Long Crescent moon Poems
Long Crescent moon Poems. Below are the most popular long Crescent moon by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Crescent moon poems by poem length and keyword.
EYE of READINESS
-SUCCESS
"We were welcomed by the eagle, who dropped us on our rears, when we finally achieved success, in his eyes. Dropped us a parting tear."
EYE of ROARING TIGER
-BELLY DANCER
"We were welcomed by the cute baby unborn, who laughed and giggled when he saw us. He sought for our hand to hold."
EYE of DISCOVERY
-PARASITE
"We were welcomed by the black widow, who left us when she learned to bite. She seduced and warned of times times and half a time."
EYE of BEAVER
-REDWOOD TREE
"We were welcomed by the tall, strong, majestic tree, which taught us to make homes and bridges."
EYE of HORSE
-MOON SHADOW
"We were welcomed by the crescent moon, which watched over us, like a guardian angel. Did readings of our palms and our hearts."
EYE of FUTURE
-CRAFT
"We were welcomed by the iron-headed robot, who taught us to weld, and work hard at tasks. We were joined by the Dolphin who showed us playful craft."
EYE of ADVENTURE
-POLITICS
"We were welcomed by the lion, who led us into the forest. We laughed at the leopard, who played with us, and at the ostrich, who tried to eat us. The Penguin, who tried to lead us.The Lemur wanted to be King over us and be named Julian The BestOfUs."
EYE of SIX-LEAF SHEPHERD
-SKELETON
"We were welcomed by the hominid skeleton, who taught us how to hunt and eat. To fashion weapon and shield and have reverence for the sacrifice of love and the dead."
EYE of FLYING
-FARMER
"We were welcomed by the bean farmer, who taught us to work the earth. We laughed at the sheep, who told us about the moon."
Eye of Dress Code
-BUILDER
"We were welcomed by the stonemason, who taught us to shape stone into buildings. We laughed at the angles and the way the functionality meets the eye. Architectural refinery of the Fairy mind."
EYE of BEAUTIFUL MOUNTAIN
-WORD
"We were welcomed by the WORD of God, who told us all of these things. How to turn water into wine.
How to be drunk and merry in the living waters."
These verses, woven with passion and grace?,
evoking emotions, leaving souls in its entrace,
words that linger, like whispered wind, on fire.
Imprints left, in hearts, deeply pinned by desire.
Join my quest for fire,
for warmth and burn of principles-
Dire_
Eye of Dire Wolf
HEAVENLY CHOIR~
Nestled is the slender twisting trail canyon between timeless steep
aspiring mountains and meditative sopheric sea waters
The frail road deepens into lofty thickness further from the harsh
volcanic valley where passion’s throes are ever in abeyance as days grind
on at a petty pace, as winding cathartic minds strive to be free and leave their
fears of mortal sin, intrusive family— religious dogma dismissive, oppressive
My yearning heart writhes in agonizing prose knowing senses magma
guilt etched into my very core, now behind
I’ll unwind, in a soft bed of sand that awaits
Spring’s strong winds of life call, visible the sea in the
distance, in instance, heads tilt, abut, falling upon my
wooer’s shoulder, he presses gears, downshifts reaching tireless
slate-gray force spreading over ocean floors flooding with no remorse
An uncommon gallantry he displayed, a warrior’s valiant looks
fired up my very essence
A dimming sun immerses into a hesitant horizon, sweeping breezes spin
warm spells embracing an enchanter’s realm,
with its charm he gazed into languid eyes
Silhouettes stark, foreheads bow, touch, sweetened sweat from
jasmine bushes alongside the road, perks of riding the stallion of steel
evoked smiles in sideview mirror, heated rims, spokes spun
Dismount a stroll, toes sank in sand, holding hands dodging driftwood
washed ashore, I chose a serpent shaped, a souvenir!
I’d glue turquoise stone eyes, a keepsake, or an omen?
