Long Crucibles Poems
Long Crucibles Poems. Below are the most popular long Crucibles by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Crucibles poems by poem length and keyword.
Our Best Intent
Crucibles
of power
Melting
right from wrong
Cathedrals
of our best intent
Benediction’s
— song
********
Unto The Word
Testify
when all else fails
Testify
stay on the rails
Testify
from deep desire
Testify
your heart on fire
Testify
when hope seems gone
Testify
your voice belongs
Testify
the children wait
Testify
the moment late
Testify
the verse resounds
Testify
the pledge profound
Testify
temptation burns
Testify
on what you’ve learned
Testify
unto the Word
Testify
— His blessing heard
********
Exposed
If you’re a
cult figure
take off
your mask
Let the crowd
see you
the hard
and the fast
There
lies transcendence
only there
will they see
The truth
you’ve been hiding
exposed
— and set free
********
Lack Of Delivery
You say
the right things
Never doing
what’s right
Your words
and your actions
Divorced
woebegone
Intention
an orphan
If born
out of wedlock
The lack
of delivery
when stillborn
— is gone
(Dreamsleep: July, 2026)
Like a creature hibernating in its burrow
Waiting to come out with the first verdure of spring,
The seed of a poem lay dormant in my heart
Through the long winter awaiting another spring.
After staying torpid inside for long,
At a time I expected it the least
Timidly came out the first word,
As shaky as a calf getting up for the first time.
Then another came and word after word in a row
Like pellets of rain on the window pane.
I boiled them in the crucibles of my imagination
And dipped them in the ocean of my emotions.
But rhyme came to set constraints.
For the right alignment I struggled.
I had to decide on its texture and format.
Pondered if it should be a sonnet or an ode.
I might have kept the door open for long.
Alas! All my words and fancies flew away,
Like birds taking on wings into the sky
From a cage where they were imprisoned for long.
I stood so helpless with my mouth shut,
Staring blankly out into the airy nothing,
Like one lost in the doorway of his own threshold,
Unable to call back those winged words lost in the void
________________________________________
~Placed Fifth~
Submitted for Marathon no.10. Poetry Contest
Sponsor - Mark Toney
~Placed First~
31. March .2022
A Brian Strand Standard
Poetry Contest
Winter tested my endurance with its sharp and burning cold and now the warm lavender evening, with its smells and sounds of spring seem like a gift. The breeze is warm, and even the broad zones of shadow contain an inviting warmth. The campus lamps should ignite soon but groups of students are milling, talking and laughing as if no one wants to let go of the day.
As Lisa enters the courtyard the campus lights flicker to life. As she approaches, she lets her book bag slide off her shoulder. Catching it by its strap a millisecond before it hits the ground as she reaches me - without looking - like a practiced trick.
Taking my hand in hers, she asks, head tilted slightly to see my eyes, “How’d the test go?”
I’m the first one in our squad to take a final - most are next week. “Cinchy,” I say with a grin and a flick of my free wrist, “not comprehensive - it just covered the last section.”
“Yea,” she says, “look at you go!” A warm breeze wells to obscure her face with her flaxen, cornsilk hair. She lets her bag fall the last inch, and ponytails it, two-handed, with smooth, practiced ease.
Finals existed, like ancient, cultural crucibles, long before our time, but these are ours, as if they’ve always been waiting - just for us.
Yale is still new to us, but we talk, juxtaposing experiences, challenging and comforting each other, even though we’re on slightly different paths. It seems that everyone is pumped up though, a little stressed maybe, but more than ready to hit it.
Write a Pantoum – 8-25-23
"With God all things are possible." Matt 19:23
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Blue Roses
Pure love leans down to kiss a newborn garden child,
From crucibles of eternal creativity,
Vision kissed with petals of grace for love’s Godchild
Rhapsodies of roses chant joy for blue nativity.
From crucibles of eternal creativity
Rare mystical moment translated into blue
Mythic rose wears reality’s festivity
Treasure, of the heart, shines in true pacific hues.
Rare mystical moment translated into blue
Love turns a snow white rose blue with gentle thunder
Magic moment when the impossible comes true
Only hands Heaven inspired could birth this wonder.
Love turns a snow white rose blue with gentle thunder
Mystery unfolds in petals of azure blooms
Quest for the absurd blessed – not split asunder
Sweet incense rises in revelation’s perfume.
Mystery unfolds in petals of azure blooms,
Spirit seeds jubilees of inspirations wild
Dream in prayer blessed – nurtured in God’s gracious womb -
Pure love leans down to kiss a newborn garden child.
From mouth to ear across a lifetime lived,
traveling strings tying lives together thread on thread.
Every one word building lifetimes;
bonded mud of bricks to house
our broken bags of trailing flesh.
We will hold each others heart,
we will hold each others head up high.
Better or worse for the word or two that has made,
will forever make, and always is,
the difference.
Speak this word or that, watch the matter of it all unfold,
past lives shaped and shaping now
in crucibles of all our conversations.
Words to bridge and touch this world,
like knives or axes falling,
slicing moments each peeled back,
revealing bullets spent and sailing
on to wounded tearful souls.
Comfort words,
words of love,
different shapes and sizes wrapped
in different voices heard.
Inflections, accents, whispered,
loudly shaped intense of spirit,
colored by emotion to enforce.
Chosen words of purpose:
dispatched, planned,
let fly in haste,
erecting endless layers to our waste.
Tools of our intention common to our time,
reserved and planned, chosen with meticulous care,
whose definitions matter more than when or where.
