Long Delves Poems
Long Delves Poems. Below are the most popular long Delves by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Delves poems by poem length and keyword.
The poem "VANTABLACK" exhibits a profound exploration of emotions and existential themes. As a poet, one would appreciate the nuanced use of language and the depth of introspection conveyed through the verses.
The title, "VANTABLACK," immediately draws attention to the darkest substance known, emphasizing a profound sense of darkness or void that permeates the poem. The tumultuous street and the notion in flight evoke a sense of chaos and uncertainty, setting the stage for the emotional journey that follows.
The poet skillfully employs imagery and metaphor to convey the complex emotions experienced. The notion that "hastens in haste" and then "averts its gaze" suggests a fleeting and elusive quality, mirroring the transient nature of emotions. The descent of the heart's echo into a "crimson abyss" hints at the depth of emotional turmoil, perhaps symbolizing pain or longing.
The lines "Your name, I called, yet emptiness replied" and "A bloom of yours, I drew, withering away" express a sense of loss and unfulfilled connection. The act of calling a name and drawing a bloom implies a desire for presence and beauty, but the responses are characterized by emptiness and withering, adding a layer of melancholy.
The exploration of choices in the lines "Life's lines extend before me, To choose, where your love resides" delves into the existential theme of navigating through life's possibilities and seeking love. The word "resides" suggests a search for a meaningful connection within the vastness of life.
The recurring ritual mentioned in "This ritual unfolds each day" implies a cyclical nature of introspection and perhaps a daily struggle with emotions. The poet peers within, describing it as a "melancholy abode," suggesting that the internal landscape is characterized by sadness.
The concluding lines, "Where my heart, a vantablack canvas, remains," encapsulate the essence of the poem. The heart being a "vantablack canvas" signifies an emotional void, absorbing and reflecting no light, emphasizing the depth of emotional darkness or emptiness.
As a poet, one might commend the poet for the rich tapestry of emotions woven through carefully chosen words and metaphors. The poem invites readers to contemplate the complexities of human emotions, the ephemeral nature of connections, and the existential quest for meaning in the face of emotional voids.
Of all old friends, those we have of old are best;
These the souls we travel with by preference,
Theirs the spirits to whom we grant all deference.
Their hopes are ours, ours their own;
All victories shared, from like ambitions grown.
Their years match step with ours,
Show like passage of the hours,
Silent steps of Time with which our lives are sown.
They are moved as we are moved;
Troubled and pleased by like turns of Fate,
We pass through one another's gates
Into rooms where loyalty is proved
By ties of woven sympathies,
By bonds no outsider sees.
By bonds no outsider sees
We tie ourselves to those who share
The pithy heart of all unspoken cares,
The shadows that would dim our days
If no one shared our private ways,
If none there were to let us know
The fitness of the face we dare not show;
The old friend nods and quietly stays
Close by our side when mere acquaintance leaves,
Unashamed to share our darkest inner night;
Awaits with us the slow return of light.
The old friend trusts and faithfully believes
The tales we tell ourselves of joy or sorrow,
Looks to yesterday and forward to tomorrow.
Looking back to yesterday. forward to tomorrow,
We walk with them through the wilderness of living
Thankful for their presence and forgiving,
As do we, the flaws that mark our human bounds
Ignoring discordant notes that sound
From time to time in all the narrative
We build to define our days and give
Form and substance to the constant rounds
Of night to day and day to night,
Our mutual progress towards Eternity,
The approaching dark we do not wish to see
Unless in company with the comforting light
Of well-earned close companionship,
Of sympathetic souls who join us on the trip.
Seeking truths wherein the brave heart delves,
We guide each other through dwindling days
To face the world, to learn its ways,
Its cruelties and its beauties shared
Both the better for each time we dared
To question this, our common Lot:
To Be, awhile, and then to Not.
So we share all we have got
To fill our time, to weave our lives.
Without old friends, the path is drear and long,
Where goes but one to compose the song
To tell of what we were, and how we strived
To rescue Sense from Folly, all the rest;
Of all friends, those we have of old are best.