Zena’s cove of guilty pleasures seal fates, certainly
not rhythmic lapping waves against the shore nor salmon sunset
or a waxing crescent moon, and not the wistful ocean’s teary spray
Its tears wetted my cheeks in afterglows
Lest moonlit sky amongst shy hidden stars
Pangs subside, panic betides, doctrine ridden not from our marrow
Womb’s flower in bloom, a secret kept, an advent arrival
The planets wept, forms beyond birth of celestial bodies,
one existence yet does sin exist in celestial angels?
He held tightly, softly whispered let’s run away,
his proposal on adulthood’s precarious cusp,
bestowed him a refusal, sweet youth ruins
Alas and alack life proceeds
steady as ebb and flow of the tides
After a precious gem she’s named, sweet lord
never more blissful, daughter
Caressed are tranquil ocean waves
Love is like fragile wings.
romance an illusion of moonlight delusions.
I recall when summer skies hypnotised,
in the pleasure of your pleasing presence,
I used to gaze at the doves of love above,
admiring their delicate reflections in your eyes.
Revealing the tempress inside you,
our butterfly hearts used to flutter,
watching our shy shadows dance,
to the rhythm of brave waves of hope.
Tribulations of time led to a
decay within our garden,
as poisoned poetic petals,
drowned in a wild river of roses.
Now we are like a
destitute of wildflowers,
our souls resembling moths of shame.
There is a sadness in silence,
when there is confusion
in communication.
Tongues remain oppressed
in misunderstanding.
When candlelight caresses
no longer feel the same,
as misplaced moments begin to untame.
Songs of passion we sang for us,
escape as anthems of selfish games.
Should we muster dry conversations?
Neglect our flower garden in this storm?
Within wilting vines where
weeping willows hide,
it's a crime that the crying
crescent moon mirrors our stolen hours.
Specks of cosmic dusts
refuse to unravel silver spotted dreams,
when time becomes a nightmare
ticking beneath electric fields of scarlet.
I've lost and found you in
diversified seasons,
as winds of evanescence
curl empty promises into pearly shells.
Every poetic phrase you’ve
place in my borderline mind,
no longer hydrates this
glassy oyster heart -
will I forever remain confined
within restrained walls?
Perhaps this is just another
beginning of an ever-glowing end.
Painted in restless nights
from subtle strokes,
of forgotten devotion felt
like forbidden nostalgia,
beckoning monotonous forlorn
silhouettes to depart.
The last star shines and
bleeds broken hopes
in dwindling wraiths
upon love gliding
within trifling shadows.
For, sometimes feelings
wane like ephemeral phases
of moon-bows that seize
every lingering last light of life,
unveiling tides of change to
wriggle into thin fogs of grey.
Yet your clarity is forever
framed as timeless souvenirs,
designed as fine aesthetic
art colouring me with affection.
Forgive me, but I will
perpetually plant loyal seeds,
so our collaborations
continue to blossom in fresh fragrances.
My day starts with a cup of tea hot
Its steam ‘n steamy headlines in papers help boil the day’s plot
Nine to five make all efforts to achieve my day’s aims
Mind and body both it usually strains
Motto is to stick as far to the present
weaving past and future into its crescent.
Romance in evening is aided by the moon crescent
Red wine shots make it more hot
After dinner it is time to reassess the present
Tomorrow somehow sneaks into the plot
A warm shower helps to drain the day’s strains
Helping me renew my energy and aims.
I retire to my study to fulfill my imagery aims
To indulge in poems while admiring the moon’s crescent
which plays hide and seek with the clouds, and my eye strains
The scene in which the cupid’s arrows start hitting her hot
I get charged and run to find my own love’s plot
find her at terrace as she viewed the moon crescent at present.
Dreams of love and happiness we give each as present
But how does that help in the achievement of aims?
I try to scratch my head but do not get the plot
For the things of heart have invisible connection with moon crescent
The resulting low and high tides blow us cold and hot
In equal measure, causing us happiness and strains.
I try to sleep counting my happiness but wishing away the strains
I also pray to god that I stay rooted in the present
Over so many days I learnt not to worry unless iron is hot
this can happen if we get clear cut ability to decipher those damn aims
but things start to get hazy when out comes the moon crescent
and my attention gets tuned to the music that bush crickets yonder plot.
