Long Closure Poems
Long Closure Poems. Below are the most popular long Closure by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Closure poems by poem length and keyword.
I still like you
for the first time
serious and true.
Your charm is
the weapon you still
use with me.
Time and time again
the memories we have
still linger in my mind.
Though fate make joke with us
and we landed in others arm
my love see you in a distance.
I was young and naive
that I lost you in an easy gift
to a lad that has good intention.
That's who I am, a looking glass self
I put myself in the shoes of others
sacrificing my own happiness for others.
Now, you realized that I was right
in my true feeling, giving chances
for other's benefit for good intentions.
You me judge that I am stupid
to give way for other to change for good
leaving me indepensable and weak.
I have no choice but to give up
this love I have so big and understandable
believing true love will come back to me.
That was the case in the end to find me
in four corners to know the truth
to rectify that love for me once more.
But fate really doesn't sided with us
we didn't cross our path and leave no mark
of whereabouts, no connection, no nothing.
Until we're on our fifthies
that fate able to find us through some bridges
connecting our path once again.
But its too late, we have our own life now
our own family, our new friends and new fans
we ride on different boat going the sea of life.
The love we have no closure before end up
heartbreaking but settled, for in the face of all
adversity we once know what true love is.
I dream
in the golden glow
of a sakura orchid
nestled between blooming browns~
as saffron streaks of sunsets
spill syllables of l o v e and trust,
scented with sugared crystals,
emitting musical verses
to calm the inner child~
healing in silence
dusted with pastels of p e a c e.
But when the fragrance of
summer wanes,
leaving a heavy horizon
glistening with grieving galaxies,
remember, I am an aching poem
kissed by the garnet green,
refusing to follow
melted moonbeams,
merged with moving monsoons,
and yesterday’s fickle footprints,
that remain,
soaked in rain and tears,
like pixelated promises to the
cracked cosmos,
lost within sand petals,
as nightingales croon
of strife and life,
of cold summers and fleeting colors.
So tonight,
I’ll carve my own b l i s s
from the haze of violet gratitude~
engrossed in trembling ink,
allowing another month
to fade into the ether,
as memories blossom
in blue-black,
staining champagne chalices
with smoke and salt
while somewhere
between fireworks filling up
twilight skies,
rippling with mystic topaz
kissing
the fluorescent stars
sparking across
midnight shorelines,
I found sequins of h o p e
amidst the unattained closure
to the rising of
an inescapable end.
This is the voice of a thistle
reluctant
to
compromise and comprehend
the sound of ticking thunder,
for I am the eucalyptus elixir
to an alchemist’s waterfall,
weaving odes to the eclipsed time
that sleeps in the cusp
of liquified lilacs
crawling through
serpentine circles…
as I have found a rhyme to
glamorize every forsaken line,
letting go of bleached pages
that have no
spirit of resilience,
and chapters with
frosted names
that have
no
space for s o l a c e . . .
I can hardly wait reading welter of books...
courtesy Karen Windle a gift horse
ponied up late afternoon May18th, 2020
over roan nay bore lee volition.
Unbeknownst how she raised (cane),
and loudly wrapped outside the door
every ounce of her eighty plus pounds
slip of elderly lady petite bow legged
spry late 60's though older looking gal
argh – I expect unpleasant fallout after
piercing eyes unexpectedly discover
references made regarding aged waif,
who inexplicably signalled presence
in toto i.e. presents to comprehend, a
bounty, nah, not worth causing mutiny
nevertheless heave on lee delight hup
pea zing helter skelter discombobulated
alienation courtesy coronavirus lockdown
concomitantly venues to borrow books
puts serious and perilous bind aggravated
assault upon cerebral cortex regarding a
forced hiatus deprivation to binge read
reduced to peruse the daily toilet paper
no stimulation for imagination to indulge
magical mystery tour thwarted helter skelter
ye silently ask rather infer "what me bored?"
