Long Coppery Poems
Long Coppery Poems. Below are the most popular long Coppery by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Coppery poems by poem length and keyword.
cunning whist’red the wind
through bulwarks of my youth
cloaked in kindness its sly craft
masked in plotting feign’d truth
the scent of damp stone and moss
clung to my marrow
voices in each gust
defiant i stood on the brink
slumber’ring in ire’s enlace
with sly deceit danced outcome
and beguiled dreams took stage apace
the bitter tang of shadowed air
the quell of trembling leaves
twilled with the evil of withheld grace
vain are stars that once foretold
boast not what thou’st dealt
the conqueror an umbral mist walks
in wilderness where none hath knelt
soil crumbles underfoot
cold dew bites the ankles of night
sweet—and awful—sang the muteness
after the third new moon pass’d
grim hunger prevails
hangs where sojourners draw breath
their last
the coppery taste of fear
lingers in the throat
as stillness gnaws the spectral lungs
not for bread i starve
but for meaning
in vale and entombed mountain roam
judgment echoes field and forest
sunward songs mount toward doom
rustle of leaf
bark-scratch under nails
carry the weight of unseen eyes
thorn’d breaths of abyssal wind
my failing prostrate i ascribe
to flagrant flame
incurably untam’d
a whirling squall of dissipation
drunkenness of nameless claim
the acrid smoke of wasted fire
licks the tongue of legacy
shadow’d cinders curl in the mind
indignation binds me captive
a dungeon endless dark and grim
vile guilty stricken wholly
no mortal left to shield or limb
chains clash rattle in marrow’s obscurity
iron scents the air with accusation
yet manifest soulless one
fervent fierce and torn
momentary affliction sways
in transient shape of mourn
cool sweat bitter ashen traces
mingle with tremor of fleeting heart
tired i am
weak i am
worn i am
yet still
i rise
though wretched rent
to meet the sweet and awful dawn
with every scar fetch’d and spent
light trembles on dew-beaten leaves
first air pungent and raw
fills lungs with promise
of endurance
cunning whist’red the wind
Her exquisite lace linen collar tiered in layers of dainty threes
Was not the only beautifying feature of Princess LaCrees
Her beetle necklace of green peridot was engraved well
Her monocle was designed by Bob Mackie’s protégé, Snell.
She was the ultimate spring peeper croaker.
We saw by her wardrobe, she was a leap frogging bloaker.
Prominently featured on her front was a darling topaz roach broach.
It was the kind of semi jewel that would never have to ride in coach.
Princess LaCrees knew to top off her flashy outfit with a favored crown.
Orange crushed velvet puff ball at the top, it was a coppery light brown.
She is dazzling, a jumper among the reeds, the best of the best.
Ribbit Ribbit she shouts, her head a big crest.
Don’t you get hungry wearing all of those bugs? Asked Lady in Waiting.
Not really, the princess answered, as her maids began the uncrating.
Grasshoppers, ants, beetles, and lady bugs were scattering all around.
She stabbed and ate them all with her wand, without making a sound.
Variations on a Theme of Red
Color of bold that daubs the sunset bright
Old fair weather friend of shepherd’s delight
That taints the emblazoned rays of gold
Displayed a glorious red for all to behold
Rare crimson moon adorns a shady backdrop
A Raleigh scattering miracle of red that’s set to shock
Its sign of fate that casts a gloom upon the earth
For some at least who warn of pending doom and death
Blood red that gives the erythrocyte its hue
When paired with oxygen a healthy glow anew
When starved of red, blood slowly turns to blue
A drop in oxygen levels is certain to ensue
Poppy red defines this flower in silent meadow strewn
Whose fragile petals reflect frail life that’s prematurely hewn
These sanguine emblems stand firm upon the plaintive ground
Lest we forget the bravery of which we are so proud
Bright red fans the fiery flames that make a grateful warmth
And cheers and lights a chilly night seated round the hearth
But when misused, this type of red becomes a thing of danger
As out of control this wildfire, is certain to endanger
Rusty red boasts taints of brown with coppery appeal
Less blatant, an iron oxide, for stage lighting it’s ideal
But cardinal red stands lofty as a churchman’s stately dress
This red adorned at conclave is destined to impress
And like the rose my love appears, a summer beauty born
But when the red petals disband, reveals the hardy thorn
Blush red will grant the skin, its rueful splash of cringe
As well as blotchy red after a night out on the binge
So red is the color of differing shades and styles and taints
Its variations abound amongst a multitude of paints
Seeing red at life will give you great feelings of anger
But when upon a canvas, will make it look much grander
Head twitching,
black eye gleaming, reflecting moonlight,
He dreams of hoarding that great shiny orb.
Tucking it in with his precious treasures
inside the Rowan tree to feast his eyes upon... his alone.
Perhaps he will take a small bite
so his charcoal feathers shoot out indigo moon beams and all the creatures will gaze at him in admiration
as they do the night sky.
He tucks his beak under a wing, and turns a quick circle,
his way of smiling with excitement.
Then noticing movement under his perch, he stills,
one marble eye to the ground.
A lone wolf lurks, turning circles before standing
to gaze at the full moon, so large in the speckled night sky.
All of the night sounds seem to quiet,
recognizing the predator scent, old coppery blood and sinew, on the wind.
He does not like the way the wolf is looking at his moon.
He hops once on his branch and lets loose an angry, "caw!", to warn the wolf away.
Spreading his long sleek wings to show the wolf how big and frightening he is, he once again yells,"mine!"
The unaffected wolf lazily turns only his eyes upward to the exuberant crow, not stirring another muscle.
Crows are such childish thieves, he thinks,
everyone knows
the moon belongs to me.
