Long Crisp Poems
Long Crisp Poems. Below are the most popular long Crisp by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Crisp poems by poem length and keyword.
She walked in not knowing she was the one the prophetess had seen
In her prophetic who is to be the next cat queen dream.
Her name was Crisp Paper, for she was the color of them
Her feet looked dirty, brown, and ugly, taking away from her fem.
But the boots were the nod the prophetess SueBeebob needed to see.
She went to the king and said that white cat with brown boots is she.
The king was not surprised for he had a bit of mysticism in his soul.
Choosing the perfect mate for his litters was his royal ultimate goal.
Crisp Paper was whisked away to be perfumed, pampered and fluffed.
She wondered what was happening in the land of Cat Creeper Cruffed.
When it was explained to her she laughed and said you made a goof.
Then she sat down and pulled off her brown boots with a poof.
SueBeebob had to take some opium and dream away in a glade,
To see whether the brown boots had to be natural or man-made
What did you decide? The king asked her when she came awake.
I think you have to choose your own queen, King Mistake!
The clumps of climbing cotton clouds float slowly away,
brushing the azure spread of the end-summer’s ashen sky.
The returning birds bathe in the glimmer of the blue bay,
in the amber twilight gleam to the auburn nest they all fly,
as autumn arrives with chromatic kaleidoscope on the sly.
In the lucent edge of the sunburst sky the golden horizon
splits the surreal sunbeam in the spectrum of radiant rays,
sparkle of hues spilling from the palette colors the dawn.
Bowed down slender blades of fawn grass rise and sway
in crisp air on the lap of meadow turning green from gray.
The pasture wears the crafted crown of shining topaz dew,
flickering with the pearly flair of dawn’s chalcedony glow.
Lining the sun-splashed cinnabar garden path paved anew,
dry trunks of the sepia trees stand on the sienna soil fallow,
hear in the rustle of crimson leaves autumn’s footfall slow.
As the setting scarlet sun sets fire in the fading satin sky,
making a surreal collage of vermillion ember glowing bright.
Under its crimson radiance I wait with the spirit rising high
to greet the sapphire stars sprouting in pellucid autumn night,
soaking cerulean moondust I long to be suffused with delight.
August 26, 2021
NA In Contest : Kaleidoscope
Judged on : August 23, 2021
Contest : August 2021 Na's
Sponsor : Constance La France
Dear Lake, why lob here atop a mountain
when the lowlands are so superior
with more catchment area to fountain
more rain to fill your vast interior.
Alpine aspirations for altitude
are worthy ambitions for rocks and crags.
But not for frigid lake in solitude,
except for the art show reflection brags.
The air is so clear and crisp on calm days
that lake reflection is a masterpiece,
perfectly mirrored portraits it portrays
of rogue mountains smiling, posing, at peace.
Up high, here, nature's sounds are rarefied.
The air is so thin, cold and flatly grim
that any birds flocking here to abide
are stage-struck by silence, the lake's own hymn.
The weather has no foibles and hindrance.
The winds and rain love to shatter and spoil
the reflection galley hung in silence,
wrecking the scene and creating turmoil.
You could climb a tree for a treetop view,
but, way up here, well above the snow line
there are no trees, only meadows for shoe,
so I dive in clear blue water, sublime.
Colorful fish defy the location.
To them, whither the lake is high or low
matters little in this wet world nation
all immune from rain, hail, wind, sleet and snow.
In the quiet before dawn,
As a waning quarter moon rises
The click clack of my Mastiff's steps beside me
The roar of motors a mile away
On a farm to market road.
The stars are bright this morning.
Even bright enough to say hello despite the street lights and house lamps.
The air is cool and crisp, unseasonably so
Normally it would feel like a sauna.
Birds are gathering breakfast for their youngins,
And the occasional polecat is unperturbed by my presence.
It's not a country thing
It's not a city thing.
But it is my thing
This walk every morning
Doing my part to wear down the cement
In this wild place in which I live.
His hair was black, crisp and wavy,
Above a face well-featured by grace.
A man who knew how to earn a living,
He could look the entire world in the face.
Dad’s advice I will never forget:
To try always to do your best,
And to thank God everyday,
Because He’ll take care of the rest.
To church, he went every Sunday
To hear the pastor’s learned voice.
The singing of the church choir
Allowed his weary heart to rejoice.
He told me to know to use my mind,
Since knowledge is much to be sought;
And there is no end to learning,
Or end to what needs to be taught.
Dad had hands that fixed anything,
With a bit of cement or a nail.
And whatever he had put together,
You could be sure it wouldn’t fail
If only I had listened to him more,
While he was here with me alive.
If I had paid attention to all he had to say,
Surely now I would know how to survive.
