Long Dappling Poems
Long Dappling Poems. Below are the most popular long Dappling by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Dappling poems by poem length and keyword.
Mantle of summer, cloaked so bright
Where flowers pose lending their grace.
Along red vines as sun ignites
My carefree notes that twirl, retrace
The gleam of breezes dappling through
On painted strokes with finest hue.
How then can I resist
The gush of wildness’ flow
When come nightfall, hands lift
To reach flamed moon aglow,
Like vignette of night’s show...
And tasting summer’s blaze
Heated sighs I release,
As blossoms now amaze
With my notes that tease...
One more dance
While hips fling
Of sweet romance;
While through beats
I'm a dizzy
song!
Contest:Who am I? Or, What am I ?
Sponsor: SKAT
As with all things it began small,
As a whisper, a glint, a glimmer
A distant chickadee giving voice
To a sun that rose ever silently
And a morn that seemed ever,
And ever more promising of wonder
Fleeting westward the veil’d stars
And rolling thunder
Dappling tears
That shed their gladness
The growing light abate the fears
Wrought, the wet groaning night.
And it seemed a slow standing ovation
A clatter of chirps, cars and school children
Beginning their ritual’d day
A smattering of clouds forming and deforming
As the orchestra began to play
And my window became a ringing call
Beckoning me to my door,
To turn the knob that had secured me before
Symbolizing a threshold—of a freedom
That lay beyond—
And more.
Spin Now an Angel’s Gown
Dedicated to Father Johnnie E. Ross
When a tree so desires to sing and dance,
It becomes a home for the fabric of angels’ gowns.
Go,then, and as you pass that place —
Along the trail where you linger in wonder —
By your favorite white mulberry tree,
Where the silkworms were brought
To feast on favored leaves...
Pause
And, please, take a knee to God
For me.
So blessings may come from your interceding whispers
About my confessional pleas for mercy;
About my screaming hopes for healing. And
Speak, too, my praises and thanksgivings
For the blessings of my life and still living...
In all faith, voicing sacred verses, please
Touch the heart of Jesus.
~ Wells may spring!
Clouds may gently let go their rain onto
Vines that may reach swiftly on beyond reason.
And, notice! Wafting over you
From the mulberry branches,
The dappling dance of the leaves’ shade
With the splattering of sun in-between,
Inspiring your soul to sing
For my healing.
*****. *****. *****. *****. *****. ******
Thank you, Father Ross. And
Thanks be to God.
(C) sally Young eslinger 8/2020
You only get one bucket
and how you choose to fill it is entirely up to you
Some will fill there’s with skydives, absails and paddle boarding down a dappling pontoon
For some it will be that Beetroot and marmite sandwich on a Sunday afternoon
It’s not all that important
what you fill your bucket with
Some love, and maybe a hobby or two
For joy is a life well lived
And of course there will always be room for just a little bit more
Unless of course you live to be, perhaps a 104
Our lives are not defined by the number of days we’ve lived
The love and kindness we’ve given away is the measure we ought to plaudit
Our existence creates ripples in ways we’ll
never know
I met a man once’ ‘I knew a guy’
And so and so and so
Collecting things like fishing rods
and all the little odds and sods
And of course it will be scary to part with all you love
You’ll look inside your bucket, laugh and cry
Remembering what was
And when the time comes to kick that bucket over
Kick it hard with fire and fury and say I was here, and this was mine
Let the remnants of that old bucket shatter into a million blinding pieces like glistening stars
Let them fall among the shoulders of everyone you loved and knew
And maybe they will take a cup for themselves and put it in there bucket too
IN A GILDED INSTANT
The monarch’s wings opened as a picture book, fluttering by. It glided, uncertain but undeterred, through a gentle haze of gold and shadow, the garden’s hush punctuated by the faint murmur of leaves. Sunlight filtered in rare skeins, dappling the monarch’s patterned wings as it hovered, hesitated, and then pressed onward—a flicker stitched between petal and air. The world, for one gilded instant, seemed spun from elegant silk.
Painted in oranges, kissed with black lace,
the monarch glides through the air and
pirouettes in a ballet of grace.
Oh, to witness her beauty, a fleeting affair
a living poem, a jeweled muse~
a moment suspended in delicate air.
(Poem written for USPS Stamp Poetry Contest, Robert James Liguori, sponsor)
echo, love ...
au contraire ...
when I wanted to see you
I closed my eyes
when I longed for your whisper
I screamed at the moon
when I craved your taste
I starved myself like a madman
and shed my skin
when I could not touch you.
I have searched your blossoms
to find only thorns
I have traded ten angels
for a demon, reborn
I once walked among giants
in your tiniest shoes
and plucked your strings -
your heart's aching strings
with naught ... but blues.
your walls ...
I climbed them, formidable
only to leap, lost, to your darkened depths
I swam your passion
but was dashed to ruin on your reef of apathy
ago, I coursed your very dreams with wild wonder
only to wake ... a nightmare ...
unanswered questions blooming like tombstones
dappling meadows ... in war.
love, echo.
