Long Crimsons Poems
Long Crimsons Poems. Below are the most popular long Crimsons by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Crimsons poems by poem length and keyword.
Midnight dreamer;
I am standing in the flames of morrow;
Flesh clings to my joints;
I am on search for tomorrow;
I can’t feel my soul, soul, soul
I am burning up inside, inside, inside
Shadow dancing, fires cooling out
Daylight laughter
Night time out
I am feeling good, so good, like no one else would
No how good it is to be a midnight dreamer;
Wake up, wake up, git up, get out
Fire burning crimsons burning
I need a place to rest
Don’t wake me up, me up I am clinging to..
Clinging to my mother’s breast
I thirst for life and all that I have left
Shadow dancing, fires cooling out
Daylight laughter
Night time out
I am feeling good, so good, like no one else would
No how good it is to be a midnight dreamer;
When the flame is burning out (burning up)
I am a midnight dreamer, I’m a fireman and I am gonna put the fire out;
That’s what love is all about;
Relight the spark that kindles in the heart, the heart;
Give life a brand new start, start
Shadow dancing, fires cooling out
Daylight laughter
Night time out
I am feeling good, so good, like no one else would
No how good it is to be a midnight dreamer;
7/9/81
7/11/81
Patricia A Caffrey NOTARY
Written by James Edward Lee 1981, 2019©
written for Gary Boyle and State of Arf Music Inc.
Wish You Were Here
The hay bales golden, crimsons and ochre sere leaves fallen-- the caw of the Jackdaw
There was no Nightmare until after the fall, painted and swooned like a Fuseli
the clouds float in staccato and layered rich tones: vibrato from sparrows joins the chorus
the suffering alluring woman frail calling on Nature, who chides the mawkish
yet still holds in her in Her own way,
as she ambles and thinks of loves’ long ago
sadness your becoming frailty; weakness a handmaiden, its alluring on you
and there is a mourning call from the maw of the jackdaw
and the skies go crimson, deep ambers until a now purplish blue
and the clouds become negatives as rotation continue-- I see the first star
appear and think of all the females who thought love’s true
“Boot in the face, the brute. brute heart of a brute like you” said Plath
Tolstoy’s males prevail, the amative women frail, and frailty is true
The tender heart a pulpy thing is simply the mind at war
And Nature now turned to dusky twilight transforms her as before
Flame yellow with a tint of gold,
flutters with bite of autumn cold,
on aspens and their birch cousins
are first seen when the fall begins.
Then scarlet fire will appear,
a blaze that won’t inspire fear,
and deep crimsons of apple-hue,
add such richness to a view.
Next sugar maples, orange bright,
like morning color of sunlight,
the harvest-bringer’s vibrant shade
soon dominates the forest glade.
And then the tourists come again,
I guess I can’t really blame them,
the beauty of this display marks
a last hurrah before the dark.
I myself like autumn as well,
but to be honest, this I’ll tell:
I much prefer when the fall leaves,
because I can get out my skis…
Oil spread across blank canvases
W
i
l
d
reigning over the smudges I tossed
crimsons and violets and fuchsias galore...
merging together to form a tree bark hue
the deepening browns often relate the most~
unique and fertile as the shades can ever become
wild and bitter like lattes blended with vanilla
down to earth and relaxed as a warm light source
making my skin go reddened and vibrant
like parakeets nesting in trunks and serenading
or moss clinging to nearby marble, discovering a home
sort of like a fashion statement, a mild accessory
but these browns won't linger in silhouettes
just keep me pacified and add to soft ambiance
while aiding to the beauty of belonging
and the silkiness of softness which surrounds us~
He was born November 4th
in Paris France
and had an artistic eye the moment he was born
his fascination
with light upon the waters
reflected itself
in the painting of the Red Boats which is
priceless today
He was a dreamer and
an impressionist schemer
studying composition upon the lap of the masters
he would wile away the time
mixing tints and hues
and worked in yellows
crimsons and
various shades of blues
for me i liked the irises
as they graced the canvas with luminosity
and I found the sunflowers wonderful
as they stretched forth with light that seemed free
his passion is an inspiration
for all the various artists to be
a compelling path to follow
undoubtedly.
Form:
Like many heroes of mysterious Marvel Comics,
Doctor Stephen Vincent Strange is a bolt of magic mix;
Spells of supernatural kinds he works, abundantly,
Crimsons, crystals, ice, rings, chains - in constant redundancy...!
Pile of pure pulverization and annihilation,
The Bolts of Balthakk has become eternal damnation;
On any stuff - solid or liquid - the bolt does explode,
Like iron-oxidation, all powers it does corrode...!
Bounds, rebounds, rings, winks, blows, boomerangs at its master's hands,
Swishes, swooshes; whizzes, whooshes like winds in desert sands;
None in heaven or hell could ever its gravity hold,
Like swift, sly electric current it does its force unfold...!
