Long Contrasts Poems
Long Contrasts Poems. Below are the most popular long Contrasts by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Contrasts poems by poem length and keyword.
EPISODES
separate moments
timlessy
suspended
&transported
harmony
torn apart
by
covert hints
& embedded
warnings
inertia
in
tranquil
contrasts
of
dramatic
focus
petulant periods
of
shadowed eyes
a
narrative a
of tensions
both meticulous
& incongruous
in
scenes
recreated
of
vast frescos
a
triumphant
apotheosis
reaching up
in
serenity
to moods
of optimism
in
celestial
celebration
from
undertones
of melancholy
idyllic
concepts
in
shimmering
surroundings of
scenes
a
rural
mass
of
exploits
foreclosed
by
banal mishaps
striving
for
attention
NOTE:THIS IS AN OPEN(organic) FORM VERSE using spaces&breaks without grammatical symbols ,the ' open' relies upon 'the one breath limitation' & so inherently requires the 'reader' (reciter) to input and responds thus making this enigmatic form a two way interplay & interpretatIon unique to the moment& changing according to mood is inherently variable.
Copyright © Brian Strand
CLOURISTA
mood
& personality
an
intuitive
complex
of influence
decor
perceived
in
a spectrum
of
primary
pigments
tone
& saturation
red orange
yellow green blue
purple sides
of shortest
hue
'til blackness
in white
fades
into
a unity
of grey
with
intriguing
sublety
&
intensity
in
the
lasered
eye
emit
random
chaotic
photons
both coherent
&
radiates
sensations
in contrasts
&
complements
vibrate
in
the spatial
mind
light/dark
instinctive
& vivid
a
visual
spice
enlivens
&evokes
awareness
of
apparel
impressions
piquing
unadulterated
clarity
&
appeal
I feel it smoothly, gliding freely,
Liquid fluidity surging.
Not a fraction of too much friction,
An undulating path followed effortlessly.
Movement and balance allowing continuous flow.
A sense of harmony as the lubrication guides easily.
Embracing depth with no distraction.
No tension felt as if all melts with fluid energy.
A transition of like particles melding without abrasive motion.
A sleek silky transition is accomplished.
Liquid fluidity surges.
The artist textured an abstract artwork to the canvas.
Bold gradient strokes, are a pivotal attraction adding to the ambience.
Light, and layered emotion captivate through transitions and bold contrasts.
The paint melts across the canvas, intersected by frivolous bubbles and a masterful juxtaposition of cracked and fluid textures.
Each element from the fractured patterns to the luminous flow of paint, contributes to a sense of wonder of movement.
The more I gaze into this painting the more I see the effects of lubrication.
Imagining the paint is still actively moving freely on the canvas to a degree.
The north wind blew and we were home
in front of a roaring fire amid perfumes
of plum puddings, pies of spicy mince,
fruit cakes, marshmallows and eggnog.
All around the warm sitting room
colorful balloons, tinsel, and ribbons
lighted our house with joy,
trees blinked their softened lights
as we munched hot chestnuts
and drank sweet punch and cognac.
The south wind blew hot and humid.
The earth was arid and unproductive.
Children crawled on thin emaciated legs
bellies rumbling with hunger
and mouth parched with lack of dew.
Blow oh north wind, for we are safe,
Who cares what happens in other spheres?
Note: For how many years will Africa face famine. Right now around the world, five children die every minute as a result of malnutrition. Millions more live with the effects for the rest of their lives, because their bodies and brains haven’t developed the way they should. We need to act now to help these children. What was done by each Christmas?
At least go everyday to this site and click on the help food program button. It will cost you nothing.
The Hunger Site .
timing is everything
pretty much anytime
anyhow anyplace
morning noon or evening
whatever the birth date
no matter the season
or how tight the G-string
victuals and drink
the chiefs of a good diet
this old woman could not be quiet
she wiped her clammy hands
on a mellow yellow chiffon dress
Circa 1959
timing is overdressed
always never again
maybe sometimes never thrice
the aging colors
of dusty dreams
invite us to frolic
but only briefly
now that it's technical
there are no more heroes
this old lady only waved
when she was yawning
where had her archives gone
into a lifetime of sea
timing is to blame
cooks faster than bacon
doesn't stop and carries a knife
hour after hour reaches out
blinds us to see
takes us half the way there
days tripping over rock stars
nothing is by accident
in adjoining rooms
that old lady never listened
had many years of unread messages
lost the keys to the Jeep
waited for the next available rep
timing held its breath
up-to-the-minute
it was no small matter
prior days posted
atop one another
stealing sunshine
never recoiling
yesterday at sundown
she crashed the ATV
this old lady lived to skål
joy rides at the speed of sound
backward and past the contrasts
always in a leopard pill-box hat
timing had meant everything
still in response to yesterday
it was no grand prize
a gray higgledy-piggledy shrub
below the tidal noise
standing in the doorway with poise
blocking the Entrance
that's what ^tiempo_ was
cowbells and castagnettes
this old lady kicked it
in an instant such as this
cursed by seasons of glare
life kissed her feet in recompense
timing and it's belongings
had paced past and present
and lasted but a moment
in the vestibule by the portal
there is a possessed clock
it stages lifetime shifts
every step you take up or down the staircase
days weeks months years decades
a life-span of keeping your eyes on it
(my acknowledgement
to the loose canon of Robert Frost)
An above average snowfall
heavily swathed sage heather
followed by substantial unusual rainfall
punctuated months before, during and
after the growing season
delivered one of the
most hearty crop yields
in living memory
within the generations of men
of this (or any neighboring)
Norwegian bachelor farmer
long time residents
feeling like the sole housekeeper
of Lake Woebegone,
who can remember
the Edenic pasture with reluctance
raw bits and pieces mending wall
experiencing crushing childhood's end
weathered by their parents,
who as kids themselves
(during the worst
fear full Depression
in thee United States of America)
when countless farmers forced
by circumstance declared bankruptcy
locked out of hearth and home
no recourse 'cept to sell rural legacy...
