Long Deep set Poems
Long Deep set Poems. Below are the most popular long Deep set by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Deep set poems by poem length and keyword.
Why are you always the last
one I think to call upon
in times of dire need?
In desperation my thoughts mingle,
become a minefield of explosion,
as I bring all my deep set fears and troubles.
I do not see your face
and yet I am not blind,
no voice can I hear yet
my ears have no issue regards hearing;
I try to reach out - unable to touch you
My heart yearning and mind tormented.
This world is strange,
many things in this world new
things appearing we are not sure of;
whether of your plan or not?
So called alien and spiritual happenings,
things moving, occurrences unknown.
I remain but one of those confused.
Which things to believe I know not,
but have seen some myself,
although remain skeptical of others.
How are we to decipher
Where are we being led?
I marvel how touch touches deepest chord,
That rest of senses scarce can ever match,
Time heals old wounds, touch stays on for long stored,
And leaves a sign, a lasting mark to etch,
I marvel how touch deep feelings does fetch.
Take the feel of mother's hand on forehead,
A garland of hug never going cold,
The feelings linger as if lifelong made —
Say of a first-born in father's arm-fold,
I marvel how touch retains its rare gold.
A touch is no feel of a naked skin,
Nor yet is it beastly in her raw rage,
It springs from emotions welling within,
The spirit as if on a pilgrimage,
I marvel how touch reaches no old age.
Touch is no friend to a feel-not inert,
As no melody bestirs a mute soul,
Touch touches heart, a feather can cause hurt,
Mere hand on a shoulder can hit the goal,
I marvel how touch plays its given role.
A grave error, a grown-ups' touch if gross,
A touch of flesh soothes or be great sin—
Intent alone holds up a Sacred Cross,
One knows if touch is malignant and mean,
Yet, marvel how touch stays forever green.
It’s nigh but same— a man embracing wife,
Or in fond love, his daughter or sister,
Intention be the edge as if of knife,
Head causes a hornet’s nest to bestir,
And marvel how touch should so much matter.
Should I feel down and out in life ahead,
I need floral fragrance nor rich blossom,
Nor have I use for a thousand words said,
Give me a tender hug, a warm bosom,
To marvel how touch may deep set chords strum.
If no more than a bare touch can suffice,
Wary I am of an invading face,
A touch can be warm, colder else than ice,
Unwanted foothold in my private space,
I marvel how touch can command such grace.
Rain clouds in hot summer and bright rainbows,
A soulful melody, smile of a child,
Butterflies on flowers in vast meadows,
They touch my inner soul ever so mild,
Yet marvel how touch can be so defiled.
________________________________________
Quintain (Musings) |02.09.2007| touch
In love, I am
with the songs you sing
the way they dance and kiss the wind
they reach me when I'm shattered
grab me then move right it
I can't help but wonder
looking out from behind this mirror
if only words can slice me open
what would happen if you were here
I'm weakened
listening
note upon note assembled
a whistle
seduction amid the tepid air
gathered with no deception
minded fingers run
through the colour of your hair
I stare, adrift
in those deep set eyes
thunderstruck
all I see is burning fire
as a million stars shoot on by
The three disembodied heads on top of a heap of dolls of whom only one is recognizable as a face have very curiously looking deep-set eyes,
On fire with curiosity and intent on finding out what’s to be discovered in this tub.
—Rinsing off, three children wash themselves—that’s the noise made by two old men who don’t know each other— As they creep out of the stall and escape from the flood of hot water. They strip off their white night clothes, and don’t know why that their naked breasts seem to glow.
So the clear pale skin, broken by narrow white slits, folds into the two white globes so that they’re held un a most pleasing manner; the dark nipples become large and pendulous, and in a flash the scarlet eyes—the one about five and one on top of the other—Snap open, and fill with intelligence and a glint of laughter and mischief. The other has a slightly different appearance—large white globe with a dark under eye—and his neck is bent, and his throat is thinner and shorter and his nostrils a bit flatter—in a flash the tiny face golds a curious thing, and then, suddenly, the nose us curled up—and you can see something on the top of his head—
The last victim, the youngest, I’m sure, is best described: A pale pink globe, pale ivory, transparent, lashes like silver wings, loose curls of dark hair around
her face; and, whilst the mother is resting, playing with the child, the little lady looks at you with a real face like a child and wants to play.
You will have the impression that the facial skin is loose and very clear.
:: 08.07.2022 ::
You possess me with those eyes of pyromania
a tidal wave of temptation thrashing into my need for euphoria
romanticized on appetite for agile reckoning of kiss ravishing, harnessing my hysteria,
plumed with lashes lent from love's wings, curling wet wishing
brows preened sexy mean, fur strip stiring me,
hypnotized by your hot umber rings
I learn how suspense stings
circles of crave unbuckling my brazen brandishing,
deep set on my desire I'm unraveling for the vixen fire, heart sweating,
born from the brown of beauty's sweetest warmth
eyes that bite and suck the stress
right out of my soul's duress,
for you I go forth...
