Long Cradled Poems
Long Cradled Poems. Below are the most popular long Cradled by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Cradled poems by poem length and keyword.
Twilight has it's own wings and its own melody
Battles with the mystery of a sun setting horizon dawning hues
Pearl white smile's from the moon, in a mood of beautiful seduction
Oracle within one thousand chants dances with the shadows of night shades
For you, I will catch every star that I see as the evening sky surrenders
Sparkling silver dust their trails leave magic spells whispers deeply winds
Drinking from the milky way a mix of delicious chocolate
Icing of a thousand shape shifting patterns emerge glowing
Soft caramel and gorgeous nougat smiles golden melting
Under a canopy of stars you remain cradled forever beautiful
I would love to dance like planets that circulate around the sun
Blood's rivers are like red cherries and float like wine
Its colorful aura exudes amazing happiness
Sweet like a dream, I lean my cheek on lace pillows
Everything feels so right, our love will grow strong
A collaborated poem
Anne-Lise Andresen and Liam Mc Daid
11.01.2018
Copyright © All Rights Reserved
* Poem of the Week ; 14.01.2018
Ghostly fear forms, a dark gossamer web,
caged my consciousness once cradled by bliss
but try as I might, my pain did not ebb,
hurtling me down a bottomless abyss.
Feeling grief-stricken, situation grave,
my weary, groaning soul godforsaken,
searched for heaven’s gate, so that God may save
me from dark despair that left mind shaken.
Trauma bonding with fear no more, I paused,
shifting to heart, pushing open love’s gate,
engulfed in bliss mists, pure intent had caused,
breath by breath reshaping my earth life fate.
Walking the path of light, God-search I start ~
He dwells in the cave of my glowing heart
What If There Was No Tomorrow? - The Polar Ice ‘Cap’
- this time it’s burnt and curled upon a new head. The
sweet smoke of his sugarloaf effigy black as night,
surrounded by a material red trim, below Parliament houses
blows political greed into fiery smouldering smithereens –
then it floated and landed after years, drifting, onto
the crown of a man: a business man portraying
wealth and class; here it sat above suit and below sun. The
American dream swirled with scotch and the tip of a bowler,
only for the same piece (restyled of coursed) to later sell for
pounds to make the pupils of any impoverished person pop:
his Hamburg with a knowing dent in back, how it span and
spun from black to grey and back again around Hill’s peak
to be dyed again and tilted just so. Now it’s pillbox pink and a knitted
O of a name/shape-sake that covers her head where her husband
had a target upon his. Watermelon-pink colour dye actually: the very
same fruit palette of brain cradled in her hands at high speed.
This latest star attraction of Burgdorf’s no doubt was, decades
prior, nothing but a mix of lifeless green and sludge brown from
grass and cud - metallic dead daises ducking over No Man’s
Land. A Brodie: styled on a not-yet-pulled pin grenade atop
beads of sparkling sweat, dripping slipping salt where now
a pedal controlled sewing machine stabs and pins sequins into
veils that hide brides with (it must be said) the same success
that protected Fawkes’ Plot or Churchill’s reputation or
Jackie’s husband and the slaughtered soldiers’ skulls - but
still the accessories twist into fascinators fancy enough for
mothers to weep below, only to find the box dish or bow
to be knocked akilter during the traditional bouquet mad
dash - then up – up – up! into the air before landing anew,
refreshed as a Gatsby or Hijab, perhaps a Trilby or Zucchetto;
better yet, the Boater or Sailor we’ll need when the hat that covers
all our heads smoulders and peaks when next dented and melted: a
loose grenade we can’t be veiled from, nor refashioned nor restyled
when the next season’s must have
will be a copper and bolt
protective Diving Mask
for the drowning tomorrow
from The Polar Ice 'Cap'.
Zak at fifteen is a grounded tanker
spilling an oily vitriol
as we listen
"You know how I'm wired! Weed frees me! Chokes off the
dark. Your bloody voices shame me! Messing me up! So I
toke! Bleak dreams break me! Sometimes, hung over, I can't
see the sun. What do you want? A Christmas Eve peace
where we kiss in fake goo? Why all the BS about an elephant in the room? Everybody needs to stop talking about it! Stop
looking at me like you want to see underneath it! Because I
don't know what good is!"
Outraged ire that snaps the air
like cheap china crashing
his pitch for freedom
Toxic stares
as he sweats in the ruling wreckage of words
what is his unheard story?
The family craves a sane peace, some zone of happiness
silver bow of recovery
Zak on speed dial
turbulent
straining at reason
crossing an invisible border
in the cradled heat of summer
His self harm like a full body cast
with no zip line
out
Poem composed: June 30, 2021
In the river of life, each drop carries a touch of magic, a hidden secret,
Yet in its flow, it merges into a majestic and ancient song,
Thus are our lives, solitary stars shining in the night,
But together we form constellations, a story written on the infinite sky.
Like a shard of light dancing in the first rays of spring,
Reflected in the fabric of the day embracing the earth with a warm glow,
We are like the notes of a choir lifting uplifting hymns to the heavens,
But once the song fades, we disperse silently like echoes at dawn.
