Mother teaches me to sit like a mountain,
to hear the breath near and far,
to hear the silence of rivers and streams.
She teaches: no self, no other—
walk through the forest of merit;
with eyes of compassion look everywhere,
empty and still, day and night awake.
6
Night rain saddens all of Sài Gòn,
soaking the years when I first grew up.
Mother sings that being is non-being,
that the First Noble Truth holds ten directions of sorrow.
That I am ocean, I am forest,
that I am cloud, I am sunlight;
that this body rushes on without end,
that the mind is quiet through the three times.
7
The Ganges of past lives—night rain—
flows gently within me;
morning, noon, evening, and now,
this shore, that shore, the waters fall dry.
Mother’s words I write into verse,
letters flying mid-sky like wild geese;
in this realm I live as if dreaming—
walking, standing, lying, sitting in stillness.
---- Lunar New Year 2023 (Year of the Cat)
In the basement of our house
Was a workshop
Of gray tools
And the smell of 3-in-1 oil
There under the steady glare
Of florescent lighting
My father
Worked.
Whenever he called me downstairs
It was to talk
About something important
Or a mistake I made
After every few sentences
He would adjust his glasses
And pause
To make sure I understood every word he said
A habit
He had until the day he died.
Speaking with determination
He told me never to lie
You may think people don't listen
He said
But inside they do
The mind
Works
Like a sponge
It remembers everything
Even when we get tired and forget.
So remember
Nobody likes a liar.
I first saw Susan walking
Down the street
Head held high
Graceful
I tried catching up with her
But she was quicker
Than I was
We met again when she dropped her keys
Picking them up
I told her
She was the most beautiful woman I ever met
A slight exaggeration
An innocent white lie
But a lie nevertheless.
Soon we were together
Clothes on
Clothes off
The new found
Thrill
Of intimacy
Was intoxicating.
In small bits
Day by day
Freedom evaporated
And our lives
Became hopelessly twisted
In an undertow
Of life, money,
Apartment
Problems and future
I wasn't honest with myself
And deep down inside
I never knew
What I was hiding
Or how fragile a relationship could be.
One night she asked if I knew
Anything about roses
I barely stammered a what?
Roses symbolize love, sympathy and
Elegant beauty
She said
But they're one of the most fragile flowers
Ever
They can turn brown and die
From a chill in the air.
I fell asleep on the couch that night
Getting up in the morning
I saw the made up bed
And in the kitchen
Nestled between coffee and sugar
Was an envelope
With my name
Scrawled in clear
Bold handwriting
My hands shook
As I reached for the envelope
The urge
To leave it unread
Was strong
Until suddenly, I tore it open
And read it through
From top to bottom
Over and over again.
Catching my breathe I sat down
Enfolded
In the strange quiet
Of an empty apartment
Wondering how different things might have been
Had I not told white lies.
A deep, dark kindred spider looms to proffer the sentiment,
That abuse just objectifies the long persistent winter:
Scouring around playfully, but embedded in the night -
Two way of seeing it but only one plight.
That black body, its piercing eyes drive acutely,
In the lengthy web that’s receptive but selfish with quirk,
With thin, spindly legs which effect to mobilise,
The creature only some befriend to glamourise.
We hold to the summer, autumn and spring as the norm,
Not winter’s harrowing chill which makes us so often ill;
The act of telling someone you've been raped, abused,
Should not be a sick kick or a jester’s a thrill.
If you don't give us our minds, stance and chirps,
You'll just be cushioning that admiring psychologist,
Who asks us about physical abuse, sexual, and rape,
But who we hate to have as we’ve no trait.
Give us our spirits, intellect and powers:
Don't glare, glance and glower at our ordinary activities;
Equality only exists when you feel it and can tower,
In the informal social networks of civil conviviality.
And of course, nasty small talk itself causes rape,
Violence and abuse which derides and can shape,
The heart that reaches out to befriend and welcome,
The fence-sitter, the open mind who quietly relates.
