Long Cold Poems
Long Cold Poems. Below are the most popular long Cold by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Cold poems by poem length and keyword.
Beautiful gypsy riding in a caravan
With a black mongrel and an old man
In the cold winter
Off to a world
That is new
And yet unknown
To a place that she will make her own
Across the dusty Arabian sands
With a glowing crystal ball in her hands
Armed with magical spells
And Voodoo like bells
Educated in the art of healing
With herbal roots
And exotic fruits
Robed in her long black tunic
And her big black boots
Her thick black hair
Raven black
Engulfs her pretty little face
Ravishing beauty
That turns heads in every little place
What will the future hold?
As they seek great fortune
Happiness and gold
Across the fields
They watch
Horse riding
Over the snow flakes
And across the hilly villages
Off to the city in the north
Where the Great robber pillages
Beautiful gypsy riding in her caravan
She arrives in a strange land
And meets a crowd of people
Shouting from a steeple
Go back! Go back!
But a preachers offer water
And asked the old man
Is this your daughter?
Beautiful gypsy riding in her caravan
Found a home to stay
She went down on her knees
To pray
She is too far from home any way
The German Christmas market was in town
Stalls emptying fast and looking quite bare
Last minute shopping before it closed down
T'was Christmas eve seems everyone was there .
A cold wind blew with flakes of snow falling
Kids in the square, carols they were singing
In the distance the church bells were ringing
On market stalls the lights they were twinkling.
The tree in the square with a star so bright
Folks drinking mulled wine to keep out the chill
The Oompah band were playing silent night
And everywhere smiles, laughter and good will.
T'would be wonderful if all this good cheer
Was every day and not just once a year.
Written 26th November 2019.
I remember it was late spring in the country.
How stiflingly hot the breeze was up here!
And, shades over the slant dozed sundry.
Long, steamy, hot periods of mid-year
I remember it was autumn in the country.
Turning swallows skimmed the brilliant grain.
In the afternoon, with a skewed and sultry
Gorgeous steers brushed on the plain.
I remember it was cold around the country.
I had a beauteous sister in my sight.
She had dull hair, and her eyes were wintry.
We have all sung in the woods at night.
I remember feeling alone in the country.
The chatter of our young men fills my ears.
I also view dead coal on the stove to acquire tea.
to flares that show it all brilliantly in my tears.
I remember it was dark in the country.
There is a mountain where I used to live. The road
It has cattle footprints and fallen scattered trees.
The stump is twisted by the fury of the storm erode.
However, realizing that these stains are mine
I would alike to ask how such horror happened in history.
Earth and I are the only creatures living alone.
I remember it raining across the country.
Written: August 10, 2022
Ice water forms & falls as snow to a cold
and solid ground
Rainwater soaks the fertile earth with its liquid
subtle sounds
Leaves drop when time has passed as a signal of
seasons change
Hot summers bring dreams of autumn cool while
spring brings falling rain
Life mimic's the changing seasons as everything tends
to be in flux
Some walk unassisted with eyes to clouds when others
need a helping crutch
Everything changes over time for all things are on mother
natures clock
Even though time is a mind illusion we can't help but
keep a watch
Enjoy the beauty that life can bring as if it were poetry
for a given time
Everyday you're an artist applying strokes to canvas
while connecting words creating rhyme
I recently went walking
On grounds around a lake,
Pristine as the morning dew,
Pure beauty mine to take.
The silence there was deafening
The purity profound,
And the meaning of life itself
Was all around.
Not even birds could quite be heard
Or the humming of the bees,
As I was lost in time and space
Where I never felt so free.
I felt the breeze inside of me
In each heartbeat and breath I took,
As Love revealed from a bottle unsealed
With new eyes through which to look.
Although alone, forever at home
No one to interfere,
With whom, why, what or where I was
To see the world so clear.
The sky so blue I felt imbued
With traces of the immortal,
And rendezvoused with family and friends
Somehow through this lake’s portal.
And wandered ‘round so quite unbound
In body, mind and soul,
Until waking from this splendid dream
And feeling lost and cold.
© Terrell Martin, 03/12/2025
A silent grace sits on the silvered hair,
Lengthening the seasons to drawn out days,
Not only breath glitters in life’s deep stare,
But also treading through the world’s cold maze.
The tender spring blooms will soon surely fade,
And summer heat will in a while cool down,
But wisdom mustered in the serene shade
Will proliferate the world`s knowledge crown.
True longevity resides not in breath,
But in wise words that we share as a sage,
An age-long heritage that defeats death,
A shining spirit stretching beyond age.
Years are but the reflection of our pace,
While legacy lasts across time and space.
Spring — Passion
Kintsugi dawn—
white plum scents night air
tea rises in stillness.
Cranes cross pale sky;
child laughter drifts on moss.
A garden remembers.
Summer — Vocation
Tatami breathes—
cicada shells cling
reborn softly.
Koi flicker below
ripples fade in quiet hands.
Evening thunder calls—
incense drifts
forms bow.
Autumn — Mission
Fox lanterns kindle
shoji float through silver mist—
ancestral spirits stir.
Stray dog nestles
by the gate;
even strays seek warmth.
Tea vapor
recalls morning.
Winter — Profession
Snow settles
on stone lanterns
pine needles in palm.