Darkness is he, soulless totally
It's abyss he commands, desiring what he sees
In front of him stands a virgin, pure as the driven snow
For white he knows it is, upon she his darkness will show
Long haired and silken clad, his lusting eyes allure his own
Is it fear that makes her pert, or the fear of being alone
*~*
Upon his lap she stands, so minute to his ogre mass
Her silken attire now torn, talon fingers on she he grasps
Innocent flesh he craves, to satisfy his empty soul
In his lusting abyss, his darkness will soon unfold
*~*
Petite, pert so perfect, ageing hands of his darkened past
Cup her porcelain charms, so grotesque is his grasp
Leering eyes of void, now alive to this virgins flesh
Excitement fills his wants, this maiden near total undress
A strangeness falls amidst this darkened scene
Has she succumbed, is she in the middle or has she seen
*~*
To his torso of centuries old, attention is drawn to he
Reciprocating she kisses in touch, with drooling eyes he sees
This virgin standing in front of him, allured now is she
So minute to his ogre mass, content she appears to be
*~*
Lips touching taste, eyes closed, are they in wonderment
Has she entered his darkened abyss, or is he now heaven sent
Lashing tongues, like a fencing épée now drawn
When his dark met her light, I struggle for the forlorn
Breaths are seldom apart, it's as if magnetic, they are
This join of abyss fuelled white, seems so bizarre
*~*
Lecherousness in his tasting rush, her scent he delves in deep
This virgin, this maiden so taken, to him now she seeps
Like diamonds, her pertness rises, en-capturing her charms
So different when she stood before him, all in alarm
*~*
Tailored they are not, such a difference in size
This virgin maiden so white, soon to be in firm cries
Thralled he now becomes, induced in his darkened dark
He now revels in his taken, amidst thighs of perfection arch
Forlorn has now become, a joining of lustful desires
Black locks now sway with delight, the dark now afire
*~*
Positioning, seasoned they are, in joyful joining crave
Now the darkness has seen the light, in typical deprave
Sighs now resonate, amidst his darkened dingy hell
The allure of purring white, increase his darkening swell
*~*
Roots and Dandelion Dreams: A Mother's Heart
- Daniel Henry Rodgers
Roots and Dandelion Dreams: A Mother's Heart
- Daniel Henry Rodgers
At dawn's first blush,
milkweed pods,
burst with a sigh,
A feathery shower of,
silk sending secrets...
on the wind's soft cry.
Yesterday they wore a crown of pink
Today they are set free;
like dandelion dreams floating on the vast sea
a thousand wishes taking flight.
I see you spinning gracefully
on dandelion fluff.
each strand like a
glowing thread
forming a halo.
Your laughter flows like
a babbling
brook over stones.
while your tears resemble mist
clinging to ferns in
the whisping breeze.
As twilight falls and fireflies twinkle
like scattered stars,
a new constellation is born.—
a flickering dance in the dimming light
as transient, as a summer evening.
In your eyes wild irises bloom
reflecting the evening sky as
they search for their fragrance.
Amidst meadowlarks songs
welcoming the dawn in morn.
my heart remains intertwined
with yours like a nurturing vine
that delves into the soil
forever connected to you.
You write the poetry of life
moments full of freedom.
Like a ballet of butterflies
a child experiencing wonder,
both wild and free.
No need,
for preaching!
just the melody of the wind
whispering through
the pine trees.
A communication,
a connection that binds eternally.
With patience engraved
in the face of mountains
I stand as a protector.
a sanctuary in this forests
intricate beauty.
While shadows dance in a transient
vanishing performance
My love stands firm like
a redwood sentinel enduring
all challenges.
In the settling of dusk,
where fireflies sparkle,
My presence is like a meadow
where bluebirds dream.
For you,
my child,
are a hawk,
on the wind's caress.
Soaring on thermals,
a spirit,
etched upon your face.
My heart,
a beacon's steady fire,
guiding,
through the unknown,
In this life's,
choreography,
bathed in your,
boundless exploration.
