Long Curative Poems
Long Curative Poems. Below are the most popular long Curative by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Curative poems by poem length and keyword.
If sky is a sea of
fallen flowers
and dusty diamonds
glazed in red,
I’ll unfurl the
saffron sun within,
stretching sandalwood
arms of serenity,
upon gardens of
glistening grief,
with healing herbs
and soothing spices,
from greener grass
of life amidst sorrow.
For I can
move mountains
and secure trees,
to a therapeutic realm
where perfumed
petals never wilt.
While kindness I sow
shall sprout in hues
of warm honey and
raspberry dreams.
I am an
unshakable rose,
blooming from
roots of ruins,
facing fiery fangs of
the phasing tulip moon
above wildfires
of whirling woes.
This musky
spirit is timeless,
resembling the
flaming heart of
an untamable phoenix.
My silence soars
beyond mourning wolves;
ice blue eyes
of fleeting seasons.
And you, twin-star~
my sister I cannot
breathe without,
will forever be the reason,
I’ll wear this amethyst
sequined armor,
to sail through
ripples of rage,
like a floating candle
amidst eclipsed tides,
that shifts and sparkles,
while flickering eucalyptus elixir~
upon scentless tea lights.
So if tomorrow, clouds
above your
sleepless sanctuary
swing with poisoned rain,
to drizzle splinters upon
your bed of melancholy,
remember, I’ll find my way
to your unrhymed spheres,
steal perfectly metered
syllables of hope,
from the elysian above,
that sprinkles
champagne lunar-beams,
and I’ll weave
a curative poem
beneath the ink-less
canvas of acrylic dirt,
to calm your
midnight musings with
mellifluous metaphors.
Love is not a noun- it is a verb
For it is not an abstract idea
Love is not a feeling
or saying someone is nice when they are not
Love for an enemy
does not mean,not punishing their wrong
Love is not taught
rather it is caught
Love of the agape kind...
an affair of the will
agape
the greatest gift
remains
clear sighted
curative
a treasure of the heart
love with no expectation
on seeing reality
continues
to love
agape
again&again
an act
of the will
infused inspired
by
grace
made manifold
FRAMING THE PIN-UP GIRL
His hands, they frame and catch, the pin-up girl.
Tanned hands, they're hot - he drops his sweaty palms.
Her lips - plum succulence. Hair’s suavely curl ~
a brilliant cinnamon. He has some qualms.
Approaches beauty queen with plastered smile.
She feigns to look away ~ that’s just her way.
Performance broken by his slipshod style.
Turns out, they're moon and sun ~ like night and day.
The opposite attract of belle and nerd,
A curative for broken-hearted ~ bliss.
A certain bit of trouble is assured.
Before the final curtain falls ~ love’s kiss.
He’s coy and lovable and kind of dreamy.
She’s brash and pushy but she’s rather steamy.
9/28/2017
Why the deep, dark valleys in my life,
Why the high peaks of heavenly rife,
Why the unfertile and fruitless leas,
Answer me, O Silence, answer me?
Must I live and die in netherworld,
Frozen in a paralyzed curl,
In search of light beyond dark of night,
Believing life is incessant strife?
The highs that lift me upward to God,
The lows that bury me in foul sod,
Days cast out upon bellowing seas,
Answer me, O Silence, answer me?
In the darkness I seek out and try,
To understand and mull over why,
There seems to be no curative balm,
To heal a soul that’s, empty of calm.
Are you so aloof that you don’t care,
Do you think my illness is too rare,
Are you fully clad in apathy,
Answer me, O Silence, answer me?
How long must I voice this fervent plea,
To be set free from this malady,
I grow tried playing this hide and seek,
O Silence, wake up and answer me?
In Eden’s primeval era,
in the Garden’s lush center,
what was the Tree of Life like
in all its mythic mystery?
Did its robust branches spread low and wide,
the perfect roost for birds and primates?
Did innocent birds sing joyously in their nests,
or was there a reverent hush within the leaves?
Were the countless emerald leaves long and broad,
ever blazing with brilliant phosphorescent glow?
Did its fruit radiate the color of crimson,
the juice oozing the nectar of redemption?
Was that everlasting Tree a divine gift
withdrawn from humanity for all time?
After Adam and Eve’s heartbreaking eviction
and humanity’s scattering to thistled lands,
what ensued in the enigmatic Garden,
after vanishing in first sin’s aftermath?
Did the Tree weep like a willow,
folding its branches in prayer
for some future redemption
and return to the Garden,
for them, for us,
for you, for me.
Is the tree weeping for us still,
like willows of Babylon wept
along with Jewish captives
who hung lyres in the branches,
while cruelly taunted by captors
during the long exile from Zion?
We too were exiled from Eden,
and exiled also from Zion,
exiled from one another,
exiled furthermore from God.
But lost exiles
can yet return.
In Revelation’s heavenly vision,
by the quiet river’s crystal water,
the Tree calmly awaits
the first couple’s return
to the renewed Garden
in its enhanced glory.
The eternal Tree beckons,
while waiting millennia,
for them, for us,
for you, for me.
