Long Cooled Poems
Long Cooled Poems. Below are the most popular long Cooled by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Cooled poems by poem length and keyword.
A pale white sun, yellow, thin and grained
played peek a boo games all day
slipping in and out skies black and gray
that only hinted a scent of rain.
The day somehow escaped my efforts exerted
staggered between phone calls and mail finds
with only brief respite from winter's cold averted
that stole the minutes and hours of my time.
Bowing at the crust of dusty breezes
the pale cream sun rays flow
clinging to the last vestiges of winter tease
cooled and blanketed by ashen melting snow.
Behind its glare
climbs the rising moon
with little left of light to spare
and evening stars begin to swoon.
How quick the day
as January slides in the new year groove
leaving us only Christmas memory ballet
of time ever on the move.
The day, now clearer-skied and cloudy strips cruise
in shades of deep dark sapphire and Aegean blues
with sweeter shades of cerulean azure oceanic hues;
stretching out in yawns across the western horizon
as if riding on the surf rise of Poseidon;
while in the east, straight up past high noon widening
it comes -
the rising, glowing creamy coconut balled sun
brilliant blinding white ivory yellowed burning rays run,
cooled in the breeze yet hot on the skin and face
but here, in the garden place
beneath the shaded nurtured paths
where the maple, sycamore, and oaks holdfast
beneath them, the shadows are cast;
the leftover morning imagery begins to spill,
in scented lilacs, honeysuckle and magnolia fills,
soon with perfect time and match
birdsong rings from nested eggs that hatch
life grateful that winter chill has passed;
as spring returns smolder and burns
with every flowing ghost of shadows in their turns,
they dance, they hide, they glide,
life flows in the shadows run.
Attached to the trees,
...of his mind’s fascination.
Caressing virgin pages
With a borrowed pen.
Trapped in a time...
...of being owned by someone.
Where freedom was only,
for the birds in the wind.
He’s heard of New York,
He’s heard of LA...
These are the thoughts,
He shares with the moon...
The humid day...
...blows dust on his face.
His father runs over,
“Get ta pickin’ boy soon!!!”
The freedom has silenced,
Reality...came back to mind.
No one’s ready for the truth he uncovered,
Not even the land...that he proudly calls home.
Freedom does exist...
Within the mind of a poet.
Not just in the sky...
Where the freedom bird’s flown.
At his father’s request,
He starts pickin’...pickin’ inspiration...
.. on desolate plantations of lies,
...of his father’s 40 acres and a mule.
Shackled to his dreams,
The wind whispers slavery’s sorrow...
Hummed by the workers abroad.
Lord, this boy’s not a cotton pickin’ fool.
Uneducated...his creations are sketches,
Poems in pictures of young boy dreams...
In the midst of slavery...he’s only a slave to his art,
And only...on the page can he run and play...
His music...is the worker’s song ...pickin’ cotton blues,
The rhythm of chains, and whistles of security afar.
For now...he sneaks off to his muse...a shade tree,
Hiding from the hot Georgian sun at bay.
While American kids ride their bicycles,
His recess is confined to his mind.
As the whistles grow farther into the distance,
It’s time for his imagination to play and run.
With bloody hands...he hums aloud,
Cooled by the un-racial breeze...caressing virgin pages...
...sketching his poems with a borrowed pen,
Under the very tree...where his forefather’s hung from...
________________________________________
Note: Inspired by the work of Christopher Higgins
Winter’s High Noon Tease
Shinning in regal glory,
the heat of the sun was cooled down
by misty winds sneaking through
and passing around
outstretched arms
of naked winter trees—leaves gone
to who knows where.
Stunned by it all, we stood there;
goose bumped and shivering.
The trees also stood there—stone faces
of leafless wooden skeletons—
mocking a juxtaposed purgatorial
moment in nature.
Cold, confused and conquered,
we wrapped the remaining warmth
of our chilled, chided challenge
in woven scarves of defeat;
and with great urgency, we scurried inside:
seeking our homemade heat.
I can feel this rage boiling,
Bubbling to the top.
I can feel it catching fire,
Gathering heat nonstop.
Trampled on, belittled, and used,
With pain and anger suppression fused,
Cap to bottle where pressure grew.
A rageful burst ignites a flame,
A violent urge inside creates
An urgent need to purge what’s sane.
So I tipped the ladle and poured my pain,
Into molds I cast from my shame,
Where molten bone is cooled with haste
To form the blackest glass to claws and fangs.
From iron ladle, fall tears like viscous drips,
Drops that burn the softness from my fearful lips.
Fire quickly desecrates
The innocence I held in vain,
My tongue reforged in Satan’s grip,
Now a sharpened blade my speech equips.
The blackened sneer drawn on my face,
Upon my soul has left phosphorus stain.
My body begins to seize and twitch,
And from my mind my memory slips.
Chunks of time from sight erased,
Under pressure the chainmail breaks.
Self-control not mine to claim,
Within my bones, I feel the itch.
With a second pop, my seams have split,
My one body now, shares two minds.
A ferocious fire burns inside,
It lights the forge that brings to life
A creature birthed from rage’s flame
That from my being can now escape.
Using my body, it contorts my frame,
A primitive urge to destroy untamed.
With my bladed tongue, it speaks in rhyme,
That death by cane a passion’s crime.
But just to show his civilized side,
Chosen next be a deadly shade of night.
Under shadowed fate our souls entwined,
But don’t confuse his name with mine.
