Long Chiselled Poems
Long Chiselled Poems. Below are the most popular long Chiselled by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Chiselled poems by poem length and keyword.
UNCANNY RELATIONSHIPS
an outward
fantasy of
coexistence
the gulf
revealed
in a cosmic breath
a contemplation of
ground & sky
carved
& chiselled
with indigenous
knowledge
a glimpse
of wilderness
kept at bay
a wry evocation
motley
emollient
at its simplest
existence
serves
it own purpose
THIS IS AN OPEN(organic) FORM VERSE without grammatical symbols the ' open' relies upon 'the one breath limitation' & so inherently requires the 'reader' (reciter) to input and respond thus making the form a two way interplay and often a unique interpretation by the enigma so derived
Just see
How fearlessly
Sunshine is seated
On the gravestone
And the caring breeze
Whispering to the loneliness
So absolute
Beneath the tombstone
A paleolithic stone
A meaningless silence
Guarding utterly alone
The desiccating non-existence
Here lies she
Neither sad nor happy
Decaying gingerly
Enriching the earth
Are all doors locked
The moment we breathe our last
Then why the philosophers and scientists say
Energy is neither created nor destroyed
Happy earth
Taking her in with mirth
Smilingly giving birth to
Green pink and yellow
Coz her face chiselled
Poetry in her dimples
Aggression in her pimples
She made the flowers bloom
Where there was just thorn
Dried hay on broken bricks
Rude words from unwashed mouth
All stared with amazement
Yes when she had her words and breath
Flow of life like a brook
Never dreamt of lying buried
Knew her life in wavelets only
In her looks
A cup of morning tea
A mug of evening coffee
Fountain pen and notebook
One who gave so much
To life and society
Will stop stay put and still
Useless skeletons?
In death too
To herself she is true
Providing nourishment to soil
Making room for red and violets
I look in wonder
You are still writing poetry
In these flowers of skeletons
Colours of desiccation
I am sure next spring
Here in this green cover
A Cypress will grow and spread
A recognition of yours rieker deeds
Now the afternoon is still here
Moments are tender and pale
Shadows are coming and going
Stillness of accumulated past
Intense is darkness
Beyond death of life
Like when a love
Suddenly ceased to exist
As I remember your face
I earn freedom from this cold ice
Your warm cheek and palm
Are still a vibrant support
In death you lie down here
Stay reassured
In life you are in our thoughts
Whenever a candle goes out
Whenever we run out of candles
We look for you at our centre
You never disappoint us
Ever lighting us a candle
This way death awakes in life
Cypress grows on lonely graveyard
This way shadows of deer and cheetahs
Rise in life to engage our eyes
_____________________________________
September 15 , 2017
Poems that paint a picture 2 Contest
Sponsored by: Silent One
OPEN
Each
chiselled
line
enamel
images
to float
upon
sounds
sans
rime
staccato
syntax
align
symmetry
as
iambics
beat
the
drum
of
vers
liber...
....tine
crosswise MATISSE
Your art your notes your style
So varied so wise so true
Opened then drew close to
My eye my mind my heart
My eye my mind my heart
To love to learn to know
Your craft your theory your technique
Forever you made so unique
crosswise-GRAND-DAUGHTERS FAIR
Your innocence your purity your smile
So open so natural so wide
Charms enchants awakes
My spirit my eyes my pride
My spirit my eyes my pride
Inside in wonder in youth
To pray to gaze to praise
In love in awe of thee
quintile-SWEET VERSE
words too
familiar
or too remote
defeat the purpose of which,
he wrote
was his
hidden
enigma
a step too far,
if no-one could open
his jar
Inspired by Johnson's famous dictum
sequence-THE COUNSELLOR
He
opens
hearts and minds
in sickness and
health-
He
draws us
to himself
a quiet voice
we
hear
prompts
and reminds-
until peace we
find-
Then
fills us
with His word,
so we may be
heard
Fibonacci-faith quaternion
when
I
listen
God will speak
when God speaks
my mind
will
hear
when
the
open
door closes
light begins to glow
a new way
for me
to
go
An open verse
Will
my verse
reach your ear
can
your eye
stay the course
Does
unconvention
confound
the rhythm
of your eyes
Take
a deep breath
exhale and read
between my lines
unphased
by phrase and
habitude
or human voice
The choice
is always
yours if
my poem will
be or is
not to be
a tune upon
your ear
Another hallowed arrow from his quivers
One of cricket’s greatest shiver givers
Coursing down your spine like rivers
Fine line..never dithers as slivers
Of adversaries hopes on the ropes..withers
Tipples tickle our livers
The latest tropes of how
Somehow…anyhow won’t kowtow
Postman Pat delivers
Matinee idol looks tease
Record books hooks please
Finds batters crannies &
Nooks with such ease
Impeccable length…metronomic
Chin music chagrin
Such strength..astronomic
Gift of getting the ball to lift
Chronic bounce…hedonic
With his swag bag of quicks tricks
Name on the adored hall of fame
Lords boards with six..another Cummins elite fix
Beat Bob Willis’s record tome of the best
Test figures for a captain at cricket’s home..
