Long Circlet Poems
Long Circlet Poems. Below are the most popular long Circlet by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Circlet poems by poem length and keyword.
Earth digestion bland which fuming dispersed so much the awaken quiet rest, short when touching last best morning awaken o dear husband, all scream here are the same!? How mark grove liquid sits and colours beheld, hung over beauty
with wonder Aurora's eastern steps drop the myrrh rose know that when night come dear husband, all scream here are the same. If dream past night to call for me than the moon shall set off her face in vain, So that pleasing night the vain. Knowledge fancy the day as day mock the dumb, one can not be sure of the other regard heaven!? To find alone As I shaped wings, I pass thru sudden morrow's and offence and trouble, dear husband must I alone say? that all scream here are the same. Till the night walks and Am I to sleep the day speak thru I find rest. My sins surcharged lock of Ambrosia sweet cropt. The fruit's of men's and his disknowledge fair eve. YHWH happier among thy self partaking no goddess to earth that the fair skin one's pluck the pleasant from our children hearts, o dear husband what have to say????? All screams here are the same!?
some last evening addition blame the mind, each in gracous fear drop their haste to know that all screams here are the same. fair kept from serene cheered arborous soon as they spring old heaven sun an rapture style? unspeakable heaven invisible symphonies. Who can tell Elohim son Yeshua that thou belong not to the dawn praising dawn, Come all you circlet creatures that once held me dear, know that all scream here are the same. fro great praise in nightly crowned power wonderous angels seek to know that I alone Am, thine this fair sit dimly beyond mind, dear husband where are you here that when morning come showing that where Am I, acknowledge eternal meet womb that born the forgotten children of YHWH that his son Yeshua was murder by their words, you and him have found forgiveness in their ways lost to time, but I dear husband breathe loud and soft an maker new praises ye, but when the night comes, all screams are the same. Dancing in the darkness mixed with nourish as advanced worship with old law and new, for every soul here dear husband are of one voice for all voices here dear husband are the same!?
That we love is unquestioned, not a point of controversy,
Our marital or partnership ring is personal and never mandatorily issued;
Youth lets us find it in order to keep and hand it on a generation,
As it symbolises our joy, contentment and exhilaration.
When we are lonely or selfish in our relationship with the other,
The ring on our finger inspires with platitudes which save,
From ourselves or society’s fashionable, glamorous glaze,
To treasure the person that we love, until we are for them brave.
When Bilbo embarked on the journey to retake his land,
He found a ring which he felt so personally attracted to,
And so kept it for the use, meaning and magic that did from it emanate,
‘Cos its semiology was his cosmology as its sign was life immaculate.
But when he approached his land, a dragon claimed it so,
Which made Bilbo consider his strategy and individuality,
And when he actioned the ring, strength was his reality:
He only had to think about or touch it, and so upheld it in supremacy.
Our symbol of the ring for love alludes to a greater ring,
A friendship ring to admire and like, and maybe to suggest and fight;
If someone’s land is his or hers, and is not, it means evil lurks,
So Bilbo invigorated love’s power to kill and vanquish this night.
Smaug the dragon held evil and torment in his breath,
Fiery and without request of light, gumption or relationship;
Bilbo even calls himself a bulgier of its world of hardship,
Slavery, murder and creatures of all-consuming darkness.
The physical ring only facilitates the person to aspire,
But in Bilbo’s time it was in danger of falling into the wrong hands,
So Bilbo allowed Smaug’s hell-pit to thus consume the golden circlet,
Such that all that was left was those who accept love’s commands.
That killed Smaug and the origin of sin and immorality,
‘Cos to posses the ring is not to necessarily to honour it,
So when Bilbo returned home from his adventure,
His life continued on in his nephew’s by his conjecture.
About Lord of the Rings and The Hobbit adventure.
Near an old forest, there lived a motherless girl
Named Rose with rosy cheeks and golden curls.
Her dad Henry remarried a business woman Hurry
As Henry wanted the best for this lonely, sad girlie
Not only that, he brought her a puppy called Furry
To cheer up, as Hurry used to go out for money.
One day Rose didn’t find Furry in the house, was worried
Thinking to go to her dad, just then Hurry walked in flurry.
