Long Circles Poems
Long Circles Poems. Below are the most popular long Circles by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Circles poems by poem length and keyword.
Once a fierce warrior of the night,
with battle scars gleaming
under the moon's cold light,
a feral feline, solitary and strong,
a singular peculiarity
where loneliness had lingered for far too long.
Roaming the alleys with a stoic gaze,
surviving day to day on scraps
in a never-ending concrete maze.
But one fateful day, fate intervened,
In the form of tiny kittens,
innocent and kindred and serene,
warmed her beams, magiced beans
meets cupid in a loose board to a backyard seam,
floodgates a new beginning,
investigated by the other,
followed magnetically complete.
With endearing adopting human family.
Curiosity piqued, the warrior drew near,
to these fragile beings and nothing to fear,
their mewling cries were a melody so sweet,
it brought back a remembrance tear,
it tamed the savage beast, softened
the warrior's hardened fleece heart enough
to again beat in sync and stare and produce a purrl
of loves idiosyncrasies, right then and there.
Jerechoing the walls of defenses
of seven sacred circles pacing against instinctual liquefaction for the release of senses.
To thrust again in the feel of kin in it's wild unleash.
Of again trusting in the concept of family and need.
No longer alone in the dark of neglect's night,
the warrior found solace in the kittens' need of guide, guiding light.
A bond formed, unbroken and true,
a token speaking in love where
translation bloomed anew.
The scars of battle faded into the past,
replaced by a treasure troves chest opened avast,
found again in the eyes of the Angel Guardianed
KittenPardon, a plot so pure and kind, magic
of a strange kind-cast upon them all as a unit cast.
As hue-clanity found the warrior finding redemption in order, in their gentle unwind kittenic disorder-
rewinding whisps of feeling,
Whiskpers of
telepathy, empathy like little wands in the wind.
Little paws making biscuit love massaged right in, rendered kin.
Ignorance is a rhyme without a soul, an art fading into slow oblivion,
like fallen tulips swirling through captive rays of a weary sun,
amidst hot sighs tearing through the deafening silence of the evening,
and they are more than the burning thorns of a phoenix rose moon,
infused in scarlet elixirs of an enchanted dusk weaving its silent spell,
braiding love into golden glimmers, among double scales of blazing flames,
burning my velvety heart and asking, could you be the galactic gardener,
the one who waters my weary spirit, when I am but a simple memory,
tangled in vengeful vines of vanity that choke and smother,
for I have a voice and sing with the grace of garnet amidst ignorant silence...
If tomorrow you feel my heartbeat among old and forgotten verses,
of a scentless sonnet, long erased and lost in the mists of time,
remember that I am the silk and the sage, the untamed silhouette of a flower,
a gentle flower that refuses to breathe in the ossuary of withered petals and dreams,
wrinkled and ostracized dreams by the thorns of prejudice and unrefined ink,
which sting the soft stems facing cyclones of greed and arrogance,
spinning in circles of pure and dazzling vanity that know no bounds...
Tonight, I follow the warmth of the hyacinth, of unwavering and burning desire,
drawing bloody smoke of love with a thread of winged and fragile gossamer,
tied to the fragrant roots of horizons untouched by shadows,
as I craft promises of petrichor along the spine of a nocturnal garden,
where handmade wreaths of hope and faith feel softer,
softer than the moonlight that caresses and soothes the bare soul,
while my heart resembles a maternal bouquet of burgundy happiness,
a woman who does not heed misogynistic mantras, but follows her own path.
Something is wrong, as we go in circles
Chaos is erupting all around
But it's the contradicting messages
that leave no answers found
Trust diminishes, like rain washing it away
leaving floods behind in people's lives today
Worries of what will happen, increase
and yet the threats do not cease
Some people plan, as others deny
Some people brew, almost paralyzed by it all
People seek answers, resolution, understanding
But, everything is spinning, rushing to fall
Stories flipping, words and weapons flying
Lives lost again with silence following along
It's too hard to comprehend or explain
Bombs of confusion are flying, something is wrong
Heidi Sands
4/2/26
(C)opyright
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The expresso machine hisses,
its steam whispering secrets~
morning's slow ache dissolves
in remembered promises.
I unfold my hands on the table,
press my thumbs into the laminate,
counting the knife scars
you once traced with your finger
as constellations.
The door jingles.
I watch the door open
wanting it to be you, Tilly.
I want it to be you so badly.
A small animal in my ribs
whimpers Tilly,
as if the universe might shrug
and give you back,
steaming from the rain
in that ridiculous leather jacket
you stole from your brother.
The barista calls order up
for someone else’s life.
I stir my spoon in circles,
watching the foam collapse
like all the things
we didn’t say.
Renewable Radiance
Streams of clearest light,
Born of a star,
Splash across flaxen maize,
Beckoning tall sunflowers to follow
With their skyward gaze
Dashing through newborn dewdrops
Creating playful shadows
In the bouncing,
dappling,
flashing,
flowing
Golden glow of brilliance in bronze
Making freckles on upturned noses
Or fiery heat on skin neglected
Now captivated by smooth glass faces
In cycles of sunrise and sunset
To find a place in close community
Coming home to rest on rooftops
Turning midnight into morning
Bits of sunspots
Energizing evening
Seeking opportunities
To turn on street lights
Heat a winter night,
Light up empty highway signs
Kitchen lamps in gathering spaces,
Where scents of stews
Float up from simmering pots
Sitting atop daystar fire,
To cool the breath of afternoons
Turning summer heat around in circles
Then ever giving birth to moonlight
Illuminating a garden path
Or candles
Twinkling
In the trees at midnight
Reaching out,
Waiting - standing at attention -
Begging to be used,
But not used up,
Gladly emptied out
Never tiring,
Never holding back
In jealousy,
No matter what the calendar proclaims
Or season promises,
Collected radiance renewable
Renewed
Generating energy
In spinning allegros
Freely given,
Freely breathing,
Inexhaustible,
Joyful
Gift and giver.