Despite severely circumscribed choices
whiling away hours, who knows lockdown
courtesy coronavirus (COVID-19)
warrants near indefinite closure accessing
literary material buzzfeeding noggin,
an egg gone eye zing torture rankles
healthy predilection to binge osmotically
passion for written word all the while
authors unbeknownst evoke quintessential
pleasant provocation dredging up
10,000 leagues below the jewel bedecked
cease son bewitched (Alder time) tremendous
metaphorical pristine hinterlands
Matthew Scott's vernacular semantic
hodgepodge orientation withered away
figurative gripes wrath and rail against
series of unfortunate events ala defiant
Lemony Snicket, when despair plummeted
to all time low, who should unwittingly
telepathically hear plaintive SOS sent
none other than intrepid Karen Windle,
who's mysteriously rapping announced
dog send appearance bore deliverance
(cue Banjos), where ecstasy didst delve
where still waters run deep, nevertheless
welcome respite when printed material
weekly magazines offered scant respite.
With indecision rode abreast
Intended path becomes digressed
Old age accompanies us soon
Protected from sway of heart's swoon
Independent flag flown above
Declares no use for fickle love
Closure wraps webs, unspent calyx
Composts in forgotten paddocks
Extension as petals erupt
Resilient haughty's harsh disrupt
Crumbles robot disposition
Gives passion due permission
Held out is your hand to delve in
Wafting musk man wax firm terpene
Growth emergence drifts adjacent
Inhaled fragrance fresh placement
Dangled now upon my doorstep
Taking the chance, you endorsed it
Stainless steel crumpled, heart on tap
Safety reigned, your care eclipsed that
Ready to bloom in love splendid
Softness of Libby now rendered
Able to lay guard down, submit
Spread open desire soul permits
27th September
8 Syllables
He wrapped his remains into his souls’ coffin at the cemetery
An oracle told him to be aware of gravediggers at the boneyard
Under cover of a midnight moon he sought solace and closure
Removed the wooden cross of too many forks from his greatcoat
Stared half naked and shivered into shadows of marble shrines
Recalled the good omen bestowed by the witch dressed in praise
Turned out to be a good day after all
He reminisced at promises of fortune and privileged birth sign
Money power and acclaim had never been far from his cradle
As one of society’s beacons he had feathered fortuitous gifts
Enhanced his standing in false virtue and belligerent strides
Never shied away from proffering prosperity in greedy pursuit
And yet approached necropolis and the grim reaper’s calling
Bad premises and yet change for conclusion
As he slowly pondered on benevolence and benediction he tripped
Near a wide open vault and tumbled into the tomb of reckoning
Ripped a scrumptious veil of superior misconceptions into tatters
Bled repentance and remorse onto the bottomless pit of lost hope
He was mortal after all and not oblivious to what riddled his mind
Vowed to be given one ultimate chance before he would demise
A special day just in time for healing
23 February 2020
We’ve left behind orphans, you and I,
a gaggle of memories like street urchins
left to starve and die in the
city of self-imposed amnesia.
We’ve staged our own deaths,
reciting happy obituaries of our former selves,
birth announcements of our new incarnations,
everyone duly notified of fissure and closure.
So that those troublesome orphans,
believing us dead,
homeless, unattended,
are left forever behind;
memories unremembered,
past disowned by present.
But they know where we are,
and they come,
knock on the doors behind which
we’re safely ensconced in new lives.
We let them knock,
cringing and waiting
with furtive glances
from behind closed curtains
until they finally recede into the night.
They are unconcerned, these little orphans.
The camouflage of our reinvented selves
don’t hide us.
They will be back.
On Sept. 16, more than 150 people attended the city council meeting the downtown closure.
Ventura is one of only a handful of cities in the state with a car-free downtown.
Some downtown property owners oppose the closure and have sued the city to stop it. The lawsuit is in appeal.
The cars aren't coming back to Main Street in downtown Ventura.
The Ventura City Council voted on Sept. 16 to keep five blocks of Main Street and one block of California Street closed to vehicles, as they have been since 2020. The vote was greeted with applause and came after two hours of public testimony in which 74 city residents and business owners spoke in favor of the closure, and only three spoke against it. More than 150 people attended the meeting, nearly all of them in support of the street closure.
No economic vote deprives liberty or law
Law is not an absence of motion nor indifference.
A minority will be forced to conform in time.