Is it terrible torch of fire? Or lake of lava?
Is it hydro-nitrogen bomb resembling baklava?
From hands of Doctor Strange, like gold dust they serenely fly,
Clapping, crashing, flashing, dazzling, booming, zooming they spry...!
Doctor Strange manipulates these bolts like liquid plasma,
For him, a magic-surgeon, it's mere mental miasma;
An awesome third eye adorns the forehead of Doctor Strange,
For mesmerized kids, these are, delightful amusement-range...!
30 August 2022
Doctor Strange Spells Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Robert James Liguori
I am a waterfall , cascading , descending , trickling down
all over your sunkissed shoulders , and a hundred bare thoughts .
Smell me , A delicate fragrance like that of drying cotton linen
perched on the line of an early Spring morn.
Hear me .Listen to my swish-swoosh sound
a distant echo of a babbling brook within your silence.
Taste me . Quench your thirst from the smooth outpour of my waters.
Have me . Have all I own , rippled palettes where I stirred
crimsons , whites and blues , to give you lilacs .
Moist velvet lilacs that tickle softly along your back ,
between your toes ,against the arms of your resistance.
Feel me, feel my fresh gushes extinguish embers
which burned too quick your camping hammock
and ripped you off a million candle dreams.
Let me be . Let me become the bed of promise in your lone night.
Let me stay . I'll stay , I sway and play. Like a mandarin's lullaby ,
I'll rock you slowly into sleep beneath a canopy of forest trees.
I am the waterfall , where once in yesterday your fingers tossed
the last of of coins , with atheistic need.
Here on the edge , I'm waiting for you , to grant your wish and your release.
Till you return I keep on falling , flowing down freely from mountain creeks.
We dream of reason
A dry season
a setting of the western sun
A dark wraith
a bold hold of hands-on high
A reason for the gun
A black dress in the white west
bold hold and driven apart
a season in the son we dream of the white west
of biter treason burning in the one
the way of the gun
A black house in the middle of Russian
a gold stallion on the eastern shore
we bore the war of the rest a dry quest
in the setting of the sun
the dying of humanity
a dry season on the western earth
a reason we grow old
the white waste
the bitter taste
the rage of the one
the reason for the gun
a black house in the middle of oblivion
a mansion of many rooms
a white dress drifts in its halls
cast shimmering liquid lights upon hallow walls
the movement of the sea the dreamer dreaming
deep in the ancient ocean depths
a dry season of the western Runs,
a hand holds bold in the death of one
a reason for the gun
a bloody dress and black crest
a sword of dominion
stained by truths healing hand
the bold grows old
in the white west
the dominion of one
the white west
the black house
the talons reach deep inside
heal the lovers as love is lost
kill the king, as it carries me off
on raven wings
a white dress the reason for the son
drives me onto my knees
a silent plea
Of a black dress worn by my empress
The gun is hot in my hand my blood runs cold
In my conquered lands.
I see her drift down deep in fear
the animal inside
What have I done
What has begun
A crimsons stain on a white dress
In the middle of the room
I feel the coming doom.
A white house
A red stain
In times like these
I watch her down, falling
Down
Deep is the reason for the gun...
All night
the rain fell, heavy flooding the slopes and paths
that guided autumn walks through the now forest baths.
It was not a gentle wind that sailed
rather a chilled north eastern gale
that rustled leaves free from their summer shadowed trails.
Now trees dying without listing
the leaves turn to blustery orange crimsons
the rain and winds promise resisting seasons depictions.
An early autumn frost
rests solely on the turning moss
still green slippery smooth along the walks.
The summer fall speeds fast away
with trees and leaves naked in display
while the sun quietly slips pale through the day.
Night awaits, gathers little light
and the harvest moon fades to crescent white
as winter rounds the bend with chilling bite.
Too soon it rises cold,
the loss of heat, the oncoming ice and snow
and winter season takes an unwelcomed hold.
I'm frostbitten summer-smoke,
a pensive
p r i n ce s s ~
pressed in the cold satin streaks of
Brontë-butterflies,
dying at the edge of awakening,
through the voiceless ruffles
of electric blue lies ~
where haunt and hiraeth are heard
in the gold-spawn scales of snake green sighs...
there, while I pay homage
in the temple of torment
singing a siren ~
shaped in the requiem of revenge,
the sun cries in cawing crimsons
as I keep sketching you
in ominous o
u
t lines ~
wearing the nonchalant noose
of raven rictameters...
but you still break like the weather,
and b
l e
e d
into the veins
of cathartic rivers,
becoming the unshakable sky,
I could never reach...
and I still remain the unholy scent
of Medusa-tongued bouquet,
mourning upon your casket...
We are ~
nefarious naughts
knotted
in the throat of kismet,
we are ~
the criminalised catastrophé
masked with a macabre monsoon,
as we are ~
the vandalised victim
and the compromised culprit,
the secret of megalomaniac sunset
remembered in rain and ruin.