If what you cherish is your life,
It would yet be best to call him,
Mr. Hyde.
Passion of raging anger held firmly inside.
Heated emotions slowly cooled, Like controlled fires.
092020PSCtest, Paint A Picture, Joseph May. First Place
like a momma bear protecting her cub in awkward fear
we ration our love to protect our hearts
fearing someday our spirits may part...
even through the attempt to hold back—
we love—no doubt
like sweat through pores—it oozes out...
clearer than 20/20 vision—it's plain to see
our hearts are one—us—replaced you and me...
with toiled emotions we sometimes contemplate the knowing at any moment like a thief in the night—
snatch!—gone! what has brought our hearts heavenly delight
no matter how hard we try—unavoidable will be the pain
take comfort in knowing our passion—as hot as a hot summers day—only cooled by the love we rain...
rain soaked passion to the soul like cool water to a flower near wilt
for love is the solid foundation where passion is built...
so release—let love take full flight— like a carefree bird
as if there is no tomorrow—for one day— there won't be...
when that day comes—one can reflect on all the wonder-fuls in their memory
and send the other off with a smile that will reign an eternity...
A reminder to enjoy the moment. Fully—It's all we really have...
—The Letters the Earth Learned to Read—
Remember me not for the heights I climbed,
nor for the names the restless world preserves.
The candle does not ask the sun for praise;
it only keeps a little room from dark.
I pray thee, measure not my life by deeds,
but by the tender things I left undone.
Remember me beside the garden gate,
where spring arrived before my hands returned.
Do not recall the roses I had grown,
but those small flowers left thirsty in the dust.
For in their silence lived a gentler truth—
the care I meant to give and never gave.
Remember the blue coat beside the door,
the cup that cooled beside the evening chair,
the letter folded underneath the book,
the words that trembled but refused the air.
Those words I carried past my final hour,
undelivered, yet never truly lost.
For silence was not death, nor was it void;
it was a chamber where forgotten things
awaited seasons that the heart had missed.
And there beneath your garden’s patient roots,
the rain descended like a reading hand
upon the page I never learned to write.
No ink remained. No mortal script survived.
Yet from that darkness rose a field of blooms,
each petal holding what my lips withheld,
each fragrance bearing what my soul concealed.
You thought the earth had answered only spring;
the earth had answered me.
Those flowers were not flowers after all—
they were my unfinished sentences made flesh,
my silent vows returned in living form,
my absent voice translated into light.
The garden was the letter I could not send;
the world became the hand that carried it.
So when your fingers touch those petals late,
and evening gathers softly at your feet,
do not seek me in the monuments of men,
nor in the victories that vanish like smoke.
Find me where imperfect things endure,
where broken songs still remember their first note.
For I was never what my years achieved,
nor what the world could weigh and call my worth.
I was the love that waited in my silence,
the word that died upon the edge of speech,
the seed that found another way to bloom.
And this alone I leave beneath the stars:
what human hands abandon, love completes;
what mortal tongues surrender, time restores.
Remember me—not as the life I lived,
but as the life my unfinished heart revealed.
How wonderful is love
waiting in anticipation of cupid's arrow to be shot
straight to the intended blending of hearts.
But what of the unintended?
The unexpected chance encounter
when the steps of a stranger step in
and a momentary encounter suddenly burns bright and hot.
The steely-eyed glance rising to lips smiling
where maiden and thief catch one another
in cooled pleasantries hidden deeper in the heart.
In the shadows cast by distant suns,
heartbeats succumb to a pleading beggar man's cry
of love me, I love you, let me steal your heart away.
Shy and retiring yet iridescent in her glow
the maiden bows, bending to his embrace
and her heart and soul, steals his heart away.
Julia Ward contest Tinker ...12/15/18
With a deliberate shake of her long back curls
She strode right past him
Not acknowledging his smile
Exuding indifference
And a certain air of pride
“Could you please tell me what things
are suitable for vegetarians?”
She asked the attendants at the table
A mellow voice to her left answered
“I can tell you….I own this place
And I checked the menu personally.”
Ready to give a
“Mind your own business” retort
She turned around and looked up into
The most dazzling
SKY blue eyes
She had EVER seen
And with that
She simply gulped down
All the mean words
Piled high on her tongue
Just as though they were
One of those tasty little appetizers
She’d been asking about
“May I?”
He offered his arm
And took her round the table
Pointing out what she should sample
Then he had one of his attendants
Escort her to her table
As he had to see to an urgent matter
She was furious with herself
Who the hell did he think he was...
Trying to reduce her to a shy, tongue tied teenager
With his honed charm and refined bearing
How dare he flirt when she was sure he had a wife
Spying on him...
Some goddess of beauty
Just waiting for him to make a wrong move
So she could swoop down
And stake her claim
Showing all around
That SHE was the ideal woman
And deserving of this male specimen
of perfection...
She tried to calm down
The Mediterranean sparkled
In the moonlight
The sound of the sea
The smell of the salty air
Worked their magic in her
As the breeze cooled her face
It was a dreamy summer night
Almost unreal...
The lights on the shore twinkled
The pool looked so inviting
If only she could dip in
And be where she was most comfortable
For she had mastery over water...
She let the tension seep out of her
The graduates were causing a stir
There on the outdoor dance floor
She smiled at her niece and gave her a hug
Despite herself, and her worry about not fitting in
She was having a good time
If only she could wipe out the memory
Of those sparkling blue eyes…
TO BE CONTINUED…
Eileen Manassian Ghali