Long Cinnamon Poems
Long Cinnamon Poems. Below are the most popular long Cinnamon by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Cinnamon poems by poem length and keyword.
Last winter, I refilled my blackened quill with
a dose of your sensual sonnets,
allowing your soothing voice to be the maestro
of moaning moonlight,
reawakening a cathartic infatuation.
Drunk on symphonies that you’ve orchestrated,
a throbbing thirst instills
tantalizing tercets into my trembling veins.
I submissively let every ounce of my skin
be stroked by your titillating tongue,
tracing the milky quartz trails of
goosebumps you’ve ignited,
leaving me intoxicated in your
mellifluous world of poetic pulses,
where your honey-dipped fingers strum
the script of my love-struck soul.
Awakening fervent fireflies to flutter,
flickering luscious sparks,
while cocooned in electric feathers,
caressing the internal warmth
of wildfire whispers.
Yet, there is something about
the way the skies burst euphoric writings
on your untold rivers~
never revealed, forever lost
in the silence of sultry suppression~
luring me to follow the magnetic rhythm
of your restless roseate runes.
I will someday kiss you into written poetry,
when I take a breath
to climax as couplets intertwined,
screaming caffeinated stars in hypnotic cadence.
The seeds of your love
will illuminate pining petals,
pressed between velvety sheets
of lunar-glazed pillows,
and the cinnamon sun of a sage dawn,
awaiting drizzling diamonds
with sinful secrets etched from sweat and tears,
teasing the melted twilight
that flows behind periwinkle prose.
So place me on your empty canvas
of nocturnal stanzas.
Paint me with tender rhymes,
flowing like fluorescent ink,
bleeding from your aesthetic baton,
so effortlessly,
forever aligned as soulmates,
tied to the gossamer tunes of timeless harmony.
You're not drunk if you can lie on the floor without holding on. Dean Martin
My heart echoes a steady beat.
I lie on a hard bed
in perfect penumbra.
The soft sound seems to echo
from a plastic machine.
It beats steadily but slowly.
A nurse comes in and, with a torch,
examines the room thoroughly.
Suddenly, the heart beat stopped.
I lie in the dark on my bed,
consumed by fear. I feel stiff.
No heart beats, no life, just pure fear.
I cannot rise from the bed.
Two men come in and drag a bed
out of the room. A nurse comes in.
You will soon be fine—just a fall.
Tomorrow you can go home.
Best drink some tea with cinnamon.
You must have drunk a whole bottle!
And get up from that sofa,
it's not for you, rest somewhere else.
Oh, a cop has a notice
Seems you must go to court.
Don't ask where your bottle is.
Someone stole it and disappeared.
Placed 1
percussion hailstorm
my ears no longer bored
daydreaming about oceans
mixing memories
during power outage thoughts
an escapade my uber sunshine
nodding my head with eyes closed
to some rare 90s hip hop
candy sunglasses tastes like cinnamon
watching lightning threaten me
as i sit under a tree
remembering things like the fiddlers three
now the wind is a flute
from a funky 70s jazz song
my emotions floating on air
now its day 17
the sky has turned purple
paper thin has turned to quick thick
i find myself smiling fully
for good ole music i am a bully
now i push the Good Weight to the Pulley
When tears dry up and laughter is not funny any longer
As duvet feathers grind the weary soul to sunken skin
The parchments dehydrated canvas folds the poet’s path
A cliche strewn among the notion ‘it will make you stronger’
Depicts an empty victory pretends to gather strength and win
The prelude of the past in future remains a lonely aftermath
Gone are the days of jolly frolic of showers gelled and Turkish bath
Of journeys tickling monumental Derwish’s allegoric spin
Despairing anger cannot shed an inner war’s destructive monger
With memories and wreaths of praise and laurel turned into wrath
Then conjoined before and after numbness seems your next of kin
A magic oriental carpet’s washed out fabric evaporates inside her
An ancient pleasure cruise shrouded in silence’s muted fanfare
Sails of plain cloth mystery weather worn in droplet’s silent fall
Its time and place and time-place for scented oriental candles
To rekindle a mosaic of epic proportions a glancing care from scare
From feeling so minutely small and festered no recipe for standing tall
Yet seeds of cinnamon and hope might just reset this hold of strangle
Meditation reclusive pastures enlightenment from darkness’ bangle
Retrieved from imposed prison shackles to praise to heal and call
‘I want to be the muezzin once more sing forcefully in ink and dare’
Climb my minaret resolve cacophony write messages to Self and strangle
All those demons massage my dreams and foresight grab the haul
Then conquer quietly as time proceeds ‘I know I can in solemn prayer’
A gift beneath the Christmas tree
is not my wish this year.