family property deeds
(traced back to original settlers)
contrasts sharply with
plentiful, crucial, and
over abundant annual
precipitation, whereby these vestiges
of rural quaint lifestyle
awash with expansive lush cornfields,
whose silk like tassels
synchronously undulate
(sparsely dotting pastoral landscape),
blistered, calloused, and damned,
whether weathered by blizzards,
or pounded with powerful (one...two)
top notch pugilistic punch
topographical scars permanently earmark,
where Ole man winter relentlessly socked
or Mother Nature slammed a wall of water
saturating freshly mown hay,
which pungent odor
belied teeming flora and fauna
(albeit many organisms nearly invisible)
yet keenly observable to hawk eye,
also tempting black crows
to carrion camping
while a flock of seagulls
swoop down upon unsuspecting
school of fish,
and/or scurrying varmints.
the bottom lines scripted peripheries in a mirror
a headline toppled and reversed time and place
left became right and wrong pretended its centre
denuded illusions spoke in forked shiny tongues
lingua franca became subversive and spun yarns
and the spike of a spindle put wool over her eyes
prologues anticipated an apocalyptic message
hindsight firmly foreclosed unhinged shutters
framed in warped memories she recollected
blinds and veiled faces curtained in rags
holes and apertures appeared in the lore
essence void of existence smudged in tears
she relived captions and small printed subtexts
post-scripted antecedents and false premises
edited reminders and pasted virtuous contrasts
until meaning blocked out the pain of denial
a book mark covered in dust had refused to fade
and sealed approval onto questions and doubts
22nd June 2020
Underground rivers unsettle thoughts,
feelings on stable ground.
Real estate doesn't sound as real
with thoughts of hyporheic flow
beneath our feet,
out of sight and sound.
Rivers are meant to have light on top,
transparency.
Underground flow must look more like a furtive capillary
than an upfront tributary,
bringing salvific moisture
down into and across and through
deep ecological roots of fertility.
Hypostatic unions
are contrasts between understory backgrounds
emerging into focal foreground,
like darkness of night's flowing complexities
from which light emerges each day
then fades again,
like Yang creation stories
emerging from Yin
hypostatic partnering,
hyporheic flow
deep down within ecological consciousness,
subterranean channels
feeding timeless roots
of healthy real estates,
cooperative becoming.
as we travel forward once again
i am noticing a smiling pattern
the rivers and the lakes still sparkle in the sun's reflection
our similarities only elevate the compromising chemistry of our contrasts
in the center of our goofy laughter, we remain realizing that we have many more miles of anecdotal smiles to go
we have memories to tell our nieces, nephews, and grandchildren now
we hope they will be awe struck and, more importantly, inspired
from the moment we put whatever vehicle in drive, we will never give a stint of a hint that we are retired
we want our travails to be warmly remembered as well as happily admired
as we travel forward once again
DUALITY
In a realm where contrasts align,
A lady stood with grace you can't define.
Betwixt her, two guardians strong,
A golden dragon and one of snow's throng.
On a white canvas, the golden beast,
Flames ablaze, its power released.
A regal presence, fierce and bold,
Its aura shimmered, turning gold.
Its eyes burned bright, like molten fire,
Igniting courage, filling hearts with desire.
With wings unfurled like a sun's embrace,
It soared through skies, traversing space.
Beside her, the ferocious white dragon did rest,
A noble creature, epitome of the best.
Against a midnight backdrop it gleamed,
A beacon of light, where darkness beamed.
A guardian pure, serene and spitting flames
Its visage gentle, yet harness death games.
Its aura exhaled a frosty breeze,
Freezing doubts & putting minds at ease.
Between these two, the lady stood,
A bridge of balance, understood.
Her essence melded vibrant and bright,
A symbol of harmony, bridging day and night.
With each step she took, she'd dance,
Between opposing forces, in a trance.
Uniting qualities, both fierce and serene,
And in her presence, harmony was seen.
With golden and white, the lady stood,
Embracing the duality, as she should.
For in life's tapestry, colors intertwine,
And from juxtaposition, beauty will shine.
VickManuelPoetry
{VMP}
FORM: Rhymes
Copyright ©? 26th November 2023.