Long Citrine Poems
Long Citrine Poems. Below are the most popular long Citrine by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Citrine poems by poem length and keyword.
When r e a l i t y feels like
a poisoned paradise,
trapped in a claustrophobic cave,
strangling my spirit
with ice-cold claws of fate,
I close my fatigued eyes,
attuned to the mellifluous
flames of the moon-wings,
detached from the gravity
pulling me six feet below,
chained to a casket of chaos,
adorned with obsidian roses
clothed in ghost-veils of Lilith,
as this onyx heart
screams in silence,
longing for an ethereal escape,
where every song I sing
is no longer a tattooed mistake,
to the eyes that feel not
the burden I wear in resilience,
to the ears that heed not
the truth I speak
in hushed tones.
I am the storm of tranquility,
whirling through
warm winds like delicate dandelions,
drifting in the darkness~
an untamed asteroid
to your eclipsed breeze.
Forgive my bleeding ink,
for I choose to flee
from this sulfuric sphere,
testing my patience
while the seething sun
tortures my sanity,
burning lifelines breathing
within my splitting skin.
Yet I still remain
an unrestrained distraction,
skating upon Saturn’s rings,
steeped in sakura smoke,
exhaling toxic fumes of twilight tremors
into the vast blue ether,
drawing layers of lethal lies
from the dark sorcery sprouting
through hemlock roots,
as I sculpt paper boats from
pages of disappointments,
watching them ferry my demons
through methane lakes~
mirroring memories,
as melancholic mists engulf
my bones in volatile violets,
drowning me in endless waters
rippling with twisted topaz,
and scorching salt.
So let the tempest of life
unravel doleful desires,
entwined in the
whirlpool of doomed destiny.
I am more than a caged nightmare~
tonight I float with my shadow,
through astral projection,
abandoning the hellish embrace,
to drink from the citrine cup
of lithium serenity,
that numbs the p a i n
of existence, forevermore...
stripped from scattered static
you and I ~ we
dissolve… dream… and drift
into fixated soul frequencies
collapsing into citrine charcoal dusk
peeling away malice of regrets
for there is no pain
that pines like memories
made of ashes and bones ~
warmth that refuses to wither
allow the world to taste envy
see us succumbing
to the arms of dulcet dust
risking all, fear incarnate
drained from gold and greed…
as spirit is tied to the essence
of deathless devotion
an emblazoned fire
embalmed in intoxication
like a portrait resembling
postmortem promises
of pulse fossilized
carved and chiseled
into skeletal silence
where passion breathes
and bruises
alive and remains
not as riddled remnants
but beyond life’s
unanswered enigma
dissected from deep desire
~ an autopsy of attachment ~
sealed with timeless truth
into terrains of
tombstone temptation
within the oblivion of obsession
as it never leaves …
it eternally longs
like an inescapable heat
intensifying
in crescent craving...
love knows the touch of faith
it’s true ~ an honest burn
heartbeats wrapped
in haunting harmony
resurgence of resonance
no longer avoiding the pull
forevermore
preserved as one ~
****inspired by Zdzislaw Beksinski (BE84, 1984)
Martin came to a cleft in the rocks
The oriole must have gone this way
It was narrow and curving
A sudden turn, and everything seemed to change.
Shrill, reedy music of pipes filled the heavy air,
A smell of musk of goats and their dung.
Invisible cicadas sustained the piper's lament.
Suddenly, he found himself in front of a small but deep lake.
Weeping willows, large copper-coloured beeches
Surrounded by a large pool of azure water.
There was a calm tranquillity about the place
Whilst the air was saturated with a fragrance
Of exotic flowering lavender-like trees.
He heard a splash, and out stepped a young woman.
Her canary yellow elegant swimsuit
Clung wetly to her honey-coloured body.
Damp citrine hair formed a frame around an oval face
That was highlighted by an upturned, pointed nose.
He did not move but stood mesmerized,
Looking into her blue, limpid eyes.
A sweet smile shimmered on her lips.
"Hello," she said in a mellifluous voice.
Her smile was inviting. "My name is Goldie Oriole.
Come, sit near me
And tell me how you found this place."
To be concluded in Part 3
Twig twists intersect then spread victory
Receptors sprout cat waving paws
Fold fruit bowl foliage, branch tributary
Lump eye timber columns support
Steer me clear of thatch caged cluster
Cheerleader twirling ribbons sizzle
Shifted to soft focus forest, fairy dusted
In drifting dandelion seed celestial
Thrown down overlap of toasty tobacco
Crinkle constant joke cracked faces
Humour grants razor slim grasses tackle
Unused nests during seasons' phases
Basket interweave splice strap sun poke
Probes timid shade a radiating halo
Lathered limbs in blossom shampoo soak
Crown me neath ghostly citrine glow
Sombre trots towards her restful rotunda
Floating pollen fluff Snugglepot ego
Fingers spring flags of woodland wonder
Grip ant gazette trail to safe gazebo
6th March
Exists in the middle
“I'm a conundrum. Or an enigma. I forget which.”
James A. Owen
I am a midsummer storm, veiled in cerulean smiles,
swirling above sangria seas~
enveloped in gracious glimmers of the unicorn sun,
where the black dahlias dance, and onyx-winged
butterflies never die but flutter lemonade lies.
Yet whiffs of clary-sage breeze
unravel crystalline clairvoyance,
calming the chaos tangled in corals of confusion~
searching for something real,
like sparkling sapphires,
floating in charismatic cadence.
Tonight, I’ll walk through
the untouched wilderness~
seeking Ayurvedic clovers coated
in perennial peace.