I have wandered through rooms
that echo with the steps of others,
through streets lined with faces
that feel like reflections
of someone I almost recognize,
and I keep asking
what it means
to truly live.
Is it the rhythm of breath,
the pulse beneath the skin,
the quiet satisfaction
of surviving another day?
Or is it something larger,
something that presses against the ribs
and refuses to be ignored,
something that shapes
the hollow spaces of the soul
into something that belongs
to itself?
I try to trace it in memory,
in the moments I felt most myself:
the laughter I could not hold back,
the pain I could not bury,
the trembling when I realized
I was both less and more
than I ever imagined.
Tell me what it is to live,
I whisper to the empty air,
because I am tired of moving
like a shadow,
like someone borrowing time
instead of holding it,
like someone watching
instead of being seen.
Purpose is slippery.
Identity slips between my fingers
even as I grasp at it,
and the reflection staring back
does not always answer.
It only asks me to keep searching,
to keep naming,
to keep leaning
into the quiet ache
that reminds me I exist.
And so I wander,
hands brushing against the edges of myself,
feet tracing circles
in rooms that may never hold me,
asking again and again
for a voice to tell me
what it is to live,
for a body and a soul
that will finally answer
without shame,
without hesitation,
without fear.
I yelled and flung the empty whiskey bottle through the air
The marching high school band is getting closer
Children running, playing with the pygmy bear
The carny selling snake oil, argues with the grocer
Soldiers marching past the fountain try hard to hide their stares
as ladies of the night walk by and boldly strut their wares
The preacher turns the other cheek, and quickly looks away
As mothers hide their children’s eyes, on such a dreadful day
The hunchback and the midget playing baseball on the grass
run off the growling rabid dog that almost bit their ass
The fishermen pull up their anchors in the dark and tranquil bay
and sail off to their secret place, where mermaids swim and play
The doctors and the lawyers and their limo drivers too
lay drunk across their tables in the dimly lit saloon
The one eyed hooker sings aloud her favorite Country tune
As the village idiot runs in circles, howling at the moon
And me I’m just here sitting, watching from the bleachers
As children on their outing, yell profanities at their teachers
The firemen turn their hoses on the salesmen trying to sell
Direct TV subscriptions, as the crowds yell “go to hell”.
City lights come alive, the cats desert the streets
The silence of the falling leaves, are gathering at my feet
As I walk past the working men, erecting circus tents
To bring tomorrow’s curious here, to offer new events
Life is just a game to me,
I never stood a chance.
The rules were just suggestion,
To play me while I danced…
To dance around in circles,
Chasing what was hope.
Enough to feed allusion
Enough to keep afloat.
And when my hand was strongest,
When odds were at their best.
My cards had left me nothing,
Now I sit and bare the jest.
Games were always changing,
The rules were never set.
The bluff, almost convincing
As I double-up my bet.
It seems luck is against me,
Fate with her to boot.
They weren’t content with winning,
So they robbed of my youth.
Lonely chips are waiting,
Soon I’ll be all out.
I think myself, a victim
But I always kept a count.
Always taking chances,
I swam against the tides.
The players seemed to notice,
So familiar with my lies.
I didn’t seek to hide it,
Or disguise my lack of faith.
I wouldn’t bother cheating,
Nor try to plead my case.
I gambled all my savings,
My feelings and my past.
Remorse was just a bonus,
One I finally lost at last.
When I reached my limit,
The end of my last bout.
No one bothered turning,
Or rose to see me out…
I refused to waste a moment,
Nor stop to breathe the air.
My tired legs were moving,
But to where? I didn't care.
Form:
A bird circles overhead, its wings sweeping the air. Its eyes, piercing downward toward the ground, are sharp and focused. It calmly rests upon a leafless branch of a large sycamore tree. Looking outward from the branch, it scans the brilliant red and orange sun slowly dipping below the distant horizon. All is quiet and peaceful. A cool breeze ruffles the bird’s feathers.
A small furry animal lurks below. The bird’s eyes carefully follow the animal’s movements. Attack, the bird thinks, but no, it chooses not to. Instead, it prepares to fly away to another tree to have a look around from a different perspective. The bird knows that it will make many journeys during its lifetime. It knows it will rest upon a multitude of trees and hedges and if only for short-lived moments in time, it knows that it will have fleeting feelings of happiness and freedom.
The bird takes one last look at the little animal scampering below. For a brief second, the bird wishes that it was that animal. It feels that the animal has a permanent place for its home instead of always wandering aimlessly from place to place making a new home for itself.
The bird flies away, its wings flapping against the humid stagnant air. Once in flight, the bird keenly looks around and pursues another branch to rest upon.
Planets are in motion and matched
upon a level plane.
Ducks are waddling faster
just to fall in line.
Pundits, prophets, and drunken poets
opine over a mystic wine,
others follow the science around
in ever increasing circles.
Dogs and cats are eloping,
bookmakers are hardly coping
for all bets are both on and off.
Could it be, is it possible?
Will the sky skinny-dip
in a new revelation of light or dark?
I am watching
the elephants and the scurrying mice;
noting if they are heading toward holes
in the fabric of a fresh 'spick and span' reality
or just fleeing one more conspiracy theory.
Meanwhile I draw straight lines
trying to figure out
how disappearing perspectives
can give us all the run-around.