Falling off to sleep I am forced to loosen the strings of my plot
Off I meander on slopes which sprout flowers of different strains
From the slopes I can jump and closer feel the glow of the crescent
Becoming the king and receiving the queens in present
Having achieved everything I am left with no more aims
That is when I wake up to see next day’s sun turning hot.
Plotting the day’s programme again requires mind to be present
strains and stresses apart keeping a focus on the charted aims
Crescent moon providing the romantic touch later, with these expectations hot.
12.6.2014
Contest The Sestina Challenge
Sponsor: Jared Pickett
I
Between Juliet and me
Devotion thrived . . .
We stayed all day and all night
In dark, hidden places, picking watercress for the moon
Together we lived, Juliet and I,
Among worm woods
Friendly gardens
Doing silly things,
Avoiding the city’s hastiness,
Befriending rural life,
Hiding behind palisade fences
Among stunted grass,
Waiting for sunset’s glow to light up
The dark paths of our stolen love.
I remember us running talks with
Anne of Green Gables
On the greenishness of a stable summer.
And when the church bell tolled
For the vespers,
We ran across the external nave,
Our faces frowned with shyness,
Thinking? we are full of ourselves. . .
And I loved her
And I loved her name
And still love it.
Fret not, O’ Juliet
But read to me
Like you read, that memorable Friday night
You and I sighted frescoes on the rapier-thin
Rim of dusk’s azimuth.
II
I sang your songs, O’ Maria,
In the days grandfather lived and smiled on
With his broken front tooth stained by age and sageness
Your narrow, sweet face paled and showed signs of the
Dim past
I do not know who you were, dear Maria
I did not know you deeply,
But with strings straightened across hard-bending bow,
Earthen pots,
Grass-flutes,
And ivory samba,
I have discerned all that happened to you
Through ancestral lyrics laced with drops of love.
In those days,
There lived Maria,
Mother of sons and daughters,
And she had dark eyes and dark lips
And teeth whiter than clouds . . .
In those days
There was confusion and strife
But Maria made the best out of them
Because she had love so fragrant
And her soul bled with devotion
And every word she puked had love in it.
Trenches, valleys, gullies
And images of blissful youth
Blended carefully, forming imposing pictures
Before her charming eyes.
Her name pokes my ribs gently
And she knew well how to write love-letters
Some of which have been reserved in the museum of
Memory where they eternally reside,
The cellar of the soul
Rolls of parchment, browned by time,
Season the words of love in them stronger.
Here, my vigil candles
Have ceased blinking
And have glowed the more —like the
Curved ends of the crescent moon —
Just for your name, O’ Maria.
So deaf, so blind are we-
Our little minds (judgmentally inclined )
base judgments on assumptions,
not on related facts !
So, on and on, the squirrel cage
goes, round and round, And no one listens
to what wise men still propound...
How many centuries has man's myopic eye
failed to envision "time" assigned
the role of symbol ?
Ask whether logic ever pinpoints time,
elusive, all pervasive time ?
A timely symbol circles back,
month after month, each 29 or 30 days,
a messianic symbol seen, in evening skies,
reminding viewers why the sun grew dark,
as Jesus, on Tau-shaped cross,
suffered the crucifixion ?
Although perceptive friends of light
find eyes and ears shut tight
against all vestiges of explanation,
yet shall the Crescent wax ( and wane)
beyond the 40 days wherein the long expected,
long feared time of the Millenium shall reign
The 19th province, in the 19th year
of Earth's moon cycle, in this aging century,
likewise commencing with "19", all coincide!
As year has followed year, now,
"91" becomes the mirror image, " 19-91."
