Long Cools Poems
Long Cools Poems. Below are the most popular long Cools by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Cools poems by poem length and keyword.
Click in an instance the human volcano erupts
From a distance, feel the sudden switch of countenance
So hot the magma boils
from inside it wont wait to spill over
Looking with intensity yet blind with rage
The feeling on stage acting as salvage
The entire sense of reasoning caged
Unreasonably out of gauge
Just then if not controlled
Boooommm!!!
Bloody lava flows out spiting wildfire
so fast mistakes happen
leaving evidence of ashes
sssshhhhhh!!!!!
it cools, and beclouding smokes disappear
the senses awake and the eyes brighten.
Never say it was the work of the devil cus he may be asleep.
I assume one day,
Everything will be calm down
Surprising wind will come from the East
Even if I spell wrongly,
I will write, "I am fine."
To make you feel assured
Life is full of surprises
I feel less demeanor when I meant it
As introvert as I am, I silently count danger
Everything is calculated in my mind
Not to offend someone is my inner fear
Less as I expect it doesn't go always
By observing one's behavior I feel less
Insensitive, a little open now like kettle
Comes out hazy sound when full hot
Decent and calm when it cools off
As usual the days passed I have learned
Many things in life goes to maturity
Never neglect the small details in life
Makes me more cautious and less apprehensive
Life has more to go, too many lapses to take
Before I have that crown of victory with me
Here in this world and the world here after.
Russet sunset overpowering coolness of the day
Showing herself in reds and yellows,
Streaking through October’s pumpkin patches
Straw scarecrows decorating autumn porches
With their stationary smiles and their googly eyes
Staring from fall displays of gourds and Indian corn
Banana bread and pumpkin bread smells
Wafting from the kitchen of the ones who care
About russet sunsets, the ones who decorate their porches
With the reds, yellows, oranges, and browns of autumn
Enhancing her in every way, celebrating the beginning of cools,
Showing their playful sides, in the most melodic ways.
Squirrels with fluffy tails scurrying with walnuts,
Deer crunching through the leaf ground,
Autumn magic smiling her truth.
I stand before the old castle,
its walls breathing centuries through cold stone.
A single torch flickers beside the winding stair,
inviting me into its patient shadow,
where every corridor holds a sleeping memory,
waiting behind each half-opened door.
I step through the first door,
feeling the hush settle over the castle.
Dust rises like disturbed memory,
softening the edges of every stone.
Light thins into a trembling shadow,
guiding me downward along the stair.
The air cools as I follow the stair,
each turn revealing another ancient door.
My breath mingles with the drifting shadow,
as if the dark itself belongs to the castle.
My hand trails the rough-grained stone,
searching for something shaped like memory.
Rooms open like chambers of memory,
each one deeper than the last along the stair.
I touch a wall and feel the pulse beneath the stone,
as though the past waits behind the next door.
The silence thickens inside the castle,
gathering itself into a single shadow.
I pause where the corridor narrows into shadow,
listening for the echo of some old memory.
The whole world seems held inside this castle,
its stories descending down the endless stair.
I steady myself before another door,
its hinges worn smooth in the stone.
At last I reach the chamber carved from living stone,
a room lit only by its own shadow.
There is no handle on the final door~
only the weight of unspoken memory.
I sit on the lowest step of the stair,
feeling the heartbeat of the castle.
In the quiet castle, I rest against the stone,
letting the stair cradle me in its shadow,
and the last door opens inward into memory.
It was never her choice,
to be into the red gallows.
Body sold in the witching hour,
forsaking her hemorrhaged soul,
she moves on.
Twitching in pain,
trembling limbs,
scars of yesterday’s lust,
squashing the very being out of her,
yet she bounces back in the morning.
A wife and a mother,
her own choice,
her only aberration,
falling in love with a man,
who placed her under the red light,
with harrowing nights.
Just for the livelihood of her family,
which her man should have given,
she sold herself every day.
The lusty eyes,
that could have grazed upon the innocent,
she cools that lust off,
at the cost of her nights.
Today she is at crossroads,
her man being bludgeoned to death.
She ran from one hospital to another,
with her mate writhing in pain.
God – speed said few of her clan,
from the crimson gallows.
Succumbed he did,
with the setting sun.
Disowned by society,
and now by protectors of law too,
She stood there perplexed.
Benumbing silence engulfed her,
She held two arms tight,
better or worse life would enfold,
unaware, unperturbed she stood there,
a defying silence,
chilling the soul.
It was not her choice,
to be pushed into the red gallows,
now with two innocent souls,
walking along by her side,
On these roads!
@Chitra Arun
May 2022
Today is National cookie day…a day to celebrate that delicious, mouthwatering treat…but as we bite into that cookie…let’s not forget the cookie sheet.
While we’re enjoying the aroma of all those cookies someone’s making…let’s not forget all the time and energy and things it took to get those cookies baking.
Think about it for a moment…as you approach that cookie…before you dip into the jar and take it…where would that cookie be without a sheet upon which to bake it?
And while we’re on the subject…before that cookie ends up on our hips…what about the flour, the sugar, the eggs, the vanilla…and all those chocolate chips?
