Long Convergent Poems
Long Convergent Poems. Below are the most popular long Convergent by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Convergent poems by poem length and keyword.
Our convergent joint
The rallying point
Mecca to the Pastors and Sisters
Jerusalem to the “Alhajas and Alfas”
Refuge to the weak
Shield to the strong
Nowhere on campus like our building
Life made more lively
Added life to the lifeless
Ever enliven to light up a dead soul
Restore spirit to the soulless body
Nowhere on campus like our
World Trade Centre
Goods and services are synchronized
Prizes are greatly subsidized
To augment sense of belonging to our belongings
No wonder, young and old ones throng in and out
For more copies of pieces of paper
Scrupulously they stay glued to
Modern screen for good job
Ours is the biggest edifice in Nigeria
Ours is the best in Africa
Ours is amongst the best in the world
Swimming pool completes the unparallel
Beautiful scenery that I behold every
Midnight that I lay my head on the
Cushion to cushion the tedious effect
Incurred in my sojourn on campus
Twenty four hours was for
Wisdom chicken and chips
A delicacy prepares with wisdom
Which often times leaves Couples off wisdom
As they whisper pouring out farrago of lies
Unto each others hearing
In a latter day hobo’s manner
Like a Romeo in the world of a Juliet
Savoring the dishes
Drinking all drinkable and all gulp-able
Browsing and dancing to the
Rhythm of Yahoo and “Aluta” gyration
Ours was unarguably the best
Our building clad a chamber
Where the Honourables meet
Where ideas and views are chewed
Where political and cerebral jaw jaw are cross fertilized
Where rhetoric and oratory seed are swallowed
Where we read and blessed with “8 points”
Where we digest skills to become splendid
Managers of human and material resources
Our library is incomparable in quantity and quality of materials
All these before they came
They came, they vandalized
They came, they destroyed
They came, they extorted
They came, they collected and replaced for man
Receipt of hopelessness and anguish
They came . . . killed the spirit
They came . . . gauged the soul
They came . . . stole the body
But . . .
Like the Son of Man
The spirit will rise again
Like an “Ayekoto” bird
The gauged soul will escape and fly away
Like the Biblical Zion
The stolen body will be returned
And restored for better glory.
Alayande Stephen Tolulope
August 12th 2005
4.00am
Form:
Ordained kaleidoscopic turn of the time wheel,
the vacillating vista of life’s lattice designed
on mindscape mimicking chameleon skin colors
of the wasteland ash or the meadow emerald.
Convergent vision zooming on diffused dreams,
glances at the tapestry of transient ecstasy
on the wings of the flittering butterflies,
brings to focus of fulfillment before they fly away.
On the journey across desolate desert dunes,
or along the glittering garden path in spring,
my mind’s shutter opens in lightning speed,
capturing in collage the snapshots of beauty.
May 16, 2020
Contest : Shutter Speed
Sponsor : Kai Michael Neumann
May 18, 2020
Contest : Double Exposure
Sponsor : Kai Michael Neumann
Two drifting hearts
pining to be one,
hover on the convergent surge
of the winds of yearning.
Once fused, the primal passion
drives their propulsion,
taking them to the carnal heights
of cosmic longing,
consummated in celestial silence.
At the acme of surreal desire
of magnetic craving,
the private spaces of the two bodies
implode to disappear.
Their mingled souls
then turn into the singularity
suspended in deep outer space
where in astral ballet
they sway entwined.
The blended bodies
of sculpted silhouette,
framed against the diffused glow
of the crescent moon,
float to the edge of nebular clouds,
away from the intangible allure
of the blue planet,
that couldn’t thwart
the space odyssey of love.
January 25, 2020
Contest : Picture Prompt
Sponsor : Brenda Chiri
I never know my body has rotten
until it appears through the wall mirror
these remains are heaped upon an autan
next spire takes a hearer turn for queerer
now urban commercial cores of gulag
I am a particular schlockier
for signs which are cheap to erect as clague
extensions can be found from that nearer
some convergent, others conflicting stun
I suspect having to do with my craag
this penetrates deeply into a gun
into the family into dague
extreme lengths to which I loosely spun
remain a shadow in place to slither
I’m in a mental drought
My mind is empty, my hearts beating
No! Happiest in my soul
My feet sore, no place to go;
I’m happiest when I’m convergent
Penning a verse, whispering a phrase
Yet the poet’s hands are tied
As his eyes witness humanities lies
And all the horrid host invisible as ghost
Daily meals water and toast
I have no words
No one wants to hear
How do I write?
The Poet's Hands Are Tied
With worn hands arthritic hands
Blurred visions can’t see the keyboard
I have no words
No one wants to hear
The Poet's Hands Are Tied
When my muse is sleep
When no one keeps
Pays attention to me
To me attention flees
I have words
No one wants to see
I have voices inside of me
How can it be a poet?
Whom, you know yet I don’t know it
How do I write?
The Poet's Hands Are Tied
As my censorship
Has been relinquish
Penning a verse, whispering a phrase
Yet the poet’s hands are tied
As his eyes witness humanities lies
And all the horrid host invisible as ghost
Daily meals water and toast
I have no words
No one wants to hear
How do I write?
The Poet's Hands Are Tied
How do I write?