Will Armageddon spark the ushering in
of a New Age ? As when the Hand of Doctrine
reaches down to grasp the Key of Faith,
there in Granada,
there in Alhambra's court of justice
the first reverberations, commencing, shake the mighty mountain rising by its side
There, where the Moors were driven out,
500 years ago, now the initial tide,
first tide, goes shuddering through solid rock,
as seen- and heard-from there,
reducing those impetrable mountain heights to little more than dust
The pile of solid rock,
impentrable for over 700 years
to mortal power or to magic artifice
against the Lord of the enchanted mountain,
at long last shall release the aged magus
and Gothic princess from that vaulted hall
sealed in the mountain's heart,
illusive rock formation- struck long ago
by that old prophet's staff- to open the way
to go, leaving the weather-clock there watching!
Quaking, shaking, crumbling !
To dust return!
Mountain, again return to dust !
End time solutions
alone
alone
to free the long- forgotten princess
and her silver lyre-
whereby our Saviours music
may, once again, be heard,
here, on this planet earth !
Fantasy sold on a 50’s bottle cap;
a party-girl side-saddle sits
on a double-edged crescent moon
up high —a silver scythe in glamour-night-sky
corners of her cherry mouth tilted up
her left hand raises her glass a toast to the stars
frothy head of champagne-beer flirts
with lips spooning the rim
right hand holds the bottle instead of reality
look! no hands on a razor’s edge
precarious hilarious
a redhead with bouncy-curls and a flouncy-skirt
boot-heels over head when she laughs and Oops! falls
clouds catch her without friction and pillow her fiction head ~
but you with wild escapade eyes fell hard
fell
hard
far beyond Earth with not a soft cloud to cushion you
glam-allure just a sexy lore a filthy lure
but once you’ve been star-dusted and angel-dusted
it’s all the same…
vintage Miller bottle cap
a perfect circle like the fattened moon face
leering through broken windows
shards glitter the floor like fallen constellations
your black pearl eyes two muddy puddles
life drained through rows of tiny needle holes
slip-knot above your elbow just tight enough
your pulse beats its fist against the restraint
—pounding —pounding —pounding
impatient to be bled and fed
you and this dragon’s den a dilapidated pair
abandoned and without family
you share the blank stare of broken windows
veins collapsed like crumbled staircases —
empty inside of empathy and dreams..
a junkie’s spot where shooting stars crash
embers in your bloodstream turn to dust
— you cook in a rusted bottle cap by candlelight
candle’s glow your Sun in a dirty universe
with your teeth you pull back on the syringe
this house unused by the living a cold corpse
but in the warm rush of your skin’s flush
your gaunt gray body melts like hot wax
pale horsehair walls a slouchy silent witness
... your soul escapes as it scrapes across the floor
flurries sneak through broken windows
whirl of wind whistles on its rounds like a jailhouse guard
rattling beam-bones jangling ghost-bones —
user-litter kicked around like a pile of old brown leaves
burnt fingertips and a junky "High Life" bottle cap
all you have left
You asked me to write you a poem and I
could not. Instead I wrote my heartfelt
confession... please except this into your
mind, inject this into your spirit and rest
peacefully with this black thought of the
purest black love for it is true. Let it shine
light upon u in your darkest hours... rest
with solitude upon my words for my pen
bleeds a beautiful art of expression for
u...my life source an undying promise to
continue through it all. I can't elude you.
There is No escaping for your essence is
everywhere! In every symphony of notes...
royal like that the color purple crowned
king. In the light of candles... even within
it's siloette casting images of us colliding.
In the darkness of my eyelids stirring the
potion of memories... in the glow from the
world outside my window penetrating
through them, birds singing they're
praises to Allah and do I give thanks for
this union. You are in the silence and the
humility. The salt of tears, trials and and
tribulations. In smiles YES.. I remember
you always. The laughter and the pain
too... who said it would be easy? Certainly
not with something this taboo. Deep
breathing and eye contact u pierce my
soul. Clinched fist as we ignite the room
we're sexual elements oh the fire we
make. Complexity... we are divided but
together... with me when your away...why
does it hurt but feel so good? What have u
done to me? Physically fearless but an
emotional reck. I'm into u but over you.
