Long Convivial Poems
Long Convivial Poems. Below are the most popular long Convivial by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Convivial poems by poem length and keyword.
If I were immortal,
the carriage of fleeting time
can’t carry my soul away
from the adoring life in the present
to the distant realm of the past
where everything acquired
gets abandoned in obscurity.
Trailing the shadow of the future,
creating the convivial flood of love,
time carries on its flow to inundate
the lavish landscape of life sculpted
in my mind where dwells dormant
the perceptible desire of perpetuity,
the deathless dream…immortality.
If I were immortal,
the entrancing memory won’t die,
subsisting enduringly in the present,
for the soaring bird of my love
will fly in the infinite firmament,
spreading the wings to embrace
the halcyon horizon of the future.
While I drift with the imperishable soul,
floating in the sublime sea of eternity,
and with the congenial wind of love,
blowing on the sanguine sail of life,
set to embark on an endless journey,
I’ll get from the stalled time,
the surreal divine gift…immortality.
________________
April 23, 2022
Contest : If I Were Immortal
Sponsored by : Anoucheka Gangabissoon
Most folks I loved
died when I was in my thirties.
Not just people,
but our San Francisco bohemian mecca lifestyle,
our 365 days and nights celebration
turned into an epidemic of waiting
and watching
and mourning our losses,
wondering about possibilities of survival.
What could remain for us,
for me,
for this place?
What could become my purpose
our passion
for any lonely future of diaspora survivors?
Then, in my early forties,
my closest remaining friend,
a happily married matriarch
with two adolescent children,
died of breast cancer.
Perhaps this was my final straw.
I have not constructed any deep
and reciprocal
friendships since.
This reminds me of my maternal grandfather,
who lived into his eighties
but as his quantity of years continued
his quality of celebrated convivial life shrank
through loss of two wives
and all their friends,
his generation of neighbors,
and then his hearing.
He told me
not long before he passed
he was not sure
if his loss of hearing was a curse
or a blessing,
prohibiting him from cultivating renewing friendships
only to be lost yet again.
My own hearing is not perfect
yet I seem unwilling to listen
for any more friends,
loved ones I could no better afford to lose
than those already gone.
Yet still I wonder
about therapeutic reasons for my survival.
As fertile celebrations fade to dusty memory,
my capacity to comprehend why I still breathe,
yet my generation of intentional families has long passed,
shrunk to incomprehensible mystery
as did my revered grandfather's hearing.
The best I can hear,
through this epidemic distance,
I rescued by adoption
then by love
four hurt children
no one else wanted,
and each continues teaching me how to love hims and her,
when I listen well,
in their distinctive needy ways and broken means.
Yet even here
with these final four
I night sweat in guilty worry
about how they could best thrive
when I can, at last,
no longer hear them,
nor they me.
Most folks I loved
died when I was young,
leaving me to worry
severed prospects for survival.
Can you atone for murder,
And so can you atone for Thatcherism?
What libertarian negates the government,
For weighty Bupa's stamp of cheque?
The nanny Chunnel lifted that steely neck,
Hidden by pearl and flick of speech,
To hint at EU community relationship,
With the recompense of criminal friendship.
Keep EU citizens in the country,
Keep them here for prosperity,
Both for reasons economic and social,
Because our emotions are convivial;
Don't let accent condemn in tone,
Because dialect also insists on difference,
Whether you be friend or fighter,
For common wealth and happiness.
Springtime facade shines on convivial tapestry
Monet’s luminous landscape of vibrant vivacity
Within sparkling blue lagoon of dreaming eyes
On luscious lips the petals of blooming lotus lie
Painted on the satin canvas of cute countenance
Designing narcissistic features of innate elegance
With the hues of Dorian Gray syndrome subdued
By pervading pride of indomitable youth imbued.
On the withered canvas the wheels of time creep
The spider of winter weaves web of wrinkle deep
Weary eyes look forlornly at weathered wasteland
Wilted lips lose luster of lotus once luringly grand
Hedonist psyche refuses to accept the fated loss
Even when time comes for the last mile to cross
What is a face if not a metaphor for a panorama
Snapshot shaped in contours of lasting charisma.
_________________
May 1, 2022
For Contest Your Choice 2022
Sponsored by Brian Strand
Slender sapling sprouts budding
from the sub-soil seed,
trembles in the convivial wake
of the bracing breeze.
Forking boughs flutter like verdant wings,
nascent leaves look up sparkling
to the rising sun of promise,
soaking them with sheen of a new life.
Turning seasons bring rain and shine,
strong roots grip the ground firmly.
It grows up in the air of heightened pride,
endures the turmoil of storms
to reach the sapphire sky,
encase the nectar of dreams
within the craving trunk.
When from the spring air love drips
flowers bloom in the tree of life.
The sap of bliss flows in the soul,
designs the vibrant art of living.
I douse myself by melodious waves of music
As he maneuvers me into his gracefulness
Clasps of our hands draw my ebullience like magic
In ecstasy, feet slide to and fro to express
The pleasure at ritzy hall in ballroom delight
Huge array of lights shimmers on our gala dress
Oh, I am sheer brought to the crest of his limelight!
He sways me and turns, our balancing pays the price
Wearing my confidence in the spectator’s sight
I can feel every beat with his most sumptuous spice
His perfume wafting on air, I’m more than alive
Clutching back our body close, great passions arise
All in delighted spirit, convivial grace thrives
Ballroom dancing paints the beauty where love survives
Nov. 30, 2014 10.55 a.m
- In honor of Victor Gabriel Gilbert, a great painter and artist.
