Long Demesne Poems
Long Demesne Poems. Below are the most popular long Demesne by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Demesne poems by poem length and keyword.
Written: November 12, 2023, For Unseekeing Seeker Contest
_____________________________________________
Love is a rule binding us all, broad yet near,
Saffron sun sparks souls and spells fear.
Anger, stern iron law, and lethal sword to slay,
Charm shine, truth is a virtue, clean for aye!
We dwell in an ambivalent demesne of mind,
As feelings and amorphous concepts collide.
Follow me in this odyssey of introspection,
Delving into a quest for our soul's correction.
On this planet, hate spreads as a blaze,
Swallowed in the raging blast of a maze.
Consciousness draws us to raw heights,
Where dignity and empathy reign sleight.
Our abode is the vast canvas of the brain,
Disguised skepticism and ideologies strain.
This is where we face our darkest fears,
And delve into the roots of rage and tears.
Apathy is a cancer that eats at the soul,
A fatal illness that harms beyond control.
The way to growth requires looking inward,
Tear rage webs apart. Hello is a flimsy word.
I hear the quiet ticking of the clock in the hall,
That clock has put me to sleep. A crimson ball.
Being fed lies and fake facts, my soul is aware,
You ought to not have lied to me or compared.
Upon venting the wrath to a dear friend,
Anger melted, and the load did transcend.
I spoke with trust, unburdened by my soul,
And I gazed as my grief started to console
In this case, it is a correction that leads the way,
As we release our mutual animosity and affray.
For the sake of our deepest inner rectification,
We uncover the splendor of our actual reflection.
A Part of the Past Frozen in Time
You can
drive your whole life
not look upon the face
of harbingers in spring wet earth
Remembering the ephemeral warm
Mediterranean summers
clean petrichor fresh rain
bucolic life
setting
Yielding
a nostalgic
propinquity city's
efflorescence dress brick buildings
The epiphany of an old church as
it sings the echoes of erstwhile
Redolent warm feeling
Victorian
versed homes
Yester
years fine brushstrokes
Trees towering on the
outskirts of the demesne beauty
Unique, intertwined dalliance with the
farmed and the wild a wonderful
serendipity find
quiet hunger
of life
Copyright © Eve Roper 3/31/2016
Demesne
at Pergamon
stirred an epiphany.
The Aqueducts, Acropolis,
propinquity, Temple Dionysus,
Trajan Temple- all so magnificent.
Persian, Greek, and Roman wonders;
some standing, most lying...
erstwhile kingdoms,
all gone.
I viewed
and imagined
robust efflorescence
that once filled this bucolic place.
Dalliance here, much too ephemeral.
Damp ruins- yellow soil stirred petrichor.
Wild grass, broken art; redolent
grave serendipity...
wars...harbinger...
of loss.
March 20, 2016
~1st Place~
Contest: A Day In A Town
Sponsor: Nayda Ivette Negron
Judged: 04/14/2016
Required words in order of appearance:
demesne, epiphany, propinquity, erstwhile, efflorescence, bucolic, dalliance, ephemeral, petrichor, redolent, serendipity, harbinger
Written: November 07, 2023, For Robert James Liguori Contest
__________________________________________
Felicity In the flamboyant form of yesteryear.
Where giggles pranced and frightened fear.
I yearn to revert to those idyllic, carefree days.
As we swung in the blazing sunlight, rays
Oh, the town pool, our hot-season delight.
By such lofty slides, our zeal soared to blight.
Joyfully shrieking as we swam into the water.
Putting dear stories to ride us as marauders
An enchanted event: the regional fair.
Walking in tandem and flying by the air.
Puffy white haze with a swirl of vivid shade
Riding provided us with an unending glade.
As trends glide to the wide sky's demesne
In saffron light, a tale of growing up in a den
Lacking worldly care, we wander afar and wide.
Dispelling frets, embracing one's fremd side.
As if a few seeds were buried in the ground.
We start our trek by pursuing our pound.
We roam the earth with wonder as our guide.
Rising to our dreams and acquiring their pride
A fascinating game, Ghost in the Graveyard
frenetic scurrying, hiding, and yelling pards.
We frolic under the moon watchful gaze.
Until dawn, I was lost in the gloomy phase.
The sole dollar I got on my card was fabulous.
Heaps to buy a huge box of dime candy pabulous.
Oh, how I'd scramble there, swiftly, then quick.
desperate craving for every single caramel stick.
But as the years went by, I began to realize,
Indulging in sweets came with a price.
The licorice and chocolate, once my delight,
Now haunted my health, day and night.
Every action is a learning experience.
Whipping tight modus and feeling delirious
From injuries, both physical and emotional.
Every role imparts wisdom and is devotional.
Written: October 12, 2025
Quote: "Having hope in the future is like planting a garden," By Poet.
**************
In the calyx of coma,
where terror slithered akin to boas in shade,
a cryptic slipper of mercy tiptoed—
artless, and aquiver,
a callow requiem for innocence.
Obsidian skies whispered their eulogy,
muffled by the harsh breath of dyspnea,
and yet—beneath the ebony loam,
a seed, embryonic,
shivered.
It did not shy away from agony,
nor reject the dark fate
lurking in the shadows of Lethe.
It rebounded—
clear as dawn,
passionate as a golden flame.
Hope transcends mere cliché.