Certainly today, of all days, it makes perfect sense…if we’re going to celebrate the cookie…we must celebrate its ingredients.
And then there is the mixer, the measuring cups, measuring spoons…the spatula…for we would all be fools…if we celebrated the cookie…without remembering these tools.
And then there is the person whose hands combine the ingredients and place the dough upon the sheet….then watches the cookies closely…as he or she monitors the heat.
The person who cools the cookies before putting them into the jar…the person who has lovingly watched and helped those cookies come so far.
That same person who makes those cookies with love for me and you…then sticks around to clean up when all the baking’s through.
So when you pick up that cookie today…when you bring it to your lips and that first bite your’e about to take it…celebrate all the time and energy and love it took someone to bake it.
I suppose in a way we’re a lot like that cookie…as we walk the path fate and destiny are taking us…we are a mix of ingredients…molded by love…and all the hands that have gone into making us.
So while we celebrate the cookie today…as we sneak another from the cookie jar…let us also celebrate all the time and energy and love…it takes to make us who we are.
I want to believe
In that enormous green tree
Appearing here, alive in the spring
Foliage, decorating its thing
Bark firm and strong
I sit under, pondering life’s wrongs
Its shade, cools me
While I sip summertime tea
Watch and wonder
Afternoon storms arrive, declaring thunder
Wet
I do not get
Umbrella branches
Protecting me as the heavenly water dances
When the shower calls it quits
Ending the daily tantrum fit
I endure our sloppy, muddy setting
Enjoying an arbor relationship consecrated wedding
That will never break
No matter the stake
Calendar date flips
My tree starts to strip
One leaf at a time
I start to whine
Why? Why?
Are you starting to die?
Winds start booing
Chiming, ‘how are you doing?’
Then emerges a star
A friend from afar
Guide me my northern light
I ask this visiting galactic bright
Glowing in the dark
Proclaiming a hark
“You want me to cut down my tree,
Bring it in the house, for all the see
Dressed up, displayed ever so nice
My darling paid the ultimate price
But now is the center of attention
Did I mention?”
I thought about this suggestion
Decided saving money, due to a planted shrubbery recession
Axe I handled
Feeling wax on my candle
Going the festive way
My tree will have one last say
Planned the attack
Took only one whack
Out went my back
Sending my love to the ground
Hearing the deathly earth bound
Sound
Music occupied the air
During scheduled holiday affairs
Creating memories my tree and I will share
Until one morning
Without any warning
A stranger put packages under my tree
Glittering with glee
Realizing what was done
We started to have fun
Throwing wrapping paper around
Cherishing the merchandise we have found
Days later new year joined the party
Everyone stayed upbeat, not sorry
I stared out the window
And what do you know
Another tree ready to grow
And bloom
Wanting my companionship soon
Humming our favorite, seasonal tunes
Greetings to you all
I exclaim, dragging my spruce honey down the hall
~Summer Days~
(Triolet)
Summer season brings us very hot weather
But the days cools again when it depart
Hear birds, see butterflies, flowers, heather
Summer season brings us very hot weather
There is fun, beach, lots of sun altogether
We see sunshine very bright for most part
Summer season brings us very hot weather
But the days cools again when it depart.
Dorian Petersen Potter
aka ladydp2000
copyright@2013
July.31.2016
~Author's Notes:
The " Triolet" is a poetic form or style consisting of only 8 lines.
This "Triolet" has been written this time using ten syllables lines,( The English style) instead, of the usual eight syllables ( The French style) which I usually write with or use more in the past.
A SILHOUETTE
Rich pasture land covered with green garland.
Cowboy chasing cattle, gaily grazing,
idly chewing soft grass on open wide meadow,
with satisfied half closed sleepy eyes.
A soporific scenario at hot noon of summer
Afternoon cools ambient, rural panorama salient silent
Sun sinking down, twilight faded, evening merged.
Full Moon smiled on firmament.
Peasants, farmers, rustics, all were on way to home.
Scary thrill spread across the populace faces
on spectacular sight of pitch black silhouette on sky,
glittering glimmering on shiny silvery scales.
Dreadful dragon was passing the Moon.
On its back sat a fairy with curly hair
pushed back like trail of comet.
At this very moment coolies screamed, ‘train',
We scampered, packing up our bags and bales;
A long-awaited train’s at times a bane,
But this one turned a boon, such were the tales.
An English gentleman hailed our hero
From his carriage, and we parted to go
Our diverse ways—to our cattle-class seats.
There was no chance to know who that man was,
Nor could more light upon his tale be lit;
Indeed, never-ending may prove some pause.
Some truths, some lies of life lie ever so;
Maybe, he took us as credulous fools.
A painful nerve, if anxious, seldom cools,
Some truths and lies forever curious grow.
Perchance the man minted fun at our cost,
And damsels in distress lay buried, lost.
_____________________________________________
Narrative |01.04.2024|
Note: A poetic translation of Rabindranath Tagore’s story in Bengali: Kshudhaarto Paashaana, divided in I to XIV parts, largely in blank verse that lapses into rhymes along with its twists and turns. The story is known to have happened during Tagore’s stay at Shaahibaug palace in Ahmadabad, the nearby river Sabarmati becoming river Suista in the story.