~ 1st Place ~ in the "Completely Your Choice (27) Any Theme, Any Form" Poetry Contest, Brian Strand, Judge & Sponsor.
Springing free from glistening
Fronds
The summers heat leaps for
Height;
Whilst drifting obscurely far
Above
A distant lark now hangs in
Flight.
Floats down his sweet trill,
Accompanied by joyous and
Uplifting revelry,
Over the black crows nasal
Calls;
Whose draped shadow,
contemplating devilry,
Flaps and furtively falls
Into ripening bean fields
Planted in neatly sowed rows:
Nourished in darkest till,
Enriched by pedantic verse of
Gaelic odes.
Do now these gentle Slopes
Pause to yield
Where secretive song,
Bursting forth, is much concealed
inside the plain of Aidhne;
For here the great rock of the
Burren,
Whereby so implored upon,
Revealed its grey stones...
To rebuild ancient and deserted
Thoor Ballylee.
Sweeping briskly past a tors
Grassy island busy in bloom,
Eagerly cramming under four
Crouched arches,
Skim the borrowed waters of
Thee immortal Cloone;
Dappling currents
Dawdling around squat stanchions -
Staunchly carrying the quiet bridge
Over the old concourse:
Momentarily loitering -
Wantonly begging to coyly swoon...
Now, joyfully sporting in gushing
Discourse,
Gleefully courting elusive and
Glimmering enchantments:
Mirrored reflections enticed to
Enter -
To be forever trapped within a
Burbling rivers sacred rhyme and
Tune.
Higher and higher the spiraling
Stairs of de Burgo
When through airy woodland
Glades
The towering shadow sought;
And higher and higher the spirit
Of an ageing poet...
His crowding thoughts
Roaming freely amidst these
Fabled legends of Gort.
Harken then to the feathered
Herald -
Tis Gods design that calls on
Ye!
For few men know of what he
Sings...
He sings of the forgotten paths
Forever lost within Innisfree.
“Pearl Diving” (Part 2)
Angel fish are pretty, but they’re boring that’s they’re lot
the Man O War is far too flashy, frivilous,
Octupi are too touchy feely always begging for the real thing way too early,
the Dolphins always laugh out loud, they’re overly boisterous show-offs
always trying to call the shots;
perhaps she’s best off lying in her Clamshell tight and small
for she is understanding now
the Clamshell has cast a spell o’er her
to stop all creatures in the deep from
hijacking her magic powers.
It’s comfortable and very warm, no need to leave her purse,
how could she leave what’s she’s only ever known behind;
better to sleep forever with the Clamshell as her nurse...
dream her dreams,
keep very still -
it couldn’t get much worse.
She’s shiny and she’s aged just right
the Clamshell protects her from the light,
she’s not a real jewel anymore
she’s a bottled up narcotic bright,
a little white pill zipped up in her hardened purse
to numb out all that sunken hurt.
He swims down to get a deeper look
the sunlight now dappling through the
hottest deepest lure of blue
thrashes his legs much harder now
to get the closest view.
He sees the sharks surrounding her
he checks his dorsal fin
he’s now become a predator
and she his treasure there within,
to somehow prize and shuck her
from her clammy milky mucous shell.
Such a beautiful sin he grinned and thought for a nano-second,
“Maybe I can win”.
Somewhere in the distance from the surface way up above,
he hears a mermaid call down to him, her silky voice enticing him,
her echolocation surrounding him,
through all those other fish making such a blasted bubbly din,
“It’s mine.” the voice whispers mysteriously in his ears, “ I’m playing this, it's mine, a life to win”.
(Lovejoy-Burton/ December 2017)
"Aqualung", Morcheeba
https://youtu.be/xxHL5szgThQ
My run begins with a gentle jog along a mountain trail~
my breath is easy, my legs are loose,
and the world opens up ahead.
But when the trail tilts upward,
my lungs begin to burn, my heart starts to thud~
yet something in me refuses to stop.
Some days the trail is smooth,
sunlight dappling the ground
like applause.
Other days it’s mud,
tangled roots,
and the sharp surprise of a stone
I never saw coming.
But I keep running,
because the body remembers
what the mind forgets~
that momentum is its own kind of grace.
Somewhere along the way
I discover running isn't about the number of miles,
my speed, or crossing finish lines~
it's about the miracle of moving forward.
- Not everyone is born under a starry sky ~ but climbed great heights -
quote by poet
Near the river I saw the decrepit aged man
Striped of outerwear
even though the snow reached his knees
The ground was inextricably bound by frost
Bare feet in worn-out shoes across the footpath
one shaky foot in front of the other
His body weak, but his will strong
- fighting as best he can
focused on survival
There is a lot of weight on his shoulders
The world occasionally feels as a bubble
with distorted truths,
falsehoods and veneers
Poor ignorant people
With glimmer of hope in the pitch dark
a warm home and a bottle of gin
Is that too much to ask?