^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^
You possess me with those eyes of eagle blue
you use a single glance my hesitancy to unglue
soaring in the sky of my sweetened fantasy
these blue crystal orbs foretell of ecstasy
But first...the hunt...looking for prey - it's true
it's you - the eagle
brutally brave and fiercely famished
you glide on the wind of my desire
your wings ablaze with fire
your eyes fierce, Oh how they pierce
again and again
my inner sanctum deep
their hue puts the sky to shame
demanding passion and cravings untame
they bore deep into me
slashing bonds of inhibition free
Our eyes speak
Brown and Blue
Me and You...
in your eyes the need to seize
in mine, the need to please
yours dominate
mine capitulate
yours subjugate
mine consummate,
your eyes speak...
mine respond...Bonded, we belong
Eagle and Dove
poetry love
Our eyes speak...
A Collaboration Made From The Quills Of Justin & Eileen
It was said
that he had overlarge hands,
laborer's hands,
yet when he played
eagles swam up waterfalls.
No one knew where the music came from
or the dexterity of those thick fingers.
Slavic ghosts would weave and spin all night
getting those finger-webs ready to spread
far across a difficult score.
Rachmaninov had a strong piano,
unlike Beethoven,
who occasionally broke
his less stout keyboards.
Beethoven's indominable will
cut through acceptable norms
with a buzz saw and a bulldozer.
That Russian with his
deep-set chords
rained down upon us
both sweetness and sorrow,
the way a dark cloud
in a desert often brings life.
Melodies to break or mend,
and to be thread through
any listening ear.
The traveler reeked of weariness,
His companion was Fatigue
Wear upon his clothes suggest
He'd come a million league.
Gaunt were eyes deep set and brown
Above his cheekbones high
His being was pure somnolence
And I heard his silent cry.
Hard roads had been his travel
The pains chiseled on his face
In lines of furrows on his brow
Permanently enlaced
Around I saw no motion there, then ...
His head began to rise
Finally he looked at me ...
Suffering in his eyes.
So quietly I attended
And with a heavy heart
I wanted so to speak to him ...
But knew not how to start
Within his labored breathing
He then began to speak
His words, when finally spoken
Were truthful and unique
His lips worked to form the words -
Then said; "My name is: Common Man,
I'm a father; I've worked hard;
' always done the best I can.
"The road's become uphill and steep with
Burdens I can't propel
I've tried to move on forward -
But, I stumbled here - and fell.
"There are others on me
Who so do depend
I must move on forward,
This mustn't be my end.
"Now I must reach out to you
'Cause before I've never failed
I'm turning now to you
'Fore on hardships I'm impaled".
A calloused hand then extended
Toward my outstretched hand
And I want to heed the call
For this Common Man.
But, Greed and Avarice have won
And assistance can't be lent -
Wall Street, you see, owns me now:
I'm Your Government.
All that has been, out-grows itself,
becomes monstrous in a mouse hole.
Thoughts pinned to carnival garbs
hang under night’s pitch-dark tent
to chew over minds missing links.
The silence of wordless clowns
mimes the shrill music of bats.
In a dusty room, the hammer-struck face
of a wall clock is a parody of my age
for it is younger than the hands that hung it there.
What great teaching unpacks this emptiness,
is it ancient, or as young
as the sleepless pad of my feet?
Perhaps as in dandelion seeds,
that act of their dispersal
has planted yet more muted revelations.
The dry rustle of mothwings --- a whispering
of some yet other enormity
one emerging now
within a threadbare soul's
deep-set pockets.
Your looks you give me so gladly
Salted sweet and pungent
Near a cloud I love them madly
In apples indulgent
I want to have all the cherries
Accompanied by blue berries
I want to have
I want to have
In my veins and capillaries
Your looks you give me so gladly
In shadow and sunshine
Your deep set eyes direct on me
A cool taste of dark wine
In blue and grey dream like dresses
Ocean plays on tumbling tresses
In blue and grey
In blue and grey
What a lake your look possesses
Your looks you give me so gladly
Like green leaves give to rain
When I need you very badly
For my poetry pen
I just gaze on your shining face
Music moonlight in your rich grace
I just gaze on
I just gaze on
How oranges make their sweetness
_________________________________________
July 6 2017
Black eyes shone from deep set eyes
Grubby cheeks full with laughter
Curly hair that crowned her face
Torn dress with arms open wide
How could I hide my instant love
For one so tender like a dove.
She was a gift to myself and free to be
She ran to me all of three
My heart was set I wanted her for me.
Tara taught me the gift of kindness
And how to receive the gift of love
with no strings attached
My little Tara taught me that.
When she was six she came to me
Her friend had told her, she was born to her
mother and she came from her stomach
My Tara was smart and replied to that
I was born to my mother from her heart
And you don’t need a stomach for that!
She was my precious gift, my child
And God had been kind to me.
6/21/2020