You people are not a military
The military has parameters for city and street, road
Functions that the people will not alter
I saw you at the front of the steps
I simply smiled and you said
"There's nothing left"
You seemed astonished
But then again I promised
Open your eyes and take note
Beneath the ash, soot, and moat
See for yourself the remains of an eternity
Moments before death
Moments before new life
There was something that out-weighed a single breath
Family and hugs
Bug stains on a pair of brand new Lugs
I leave this place with no regrets
Fulfill prophecies
And up the any on unprofitable bets
For now the plan is set
You and I are pieces of eternity
With every head bowed
And every eye closed
We see the tragedies we've allowed
Though I'll reach heaven
I'll remain a part of Hell
Let the furnace dry up any tears in my trail
I was once here, Once there
At some point I was everywhere
Reality tears from the eyes of eternity
Once a coffee hut relaxed upon a corner
Sympathy of a day to day mourner
Warm blue berry pie, just a slice
Seems I’ve been cursed an outcast in this life
Shadows taunt my guilt in these dark moments
The trauma that left Loved ones speechless
Even when they were so desperate to comment
A Smile that stained the face of a once close friend
Until my closure, until my ill fated end
The sounding of a missionaries gun
Out in the open, no where to run
Could it have been the suffering in my innocence?
A figure some what indecent
Take me, but through the fire, through the rain
These words will remain through eternity
Tonight my ink is mute
and this quill rests in silence.
I’m searching for the perfumed poem
you’ve placed in my aching soul,
when I found a home
within your aesthetic embrace,
whilst, the honeyed tip of your silvery voice
sketched a sea of flower-patterned stars,
across somber skies, whispering sweet carols
to the evening sun that wanes and slumbers
within crestfallen dahlias.
Was I ever a poet before I saw initials
of your celestial name scribbled in violet vines
across the pearl face of the blue moon?
I never knew words could weigh heavier
than dancing diamonds
glazed in gold,
Until I heard your riveting rhymes
echo rose tinted tunes of lilac feathered longing.
I love you for the way you thaw
frost kissed petals into streaks of
pomegranate prose-
flowing in crystalline compassion.
I love you for the way you’ve painted faceless ghosts
of my bitter cold past with acrylic glitter,
showing me that every thunder-struck meadow
can grow greener blades of faith.
I love you for soothing lucid nightmares crawling within darkness to suffocate my bleeding ink.
How you’ve held my onyx heart
while I struggled to weave silken threads
from emerald tears of angst.
But how can I harmonize the gravity of your spoken serenades
that linger across this cosmic canvas?
Must I steal every jewel from its rightful sphere,
just so that you can see vibrant colors of vehement verses,
reflecting through all that which flickers?
Would you feel me if these metaphors no longer flow in coherence?
Would you be the Emperor
to my throne of darkness
even if I am just an Empress without a crown?
What if I were nothing but a blurred black dot across a constellation of chaos?
Would you still love me If I wasn’t a poet?
Maybe these questions will forever
remain as endless equations
within fractions of no closure.
So tomorrow, if there’s no wind
that can carry these unsent letters to you,
remember my heart is yours till we meet
our unwritten tales,
before the last twinkling twilight fades into sheer nothingness.
And I will still love you even if
butterflies would betray the fragrance
of our undying romance.
ping.
transitory hysteria—
just a check in
automated, fabricated,
robotic inhuman software
conscripted to, destitute
of mortal empathy.
nevermore your communication
yet condemned to hope.
reticence prolonged anew—
boundless, asystolic display,
pulseless heart
undesired, inconspicuous.
isochronous laxness stemmed
inconcurrent pure affection.
adoration inequitable,
hanging time itself
costing soul and morals
for your gratification.
ping.
amperages of delirium,
spasm of pleasure, cardiovert
mechanical thumping afresh
owing to invariable closure.
retina regulated to contact—
titillations unparalleled
abstract surpassing acumen.
ingenious mayday, wholly
for schooled minds,
lapses to neglect by all.
ablution, deterring loathing
of own stupidity, yet
detrimenting tranquil sanity.
personal beguilement, reiteratively,
“I love you,” an utterance
seldom transcribed from them,
devoid of inevitability.
edge pressed to tissue,
unseamed cephalic vessel
surges sanguine fluid
cruelly ironic, amassing atop
the very accessory
of inconversable love.
anaemically ascertaining
for anguishes and sorrows,
saline flaps flutter in irrevocability.
cadaverous repose,
unfettered.
ping.
ping.
ping.
ping.
ping.