Want but never have... a beautiful
struggle. Keeps us trying but denying,
dividing ourselves unto
ourselves....selfish! Stubborn. Your
compelling energy causes me to drop
down to my knees... I aim to please my
king... forever honored to serve thee, your
submissive queen or whomever u need
me to be. You asked me to write a poem
but I cannot. Instead I give you this
realization... u are within the deepest parts
of me never to be removed. And no matter
where we stand in life, together or apart,
high or low, with love or anger, or even
from the opposite side of the looking
glass. On earth or perhaps on crescent moon,
I am with u. Just go within these words
anytime u need to feel loved and then to
me....so words come to life.
In the town of dust and fog, the bartenders are demigods.
In the town of dust and fog, there is a drink they call the rising sun. Why they call
this drink the rising sun, I do not know. The men who have imbibed this drink, they say it
glitters like gold in the belly. But the men who have imbibed this drink, they sweat and
spit and pick the lint from their bellybuttons as their tired, tired eyes fight and fight
and fight against the darkness of the corner in the bar where they waste away their days,
hearing the same songs of the same black-vested piano-man night after night after night
after night.
Their wives will tell you that they are mad, and their wives have given up on them.
If you look carefully enough, you might see the gold-minted coins that glint from
their breast-pockets, and each day they decrease their numbers. If you look carefully
enough, you might see the pupils of the husbands of the rising sun shrink, shrivel, and
eventually be lost in the wide, wide white of their eyes.
The husbands of the rising sun come and go, and always their drink is the same, and
always and everywhere they live and live and live and live until their eyes burst in a
black rainbow of blood and iris. There is no noise. There is no death. Always, they are
still. Always, they are the same and their drink is the same.
If you are wary, by night you might see the eyeless men, who crouch by threes in the
dust of the bar's doorway, and three always will pass between themselves the single, last
gold-minted coin. In that dusty shuffle, the lipless, nocturnal interchange from soul to
soul, you may see the holder of the coin, and you may see his lip-pursed grin, like a
single tooth biting its way across a blood-burned crescent moon.
The men of the rising sun never smile. The men of the rising sun never change. They
drink by night, and by night the bartenders of the town of dust and fog are demigods, and
their single, shining eye is a pearl that pierces the darkness, and they are the servants
of all and they serve for all. And by night the men of the rising sun are masters of all
things and they do not dream. They never sleep. They say that they will never die.
Form:
Ten years past since Coyote deceased
The land became fruitful, with the help of a new priest
It was the time of the crescent moon
When the boys would be sent out across the desert dune
To kill a coyote and return with the skin
And from that day forth their life as a man would begin
On this particular occasion the crescent moon shone bright
Casting shadows of the boys as the priest bless then in the light
One at a time they were sent in different directions
With a two inch blade for their protection
As they wondered off into the dark, out of sight
Suddenly their screams brought a chill to the air and the tribe was consumed by
fright
The medicine man rushed to their aid
Carrying his crescent moon shaped blade
Behind him were the tribesmen, twenty strong
To back him up incase anything went wrong
They found the boys laying, in a row
Alive but in a lifeless trance surrounded by snow
The ground was hot but around them as cold as ice
Everything was methodical and precise
The medicine man stood for a while looking afar
He saw a female figure near the missionary camp called “The Starr”
The ordered the men to take the boy back to the camp
As he walked off into the night just with a night lamp
He reached a huge boulder
When the air became colder
His curiosity overcame his fear as the female figure drew nearer.
He called out to it to identify itself
As she pounced majestically onto an icy shelf
She said you will remember who I am
Once a female sacrifice which should have been a man
He lifted the light to see her form
Her body perfect, a picturesque goddess, however, a bit pale
And around the thigh curled and uncurled her coyote tail
Her face, a face that every woman would admire
Except for the coyote fangs, he found that she was his desire
Like perfect mountains were her firm pink breasts
Her belly button the shape of a moon crescent was what intrigued him, his thought
confessed.
She moved close slowly and touched him with a hand that was cold
But the touch made him feel a warmth and he knew his heart was sold
To the desire to have and to hold
He kissed her gently and he felt more bold
To be continued….. P.D. Pt2