She said, “I had been walking Furry and it had run away”
Not believing her, in the night Rose took the forest way.
It was cold, dark and raining very hard in the forest
So Rose Took shelter under a big oak tree for rest.
Waking up in the morning, she couldn’t believe her eyes
As the trees were talking, they had mouths and eyes.
One of the trees bent and said, “I bet you are hungry”
A branch shaped like hand, gave Rose a red apple crunchy.
Then Rose told her story and the trees listened to her
And advised to go to the willow that will help her.
Before she could grasp, a cute mouse Chunky appeared
“I will show you the way to the willow with cheers.
While heading for the forest, Rose saw a hawk in circlet
Its eyes on Chunky, Rose put Chunky into her pocket.
They reached the lake, The Willow Tree was glad to see her
Rose told her story and the tree was pleased to help her.
It said,”Chunky was left by a woman, but safe and proper
Then it gave her a roll of paper hidden in Chunky’s collar.
It was the Deed of cottage that she hid from Henry
The tree sent its eagle to fly all of them without worry.
+++++++
March 24, 2014
Form : Free Verse - 28 lines
Fourth Place Win
Contest: The Magical Forest by Roger Horsch
“We have no milk,”
you speak quietly
in a tone reminiscent
of another’s observation
that wine had run out
at a wedding feast.
Miraculous transformation
of wine or milk
from pitchers of water
seemingly absent from
the church job description
of educator and
director of parish music,
a deficit, in proportion
to the yearly salary of
nine thousand dollars
for seven days work
each week with two
weeks off for good behavior.
As there is no blood-letting
from turnips, there is
no milk-letting from music.
Your milk-filled breasts
have not enough milk
for baby and cereal for
two growing boys
at the table. Evenings
liqour store clerking and
weddings and funerals
cannot fill both
refrigerator and bellies.
Nine thousand dollars,
before government
expenses and other
deductions, does not
provide well for a
family of five.
Well below the income
for a family of four,
much less five,
no food shelves yet
conceived for the
impoverished and
hungry. Reaganomics
mock the poor
who fight for the
crumbs from the
richman’s table.
Trickle down’s
empty promises stab
visciously at the
hunger-panged
stomachs of the poor.
The class of ‘70
golden ring, the weight
far too heavy
for a musician’s right
hand, would decorate
finer the hand of
another man. Perhaps,
remolten into glimmering
shimmering light,
the golden reshaped
circlet might hang
from a chain
adorning the neck
of some young woman.
The jeweler’s eye
gauges carefully
its worth, twenty
dollars, no more
no less, twenty
dollars it is.
There will be milk
and bread on
the table for
another week.
© 2015, Robert Charles Wagner. All rights reserved.
He stood before the soldiers,
a king draped in royal purple.
He was crowned
with a circlet of thorns woven together,
and pressed into His brow:
Sharp, piercing, cruel thorns.
And His blood
flowed
down.
Mocking soldiers played their part well.
Bowing low with sneering faces
then rising up with wooden staff
they struck Him,
over and over and over again.
The king said not a word.
They spat on Him and laughed.
The king remained silent.
No condemnation escaped His battered lips.
He was brought before His subjects,
beaten, bruised, but not broken.
Not defeated.
Crucify Him! Crucify Him!,
His subjects shouted as they rejected Him.
So He was stripped of His robe,
nailed to a crude wooden cross,
where His blood
flowed
down.
"Father, forgive them!", He cried.
"They don't know what they are doing."
They didn't know who He was.
They didn't know that He had come
to teach them the path to God.
They didn't know that it was for their sin
He was dying.
They didn't know that He was the one
they had been waiting for:
their Messiah, Deliverer, King.
They didn't know how much He loved them
as His blood
flowed
down.
Upon a winged horse he flies
To spired castles in the skies
And there through star-lined halls he strides,
A fiery sword slung at his side.
The scabbard for this burning blade
From fragile dreams of love is made.
On his brow a golden circlet rests
Of high position to attest.
As misty floors pass ‘neath his feet
And he breathes the air so warm and sweet,
He looks down on a war-torn earth
And his mind goes back to his kingdom’s birth.
A young man trapped inside a war
He could not find a reason for;
So confused by doubt he started to run
And found that his battle had only begun.