I'd rather that she love me
and hold me ever near.
To have her giving heart embrace
the yearning in my soul,
and see a glow adorn her face
with joy she can't control.
To spark, a glint in cinnamon eyes
from dreams we jointly share,
and hear her gasp of true surprise
when peace pervades the air.
To see her smile, that shines so bright
when walking through the door
and share her passion's flame at night
as a private heaven we explore.
So, on this Christmas Eve I'll stare
at twinkling stars above,
then cast my wish and say a prayer
she'll send my gift, her heart’s love.
I rise from the white-wine siesta,
letting go of the serpentine songs,
like a crimson-winged dragonfly
lost in the poppy prairies of Persephone,
untangling my prisoned heart
chained by the churning
deceit of Hades’s immortal chains,
savoring pomegranate promises,
pirouetting through petrichor nirvana,
as the sky smells like a saffron rose
above the castle of emperors
dressed in fallen flowers.
Yet the diamonds sometimes are
engraved with ominous omens
and remorseless remnants,
while I return to cinnamon seclusion,
dancing to the mood of my moon.
O divine dandelion,
in your eyes I see suppressed sighs
of a splintered sunrise,
flickering balmy zephyrs of paradise,
as my soul is tied to the softness
of your delicate dusk~
like a faithful disciple,
forever following your footprints~
while velvety roots of florals
face the glows of alchemy,
amidst the array of arrows,
left as ashes of gold gone cold,
and the gracious gusts of gloaming
devouring the unscrupulous wounds
of a fragranced dawn.
I am the aching pigment
in your palette of purples,
longing for butterfly blurs
to bring me back to a
kingdom of kindness,
where I’ll forever breathe tender lilies
rinsed with wind-swept wishes.
But amidst the clusters of jewels
and raining sakura,
tonight I choose to walk with
specters of scorching stars,
allowing curves of my scarred skin
to burn from the blazing breeze
that bleeds nefarious narratives
upon the bleached borders.
So watch me waltz into the
infernal waters of the deep, bruised bay.
There I’ll write an elegy,
for the sorrow that swallowed your spirit.
I will find an anchor to pull
you back to the land of paper lanterns
as I surrender to the
haunting hues of the horizon;
the sweet sacrifice of a beloved blackbird
singing farewell in silence
to save you from the devilish underworld.
As dandelion dreams
are designed in lucid lies,
carving my essence into wintry wires
of woes and verdicts
from the
growing vines of a
villainous valley.
I feel the blackbird weep, it’s everything
I see the blackbird quiver, it’s what you bring
dreary
d a n d e l i o n
(Charles Philip Arthur George - b. 14 November 1948)
I had a cousin called Charles, said Aunty Olive.
Nice young man. That's him on our TV.
That's not cousin: it's King, said Aunty Lucy. It's King Charles.
Now watch it all on this TV. It's a TV, Olive, a TV.
It's nineteen fifty-three, isn't it? asked Aunty Olive.
I remember Victoria. There she is.
She's dead, said Aunty Lucy. And you meant Elizabeth. She's gone, too.
Now look at those oils. They're from the Mount of Olives.
Very posh, said Aunty Elsie. Olives.
Nothing to do with Aunty Olive though - she's here, right here. Ha-ha!
Do be quiet, said Aunty Olive. We're all different olives. Ha-ha!
And this boy is Prince Charles. Prince Charles.
Prince Harry, Olive, Aunty Elsie corrected. Not Charles.
Harry's the King's second son. That red-headed one.
Now, said Aunty Lucy, you must have heard of this chrism oil on this TV?
Oils of sesame, rose, jasmine, cinnamon.
Oh, yes, said Aunty Elsie. I've heard of them.
Neroli, too, and that benzoin, amber and orange blossom.
Oh, you do show off, our Elsie, said Aunty Olive.
We're not that Mr Shakespeare's three witches, you know!
But look who's here, Aunty Olive added:
That Prince What's His Name chap, that Princess royal.
Yes, said Aunty Elsie: Duke of Gloucester, Viscount Linley,
Prince George - that nice boy - and Princess Charlotte, it never stops.
And nor will this TV show, said Aunty Olive.
So let's watch this King George, er, Frederick, er . . .
Charles! Aunty Lucy bellowed.