The woman lying on the hospital bed
Silent, intuition discerning
The last breath, last sigh, goodbye
Whispered beneath a soft cry
From the soul who she was leaving behind
She had been a daughter, a wife, a mother
She’d known sorrow, sadness, hurting
While still believing in the times
When joy filled her heart, soul and mind
With memories of pleasures so satisfying
The woman was thin, so skinny bones jabbed
At the ones who bent to hug her
Leave their mark, their kiss, there on her cheek
Where tearstains had left their reproach
Small details of a light, a life, almost concluded
She had sharp blue eyes that sparkled like stars
In the heavens after a summer storm passed by
Eyes so alive they could nearly speak
With words of passion, praying and praising
Promising to shine through the passing that was so near
The woman had taught me things I couldn’t know
Would accompany me through small wars
Second thoughts, death and divorce
Wonderful dreams and moments of pure fear
Wisdoms that would never disappoint me
She once bandaged my cuts and bruises
Applying ointments and solutions
While assuring me that I would heal in time
Just as she had mended herself
From so many hospital stays and sick days
The woman was much like a whisper
Silencing my worries with her tenderness
Breathing rich blessings through my life
With hope, faith and love that would guide
Coloring my thoughts in hues of Godly light
She was so quiet now, lying in the big bed
That seemed to consume her with crisp, white sheets
Reminding me that she was so close
To carrying wings instead of that deathlike pallor
Which revealed the moment on the horizon…
The last sigh – the one that still haunts me
With its heavy handed weakness
The feeble breath of a frail old woman
Who knew that living would soon mean
Giving up the life that had been given her…
By a heavenly Father who would soon welcome her!
The last sigh – was her spirit’s sendoff!
Your Favorite Poem Of 2021 Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Chantelle Anne Cooke
November 22, 2021
In the intimate realm of sleep
dreams confirm that you're in love,
visiting sweet memories stored in your heart.
The magic that exists in your reality;
is personified in the affinity you feel
for your soulmate, friend, and lover all in one.
And in a surreal, over-the-edge dream;
euphoric feelings lift you from your world
and place you in a world of fantasy;
filled with youthful passion and bravado.
Imagination launches you to the edge of space,
floating high above the clouds;
where a glowing moon and twinkling stars
shine down on lovers in a passionate embrace.
And feelings of forever
electrify the scene;
with crisp breaths of expectation.
Kisses taste as sweet as honey,
leaving a delicious lingering aftertaste.
When you're in love
dreams morph into memories,
and there's no denying that you're in love.,
What kindles the fire that warms a cold heart?
What sparks the imagination?
What influences the mind to contemplate life?
What unleashes the body's desires?
Is it the beauteous setting of a tangerine sun?
Or is it a leaf falling from an oak's bough?
Is it the sudden, loud wail of life newly born?
Or the tender embrace of love?
Is it excitement that comes from that first sweet kiss?
Or the ecstasy of two lovers entwined?
Is it a cooling rain on the sun-scorched sand
when the clouds cry the tears of their joy?
Is it the melancholy voice of a tenor sax
when a combo has mounted the stage?
Is it the clean, crisp air that caresses your face
as you ride through a mountainous range?
Is it cool lemonade in an ice-filled glass
as you ponder the heavens at dusk?
Or rather the glorious win of your favorite team
in the warmth of the afternoon sun?
Like the spreading of heat in a lakeside abode
that penetrates body and soul
as you stir the glowing embers of a blazing hearth
and watch the flames flicker and grow...
There is but one thing that defines the heart's beating
and fills the soul's deep well with bliss;
that drives all awareness whether love, fear, or hatred,
that affects all of life, and even death.
It is passion, like the spread of a raging fire,
fierce beyond all that's within;
perched on the pinnacle of life's highest peak,
far-reaching even to its deepest depths.
Christmas is over and I'm all alone.
The house is now quiet and I lie prone,
Remembering the merriment, the gladness and cheer,
And the wonderful feeling of having them here.
The Christmas tree twinkles by the window so bright.
In this quiet room it's the only light.
There it will stand until New Year's Day,
When I take it all down and put it away.
Then I'll clean the house from one end to the other,
Remembering with love each sister and brother.
I'll think on the past, of the joy and the fun,
Of raising my children, my daughters and sons.
The pain of not having them close by my side,
And how their success has brought me much pride.
Then I'll make some tea and sit down with my cat,
Then the dog at my side I'll get coat and hat.
I'll go for a walk in the crisp winter air,
And rejoice as the frost covers lashes and hair.
My life is a good one all things considered.
No need to feel lonely, abandoned, embittered;
For I have my life and they have theirs.
They write, visit, phone, that proves they still care.
I still have a job and my home keeps me busy.
No need to feel useless like some old tin Lizzy.
I'm not ready for the junk heap yet.
Not old, just experienced, I'm hip, you bet.
Can't wait now for Easter, they'll phone and come by,
And I'll hold each one close and give a glad sigh.
molecules lower into mist
then smoke and screenshots
my nicotine grows from roots
onto tongue into thyroid
deliciously fresh I blow
sprays across crisp lawn
true blue sky sings its songs
massaging through trendy T-shirt
day moves harmonic, stylish
cigar shortens
I’m patient with cameraman
he is late as usual
our canvas is painted
with muted colours of farmlands
organic every morn
let us go for cappuccinos
before work starts in ernest
in coffeeshop we’ll love
ourselves f o r e v e r ~
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BRONZE WINNER POEM
Allpoetry Imagery Contest
May ‘26