But if you say physical abuse just objectifies other lesser evils,
Like criticising needlessly, cutting us off, and gloating,
Then your sick in the head and unforgivable,
Because all discrimination is unnecessary and avoidable.
I love January when Jasmines blossom
little sapphire buds unfolding fragrance.
February makes us laugh with a leap
yet so short it makes women talk less.
March marches as song of the summer
yet clinging to what left of the winter.
April lingers in cold ; a season not sure
yet takes the spring to hug the summer.
May, may be a bit sure of the heat ahead
yet lovely, brings new tunes with the breeze.
There comes June with power of the sun
Bright and alive the long awaited summer.
July, simmers in warmth from above
Sun so bright as if burning all its fuel.
But a timely monsoon sooths the hearts.
August August chasing the summer winds
welcoming the falls of the autumn leaves.
September makes us kings and queens
with autumn falls the nature so sweet
October makes hearts jump with joy
what a canvass nature paints in glee
November makes us ready for the chill
as winter flowers start to bud in the wild.
December, a season of Joy with hopes
pampering us to want it to last forever.
Snowy mounts all dressed up to dance
For a farewell to the seasons we lived.
The Days and nights would fast pass
Let's not amiss treasures nature gives
For short are our days in this globe
Faster the seasons change and roll
Sooner we are ripe to wither in our role.
I can see the world spread below
As I glide and soar up here so high,
I can even catch an image there
With my patent magic eye.
There’s a metal bird to the left of me
On its steady way to France.
I have swooped, circled and dived it,
Led it a merry little dance,
Till the seated driver waved me
Half angrily out of his way
And so I left it flapping on
To enjoy my special day.
I can see a waggoner down below,
Had a wave from his young mate
As they steered their shire team
Through the new toll high road gate.
I see the majestic plod plod plod
Of that steady great horse team
So much more attractive than
Those modern carts of steam.
This world is full of mystery
Of new and wondrous things
But nothing quite so joyous
As our new mechanic wings
Such a feeling of elation
As I circle even higher
Hear the wind steadily singing
Through my harness wires.
Have we reached the limit?
Is there any more a man can learn?
Or are those mysteries just placed there
To make us dream and scheme and yearn
What is in the future just now?
What more can science give.
Can there have been better times
For any man or woman to live.
The wind is growing chill just now
As the sun slides quickly down
One more dive and swoop for joy
Then it’s down back to dull ground.
Through the web all night and day
Sheep do graze and wolves do prey.
Like cats and dogs we go astray
Searching the Path to Love freeway.
Torsos, faces, muscles, eyes,
Vivid, blurry, bold or shy.
When delete and when reply?
What’s the truth and what's the lie?
So I click and go around,
Scrolling up and scrolling down,
Being either fox or hound,
Feeling rather lost than found.
Shrug or sigh and start again
Browsing through all different men.
Guess it takes more than a click
To find what’s behind the pic.
Shouldn’t I just laugh and chill,
Submit to dating site windmill?
Relax, enjoy and here I find
The perfect grain, the finest grind.
Watch out: don’t fall in love online!
What’s written sounds smooth and fine.
But then you meet and “What the Heck!”
She is Fiona, He is Shrek!
The sky is a deep October bright blue,
and trees are laying down their pretty leaves;
orange, red and brown scatter whereunto,
Indian summer and fall interweaves.
And trees are laying down their pretty leaves,
the morning chill gives way to drowsy heat;
Indian summer and fall interweaves,
in the park all the birds are singing sweet.
The morning chill gives way to drowsy heat,
even decaying gardens have beauty;
in the park all the birds are singing sweet,
but soon the wind will be blowing breezy.
Even the decaying gardens have beauty,
from my garden I picked the last red rose;
but soon the wind will be blowing breezy,
soon, the snow will fall and all will be froze.
From my garden I picked the last red rose,
orange, red and brown scatter whereunto;
soon, the snow will fall and all will be froze,
the sky is a deep October bright blue.
_____________________
October 2, 2017
Pantoum/Indian Summer
Copyright Protected, ID 946458