Long Decoration Poems
Long Decoration Poems. Below are the most popular long Decoration by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Decoration poems by poem length and keyword.
It’s funny as I’ve gotten older…as my book of life has added a few more pages I have come to realize that Christmas is made up of five distinctive stages.
Today I can sit back and smile…when I take the time to pause…
knowing, for me, those five stages have revolved around Santa Claus.
During the first stage I was so young it was easy to believe how Santa Claus could drive a sleigh and bring me present on Christmas Eve.
In the second stage I’d grown up a little…and thinking I was wiser than before I figured I was too old to believe in Santa anymore.
In the third stage I was older still…and was happy to hear my wife’s and children’s applause when I put on that big red suit…and I played Santa Claus.
In the fourth stage I was older yet…my white hair and beard made children pause…
They’d smile, point…they’d wave and say, “look Mommy I think that’s Santa Claus”.
I’m now in the final stage of Christmas where I smile every time I see a Christmas decoration or hear a Christmas song because I realize not only do I still believe in Santa Claus…but I believed in him all along.
What makes this such a wonderful stage…is realizing Christmas is more than Santa Claus or songs or the different gifts we are receiving…
that Christmas is…
that Christmas was…
that Christmas all always be…
In the magic of believing.
I went to heaven yesterday
They say heaven lies after life
Yet
Another man heaven is here
On earth
Cos I was there yesterday
I saw the smiles of greed
On the faces of those
Trusted by the many
I saw how really was the heaven
On earth
Cos it glories are filled
Of the crys of the innocent
It decoration was the mark
Of the hell we bear
They merry in heaven alot
Yes on the cost of our freedom
This heaven was the reason
When suffer in hell on earth
A beautiful heaven
Yet a curse for the poor
What a heaven
No wonder I understand
The quest of the innocent
Dying in a dying world today cos
I was in heaven yesterday
A young small spruce tree had grown
In the sprawling evergreen conifer forest
Once decided to celebrate Christmas alone
In an isolated hamlet that’s the nearest.
It then started to slowly walk on a faint track
In the Christmas eve hours of the cold night
With the blue moon shimmering on its back
Where the snowflakes fluttered, falling light.
At the thinned edge of the receding thicket
On the crumbling slopes of the rippling hill
An old house remotely hung, grimly isolated
The smokeless chimney on its top stood still.
Through the cracked house’s frosted window
The tree looked inside the room dark and cold
A little girl making a tree of creased paper it saw
For a green Christmas tree they couldn’t afford.
The small tree called the sad little girl to come out
They went together to the nearby freezing garden
She plucked the last flowers for the tree to decorate
The moon made snowflakes on the tree to glisten.
A star descended on the tree from the glowing sky
Finished the decoration sticking on its conical crown
Lending its sparkle to the little girl’s lightened eyes
They celebrated the Christmas they’d never known.
When for the girl bed time came her mother found
Her in deep sleep the fingers curled, smeared in glue
The paper tree in her arms, both lying on the ground
Her dream won't break, it would one day come true.
December 12, 2017.
I'm dreaming of you this Christmas,
And the ones of yesteryears,
When the snow was falling,
And we were kissing,
And I had no need for tears.
I'm dreaming of you this Christmas,
With every decoration I hang,
Dreaming of the carols we sang,
At our wedding when bells rang.
I'm dreaming of you this Christmas,
And the ones of yesteryears,
When the snow was falling,
And we were kissing,
And I had no need for tears.
I'm dreaming of you this Christmas,
With every decoration I hang,
Dreaming of the carols we sang,
At our wedding when bells rang.
____________________________
November 29, 2015
Rhyme
Inspired by the song, White Christmas
For the contest, Christmas Carols, sponsor, Kelly Deschler
Second Place
I wouldn’t have run.
I’d take my lumps like a man with a busted lip and no lawyer.
I stood there in front of a judge who smelled like cologne and paperwork,
reciting lines from a script written by cowards,
asking questions designed to turn blood into ink.
They call it a process.
That’s what they always call a cage before the door shuts.
I agreed to walk in, hand myself over,
sign my name at the edge of a cliff
and pretend it was a bridge.
They took me right then.
Belt. Shoes. Dignity.
Stripped down in a room full of people who pretended not to look.
That’s how fast you go from citizen to property,
from man to inventory.
The sentence came a year later,
but by then it was just paperwork for a corpse.
You lose everything in the first five minutes —
the chains are just decoration,
the number just a souvenir.
And you stand there wondering
when the fairy tale broke.
When the flag turned into a receipt.
When freedom became a rumor.
And when the hell you agreed to become a thing.
Harry had a dog, Old Red
his hobby, treeing squirrels.
One day Harry’s garden was, assaulted
by squirrels with tails a’twirl.
Now Old Red didn’t tolerate
any squirrels stealing nuts;
He decided he would set straight
that squirrel’s, thieving butt.
Old red took a jump and chased
that thief with Harry’s food;
he had decided to erase
Mr. Squirrel’s stealing mood.
But, squirrels are tough rascals
Old red let out a yelp;
Harry had to cackle,
at the sight of giant nose whelp.
Old Red’s pride was hurt,
of that there is no doubt.