The tree yields continuous, copious crops
of its shining, savory, succulent fruit,
and the soothing, curative leaves of the Tree
can heal hearts of humans who wish to come.
Will you come to the Tree,
behold its bright beauty,
inhale its fresh fragrance,
and savor its goodness?
Let’s climb that tree together,
resting on its wide branches,
to eat its unforbidden fruit
and use salvific leaves to wipe
sweet juices and salty tears
from our forgiven faces.
He turned off the running water,
soaped his face not glancing at the mirror,
a long night ahead.
He had four shadows
on the four walls of this rental,
not a good sign.
When later he turned the bedside light on,
the glowing silhouette of his head on the pillow
burgeoned, swelling upwards until
it pancaked on the ceiling above.
Still groggy after the hashish
still psychoactive,
he got dressed.
Out walking the dark Luxor streets
he found a coffee shop still open.
The thick sweet brew was served to him,
a lime green dwarf
sporting a banana yellow fez.
Never again he thought,
patting his pockets hoping to find
some curative cancer sticks.
55.
My 11th Leaf
Rended thee from herb
Released from thy curb
Curative floral
Sure medicinal
“Kalamantigue”!
Our neighbor nearest
Uncle for me best
Tatay's next brother
To me godfather
Nice Dudoy Etic
This night near nine, ten
This day – eleven
This month – eleven
This year - eleven
Brown-out, full moon bright
Dudoy Etic's fence
Outside adjacence
Rare luminescence
Utter silence
Almost front gate's door
Enroll I finish
MAT English
Salingsing polish
Begin fitness wish
Saw Iglot first last!
-11/11/2011
(Dumarao)
*My Toladas Collection
A piece for those trying to smile
While walking
The longest of miles
(A lone voice whispers)
I have loved my life
Called it a thousand names
As I fought through pain
All its gifts are mine
They all reside deep inside
For I'm illuminated
I feel everything around and within
Even when I’m defeated
I feel sacred
I bathe in the perpetual glow
Of a glorious sun
But no matter how far I wonder
No matter how far I run
My inner sun
Holds treasures for the soul
The more I give
The more I feel whole
Although I change
Physically
Every seven years
I'm indomitable
I study the splendour of my life
I celebrate the joys and pains
For my faith
Is formidable
Stranded to rhythms and
outrageous patterns of chaos
I materialize to create my own cosmos
With
Divine symmetry
Between my powers
Of inspiration and sensation
This wild life is simply my own seance
I desire the paths I walk
The side roads
Streets and byroads
Filled with newer experiences and faces
Thrill me
I offer compassionate and benevolence
To all in need
I control the Achilles' heels
Within my world
For its fears
Are irrelevant
I celebrate in the curative power of pleasure
I satisfy my hunger within its revered well
I initiate the deep free dive
To impenetrable depths
To find my blazing strength
Flowing from my crux to create new worlds
As my guardian angels wept
Love and Laughter
Elevate me
I hail from paradise to create my sanctuary
To pay tribute to my true spirit
For its inner beauty is beyond compare
Writing
Poetry
Singing and smiling
For
I'm an original
Simply surviving
Copyright John Duffy
Huntington's chorea one horrible ill
There's no curative treatment or pill
Science does research all fails
Some to no avail
Man can't cure
Still
I'm sure
Of sunrise, boat's sails
A new day offers details
Of a treatment, not a living will
Huntington's chorea one horrible ill
Written: November 25, 2018
Contest: The I Of The Storm Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Maureen McGreavy
Huntington's Disease is a brain disease caused by an abnormal protein that accumulates in the brain. This diseased protein interferes in the neurons making connection in the brain to carry out necessary thought process and movement. It can come on even in early childhood to late age and last from a few years to a very long time. The family who lives with this hanging over their head goes through the turmoil as well as the person who has the illness.
This is Andrea Dietrich's form but I can't remember the name of it.
Wounds Into Scars
by Odin Roark
It takes not a wise man to know
What we resist
Will persist
So goes the healing process
Just as a tree
With its heart and initial carvings
Carries its scars with little notice
So too might we carry our own
Those verbal
Physical
Spiritual
Lacerations
Often a suffering performance
As if they were for public view
The small child knows early
“Kiss the booboo”
And mothers are quick to reinforce
The child’s need
But as we grow
We forget the essence of a mother’s care
The mother’s empowering way
To repair with love
Instead
Many wear pain and sorrow on their lapels
Trusting a confused society
Often glorifying pain
Placing many an open wound
Before audience-sympathy
Unknowingly substituting exploitation
For the teachings of maternal empathy
How wanting one’s instincts can become
Innate reaction to hurt
Once serviced by natural response
Too often succumbs to ego pampering
Rather than seeking the axiom therein
That place where accepting the hurt
Seduces pain into questioning
Bringing to bear
The precarious courage
To learn the lesson
Of self-love’s curative
Might it be
Like mother nature’s engraved trees
At any age affliction reminds us
Growing is still the purpose
Injuries and scars inevitable
Like the tree
Perhaps it’s really a question
Of how we absorb
And treat ourselves
From within