Long Conceals Poems
Long Conceals Poems. Below are the most popular long Conceals by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Conceals poems by poem length and keyword.
Granules of recollection rub like salt
Flailing in the fog of seven years ago
Deafened by incessant frog cries
Vines dangling began attaching to each other
Drying river stagnated, slime slippery with algae
Vigorous tree growth stooped in defeat
Muddy river banks fixed my feet, prisoners
Quick sand sapped my energy, ate my memories
Spears of bygone javelin my lungs, make gasp
Emerging from the mist of six years ago
Mountain side incredibly steep left me breathless
Static crinkle hissed between my eardrums
Channels flip changed without my inference
Hard luck hollowing trunks of high altitude
Offered to swallow my past, kindly include present
Flattened cushions of childhood fights , bring distance
Spinning cartwheels into oblivion of five years ago
Faintly flickering home movies startle between grins
Marbled images depict how we were, junctions punctured
Paths deviated, split decisions, moments distilled
Bottles broken, options poured, down the sink
Faltering swell glimmers foaming overdrawn fantasies
Slices rewound reflect fleeting of four years ago
Head barely above, awash in nonsense, victim of tides
Pushed under and pulled above, or is it more apt
the other way 'round, heavy, ocean surrounds drowns
Pencil case zipper obediently conceals, shoved down
Fragmented fragrant shavings of three years ago
Greyed erasers took too much, left the wrong stuff
Coloured stubs refuse to function, shrink upon prompting
Mirror tells me glamour remains against toughest test
High eyebrows, pristine lip lustre of two years ago
Marilyn wink in the blink of camera, busy filtering truth
Tree hugging Boho took over, appealed to populus ideal
Cocaine sand between toasted toes, garland encircling forehead
Currently I'm languishing in roses
bestowed by crown of thorns
* * * * * * * *
On the wheels of time I’ve travelled for long
on the crafted pathway of synthetic stage,
revolving my split mind, entrapped in polarity,
under the spotlight of the contrived moments,
enmeshing the confused me with paradoxes.
In the enactment of the drama of multifaceted life,
I see some bare faces displayed on plain mirror,
really reflecting the radiance of convivial heart.
I don’t perform with them by the prompt,
but I present me truly, for I adore their purity.
I face some veiled faces posing on warped mirror,
disguising the contorted lines of rancid rancor,
I dislike their fake facade, but I play a sagacious role,
my transformed face of spite, the actor in me,
conceals behind the deceptive mask.
July 24, 2020
Contest : 10-20 Lines On Mask
Sponsor : Mohan Chutani
Goodbye
Said the Greek;
A sudden shift
So many days
By poetic shores;
A touch of nice
The distant waves
Ebb and flow;
Recall old haunts
On this shoreline,
Seagulls make noise;
Crowded array
Words mix and match
Verse of all sorts;
The poets plot
Strange range,
Broad avenues;
Quaint company
Like minded souls
Yet far apart;
Online surreal
A common flow
In afterglow;
Yes each soul knows
We come,
We go;
Poesy remains
Journey starts,
Until it ends;
A final page
Wit follows whim
In words compact;
Verse incomplet_
Linger a while
On sultry smiles;
Crisp voices style
Line ferments line
As words reveal;
What heart conceals
And in the end,
The moment's mood;
Can be far-fetched
Nobody knows
The hidden tears;
Distilled as poems
I hide my sighs
I blow my horn
I linger here
Beyond the sphere
Of drowsy strain;
Poetic complaints!
Weaver and merchant
Words hurl protest;
Change conquers all
Leon Enriquez
21 Apr 2014
Singapore
Deceit's bitter taste lingers like burial rice cooked in familiar space
The sharp edge of betrayal cuts deep from within, a wound that never heals
Innocence fades like pencil marks erased as life's indelible script unfolds
The ground beneath our feet will be our roof a somber truth we cannot escape
Loyalty's test lies in water's gentle flow yet fish are cooked in their own element
Love's not abandoned, but use and utility's might leaves hearts worn, fragile, and worn
RIP, a wish that time could reverse return if possible, a longing to mend
The future's uncertainty weighs heavy yet we may not even be part of the story
A father's love, a guiding light extinguished leaves children lost, with memories to cling
The wolf's shadow looms, but it's the shepherd's hand that often deals the fatal blow
Tears fall silent, hidden behind masks as life's harsh realities leave their mark
Table manners taught, a lesson in restraint a mother's wisdom, a life-long refrain
Goodness begets not entitlement's claim the world owes none kindness, nor does it proclaim
Blind faith casts aside its trusted guide when sight is gained, the crutch is left behind
Family's forest, dense and seemingly tight conceals separation's jagged edges
Play along, the charade we've all agreed yet actions have consequences, seeds sown
Prepare your children for life's uncertain road don't predetermine their path, let them find their way.