I like him so much and his masterpiece.
Imagining to dance with him in consummate ease:)
Seventh Place
Contest: Ballroom Delights
Judged: 12/16/2014
Sponsor: Poet Isiah Zerbst
back a small number of years thee diva of this domicile
exhibited an aura, charisma, enigma…devoid of any guile
boot of late turned a cold shoulder to me and I’ll
avoid denigrating, haranguing, and lambasting said dell lisle
la, whose avoidance behavior toward me – who goes a mile
out of her way to ensure our paths do not cross – noah din nile
per the above – well, perhaps a slight bit of hyperbole
viz this, mine swift tailored, harried style
per potpourri of puzzling perturbation evinced
by said olde world germane German dame we lease this duplex
treating us, as if we committed some egregious crime
subsequently forced to stand trial
viz aversion toward this convivial, frivolous and introspective chap
methinks said realtor/renter joined a coven den
where doe eyed zen of thieves
occupy teaching rubric of mean-ness while
taking appropriate and selective pages from play book of sarah palin,
which tension unlikely to cease for the next nine months till the deed
doth expire, where by this witch a taw hook cans ass (ours) will be freed
of renting a long and fostered, roach and fox infested, century21
from once salient sympathetic ear this now manifested Scrooge like greed
reminding us (essentially via cessation of any interaction),
how she once did heed
to our various and sundry travails – though neither myself nor spouse,
the latter whose vociferousness regularly exudes loathsomeness
toward key per, once a vouch saving storied angel without fail and indeed
wife tis not shy to vent where a plethora of expletives lead
rant and rave toward an impending crisis that will me send out an SOS
ever felt compelled to join Hemlock society or drown sorrows in mead
yet disappointment arises, when formerly positive dynamic now im peed
did by reasons unbeknownst to me,
who feels grateful ye chanced to read
my babbling of poetically irrational from a regular Joe,
who doth not sport Harris Tweed
nor (despite any immediate intimations)
doth newt smoke booze nor drink week.
In my idyll thoughts you’re my dream sky,
spreading the lasting lure of indelible indigo,
where on the whispering wings of the swan cloud
my ardent bird flies fascinated with mind’s motif.
On the convivial canvas of my halcyon heart,
with your longing hues I paint love landscape.
The pearls of dew in my malachite meadow
shine with the glint of your eyes, I envision.
In the rose garden blooming my pristine essence,
you’re an enthralling butterfly of charm, I imagine,
flittering in the splendorous zephyr of spring,
that ripples within me with rhythmic rapture.
In the mesmeric firmament of my fervent feeling,
you’re the astral radiance of galactic passion, I deem,
with the flaming flash of a shooting star from there,
you blaze the timeless trail of desire in my heart.
The enticement morphs into your flickering face,
dances in my vision as I see your enthralling smile
glow in the argentine beam of the mesmeric moon,
fixed at the fringe of my heart, so lively, not so far.
Across the still sea at the edge of my serene soul,
you’re the enticing horizon of love I cheerfully configure,
where I wish to fly as the beguiled bird of yearning,
for in my idyll thoughts you’re my dream sky.
The wheel of time carries my soul away
from the life rooted in the present
to the distant desolate land
where I was once, but left forever,
that’s the fading past receding fast,
yet to be abandoned and obliterated.
Lying in the shadow of the perennial future,
creating the convivial flood of copious love,
that time carries on its cascade to inundate
the lavish landscape of life sculpted
in my mind where dwells the desire of perpetuity,
the deathless dream…immortality.
I like to see the entrancing memory undying,
subsist in the discarded recess of the past,
for the soaring bird of my love
flies in the sky of my present,
spreading the dreaming wings to embrace
the halcyon horizon of the future.
While I drift with the imperishable soul,
floating in the sublime sea of eternity,
and with the congenial wind of love,
blowing on the sanguine sail,
I yearn to get from the stalled time's magnanimity,
the surreal gift…immortality.
_______________
December 21, 2022
For A Brian Strand Premiere Choice No 55 Contest
On childhood memory adrift on the fading track,
with the ardor of endless nostalgic pursuit I traced
the stalled timeline, followed instinctively back
to the vivid hues of golden heydays once embraced.
From the blue cascade of hill’s curvature yonder
rolled the graphic landscape on the verdant waves,
the cradle for the seraphic hamlet of my wonder,
for its nurturing caress since lost long I still crave.
The sparkling stream resplendent in crystal glow,
meandered in the enticing curves of ballerina grace,
a garland of fluidized grandeur in sprightly flow,
with its convivial current I swam in rhythmic pace.
In the backyard expanse lay the placid jade pond,
on mirror of water rippling at gliding swans’ wake,
I sailed my paper boat to find what was beyond
the shaking shadows, the trees stood still to make.
Soaked in the glimmer of sunburst chromatic sky
I ran on the garden’s floral winding pathway,
chasing the pictorial swarms of flittering butterfly
to catch my dreams lest with them they flew away.
Beyond the blurred edge of the cotton clouds far,
with my spectral kites soaring on the sea of azure,
I let my mind fly in the breeze of youthful fervor,
in the diffusing twilight gleam I still foster its allure.
March 16, 2020
"Kim Rodrigues' DWM Contest"