The sky falling, crumpled beneath a russet cloud,
shrouded by shadows swaying with the dusty flow of gases.
Blackest darkness without promised whispered rays of sunlight,
absent of visible light shifting, fading into nothingness.
The surface crackling, popped burning, mottled with brash shards
and coppery incandescent flakes simultaneously freezing and melting.
Rapid oxidation oscillating turning uncontrolled, removed from its center.
Chilly coldness surrounding scorched voices unhearable and unheard.
Echoes succumbing to the silent gravitational waves of space.
Upper-atmospheric lightening eerie and unsettlingly beautiful.
written 9/06/2020
In the crypt of the soul, I build the days,
Today, yesterday, tomorrow, in a hidden sanctuary,
On the parchment of silence, I place shattered thoughts,
And in the dew of mornings, I clothe time, I tame it.
In my orbits, I capture the essence of the sky, the sea, the earth,
And the tremor of the day, I weave into a single language,
I dress in the infinite and step on the path of life,
From troubles, I raise an altar of ashes, with a natural gesture.
On the altar of the heart, I crown love,
I listen to its psalm, an ode brought from the silent Eden,
When the heavy burden of longing crushes me, I invoke divine music,
And in the embrace of thought, I turn the tear into pearls of fortune.
In my depths, I create a library of memories,
I keep the soul friends and celestial loves,
In the garment of time, transformed into eternity, I clothe them,
From the gold of coppery autumns, I weave a cosmic tapestry.
In the sanctuary of the heart, I sanctify moments, days, lives,
Springs and autumns, flowers and shadows, all in a sacred dance,
I pass them through the sieve of discernment, I divide, I add, I transcend,
And I keep only the essence of paradise, the rest I dispel into the void.
Thus, on the path of life, with my soul clad in mystery,
Every breath becomes a gateway to unknown altars,
And with every pulse of the heart, a liturgy is born,
In this labyrinth of being, only what is sacred and pure is fulfilled.
Daybreak usually greets me when it ascends each day.
Yawning, I drowsily rise from the comfort of my bed
as the horizon glows with colors in resplendent array.
Dawn announces, "The warmth of Ra is on its way!"
Soon, over land and sea, aureate beams will spread.
Daybreak usually greets me when it ascends each day.
Sunrise shines on foxes in meadows where they play,
illuminating their coppery coats of orange and red
as the horizon glows with colors in resplendent array.
In shallows, sunlight dances with waves as they spray,
creating prisms in nuanced tones of variegated thread.
Daybreak usually greets me when it ascends each day.
It does not matter where I wander or aimlessly stray.
Mornings are idyllic once somber darkness is shed
as the horizon glows with colors in resplendent array.
How I'd dread a cause for the rooster's crowing delay.
What a folly if the moon continued her reign instead.
Daybreak usually greets me when it ascends each day,
as the horizon glows with colors in resplendent array.
August 11, 2022
First Person Villanelle Contest
Sponsored by L Milton Hankins
I smell the coppery, sweet scent of blood
where a soldier died, his face in the mud.
I mourn the soldier's death.
War is a putrid, expanding abyss
where a day's food and water feels like bliss.
I mourn the soldier's death.
I fight a war that I know can't be won,
for amidst this carnage, I am but one.
I mourn the soldier's death.
God has forsaken and abandoned me,
silently ignoring my anguished plea.
I mourn the soldier's death.
A child soldier's life is stripped of all fun,
afraid the killing will never be done.
I mourn the soldier's death.
My mind is numb; I cannot shed a tear,
there is nothing left inside me but fear.
I mourn the soldier's death.
I wish I had wings to soar through the sky,
I'd leave in a heartbeat if I could fly.
I mourn the soldier's death.
My future looks murky; nothing is clear,
I will be lucky to survive out here.
I mourn the soldier's death.
A Poem-A-Day:
I read today, in a poem entitled "Lion":
"I foraged, first to find the light dappling the leaves,
then breathed into an infinite power, feminine rust,
a coppery taste of salvage, leading me into a canopy of the future"-
and I so enjoyed the melody, the flow, what it stirred in me, where it placed me, this feeling was conjured when I first read the line, and I read it so quickly- in this way I am a genius, as in other ways-and, as I always do, I returned to the line, reread it, so impressed with its imagery. For example, the poet's idea of "feminine rust": though a corrosion, we can respect what would be deemed as undesirable as having a caustic strength, a potential to yield something that we can use; the poet is perhaps telling the reader that any strength, newly formed or time-worn, should have a feminine trait.
I was impressed also of how easily I could have interpreted the wording at the beginning of this line as if it was going to lead me down a slightly different path than the one I took with the poet's words-we will tap INTO a feminine power, not help SHAPE a stronger feminine power-and though the reader did at the end of the poem's journey understand the poet's belief of a female power that must evolve, and the "Lion" in a life should always be female-bold, able to roar- the steps the reader took with the poem's unique and impactful imagery was a delightful dance; a sojourn. And every female-child, woman- should be able to promenade, pioneer. And NO woman should be robbed of her "Lion".
O lady, banish my monochrome days
and weave your coppery threads into
a dim red florescence of coyote words;
There you stand draped in beige chiffon
against preternatural piety of a striptease sea
continuously playing with Prussian blue pastels.
O lady, gallantly unleash your plump cherubs
and licentious cats with that timeless witchery
of a vanilla Guerlain perfume dart;
Throw a dusty rain-soaked rose, Madame Pompadour;
I am flying into another sugary abyss of setting suns
and Fragonard silks of flickering coral.
Is it the fighting of heavenly dragons? Is it Boucher's
brushstrokes that bring us April showers
and the music of irises and champagne pearls?