Charles! Charles! Charles! Charles! Charles!
(6 May 2003)
(You may wish to see also "Trooping the Colour" of June 2022 and "Obsequies for a Queen" of September 2022; and Elsie appears also in "Aunty Elsie's Bathroom" and "A Rubbing of Hands")
Angels sit on top of Christmas trees
Bells ring for baby Jesus’ birth. Can you hear?
Candy canes or cookies if you please.
Decorate your home with Christmas cheer.
Excitement builds and there’s exhaustion too!
Festive families have fun in the snow.
Generous are they with gifts and all they do,
Happy - waiting for St. Nick’s Ho! Ho! Ho!
Illumination shows on every street.
Jack Frost comes along, but I will be
Kissing under mistletoe - so sweet,
Loving my December thoroughly.
Magic times! Perhaps you’ll see a fairy!
Nice or naughty? Santa makes his list.
Opening our presents, we’ll be merry.
Parties of the season can’t be missed!
Quince pudding tastes so fine with cinnamon.
Rum cake for me! Pa rum pum pum pum!
Stockings filled by Santa - oh, what fun.
Turkey, stuffing, and potatoes. YUM!
Uplifting messages and songs we’ll play.
Visits to our relatives we’ll make -
Wishes too, for a white Christmas day;
Xmas time, be good for goodness sake!
Yuletide logs are burning. Turn in for the night.
Zapped of energy, get Zzzzz's! May all your dreams be bright.
Written in January of 2016 For the Contest of Shadow Hamilton
Whether in desert
Or in orchard
Ducking
Or flirting
Wearing a shirt
Or a mini skirt
You look really romantic
And a classic connoisseur too
As mildly
In a cinnamon glee
And so softly
Like the leaves of trees
Insert a little
In apple like comfort
Your mystic and metaphysical lips
An elegant ellipse
At the embroidered rim of a teacup
In a dim twilight
Or brimming sunlight
Lightly and smoothly
Into the awesome delicacy
Of Darjeeling tea
Custom-made for thee
As everyone knows
You are so choosy
Obviously you drink to your heart’s content
Leading to your alpine ascent
Into an augmented mood
Nude snow glistening in your contented attitude
Almost at Kanchenjunga
Exuding a radiance
In your animated countenance
The flavour you are so fond of
The way it makes more suave
Most likely
Makes you carry
Wherever you go
With your thoughts red white or yellow
Your favourite tea equipment
Those brilliant looking teacups
Buildups of excitement in the tongue
The obvious clouds in the lung
Tomorrow we will need those things
When we will be in the swings
Of clouds on the bank of unknown river
In the amber morning
Just chilling
You will prepare and serve us tea
In the blowing breeze
I am sure
We will no more sneeze
As tea-food pairing
I know
You will take grilled chicken also
What a delightful window
A waft of summer wind from the Baltic sea
A natural mystic
September 28, 2017
For the Contest: Image Me A Poem
Sponsored by Mystic Rose
Based on the first photo prompt
Those who do not know the trials of love,
do not ask the state of my heart
I've been left standing in the rain,
feeling like meaningless words,
searching for silent serenity,
away from turbulent thunder.
Safe in a sanctuary of solitude,
where the laments of lightning,
no longer harm my soft sanity.
Will speech be my foe, forever?
On the edge of silence,
losing all desire to speak,
write or breath with time.
I read the promises of poets,
yet felt no intense impulsivity
in their ink, which made me think.
Is poetry a fictitious fellowship?
Words can be like crushed promises,
like fragile leaves of vulnerability,
waiting under twilight trees for death.
Sometimes loneliness is barbaric,
but when there's wilderness, there's magic.
As I stumbled upon her misguided quill,
the crimson shade of my soul,
felt warmer than cinnamon tea.
Her poetic wings had succumbed to slumber,
within a fragile cocoon crumbling with cracks.
First glimpse of her eremitic eyes,
I saw billions of solitary stars,
illuminating like golden tears,
so I kissed them without touching -
healing her, soothed my tired tongue.
She was the butterfly,
and I, her rose of desire.
In the absence of iced emotions,
like a thief in the night,
she stole my once forsaken heart.
Forgotten lost words returned,
as I lost control of flowing verses.
She had never read my poetry,
but was the one hidden behind verses.
Her voice sang a secret symphony,
who's melody makes my muse dance.
Was I even a wordsmith,
before you diversified my pen.
I know you are like the wind,
regardless how hard you blow -
I will forever calm each zephyr.
Silent One
16 October 2021