Piercing silent dreams,
floating on the breath of every God,
making mysteries of all we seem to be.
Mirrors made of silence once,
we soon are made of words that move us
through a doorway, joining into life.
Today, a workshop for the poet. Write about a cup.
Standing empty, purpose unfulfilled.
Imagination startled as I smash the cup inside my head.
A million shards of broken pottery lying on the floor.
Broken poems and promises lying on the floor.
Shards thrown out of context as are we.
Broken souls from out a shattered God.
Each shard, a refugee. You and me.
Metaphors attached to all the brokenness we own.
Cups of purpose seeking our fulfillment.
Joined to make a whole of all we hold;
become a cup our truth will then unfold.
What began as empty, filled with our life’s portion,
sharing, sipping, spilling all along the way.
Losing contents we may label dear
until the final tipping of a cup left upside down.
What words escape our pens that are not truth.
Whose content change the soul from which we bleed
Whether subject cup or love, or other siphoned dalliance,
at our finish will complete a lifetime’s cupping need.
harvest from the terrestrial
Mother Nature giving her best.
pastures green on the other side
Man's canal gift from Mother Earth
Get your thoughts in from books.
grinded, marshed in crucibles
seiving out the shaft, lest it chokes
wrapping into boluses, bit by bit
Light up the scenes in merry
sending shivers down the throat
popping out mystery mist
while wrapped round in cocoons
Glory, glory, celestials
levitating into the abode of enlightenment
seeing clear visions hidden in the fog
looking down on terrestrial beings as tiny ants
An epidural intake to calm the pain
until I'm lost in its mirage.
My status reading is "High."
From The Coal Mine …
Liars …
early prophets
of impending doom
(The New Room: February, 2024)
The Moment Shared
We often forget
wrapped up
in our own drama
— that everyone feels the same
(Dreamsleep: February, 2024)
Circle Game
The purpose of war
is peace
The guarantor of peace
— is war
(Dreamsleep: February, 2024)
Crucibles
Moss
hides the message
Whose altar
ascends
In joy’s
adulation
The pilgrimage
— ends
(1st Book Of Prayers: February, 2024)
I Bequeath Thee …
Birthing a memory
o’er future and past
To carry my words
inside others to last
Birthing a memory
o’er time and space
To those still unborn
— my welcoming grace
(Dreamsleep: February, 2024)
Four Steps
Incinerate
all kindling that burns
Articulate
the knowledge that yearns
Reciprocate
before it’s your turn
Elucidate
— each lesson hard earned
(The New Room: February, 2024)
True Fortune
Good health is loaned
— but never owned
(Deamsleep: February, 2024)
What of...A Pearl? 5-30-24
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Pearl
Born from irritation
Errant seed, like a pebble in a sandal,
Rubbing raw the soft heart in bruises
Lustrous armor built around crumbs of discontent -
A resume of overcoming ravished wounds
From a jagged invasion to round perfection.
A sly annoyance, nurtured,
Grows into heroic neon hues
Of black or white, cream, gold or pink
Inside darkness, in stillness’ mystery,
Deep within oceanic birthing swells
A metamorphosis in the hands of grace.
Through the stony crucibles’ selfless sacrifice
Layers of harmony built from an unreachable itch
Step out into tranquility, an opalescent retort,
From lesions to beauty cultured from injury
Flawless orbs revel in firstborn revelation
To decorate innocence reborn.
A diaphanous mist hangs over me
Blurring my thoughts and fancy
Or is it that my Muses have gone into lazy slumber?
Whatever thoughts I have, they come fragmented and scrambled
In no way I can piece them into a string
As I try to nest them together, they wheel away like pigeons
When I struggle for utterance,
Like a child, I lisp at the very first word
Though thoughts strike me like pellets of rain against windowpanes
I fail to broil them in the crucibles of my imagination
I am a miner searching for a nugget of gold
In tons of drilled out mineral ore
In the dead of the night, in frightening stillness
I am awake, with a pen in my hand
A heavy weight pulling me down
Caught in a creative maelstrom, I whirl and whirl
I hope the ink will soon spill over
Scrawling coherent lines and letters
Like an emboldened farmer,
I sow seeds of my thoughts into a land barren,
Not fecund enough and not watered with imagination!
Who can say some of them won’t strike root
Even in the cleft of a rock and struggle bravely into sunshine
Spreading over their sterile birth place
With beauties any eye would love to behold!
I wait for that moment...
Yes, I am a poet in the making...!
October.1.2022
~ Placed Seventh~
2022 Marathon mile.23 Poetry Contest
Sponsor -Mark Toney
Hark! The clarion call of enlightenment rings,
As education's chrysalis unfurls its wings.
Long fettered-by archaic pedagogical chains,
We now shed the husk of antiquated refrains.
In crucibles of curiosity, minds ignite,
Forging knowledge that pierces the night.
We architect academies of boundless scope,
Where queries bloom and nurture hope.
Not mere facts, but wisdom's essence we distil,
Cultivating resilience for life's uphill.
For the erudite maverick with cerebral fire,
And mentors who dare to inspire higher.
Arise! Let transformation be our refrain,
As we reforge learning's domain.
Our voices, a symphony of choice and change,
Through adversity's gauntlet, we arrange.
In these halls of intellectual renaissance,
Every mind finds its resonance.
As vestiges of the old order fall,
We pen new axioms for one and all.
These bastions of thought, our legacy true,
Where futures are sculpted, both vibrant and new.