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.
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
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
to sneak outside,
into the gentle beauty of evening
when all others are asleep,
except for nocturnal hawks like me,
I wander along the river's shore,
in the twirling, dappled
prism of waves, pebbles and buds,
thrown across the grass
by the skyline flickering through
wind-tossed crowns of trees--
a rare sensation as though I were walking
on a gossamer mantle of water : it's true,
i love the taste of nightbreak
softly caressing the glossy lacquer of summer tide--
a fragrant pewter, compared to the coppery
sting of blistering daytime,
that when my eyes inhale the grace
offered by peeping clouds, is to be filled
with a song of moonlight
waltzing with the sea-breeze in a dance fest.
Oh, sneaking outside
in the near dusk hours has been a rite
of mine since i was a child...
and till now it beholds me,
this magical pageant that began at age eight
when from nowhere ,
a relay of stars and a new moon carried me
out the gate and beyond this world--
if only to bestow upon me a mystical tour
connecting heaven's light with waters blue.
Water And Sky Contest of Gregory R. Barden
Re-posted 1/5/2018
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
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".
Written: February 1st, 2025 For contest by Sponsored by: Brian Strand
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Tethered to a wick, flickering in orbit,
carnelian and velvet flute notes swirl.
Amber sparks rise and swarm.
Gold and glories cavort,
while a sable-zaffre shroud is weaving graffiti,
The candle's lambent light casts the shadows.
Opals float akin to petals in a cesspool,
triggering thoughts of scarlet shift,
as coppery sensations escape their chains.
Shelves push against a bound bosom.
Creativity exhales smoke and throws.
while maples' sway ruins bibliophilic dreams.
Rhapsody strikes with a sigh of melodic delight.
shining coldly, like winter's moonlight.
whirling shadows and crimson angels,
as eventide-colored darts whistle on ledges.
Candelabras wear cardigans as gaunt sailors.
And garrulous flames tell tales of gossamer nights.
Vivid, sprawling thoughts and tangled ideas emerge,
from a nexus of opia and kuebiko's kenopsia; exulansis,
This blazing pyre is shadowed by slipshod stupidity.
Seraphic moments—a sylph-like eudaemonia whisper of
Virtuous knowledge whispers umpteen realities.
Onism turns a mere blip in liberosis dreams,
Blazing a trail of endless adventures!
Altschmerz soothes sonder in occhiolism reveries.
Epiphany shines pure, like the aurora elixir.
Monachopsis leaves views, and kenopsia fades—a balm,
Ethereal panacea from unseen yet deeply felt nodes.
Vivid yet deep colors echo the pain of the moment.
It enables us to view life through a cosmic lens.
Maples sway melodically under the moon’s glow,—
their frosty sheen bestows grace
light plays across the frozen ground,
creating fleeting beauty.
The leaves of the fern
Begin the rhythm of the forest.
The music of the woodland floor
Pulsates to the rise of the sun.
The morning...mists dissipate in silent beats
Playing to every lead from the composer above.
Dapples of light pierce the canopy
Dancing atop the undergrowth’s skin.
Reflective light serenades...the complimentary
Colors of nature...as the day begins.
The cantata of Spring’s movement reverberates
The forest walls with echoes of wildlife sounds.
Nature’s mellifluous voice...graces the day.
Melodic tones of the chanting thicket,
Boundless in splendor...in harmonious hums.
Soft chirps...in a soothing ambience.
Elegant masses of birds lilt the air.
Amongst the sun and shadow,
An array of serenity dazzles the calm,
Displaying the beauty of nature.
The woven...movement shifts,
To the euphonious of a gentle rain,
As the acoustic waves chase the sun,
Dulcet tones begin to wind down,
As the fern plays its’ sonata of praise.
In its’ natural role in the forest.
The lush...fern bows with its coppery...red leaves,
As the curtain of night begins to close.
A standing ovation emerges at dusk
From the chattering...crickets...chirping applause.
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.
Your indifference is the abandoned torch that scours old bridges,
Hiding in shadows the echoes of each tremulous and cold step.
Your wounds, coppery reliefs that lure me dishonorably,
Urge me to explore how I pretended, burning, turned into dust of a severed star.
I return to the field where your scorching heat fosters germinations of the void,
To gaze upon how my soul became ashes in vain, yet still flutters from roots of light.
Your scar, a constellation on the sky of sadness, guiding astral navigations,
While I seek you among the ruins of the fire bequeathed by your regal flame.
In silent evenings, when the stars fold into themselves, your indifference tickles my dreams,
A somber choreography of shadows that encircle me and whispers a refrain of bitter legends.
It's the dark moment that terrifies yet transforms into the portrait of resignation,
A chimeric dance, where the distance between us weaves its endless and unreal wings.
Your indifference, a frozen lake in a land foreign to the warmth of day,
In a world where your memories fly like migratory birds to other summers.
In my palm, the ash of us – a dust of vigilant moon,
That tempts me to create from your absence a monotonously white world – the memory of a yearning's death.
And yet, in my heart, where nameless love still burns,
Echoes of your voice drift, as if wanting to sweep away time,
Like a broken link from the cosmic chain, a symbol of a secret unknown,
Every star's twinkle – a remembrance, each comet – a doubt, within which, mystically, I seek you.
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.