Long Coal black Poems
Long Coal black Poems. Below are the most popular long Coal black by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Coal black poems by poem length and keyword.
Bulbous, flat, keel-like ridge, and in other shapes I see you,
Curved or carved; you shine painted in red, green, purple, or blue;
As the rainbow is placed splendidly on bone china clay,
With many musing and mourning moments, you swing and sway...!
Roses, lilies, tulips, jasmines... dancing in the cool breeze,
You can contain floral species of the skies and the seas;
Never even a moment, you seem to discriminate,
Flower from flowers, based on differences, small or great...!
A fountain of water for the flowers, trimmed and adorned,
You stand by coal-black coffins of rich or poor who are mourned;
A gorgeous and glamorous demonstration of marriage,
You decorate dazzlingly valiant soldier's carriage...!
Symbolizing plentiful wealth and lavish luxury,
Indian goddess, Vasudhara's endless treasury;
An icon of self-exploration and self-expression,
You are a portion of any art-lovers possession...!
Even when you're broken, blooms you hold with satiation,
Enhancing existential elegance and elation;
Owing your acts, optimism flows in me like flawless streams,
Not nightmares, heavens, and angels, nowadays, fill my dreams...!
19 April 2023
Writing Challenge - 'V' Words Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Constance La France
Rhymes Checked At: Rhyme Zone
Syllables Checked At: How Many Syllables
My passion is the open passage
Passages open up the door
That moment my soul turned pedestrian
Passages open up the doors
Deep into that darkness open
Passages open up the door
A room skyline in brim
Darken blackness coal black as the heavens
Knock, knock, knock
Passages open up the door
Opens the door, gated community
Locks are draping
The gateless gazebo gaping
Free the robins and the squrielles, please
The out-of-doors overpass operating
Automobiles Beep, beep, beep…
My mind always strays to storms
Knock, knock, knock
Opens the door, gated community
A wonder that I can sleep
The thundery tempest transitioning
I heard an empty, naked holding
My skin out of body experience
Passages open up the door
Passages open up the door
Doors are open once more
Passage open up the door
2/1/20
Written words by James Edward Lee Sr. 2020©
In fields beneath a burning sun,
behind horses smelling foul,
we hacked the ground so seeds could grow,
walked hard miles behind the plow,
trying to feed all our families
out of the hardpacks, sand, and loam,
wiping off sweat, looking forward
to being able to go home.
Deep within tunnels beneath earth,
coal black dust destroyed our lungs,
we blasted out a country’s fuel,
ever fearful that the next one
could bring roofs down and trap us here,
in graves unmarked and unknown;
hauling out ore ’till closing time,
when we finally could go home.
Out in the sun on the highway,
each passing car a mortal threat,
building a road so normal folks
can to their workplaces get.
Feeling nerves every single time
we hear those big truck brakes moan,
unable to draw easy breaths
until we’re let loose to go home.
Surrounded by a factory
where red-hot steel is freely poured,
accidents are not unheard of,
we all know there will be more.
You can’t ever be truly safe
working metal so hot it flows,
we build the country at great risk,
then we can thankfully go home.
Perched high above a gotham town,
manipulating big I-beams,
raising up a great structure that
one day with glass panes will gleam,
hoping that harnesses will work
so we don’t plunge screaming below,
watching each step so cautiously
to be sure that we can go home.
Trudging hard in desert mountains,
hunting down the terrorist scum,
breaking evil that knows no law
but that enforced by our big guns,
killing them before they can go
rig out houses and stores to blow,
counting the days left in our tour,
until we can leave and go home.
Walking into those homes, at last,
Ii has been one nerve-wracking day,
but there’s no peace, for we must hear
our wives and our girlfriends say:
Ugh, your masculinity is so toxic! What is it even good for? You need to learn more from feminism or you’ll just be a violent brute and a threat to society!
….?
….!
Are you effing kidding me?
Grinding you in the coal black mortar of my expectations,
I know your substance is not one to powder under impact
And yet I work here, feverish, to prove my trepidations wrong
I grind you, harder against the walls, and you never powder,
You are shards of glass, getting smaller and smaller,
Cutting through the walls, straight into my skin
I cry out in a thousand minuscule pains,
As you enter mercilessly into my bare flesh
Tinkles flair as the wind blows upon the incisions
I sparkle in the night of our plight,
Terrorized by the horrors I have constructed,
Toying with you… you…the finesse tool to my agonies
You gained control of me like a mimed puppet master,
The binds I had tightened upon you asphyxiating my sanctuaries,
Tied along you, and twined around me
Silent, smiling, seething…
You begged me to scream
Your glass shards icing into my pupils, through my brain,
And out into the recesses of all my verbalized fears
I shove the remaining shards into my fleeting sight,
A hawk screeching, being stabbed in the eyes by its own feathers
Expelling blood and tears …matter and might,
All I wanted to do was finally see you…
To take in the scent of my grounded version of you
So long though had I whiffed in the potent poison you always were,
Too long, as it no longer has the same effect my nostrils numb for…
The stock of the rifle is hand-selected walnut.
I polish it with a soft cloth and occasionally
use linseed oil.
I dust a porcelain lady
twice a week. She does not need my attention,
but I give it.
My Nikon needs to be taken out of its case,
otherwise it may turn into a blind
coal-black memory.
I pick up a quartz crystal and sigh,
At least once a fortnight.
The sigh does not mean anything
unless you think ‘sighs’ mean anything.
When the black dog returns,
I drive out at night
with no aim or destination.
The 'dog' must be driven somewhere,
and left on the edge of a highway.