Mother
Sheltering, strong
Branches rustle tales
Roots grip the earth deep
Child
Pages turn thin, thin as the plot thickens
Thinning knowledge as ignorance quickens
Spines crack from hunger, hunger for minds
Cracking under pressure of different kinds
Books starve for attention, attention spans wane
Starving for readers in this digital rain
Covers collect dust, the dust of neglect
Collecting cobwebs, respect they collect
Words go stale, stale on forgotten shelves
Staling wisdom as society delves
Into shallow feeds, feeding on quick bites
Feeding frenzy of memes and soundbites
Chapters close, close before they open
Closing doors to worlds unspoken
Stories wither, wither on the vine
Withering away, leaving no sign
Libraries fast, fast from funding feast
Fasting resources as budgets decrease
Volumes shrink, shrink from public view
Shrinking access to both old and new
Bindings loosen, loosen their hold
Loosening grip on tales untold
Leaves fall, fall from tomes of yore
Falling silent, voices we ignore
Ink fades, fades like memories lost
Fading faster at literacy's cost
Margins narrow, narrow like our scope
Narrowing pathways of reason and hope
Bookmarks slip, slip from neglected pages
Slipping away, the wisdom of ages
Fonts grow small, small in our esteem
Smaller still as we lose the dream
Endings hunger, hunger for new readers
Hungering for minds to be thought leaders
Bibliophiles crave, crave the written word
Craving stories waiting to be heard
So let's feed these books, feed them our time
Feeding our souls with rhythm and rhyme
For books may go hungry, hungry for touch
But starved of books, we lose so much
Digest these words, words ripe with meaning
Digesting slowly, our minds reconvening
With pages that yearn, yearn to impart
Yearning to nourish both mind and heart
Let's feast on books, feast like they're our last
Feasting on futures, presents, and pasts
For in this banquet of bound delights
We satiate our appetite for heights
So don't let books starve, starve in the dark
Starving for chances to leave their mark
Feed your mind, mind the feeding call
Minding that books nourish us all
The Bohemian Grove
There is a place in San Francisco called the Bohemian Grove. It’s a boy’s club you might say. But when is the last time you saw boys offer sacrifices to Lucifer and burn bodies at the stake in honor of their loyalty to him? And when is the last time you saw a bunch of boys planning out who will run for president and for governors and then throw the elections later in their favor? This is subversion of the powers of government. This is undermining the true process of our democracy. I wonder what the American people think about people who do such vile and lewd things? I say to hell with their owl and their altar to Satan. And to hell with all the parties that they throw in honor of their king of hell. When will the children of God take a stand against this immorality? When will we wise up like their wise old owl? The Bohemian Grove is a self-serving cesspool of the vomitus of Satan. The Lord will destroy this encampment and with his mighty right righteous hand bring it to a crumbling halt!
Many of the past presidents sat around tables at this so-called club and drew cards as to who would be the next president. They would get drunk on their own power and on the power of the dragon from the bowels of hell. They had orgies and got so drunk that only the Creator knew of the lowliness of their immorality. Each person that was sacrificed upon this property had their bones buried there. Each person upon this property that was offered as a sex slave unto Lucifer’s minions was ushered to heaven as their lives were taken from them. The Lord’s compassion runs very deep for those who are oppressed and tortured for the antics of the dragon and his minions. Our God rules from a Mercy Seat and as he sits upon his Mercy Seat he delves out the most amazing mercy to those who truly need it.
The Bohemian Grove Boy’s club is really no club at all. It is the organized crime center of Satan! It’s just that simple!
Gwendolen Rix
2-15-15
We are the people of a new era, with patchwork hearts and longings in craters,
The generation of bold dreams sketched on shards of fallen stars.
Let us not forget, let us breathe in: the source of dizzying love springs from our depths,
From the secret garden of the self, where I and me merge in an embrace.
I shall not build a home in handshakes that wither flowers nearby,
I dare to cross over waters when my soul calls, barefoot on the soil of my resolutions,
Where those like me blossom, rising like walnuts in the midst of the desert - unfathomable, ever-growing.
Abandoned will be those masters of bitter whims, whose tangos crushed petals instead of igniting passions,
Those who sketch maps of woe on your beating heart, with anchors of injustice.
I shall be my keeper, the well-digger who delves deep until waters tear free from the dry sand.
I will speak in the voice of opening, with the heavy eyelids of sifted honesty,
I will listen with the blood, with the resonant cavity of my chest, a sacred space of resonance.
Trust in the arrow of the heart, that compass steering our journey through the dispersion of genuine kisses.
Remember, love is the expanse of the ocean that joins us in growth, not the steering of ships towards collision,
It's an ally, which, like the sun in the fight with the dawn, gives you the warmth needed to blossom in cold limestone.
Let's lay side by side the open books of our souls, page next to page of grand becoming.
And above all, over thought and feeling, I shall not leave to oblivion my case valued in divine gold,
I owe a love that rises beyond words, conditions, and chains,
A belief in my own purpose, a categorical refusal to accept anything less than stellar.
Believe in your own divinity, in the waves that beat at your eternity's gate, within you –
The house of love that knows no foreign altar, only its own, vigorous and freely sculpted.
"Come, said my Soul. Such verses for my Body
let us write, for we are one." ~ Walt Whitman
Human hearts and souls are often linked together
But is it fair to them to say they're birds of a feather?