Cold brushes fingertips.
Crane arcs slowly—
silhouette lingers on old walls.
Work kneaded
with laughter;
fire clothes darkness.
Completion — All Seasons as One
Sakura scatter—
petals dance
mirror tea vapor.
Breath holds the garden.
Circle closes
opens anew.
Tea cools,
reflects sky—
time folds gently.
Thoughts
Strange yet tame,
Feeling like my brain will explode,
Carrying this heavy of a load,
NOT trusting many people,
While taking on heap after heap of evil,
Appearing sick and kind of feeble,
Wanting to do something better than this,
Hurting myself unintentionally while only wanting bliss,
Involved in alcoholism,
Living each day grateful to NOT be in prison,
Looking past and thinking fast about NOT wanting to commune with women,
Still being given graces by some,
Yet, knowing I am reserved for just one...
Over my back I am bending,
Looking out for myself yet still on a few people depending,
I practice stealth while avoiding getting more welts,
Living the so-called American dream where wealth seems to offer health,
Still, if I get sold,
I will have to do what I am told,
To be so bold,
The cold-shouldered hold that has grasped me,
Left me on my ass in a tragedy,
These feeling seem like they are lasting forever,
Yet, in this endeavor,
I treasure many things,
Let us see what life brings...
Because those of you with me,
We are no longer teens,
Could be esteemed to be more than fiends,
Yet, what things seem at this moment,
Would be compared to a quotient,
Attention, hints, consequences all get divided,
Like people switch sides and fight,
Yet, we cannot serve two masters,
Life if in itself was one factor or actor,
Would be a crazy mother freaking bass tard...
Not the type of bass on a hook,
But the one that forsook us all,
Here, I find we fall.
Am I angry at God?
I think NOT!
Just rehashing, reliving, remembering what I have been taught.
That is all I have got.
NOT...
The Team.
Here we are in Gayndah town,
The parks are all filled up.
With Caravans and Motor homes,
‘N’ Backpackers trying their luck.
The pickers are around the trees,
And filling Gaypak bins.
As cold and frosty as you please,
They’re picking Mandarins.
When the fruit arrives at Gaypak,
With the staff all ready and able.
The Mandarins are washed and waxed,
And rolled across the sorting table.
This is what to look for,
Sharon tells them one by one.
The number of bins is thirty four,
It’s an average sort of run.
Black Spot, Splits and Sunburn,
Hail damage and Sooty Mould,
Juice the stuff that’s too deformed,
Or whatever can’t be sold.
Karen’s on the packing floor,
From there she runs the show.
She’s the boss and that’s for sure,
So don’t upset the flow.
Aunty Pat she is there,
As Karens’ Two I C.
She checks that all is run to plan,
Without her where’d they be.
The pattern packers work away,
Under the watchful eye.
Of Sharon ‘n’ Gayle in the day,
And Elaine and Linda at night.
The forklift drivers as we know,
Work with skill and speed.
Up and down, to and fro,
Always they are in need.
At Gaypak they’re a cheerful lot,
They talk and laugh and joke.
Even when it’s bloody hot,
But they are conscientious folk.
When knock-off time comes around.
There’s one who wont be late.
Speedy Gwenda will be found,
To be the first one out the gate.
Afternoon shift takes the reins,
They carry on the work.
Without a break they step right in,
The fruit, they’re here to sort.
We can praise the workers all we want,
And praise the management too.
But nothing works and nothing moves,
Without the maintenance crew .
All in all this is the team,
Of which they can be proud.
That sorts and packs, and sends,
The fruit, all around the world.
Your tricolor shivers have pierced through me, floral animal from dream and nightmare,
You appeared like that, as a truth of mine false, good in its pure evil.
From the lion's tail, the mouse's mouth,
you didn't have everything from nothing, from a bone whole and shattered,
frightening, gentle as a threat, poor, horse without bouquet,
wild stepping on a domestic and untamed plain,
undetermined, in a stain of silent and resounding scream,
a quiet storm, sky from thirst, the closeness of distance,
you, human, poison that also sanctifies itself in blasphemy,
quiet animal from old age, eternally living death,
you kissed me for the first time, recently, never,
sewing my wounds, the plain of resurrection from death,
of weeping from successful joys, ugly treasure...
your hair from curved and straight lines, chest to freeze...
Turmoil of darkness
Unravelings of dead stars, sails have filled me with emptiness then,
traitors of freedom, of pleasure, temporary and eternal fear,
in this summer, useless necessity, one real and imaginary,
with honey on both nostrils and a hot winter, cold as fire,
eternal passing one, serious joke, with single multiple luck,
and evil in moments of eternity, my beautiful ugliness planet,
direct road to make, outside your enveloping interior...
Broken mirror in whole
I am the least from all I have ever been in surplus,
your luminous shadow blinds me with its deep black light.
You, the perfect mistake of heaven,
you are my closest stranger,
my ugliest love, demonic and angelic beauty,
the carnivorous flower that loves through devouring,
your absent presence makes me disappear through appearance,
you are everything from nothing that becomes something from everything without nothing,
a death so alive it births dead lives in me,
the sweet bitter poison that heals me through poisoning...
you are my sweetest torture without pain and pleasure,
my last first encounter with the separation that unites us,
my coldest love, hot as burned ice...