Yep..yet another done like a kipper
By this chipper ripper skipper
Who’s not found wanting
His chiselled jaw..up there for sure
With the mean hardcore
Ponting or Waugh
As the best Test baggie green
Top draw Captain (not woke...just a better bloke) seen on screen
Or that’s maybe ever been
Who is the child playing in the white and crimson clouds
With the sparrows in the eyes of his merrily smiling mom
Setting free her poetry pigeons making both laugh aloud
In the pain of the solitary leaves what a white rose balm
And you Clara strumming the guitar in the cinnamon shade
Tempting the teen to paint his passion on the chiselled smile
As in the indulgent darkness a tipsy light the moon sprayed
Brush and canvas engage deeply to make many a love style
There the ocean splashing the colours in an obvious oomph
On the rooftop near the beach a full moon ready for fission
In between them hundreds of wings spraying a blue perfume
The night belonged to the moon and sea in a purple flirtation
Under the desirous hills amid the restless sun and shadow
On the dew-soaked grass the stories that you and I know
Come clouds do come just for a while at my hungry window
In my pink tears of twilight let me have a look at the rainbow
October 7, 2017
For the Contest : It's the end of the forms series
Sponsored by Broken Wings
Looking for hay in a stack of needles
Standing on the edge of the abyss
as it falls into me
Kicking the dust that forms chiselled mountains
Reading the contents while the book is still written
Wind and rain laughing at our hubris
Clutching at the past
as now never seen cowers
in fear
As the future feast on seconds yet to happen
Want always yearning
and need so discerning
This carbon corpse
This empty shell
History lost in the time before
And self dies silently
its sweetness never tasted
Its greatness always harnessed
and yet we dream
Of something unknown
behind the final exit door.
Choosing the pain because relief
leaves us numb
and life that all succumb
First came a moon
Then it was the second
Words called me night and noon
Pink pearls of passion
First it tasted blue
Then as birds joined the moon
Your love in view
Oranges in dune
Shadow in the tea
Your chiselled poems
Crazily desiring me
Your lovely haemoglobins
I gaze at the crane
Flying in the blue
Lovely coloured rain
Angelina in queue
They come and hold my hand
Lead me to the colour
Both bright and bland
I cannot but love her
These moon gathering sessions
Of the practiced passion
These smelling obsessions
Of your rhododendrons
Are my moons in your smile
Of the poetry on your lip
Like the river Nile
A twilight in my ship
_____________________________________
14/11/2016
Contest: Practiced Passion
Sponsor: Frank Herrera
I dream to wake up in a new world,
A world that is balanced and healthy,
A world where love, peace and togetherness thrive,
A world where war is not a resolution to disputes.
A world where no one is indigent.
My dream is,
To have my thoughts on a slate before me,
To be able to shut the door to the deluge of my mind,
To be able to permute my thoughts in a serene flow,
To have my sky clear from sombre clouds.
My dream is to wake up in a sculptor's world,
Where defects are easily chiselled out,
My dream is to have the world on a canvas,
Painted with colours of laughter, joy and hope,
Bringing daylight into the midnight train.
My dream is to always yield to the Potter,
To have Him mould me to His choice vessel,
My dream is to wake up in a different world,
A world adorned in its pristine beauty,
A world unsullied by the innovations of time.
August 12, 2022.
Where are the boundaries, in love thoughts that grow?
Life above all else, seasons change,
And love like the star's eventually grows dim.
Wherever I have been again I will go.
Her face when in youth was smooth, smooth as silk,
And his was as fine and chiselled to touch, as she said.
A rose is a rose that will open not close and the bark of a tree
Thick or thin I suppose.
Memories can change as quick as a dream, the stroke of a brush
The pictures it makes, I seek sleep.
Though the words that I write that nobody reads, only for me
Lead down to the sea, where I wait.
What should I do, where can I go, not to far in the past nor the
Future to know, but I do.
And futile is life unable to reach the heavens at night, to see a full moon,
Where Woman and men still have visions that seek.
Unable to change the small world all live in, love is blind, blind to whom
seek,
Is but through life a small masterpiece.
Above: Wystan in fancy dress
as a beetle -1912
Photographs of Wystan
One of the world's
greatest poets
in a pose, similar
to an Anne Gedde's baby
Balancing beetle antennae
his head at an angle
a satin suit padded to
emulate the chest
of a beetle's,
Spare legs of black velvet
dangling while
he stands upright
feet together, his
expression, militant
Certain in this moment
of his current
resemblance to
a beetle
At five years old,
to think he held
potential for such poetry
A black and white photo,
frontspiece for "The Life of a Poet"
It appears to have been
snapped just before an
exhalation of his cigarrette.
At 65
his face is wrinkled
eye bags reminiscent of
a sharpei puppy
but it is the forehead
that so amazes
with grids as square as graphic paper
as if the poetry
had been mapped out
on his face
I've seen mud, cracking
like that, on a dried up river bed
His fingers are long, chiselled
and in relaxed contact
with that cigarette as
he holds back a chuckle
with the smoke
His air is of a casual formality- a waistcoat
teamed with with a plaid sports coat
In retrospect, here, he had
reached his full potential
I wonder if someone
uttered at his funeral
"Stop all the clocks."