"I Am as I Am complete," but intangible is my soul.
It delves into my well-being, a part that makes me whole.
My heart controls emotions, wanting what it wants.
While my soul tries to balance the treacherous taunts.
Spiritually and morally, working to keep me in control.
I praise its loyalty and for God's blessing with it, I extol.
It speaks to my conscience. No, not in human words
but an inner voice that has my ear. I listen as it girds
my idle thoughts when I sit in silence so I can hear
exactly what it wants me to know, making itself clear.
We are one, as inseparable as I am from my heart
and just as real will I identify my soul as a body part.
It's not a vital organ that any of us can see or touch
but I value its presence within my body just as much.
My soul says, "Be mindful there's no room for ego."
It challenges me, one on one, like a game of Stratego.
Dutifully, reminding me to suppress ill human nature,
I hear my soul conversing in its distinct nomenclature.
I'm not exactly sure just where it resides within me,
but sometimes I picture my soul wearing a Karate Gi
just to make certain I take seriously what it has to say,
"Have grace under pressure. Life is happier that way."
My soul's voice is heard in many of my poetic writes.
I hear it softly speaking to me on cold winter nights,
and I realize I'm fortunate on hot summer mornings
that my counseling soul offers me influential warnings.
Written: September 23, 2023
___________________________________________________________
In the denizens of the grey-haired.
Suppleness lingers, yet love is not shared
Around a suitable quantum of melodrama
A tangle of tales, deriving roads to nirvana
Their quest looks to boost their path of life.
As the action is close up, the picture is strife.
Gambling on the outcome of one's own sake.
If nothing less than how we die well is at stake.
With delicacy, sophistication, and merriment.
Days delve into the inner lives of residents.
In the midst of dementia, remain confident,
Despite setbacks, spirits remain resplendent.
In this mansion, where time looms still,
They decry solace and a sense of goodwill.
Their tales unfold, akin to pages of a book,
Each chapter reveals a disparate look.
The day of insight into what is dear to them.
Adds a raw vibe of vitality and spirit to the stem.
They reclaim their identity and their voice.
A record of all daily lessons was a neat choice.
They share their stories, laughter, and tears,
And in doing so, they conquer their fears.
The day that delves into the inner lives,
Links them all, akin to a tapestry of ties.
Each character, a thread in the grand design,
Weaving together a tapestry is so fine.
Their lives intertwined, their stories entwined,
Making something truly special and kind.
And when the sun goes down on another day.
They were changed irrevocably, in spirit sway.
Since this is the place where love may be found.
The day that they dive into their private ground.
The query of their ultimate fate is at stake here.
In a team, they don't groan as they tackle their fear.
They handle the unknown with finesse and care.
They've grown in size and inane in their square.
As cave-dweller O man, thou wert crudest,
Ere civilized and a bit social made,
In a painstaking long march to the crest,
Evolving— a seed of creed mutated,
Ye struggled long before brought home baked bread,
As weeds lose out ere mutate in maze
Of labyrinthine lanes darker than dread,
From chaos were created newer ways.
No growth hast grown that would not get modest,
Undeterred, no head hath moved nigh ahead,
All progress in time tends to pause post-haste,
As brightest rainbows fizzle out to fade—
The nature of Nature none can evade,
Nature unfolds in long phase, not in days,
To vales turn top peaks that were once jaded,
Creation as comes in chaotic ways.
In eons human hope kissed vales and crest,
Surviving in cosmic womb, never dead,
Suffering birth pain quite un-manifest,
Remember, yon of that tall mountain head
Lies your fond dream. Do walk on, go ahead,
Not just on peaks, hope lives in vales, at base,
In journey too to enjoy, never dread,
A way forward comes from chaotic ways.
Envoi
Keep climbing, if hope be the only aid,
Inhale hope in every breath, don’t just gaze,
At rope’s end, O hang on by just hope-led,
For, from chaos are built morrow’s fairways.
____________________________________
Musings | 03.02.2011 | Hope
Poet’s note: Heart, it seems, lives on the edge of hope. The brooding head hesitates, delves into new depths, meanders, groping for a way out. Seeing the way much of the world is moving today, one tends to indulge in melancholic thoughts. Has man lost all hopes? I don't know but hope, it’s not so. Civilization, I suspect, is an inverted bell-shaped curve. Things get worse before they get better. Read also my ‘Hope: A bird wordless that sings', a ballade.