There, purple petals of iris thrive from amorous herbs,
in the fragrant heritage of blooming purity,
whilst acrylics on my cranberry canvas
shift in slow waves,
reminding blazing stars to
flicker penciled streaks of clemency,
mirroring my love-glazed
heart that gently beats~
in sync to the virtuous violin whispers.
Perhaps, I am the birth of a tragedy unspoken,
when love soars, intoxicated from the
scented sins,
of a poisonous pleasure
drenched in whiskey and roses,
drowning in foxglove fantasies from loneliness..
I ponder, if I were like the darkness,
cuddled by the stars, will I be found?
Or would I forever be an enigmatic embodiment
too deep for the shallow shadows
that dare not feel beyond what is to be seen?
So if tomorrow, there is no poetry,
I hope you’ll remember
beyond my skin and name..
I could be your frozen flower, or the warm willows;
snapdragon and sweet-pea.
There is no synonymous noun to depict
the aura of a citrine arc,
lost within faded lines of phased seasons.
"The silence fades with a soft embrace"
but strokes my soul like butterfly dreams,
whilst words unsaid lace the amethyst air
with strings of silver and citrine ~
clutching metaphors to the moon’s nectarine,
like a love rhyme written in tears never seen.
Tonight, in the hushed heat of starlight,
I trace your initials with ink and sighs,
craving to be heard amidst the white noise,
where the blackbird sings but is a feeler ~
of me, the breathless leaves of palm trees,
and crashing sparks drenched in sea salt.
O paused pulse of midnight,
meet me where time forgets tomorrow.
Listen to these voiceless verses:
I am neither the curator nor the canvas ~
yet like the gossamer gates within your heart,
I ache to be wrapped, forever, by Cupid’s violet flame…
An idiosyncratic apothecary,
neo pop corollas line its grove;
The price and results may vary;
Heinous hues hang extraordinary,
the bourgeoise see a treasure trove;
An idiosyncratic apothecary;
Chartreuse poppin’ pills be wary,
a champion’s golden boxing glove;
The price and results may vary;
Bating mediocre alive to bury
immobile in the web they wove;
An idiosyncratic apothecary;
Citrine and amethystine they carry
promise calm, balance, and love;
The price and results may vary;
Naïveté of the Sucker is scary,
silk subterfuge we do not speak of;
An idiosyncratic apothecary,
the price and results may vary.
A Monotetra
The moon became a sword of light,
piercing blackened veil just right,
Light saber be gleaming delight,
to my delight, to my delight.
From heavenly clouds the light did rest,
upon the waters during their quest,
no need to ask of moon her best,
we’ve passed her test, we’ve passed her test.
Upon lakes shimmering, silver folds,
angel fire sat in gold repose,
then like a lonely, winter rose,
relieved our throes, relieved our throes.
Angelic beacon, golden one,
shared by both the moon and sun,
light of gold and citrine spun,
by greatest one, by greatest one.
Written: July 23, 2026 for a contest sponsored by Edward Ibeh
Quote: "There are gentle touches that remind the soul how fragile it has always been." By Poet
**********
Tremulous dawn drips through the lattice,
a lapidary light that swathes the room
in citrine silence—
yet even here, amid sedate scriptorium calm,
the walls start their quiet sunder.
Not the wanton wrecking-ball,
not the truculent ordinance of overt ruin—
but the sapient, serendipitous wooing
that treads orchid-light across an inviolate floor.
A patina of gentling,
a furtive augury that the impregnable
is never as adamantine as it claims.
A beam buckles—
and something in me buckles with it.
The katabatic abyss widens
in the marble edifice
and in the psyche,
a shared gossamer grid spreading
through plaster and pulse alike.
The collapse is circumspect,
a mellifluous malignancy of tenderness
that pinions both edifice and toughness
with the same tremulous touch.
Even the sacrosanct rafters
—Tuscan arches, hortensia frescoes,
ochre patina of archaic iron tether—
start to sway,
and my thoughts sway with them,
their once-ruby-lotus resolve
now cerulean edge cleaved,
squelched by soft insistence.
A whimper in the joists
echoes a whimper in the chest.
A sedate sashay of dust;
mirrors the silken saunter of doubt.
The synergy is unmistakable:
each gentle stroke against the wall
evinces a stroke against the mind,
each frolicking fissure in the façade
summons a fissure in the heart.
Demolition by soft touches—
the lucid quietus,
the quiet debacle,
the wanton velleity of tenderness
that dismantles the impregnable
brick by breath,
beam by sigh,
until the whole edifice
—outer and inner—
sneaks inward as an ouroboros
consuming its serene façade
and the psyche that believed
it was inviolate.
In the finale,
the rubble is not only stone.
It is kenopsia,
hiraeth,
the sacrosanct self
rendered scree by gentleness.
A serendipitous synergy of ruin,
where the physical demolition
and the emotional collapse
are one ordinance,
one augury,
one soft, sapient sunder.
the soft yellow streaked the terra cotta,
shadowing the speckled sallow saffron
a bluish buff upon the cochineal;
brilliant boneblack
grizzled the engrain
citrine carnation
as
the fallow flaxen,rustic rubrical
rainbow-tinted
the magenta mandarine
unseen
the ultra-marine, tinged burnt sienna,
reflecting a golden flame of raw umbery upon
the earth green;
bright mosaic gold
mottled the sallow sorrel
virent yellow,oak stained
the pale apricot
while
blood red,reddish russet
dotted the olive lind;
freckled crimson,
a chestnut maroon,
on fuchsias faded apple green
as burnt umber sank deep
into
its sanguine slumber.
a repost from 6/2007