So the tide remembers what the shores let slip.
Its script etched in the bones of the skies above,
a ledger of moons and unseen gravitation tugs
where every retreat conceals a surge to return.
So the river bends but never breaks.
carving sinuous curves through stubborn spines of stone,
teaching the land that yielding is not defeat,
but the quiet strength of soft resilience.
So the wind moves, moulding the world with invisible hands,
a sculptor without form, a voice without a tongue,
lifting leaves, bending trees, carrying dust and debris,
that no eye can seize, contain, or truly behold.
So the stars recall what time dares not erase,
burning ancient truths into the dark’s endless expanse,
each flash of light a memory older than time itself,
each flicker is a refusal to yield to the void.
So the dawn reclaims what the dusk once stole,
pouring molten gold into the fractured seams of night,
tracing the fault lines where darkness splits the day,
on the horizon - a shadowy play of silhouettes.
So the mirage reveals what was never there,
a shimmering hymn to the hunger for insight,
where longing sketches phantoms in mid-air
teaching the heart its fluid illusions.
So echoes repeat only what someone has told them,
Their hollows filled with borrowed sounds
a looped refrain of captured voices
a time-lapse mirror of reflections.
So even the silence has something to say,
a language of pauses, breathed, held in suspension,
where meaning gathers in the white space between lines
and what's unsaid speaks louder for not being said.
So time does not heal, mend, nor forget
it only reshapes the ruined remains with patient hands,
turning collapse into contour and texture,
for a strangely different kind of conception.
So what we hold on to is only what we can't let go
a tether of memory, fierce in its keeping,
for what we can't let go becomes a gilded chain,
binding us tightly to the roots of what we once were.
So what we long for is what love refuses to leave,
an ember that smolders and refuses to fade,
a reaching out for what we cannot hold or cradle
that time cannot forget, nor absence erase.
So every new start grows from an ending left unsaid.
each beginning seeded in silence and ash,
for what is not spoken still shapes what becomes—
and the end is never the end, only turning the wheel.
And all my days are trances, And all my nightly dreams Are where thy dark eye glances, And where thy footstep gleams-- In what ethereal dances, By what eternal streams! Edgar Allan Poe
______________________________________________________________
In the ethereal world, where eons occur.
Paradisiac soil holds silent seraphic concur.
It's tough to spell out this realm's sapidity.
A magnificent elixir-drinking auric, no turbidity.
Singing in canorous tones aiming to empyreal height.
In the ethereal breeze, their diaphanous wings flight.
Enigmatic silhouette and unique pellucid radiance.
They dance in seraglio in this heavenly ambiance.
Their beauty, such a pearl, belongs to heaven.
Has a sumptuous scintilla-stirs love in Sky Seven
No evil nemesis lurks below their angelic floor.
In such a paradisaical milieu, despair never sore.
Yet their sonorous voices and demureness persist.
Hope whispers through the airy glade, lifting gist.
They embody compassion in otherworldly existence.
No psychic wounds from their scuffles for instance.
Their zealous hearts follow the celestial hand.
Continued acquittal exhibits in their exquisite stand.
Their lovely, luscious skin never conceals sorrow.
Aesthetic zealots evolved in this ethereal hollow.
Unfathomable and lofty in the translucent flight,
Unseen wonders unfurl, bathed in ethereal light.
Boyish and papery, they dance chimerically in ignite,
Invisible to mortal eyes, yet captivating to the sight.
Spread the fate-written sacred axioms of airy rejoice,
With every note, a celestial voice.
The melody weaves its enchanting spell,
Transcending earthly bounds, where wonders dwell.
1st place contest winner
There begins here in timeless now:
Love steers good cheer... being endows!
There is a tale that conceals truth;
Beyond this veil, ample with proof.
There is a void clearer than most:
A nameless void that transcends boast.
There is feeling where no words touch;
No explaining can cover much!
There is a blur that knows all stuff:
All-knowing blur that shapes all stuff.
There is a voice that speaks so soft...
If I by choice heed what's aloft?
There is a sense of knowing, still...
Beyond all tense, a divine will.
There is a song: strains of beauty
Where truth speaks strong in ecstasy.