The glory of our moments, ephemeral and fragile, like butterflies touching the earth for just a moment,
Is a glance cast into the vastness of eternity, a flash of light in the ocean of time;
So rich is the beauty flowing like an endless river full of mystery,
That in its presence, our fall is merely a grain of sand carried by the wind.
Just as, when the last spark of the ember fades and vanishes in silence,
A bird loses its way, but the flock continues to soar, cradled by the sky's currents.
Early autumn on the rise against the night sky
two silhouette, black against the clouds of stars
one sits riding sideways upon an ass
while another walk beside holding the lead
along the road tired, dirty, and worn
Sometimes she felt ill and fatigued
as she feels the child move,
the thoughts of her beautiful baby
she was about to have put her at ease
and the sickness would cease
No room in the lodge, but room in the stable
“She gave birth to her son as angels watched
A lullaby she sang while he slept cradled in a manger
A blazing beacon suspended in the mid night sky
lead the Sheepherders eager to see the Infant child
lying in a manger, in swaddled in cloth
A dream they thought a silvery gleam
A mighty host of angels appeared in the heavens, praising God!
who would become the Messiah, the Son of God
thus one day redeem us
Shouts of joy came alive in the night air
as cherubs gather singing
“Born upon this holy night
Christ the Savior is born”
With gifts three kings
Marveling upon the Star of Bethlehem
A blazing beacon suspended in the mid night sky
Guiding them to the perfect light
12/20/2016
mary (a quiet yes) bows low
as light (soft as breath) spills into her womb—
a promise cradled in infinite space.
joseph’s hands (calloused & trembling)
grasp the weight of whispers:
holy. impossible. near.
caesar decrees, the world bends—
roads unravel like threads on a loom.
a city swells, heavy with strangers
searching for shelter,
for place,
for peace.
(no room)
(no room)
(no room)
until a manger beckons, humble as dust.
stars shiver—
their silver echoes fall to earth
to crown a child
wrapped in rags,
in glory.
shepherds (all elbows & awe) stumble in:
the sky split open,
angels singing of peace like rain.
their stories drip into silence,
hearts thudding in wonder.
the child stirs.
and the world breathes anew—
eternity held
in the curve of His tiny hand.
When the droplets of rain revive
the hardened soil of thirsty April,
we will spend a holiday like that never was.
Perhaps our backs will be titillated by
white sands, crystal clear,
found by the coastal water villas
of the beautiful Maldives.
We will feel it then, coupled with the scent
of a turquoise sea.
Or, beside the rocky islands of Langkawi,
we will rest our soft feet, wet
among the foamy waves of the Andaman Sea.
I know you cannot bear the stench
of beer, but...
we can explore things unknown;
taste the pungent texture of South Asian Carlsberg.
For I heard there is something sweet
in the experience of viewing the sunset—
the crimson fading into the waves,
where vision blurs before the eyes
with tipsy jubilance.
A soft tastebud hankering for fresh barbecue,
or savouring the salt-laden air;
pleasures of a foreign soil,
fused with a native love enkindled.
And when darkness perches upon the coastal hue,
and twilight filters the harsh beauty of Chenang,
the sun will dim away,
but love will grow stronger—
for the light of love is ever-present.
Then we might drift into the lusciousness
of nature, or let our minds wander...
through the city lights,
through the warmth of brightly lit eateries.
Peace and joy—and yes, you heard it right—
peace and joy...
cradled in vibrant love.
A crash of thunder wakened me
as I slept cradled in a tree.
There was fierce growling on the ground.
Something wicked circled around.
I saw the eyes of a beastie.
Its howling was a gruesome sound
Had a dog escaped from a pound
or from quarantine by a vet?
Its canine fangs became a threat
for this creature was a hellhound!
I quaked in fear and broke a sweat.
Deep despair, I began to fret
when deftly he started to climb.
From his drool, it must be mealtime.
Peed on myself; pants soaking wet!
Too young to die; not in my prime,
A ticking clock began to chime.
Can I be saved or tis my fate
to quench its thirst, its hunger sate?
I'm quickly running out of time!
He stares at me as if I'm bait.
My heart races with each pulsate,
hoping this is just a nightmare.
Open my eyes? I do not dare!
His snarling sounds much too irate.
I whispered in fervent prayer,
and slowly, I became aware
of something clawing at the beast,
and on his carcass he would feast.
'Twas the stench of a grizzly bear!
The sun was rising in the East
My brows, deeply furrowed and creased,
pondering the thought that remained,
one I have not yet ascertained...
what should matter the most, not least.
No answer that can be explained,
and no sense of it have I gained
as to why I slept in an oak,
and why my lips have never spoke
of the tree trunk that was bloodstained.
June 15, 2022
Tall Tales 3: Quintilla Fantasy Fiction Contest
Sponsored by Jeff Kyser
Open a world of words as prolonging as angel life,
No second lost, no sign of loss, the moments feel so right
Into a bud of a cherished life, what a song I drink this night
Cradled by a stranger's smile, an imminent trail of light
You are a frown's paradise, a thirst's ever-filling cup
As subtle as a thoughtful sky, when rain fills not enough
Differences of years are taciturn gainst this ancient stone so rough
For in this breach of curious faith, in strength we are lifted up
No sign of loss,no blade to scrape the lines that flow in blue
With a heart creating what touch cannot, I hand these gifts to you