He ran so fast and he ran so far
Until at last he could run no more
And there in a meadow ‘neath pale moonbeams
He collapsed, exhausted, and started to dream.
Within an empty hall he stood,
The walls of clouds and not of wood.
The floors were all with stardust strewn.
The beams were all of sunlight hewn.
Instead of a soldier’s olive drab
In silks and satins he now was clad.
Before him two golden doors swung wide,
So gathering his courage, he strode inside.
Then morning came,
With the sun he awoke.
“I’ve got to go back.”
Were the first words he spoke,
But sleep wouldn’t return
No matter how hard he tried,
So lifting his sidearm
He fired…
Now when you look up to the clouds
And they seem like a palace
Remember that king
In the land of his dreams.
Your icy fingers reach up,
breaking the silence
that rises from the eerie depth
of fog,
enveloping us like an ocean.
You touch my hand at first,
sending electric throughout my whole body,
I feel paralyzed,
helpless.
I let your bony fingers rap around mine.
My breath catches,
and it seems as though the fog thickens.
I can no longer see her,
till she kisses me,
slowly,
gradually.
It doesn't matter if I open my eyes,
there's nothing to see.
Your hand breaks away from mine,
I sense it move through the fog,
towards my face.
I brace myself for the smack,
knowing there's no other outcome.
Instead,
I flinch at her touch,
as her fingers gently caress my face.
I am so lost in the moment,
when the fog dissipates,
and I look into her deep brown eyes.
We get up from the hard circlet of dirt,
evidence of past camping trips engulf the area.
We head through the dense Forrest,
No sense of direction,
knowing we're on our way home.
Her hand is in mine the whole way home.
I sneak back into the eerily dark house,
back up the creaky stairs,
into my bland room,
and onto my tiny bed,
thinking not of the kiss,
but those hands,
those masterful fingers,
which played with the strings of my heart,
and left me
with this loneliness
only your touch can fix.
Words_ in my garden@ the edge of thorns.
Population cultivation of shrapneled bones.
My thoughts, mine, alone.
My as she helixed the change
of elixired kool aid and iced earth,
Ayahuasca tea to drink under the crystal sun;
To be or not to be undone.
Dangled as a charm over my eyes,
walled popularity,
that rivit ring resurrection machine gun
@A rising force of risen suns,
from the sea of emptiness
@circlet chain fire testing this blue toothed,
teething proofs of brainwashing that is being done.
Cutting me tooths on techlobotomy future suturies,
filling with bad blood,
of milk undone into channels of soured diversities.
Blasphemies abreast of Bathory, Borden,
Mystopheles.
Metaspinions on bile for birth of strange aeons and late night gerd.
Storied olde.
Waking death, rebirth, federation,
mental masturbation, folly, jolly rogered
as if it depends on.
A friend, so I have heard,
fair weather turns cold.
Luminous miscellaneous adorn my crown,
Frills and strawberries,
Thorny circlet dusted with a light layer of twinkle,
As my eyes hysteric with confusion
muse on this loss.
I gather the lumps of loaf
crossing the border of light
toddling and traversing through the hues
of bent butter beauties
drooping into the worn old stone
one foot forward of the other
two stayed peering past
my grandfather built all this.
silver lick of hair stuck to his brow
that little rhythm in his hands
trembling like the trickles of water
heaved, trodden, beat and brandished
by the river rover.
oxidized poles decorated with patched quilts and marked clothes
trodden through top soil
of the hearth of the earth
will i even sense this again?
this burrowing thing inside of me
borrowed from ages long past their prime
will i too become another fleck on the sun scorched sill ?
Against a browning hill
oak trees' bleeding limbs are stretched;
some drops release to softly fall
some cling to dry encrusted scars.
A few short months and we will walk
beneath the springing trees
marking their swords of thinnest green
stabbing at the stars.
And so, life seasons make their rounds
in nature and in men
the flower wilts, the rose is pruned,
the leaves must fall again.
Everything of lasting worth
contains a seed of loss;
on young love's throbbing circlet
hangs a bitter cross.
We will walk life's lanes together,
cherishing this pain we share
for spring will come tomorrow
and bloom on our despair.
Copyright, November 11, 2014