There is a place: beyond, within...
Where time and space collapse, unseen!
There is a smell fragrant with peace
Beyond mind's spell: love floods all ease.
There is a scent fragrant and grand
That heaven sends to ease ascend.
There is a sound: eternal, true
That hints and grounds, and calls to you.
There is a glimpse where stillness peeps:
Void beyond dreams... deeper than deep.
There is a pulse beyond this rhyme
Where no impulse can match each chime.
There is a gap where sleepers know
That strange sure map that knowing knows!
There is a time, timeless not frail
Where pulse and rhyme can't walk the trail.
There is non-sense that contains all --
All save pretense; where ego falls.
There is a naught that contains each
Yet void or naught that's hard to reach!
There is no-thing that holds all stuff
In change and fling, more than enough!
There is a place beyond this face
Of worldly pace, beyond all space.
There is a fount cascading all:
Where plain and mount change, falter, fall.
Here wayfarer, now homeward bound:
Be true seeker, watch what comes round!
Here light-bearer, set your true sights:
Know wayfarer, witness the light!
There is a bliss: no body-mind...
Not that, not this! Here love designs.
Follow your heart, let mind be calm;
Let soul impart true hymn and psalm.
Follow your feel, in-sync with soul;
Love comes to heal, to make you whole.
Be bold, be brave, be true to you;
Be seer, be knave, be simply you!
Leon Enriquez
28 Feb 2014
Singapore
An eerie silence wrapped the bog,
I dared not move nor speak.
The chilling blanket of the fog
where evil beings creep,
conceals within tormented souls
now stirring from their sleep,
and there with gruesome fate foretold
lie secrets they will keep.
Into the darkest night they prowl
as silent echoes shriek,
and even wolves with frightened howls
hide in the forest deep.
The terror of the living dead
will follow where they tread.
A Quatorzain is a centuries old form that was used by those like Shakespeare for creativity not restricted by strict rhyme schemes and syllable counts per line like Sonnets were. Therefore, each Quatorzain could be an original creation, however, it wasn't a totally free form because it was still restricted to 14 lines and usually written in iambic meter, also, unlike a Petrarachan/Italian Sonnet it usually ended with a rhyming couplet. Some have argued that it evolved into the English Sonnet. Writers often played with the number 7 as I have done here with alternating iambic tetrameter and trimeter. I also used mono rhyme in the trimeter lines (something not commonly done with Quatorzains yet, as I alluded, it's the beauty of a more free form).
Written October 8th, 2019
for Best New Poem Contest
Sponsored by Emile Pinet
It finally came down on that grey sombre day,
Like a raging dragon breathing a tsunami of ice and snow,
The wind violently thrashing against the torrents of blazing alabaster,
In retaliation to the combative clouds,
releasing rapturous hails of bleached ammunition
The bare trees skeletal frames tortured by frost,
Burning deeply into their wounded limbs,
Landscapes buried deep,
beneath undyed shrouds of uneven flurries,
Wildlife hibernation, human incarceration – became one
A continuous colourless cold stone sarcophagus,
Conceals the bruise of life and possessions,
An aftermath of paralysis and deafening silence,
Overwhelms the awe of beauty and perfection
No living creature utters a minor chord,
Only the icicle daggers piercing their hearts,
The habitats shiver with a plethora of cold and dread,
And plead to the thaw for seasonal absolution
Date: 30/12/22
Winter Storm Imagism Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Kim Rodrigues
If hell is the place
to deprive men of their human nature
the battlefield swarming with dehumanized souls
is hell; and is in the real world,
hell is the hungry stray dogs licking blood on corpses
and vultures ingurgitating rotten flesh from the corpses scattered
around on the ruins; then, it would be the place where Ares reigns.
The cowardly Ares always conceals himself
behind the madness of the battle cry: enjoys watching
the sparks flying; swords crossing; he drives warriors into
harm’s way; binding their fear; imposing military order, exploiting
the absolute ranking system.
Ares compels them to exchange their only life
given by their mother with a piece of rotten earth
covering their terror-stricken soul with the flag named Patriotism
there is no friend or enemy in a momentary lulled battleground
you won’t see a friend or enemy, except dead or alive,
however, dead ones won’t say a word because they are dead
while alive ones groan and moan and cry out a beast’s howl
and in a such battleground, in the ruins where the time ceased
to move
a mother sobs while gathering her son’s scattered remains,
the mother searches for the son’s victimized soul,
becoming a waning moon in this solemn moment.