It embodies alchemy—
a dynamic, endogenous force
ubiquitous, yet not ominous.
that navigates through desuetude
Dance around nonsense and detritus,
skirting the prolonged epitaphs
of imitation and the scent of rain.
It shows the archetype of meliorism.
not a golden aegis of katabatic chasm,
but the lush abundance of a rural demesne.
Our heron-filled pondering was slow.
Serenade in dirge to azure sky.
Optimism is not ridiculous.
It is emulous.
A multivocal lilt
in the labyrinthine lagniappe of sorrow.
It is the verdigris of acatalepsy—
the verdant veridicality.
It's a syllepsis amid agony and auric grace.
It is the pulchritudinous gasp,
of a sylphlike truth,
the gossamer wafture of a whispering genesis
in the ossuary of despair.
It is the slipper that fits no foot,
the slipper that fits every foot—
a slipper made of alabaster and stammer,
of aurora and archaic glamour,
of insouciance and invocation.
Hope slinks through the squalor,
svelte and sacred,
a nemesis to nemesis,
a vivacious vestige of Elysium
in the stygian Anthropocene.
It is the seed that knows
how to resile,
how to shimmer,
how to bloom
despite the slipper,
despite the boas,
despite the oblivion.
Winter fetches a hillock of the wind and downpour.
Exacerbating people to mislay their blight core.
Peculiar demesne keepers are utterly aroused.
While tiny dwellings, slums are bulldozed.
Flush breaks out among the poorest of the poor.
Thoroughly jiggling, they shiver in the spongy cure.
None of the people around me appear to descry them.
They are enduring dull, agonizing demise mayhem.
In the midst of the winters harshest season,
The scenery is desolate, and homes sap blacken.
Snow inversely overwhelms everything.
Making hills that are huge and transcending.
People in neediness succumb to the winter.
While we continue to offer a hefty fee for a heater,
We tuck ourselves into our cozy beds for the night.
People have stuck to death all around from frostbite.
Relish life by humming songs of love every day.
I'm unconcerned if it's winter or summer ray.
The universe is a child's hand on your shoulder.
When life is volatile, death lacks uniqueness jolter.
Written: January 15, 2022
Winter Wonders Within Nature Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: M. L. Kiser
It was
a dalliance
this bucolic lost town,
just ephemeral my visit,
petrichor scents of fresh rain, just fallen,
birds songs a harbinger of me,
oh serendipity,
efflorescence
caress.
I feel
the erstwhile past
in the vacant buildings,
the sadness an epiphany,
beyond nature calls my propinquity
but I stay and stroll empty streets,
redolent with flowers,
this demesne lost
in time.
____________________________
March 18, 2016
Poetry/Rictameter/Ghost Town
Copyright Protected ID, 03-769-605-18
All Rights Reserved, 2022, Constance La France
For the Standard contest, A Day In A Town,
sponsor, Nayda Evette Negron, Judged 03/2016
First Place
Submitted into the Standard contest, Give me a Ricktameter!
sponsor, M.L. Kiser, Judged 02/16/2022
First Place
Let us momentarily contemplate
The discourse on the very first date
Adam: Father You've been busy lo' these six days
Would it be too much to ask for a help mate?
(From a rib Eve became my wife
Then ribbed me for the rest of my life)
Eve: Oh Adam ! Where shall we honeymoon?
Adam: I hear Eden this time of year is in bloom
(We had our first date in the Pleasance
She bone of my bone. We cleave as one flesh)
Adam: This rose (of Sharon) is for you my bride
Eve: Who's Sharon?!
Adam: Let's take these horses (I've named) for a ride
Through the Sharon countryside
Eve: Oh Adam! Look at he stars and moon I adore
Adam: Breathtaking my love they've been since Day Four
Oh my fairest with kisses better than spice
Let us again be together on Day Eight and Nine
Now let us return to our demesne
As Father did intend
To a quiet demesne
A holiday they'd planned
Informing only that it was bucolic
A little slice of wonderland
The locals informed from the harbinger
Knew of the impending arrival
Some folk knowing the family erstwhile
Others quietly still in denial
The expected stay ephemeral
At the local store to be met
The bakery purely redolent passing by
More pressing was the time already spent
The host in a state of dalliance
Although within propinquity of the store
Welcomed with a firm handshake
Muttering about an expected downpour
Arrival at the manor and raindrops began to form
Hydrating the colorful efflorescence blooms
It was then he had an epiphany
Wondering what these country folk assume
Surprising them he commented on the petrichor
Assuming he was a city bloke with no country vibe
It was only through sheer serenpidity
He'd read about it on his holiday ride
First and Last
by Michael R. Burch
for Beth
You are the last arcane rose
of my aching,
my longing,
or the first yellowed leaves’
vagrant spirals of gold
forming huddled bright sheaves.
You are passion forsaking
dark skies, as though sunsets no winds might enclose.
And still in my arms
you are gentle and fragrant—
demesne of my vigor,
spent rigor,
lost power,
fallen musculature of youth,
leaves clinging and hanging,
nameless joys of my youth to this last lingering hour.
Published by Tucumcari Literary Review and Poetry Life & Times.
Keywords/Tags: rose, love, ache, desire, longing, passion, autumn, leaves, leaving, clinging, hanging, sunset, lost, youth, joy, joys, yellowed, golden, first, last, final