I go to the Oriental grocery emporium
each month to therapy-browse.
Sometimes I buy a paste or a sauce
not having a clue how to use them.
Cooking into the unknown
is my space travel.
These things I do are tramlines,
a navigability that gets me back
to a place where I can write a poem
with no black dogs attached -
no one likes a failing sun.
These things I do are rituals
for the safe-side of my mind.
~~
(‘Black-dog’ is a euphemism for depression).
UNDER THE RED UMBRELLA
Under the red umbrella, sheltered in our rainy day nest,
my coal black heel lifts — our oneness beats in my chest.
Handsome in his dark suit, like an iron I press close —
my full-bodied lips a crimson shade, now our his, I suppose.
He calls me his wild Paris rose on these streets of shimmering gold.
The blush rushes to my cheeks and eyes — to him I’m sold.
Between the french kisses...ooh la la...we make lover’s jokes.
The circus tent of our wide-brimmed umbrella drips and soaks.
His fingers, like rain, touch my face, lift my chin, make me see him.
In turn my eyes dive into his, our green and blues take a swim,
turning teal as we ponder marriage with a family, life and love.
Vulnerable, I feel my nakedness as I remove my black silk gloves.
Under this unforgettable crimson cloud, we no longer hide,
except from the prying eyes of Paris la ville des lumières pride
My red dress clings, its waist slim, its curves vivacious — not shy.
Together two orphans stay dry — our passionate fire will not die.
11/3/2018
The Red Umbrella Poetry Contest
Sponsor - Eve Roper
Paris la ville des lumières - Pa ree la veel day loo me air - Paris the city of lights
(Approximate pronunciation, apologies to the French)
S-eptember eleventh day
H-as made you feel better;
E-rasing the things of the past,
R-apture replaces the bummer.
Y-es, September eleventh day has brought a thousand thrill;
L-aughter of the big event removes the night cold chill.
M-ake September eleventh day
E-liminate the dark shadow;
N-ew morn starts to break,
D-awn denies the sorrow.
E-arly light causes much joy, as the eventide is walking out;
Z-one of flame is burning, bringing warmth without a doubt.
A-s September eleventh day
N-ullifies the coal black cloud;
S-un has begun to shine,
E-mitting his rays so proud.
L-et your birthday become
M-eaningful in your way;
O-pen your life to enjoy September eleventh day.
There are all kinds of poverty
and no sin in being poor
yet, beauty in its truest form
always will endure.
Disparity has its price to pay
when greed becomes the lure.
How we handle lucre, it seems,
tells others who we are.
There’s poverty in China
and capitalism too,
yet, the desire to level the field
brings other factors in view.
They’ve seen the value
in selling culture, history
to world hungry for beauty
which disdains disparity.
The desire to care for the many
not cater to the few,
brings different kinds of order
still, poverties there too!
Nepal the Yin of planet Earth
where inward voices grow
has its own desperation
and rebellions to forego.
Individual beauty of spirit
was strongest here
they stepped inside, aside...
when discord did appear.
Egypt has it marvels
of man and Gods galore
but in the space of mosque light
truest beauty found its lure.
The face of child of mother
the straight-backed prowess of men
the coal black eyes of hunger
the starving animals in pens.
NO culture can climb the precipice
to sucess, all are destined to fall
as long as some have everything
and most have nothing at all.
Beneath his coal-black forelocks, flirty eyes
kept meeting mine when I allowed my gaze
to fall on him. As if I were a prize,
he grinned at me. He'd put me in a daze!
When he approached, my heart began to pound.
He spoke so fluently, and his accent
was French! I'd never heard a sweeter sound.
He asked me on a date. Of course I went!
We chatted in a cafe as we ate.
Inside the core of me, a longing grew.
then as he drove me home, I could not wait
for what I knew would very soon ensue!
Once parked, he turned to me, eyes deep and tender,
and all that I could do was to surrender.
Dedicated to my indelible memory: Guy Loranger, wherever he may be.
Written Aug, 9, 2016 for
Becca Teagan's All I could do was surrender - Shakespearean Sonnet
Death and Forlorn Time in the Shadows of True Evil
Death and Time holdeth onto eerie and most frightening shadows
Whilst pervading deeply within that infernal region where the dark
Evil and uncanny mists occlude the terrifying presence of a great
Dark Doomsday cult of vicious and horrifying beasts that are now
Perpetuated from a putrid Hellspawn by Lucifer’s own command!
Corrupted with the presence of sacrilegious beasts of true violence
Who hate all aspects of humankind with their spirit of maleficence,
And wince not whilst decapitating the heads of those who disagree
With them, and creating a mindless havoc of unparalleled tragedy
That’s become an expected, sad occurrence of Mankind writ large!
Brandishing a razor-sharp, coal-black-blade is their evil incarnation,
Of a time, that’s totally indicative of their chaotic rampage of bloody
Burning attacks as battlegrounds are drawn into an eternal darkness,
From whence there may be no return since there’s a dark, blood-red
Poison, from the dark afterlife, in which every drop of blood is toxic!
Every drop of this spilt blood-red poison has a deadly demonic aroma,
That produces nasty swarms of ravenous locusts to torment all innocent
Victims caught between the machinations of Almighty God and Lucifer.
In this reality, these evil spirits cast their malevolent spells without any
Scruple, wishing for Mankind’s swift destruction by Lucifer himself!
Gary Bateman and Liam McDaid – A Collaborated Poem,
Copyright © All Rights Reserved – November 24, 2017
(Quintain)