Again I say as Poet's Hands Are Tied
The Poet's Hands Are Tied
6/2/2021,
Written by James Edward Lee Sr © 2021
Placement in Contest 1st Place
For The Poet's Hands Are Tied Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Kai Michael Neumann
The sun was sporting a radiant yellow,
with headlong pause, upon entering her space.
Tanned and serene, cheered by warm fellow,
Larissa’s slightly demure, emanating grace,
framed in the joyful shine of bittersweet tangelo.
Sungaze tints her bucolic gown, each thread,
a xanthous treat in the field of convergent reap.
The stipple wheat, its ocean of resonant red,
veils her pretty feet, as the sun gently falls asleep.
Autumn stumbles out, as Summer slips into bed.
Larissa Laluna with short crop of hair, breathes
in cooling air, the moon playfully turns her white.
The baby’s breath and roses, her sallow wreaths.
A figurine of snow, softly pirouetting at twilight.
Hope’s found in indulgent seasons she unsheathes.
Tapping on her bare shoulder, a yellow rush,
while pastel tulips color the lady’s countenance.
The bounty of seasons, Larissa’s paragon-blush.
The harvest moon, the gypsy’s discountenance
of rivers of green, blue sky, and a sunny paintbrush.
10/4/2021
Emile Pinet’s Quintain (Sicilian) Poetry Contest
HMS
The patina of dew dazzled on my drenched meadow,
charismatic crystals crowning the convergent verdance
sprinkled your essence in million sparkles of motif,
a tapestry I had spread on the precinct of my heart.
I thought that was what the feelings of paradise were
until the blaze of engulfing illusion burnt them to ashes.
The footprints on the shifting dunes of desert sand
crumbled inward to the desolate depth of obscurity,
treaded the delusive trail of mirage of togetherness.
The oasis faded away to the hazy horizon, unreached.
The waves of emotion rushing from the sea of desire
caressed my shore with the touch of pristine pearls.
The amorous arms of silver sands couldn’t hold long,
the surge returned to where it came from, disowned.
Cascading moonbeam contoured your face I configured,
glistened under the silver drizzle of the silent stardust,
disappeared with the melted mist of the unslept night,
because, of you behind shroud I couldn’t dream enough.
The propitiating poems so imperfect I wrote for you
rhymed with the rippling rustle of my mind’s petals.
The missing words wafted with the scent of passion,
defining me but dissolved in oblivion, unperceived.
In the air of our nest melody of my lyric didn't resonate
with the cadence of the embraced wings of nightingale
that flew away to sing some other song in another sky,
because sometimes silence called love is not enough.
September 10, 2019
January 3, 2020
Contest : Strand Select 3, Any Form, Any Theme
Sponsor : Brian Strand
rainbow rhapsody
morphs momentarily
into
morose mélange
of
shredded exuberance
bleeding colors
from
chromatic clouds
of
twilight zone
embroidered ephemerally
by
sunset spectrum
permeates profoundly
as
ingrained insignia
of
cobalt lattice
of
broken heart
painting blue
love linen
f r a y e d....
receding requiem
of
remote roses
resonates melody
in
tragic concerto
of
melancholic medley
as
petals wilt
with
forlorn feelings
while
dripping teardrops
of
mourning dew
on
floral luster
fading
desiccates desolate
in
somber sunshine
of
marooned mind
flagging flowers
make motif
of
withered wreath
for
decedent passion
o b s c u r e....
convergent cacophony
accrues dissonance
relentless
in
entropy cauldron
of
disharmonic music
as
snarled symphony
of
dismantled tune
incoherent
on
refrain ripples
discordant
configured contorted
in
strained smile
sneers sense
inane
of
lonely life
where
sanguinity songs
transform deplorably
into
nonsensical noise
echoed errantly
by
reflective soul
a r c a n e....
life’s leitmotif
listless
seen skeptically
through
cynic lens
indolent
of
distorted essence
magnifies manifold
into
crooked contortion
of
convoluted consciousness
a b e r r a n t....
At the end of my tunnel I use to see the light.
It was built not with rock but with thick vines green and bright.
I could see my path it was there I always walked,
sometimes I would sit and think, listen as plants talked.
Sweet peas, marigolds and pansies were at my side,
I lived my life with friends in who I would confide.
The air was scented in sachets rare,
coloured in muted tones stripped down bare.
Growing above me were angel lamps,
also gorgeous dahlias, on the ramps.
I remember in the large blue pond, a rare pair of two toned swans,
while below the weeping willow, an almost sleeping chipmunk yawns.
Convergent ladybugs clustering for warmth on the ground,
drifting leaves acted like an ocean wave just to confound.
Back then switched on lights would decorate the night sky with stars
but now alarms sound as they shut me down behind these bars.
22~10~2014
Sponsor: Isaiah Zerbst
Contest Name:Pick a Title
Yesterdays Joys
At the dark intersection of convergent shadows
There lies an orphan thumb tack,
A silent menace to unshod feet,
Waiting to jolt me awake from the dream.
And it wouldn’t come as an unwelcome surprise.
I’ve been experiencing life in syndication.
Living off the residuals of tired plots
And oft quoted tag lines:
"To the moon, Alice!"
“Lucy, I’m home!”
“Son of a gun!”
“Dyno-mite!”
How many re-runs does it take
Till you run out of reasons for watching?
My publicist was admitted to rehab.
My agent never returns my calls.
The last time I walked the red carpet
Was in a black and white photograph.
But I did look stunning!