Squirrel eventually became dessert;
Red wears a smiling snout.
sometimes a title is to much for the liver
oftentimes a transplant is needed for the purpose of simply coping
rarely does a miracle happen to suddenly save the day
i lost my true love in many a vast array
you were lost in the woods of the monotony of me
you lit a match in the nucleus of my heart and burned your way out
i was so frigid to your feelings that i did not even feel you run away
i lost you, my true love, in many a vast array
now a messy decoration prayer is all i have to kiss at night
now a distorted imagination is all i have to hold on to
now a feebly attempted slumber serenade represents every word i say
i blame myself for losing you, my true love, in many a vast array....
We draw life's patterns, vibrant and bold,
We arrange our karma, both new and old.
In the mandala of time, we place our stories,
In the chakra of days, we set our glories.
We shape tales of anand, we shape tales of dukh,
We turn the kaleidoscope of kismet, we turn the kaleidoscope of sukh.
Our paths intersect like mehendi designs, creating complex jali,
Our steps trace yantras across time and space, holy.
We inlay memories with precision's steady hand,
We assemble moments that defy maya's shifting sand.
In the rangoli of existence, we are both colour and artist,
In the grand leela, we stand distinct, yet part of it.
We tint our experiences in hues of rasa,
We colour our world with unwavering asha.
Our lives unfold like origami, fold by fold,
Our journeys map nakshatras of struggle and peace untold.
We sketch our sapna on the canvas of possibility,
We paint our aasha with brushstrokes of tenacity.
In the bindi of humanity, we each place our dot,
In the raaga of being, we play our allotted slot.
We construct sangha, diya by diya,
We forge bandhan that make life our priya.
Our patterns may crack, our designs may fade,
But in life's grand rangoli, our chinh is made.
****************************************************************
1. "karma" (action and its consequences)
2. "mandala" (spiritual and ritual symbol in Hinduism and Buddhism)
3. "chakra" (wheel, also energy points in the body)
4. "anand" (joy) and "dukh" (sorrow)
5. "kismet" (fate) and "sukh" (happiness)
6. "mehendi" (henna designs)
7. "jali" (perforated stone or latticed screen)
8. "yantra" (mystical diagram)
9. "maya" (illusion)
10. "leela" (divine play)
11. "rasa" (aesthetic flavours in Indian arts)
12. "asha" (hope)
13. "nakshatra" (lunar mansion in Hindu astrology)
14. "sapna" (dream) and "aasha" (hope)
15. "bindi" (forehead decoration)
16. "raaga" (melodic framework in Indian classical music)
17. "sangha" (community)
18. "diya" (oil lamp)
19. "bandhan" (bond)
20. "priya" (beloved)
21. "chinh" (mark or symbol)
The grand, half-ruined Parthenon,
once a sublime, Doric grace,
Even now, in broken, stone blocks,
always takes my breath away.
The rich, classical detail,
fluted columns without plinths,
to imagine what it once was,
the mind can’t even begin…
That towering Coliseum,
the great masterpiece of Rome,
even half gone it’s staggering,
to be so tall, but made in stone.
Go down to the domed Pantheon,
still so perfect to this day,
these are not just random buildings,
they stand with something to say.
And those long, Gothic cathedrals,
so ornate and yet so light,
stained glass alone is enough
to make these churches a sight!
But all of that fine tracery,
those magnificent cravings,
the rows of flying buttresses,
inspire the soul to sing.
The Byzantines and their tiles,
Tudor masonry and wood,
Romanesque with its arches,
Art Decco looks oh-so-good,
Baroque with all its fussiness,
Victorians with their quirks,
Renaissance sports Italian flare,
Palladian’s subtle pleasures…
And yet in Albany, New York,
there stands the featureless ‘egg,’
That’s its name and its resemblance,
I am not pulling your leg.
No decoration, no windows,
as it stands there in the sun,
people call it ‘modernist,’
I call it ‘concrete abortion.’
Worse is the post-modern trash,
theaters shaped like hunks of cheese,
painted pink, spattered with portholes,
a mad-man’s monstrosity.
That is the product of our skills?
That is how we would inspire?
By building things that look like they
have been melted in a fire?!
They bulldoze down our heritage
to throw up more of these things?
And the big-wigs who approved this,
what the hell are you thinking?!
If these buildings of the future
are to have no beauty or class,
then you can keep ‘modernity,’
I’ll gladly live in the past.
Mirrors stand sentinel in homes,
African homes, where they're often still,
unused, like dining tables turned decoration,
gathering dust, devoid of purpose.
At night, when men slumber, the shadows stir,
underworld spirits manifest, their forms shifting,
observant, operative, unseen by mortal eyes,
yet their presence felt, a whispered rumor.
Ghommid spirits lurk, invisible, yet real,
their existence a mystery, a hidden truth.
Some abhor mirrors, standing tall,
reflecting their horrors, infuriating them.
Their rage unleashes chaos, destruction's path,
frustration and setbacks, a trail of broken glass.
The mirror's gaze, a provocative act,
unleashing fury, a maelstrom of malevolent force.
To avoid conflict with powers beyond our sight,
cover the mirror, shroud it in darkness,
silence its reflective surface, still its gaze,
lest the metaphysical realm exact its toll.