Long Dialect Poems
Long Dialect Poems. Below are the most popular long Dialect by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Dialect poems by poem length and keyword.
"I have been a stranger in a strange land." Bible, Exodus 2:22
I have been a stranger
I have been in a strange land
Land of forsaken frangipanis
Land of black diamonds
Diamonds never decay
Diamonds forever sparkle
Sparkle like neon fireflies
Sparkle amidst darkness
Darkness depicting light
Darkness illuminating skies
Skies sketched in topaz tints
Skies mirroring my spirit
Spirit of a forlorn wanderer
Spirit of a firm believer
Believer veiled unseen
Believer sings hymns unheard
Unheard sagas of truth
Unheard tunes of time
Time twirls through confusion
Time enveloped in silence
Silence is a fragrant dialect
Silence is misunderstood
Misunderstood yet deafening
Misunderstood monologues
Monologues of the strawberry moon
Monologues of sunflower scriptures
Scriptures of sacred seasons
Scriptures lost in deserted dunes
Dunes of healing heartbeats
Dunes of forgotten dreams
Dreams of a midnight Jasmine
Dreams of a faded star
Star that guides the raven dusk
Star that flickers pink gold
Gold is the color of faith
Gold ribboned with hope
Hope is an emerald home
Hope is a thriving tulip
Tulip personifies awakening
Tulip honeyed in harmony
Harmony from serenades of serenity
Harmony of singing sunrise
Sunrise painted in poetry
Sunrise and rainbows
Rainbows with quartz runes
Rainbows of colored revelations
Revelations unnamed
Revelations untold
Untold…
Unnamed…
The sun here burns without speaking.
In *Sta. Magdalena, even the wind gossips,
even the silence sits beside you
and calls you **"padaba."
But Riyadh?
Riyadh listens too much.
And when I speak,
my voice comes out wrapped in plastic.
I eat beside men with vanished names,
we all have families blurred behind remittance,
eyes trained not to blink at machines,
hearts trained not to shatter
at the sound of our children
saying “Papa” from a screen.
I have made peace with white tiles,
hallways scrubbed of joy.
The mosque’s call is the only breath
that cuts through this mechanical sleep.
I do not pray—
I bargain with God.
One more year, I say.
One more ***bago umuwi.
And in my bed,
I curl around the ghost of my own dialect.
I am learning to cry
without leaving a trace
on my pillow.
*Sta. Magdalena, Sorsogon, Philippines
**beloved
***before home, finally.
Poets paint pictures
with ink and a palette of expressive words.
Drawing emotions, by coloring outside the lines;
scribbling thoughts onto the page.
A poet has the ability
to make the reader feel, as they connect
with what the words are conveying.
Without poets and poetry,
words are only splashes of ink on a page,
and slip into oblivion, without making a sound.
But poets imbue words with an abstract dialect
like the crying strings of a violin,
or the thump of a broken, beating heart;
supplying the catalyst that sparks further thoughts.
You cannot glean hope from fantasies,
and so, poets speak of life
with words that reflect reality;
in the empty spaces between the lines.
It takes a poet to pen the ambiance
that allows the reader to feel the words
refined for their nuances and meaning.
Poetry explores truths and taboos openly
for the perusal of the world.
Doors are left ajar, windows cracked, and closets aired out,
as ink flows from the poet's pen;
and the awakening begins, as the words turn on the light.
In the whirlwind of the wind, my soul also spins unyieldingly,
On watercolor wings, the seasons carry me aloft,
Through wrinkled fantasies, the heart's mistakes shatter,
Waltzing in the whispers of waves, my soul cradles gently.
Under the watchful rain of stars, my dreams drip slowly,
The talisman stained with tulips hides unspoken truths,
Stepping lightly over the threshold of dusk, time is my friend,
I am the sunset, and the silence of saffron storms follows me.
O, you, ruler of minds playing on the edge of dreams,
The empyrean inferno burns around your diamonds,
We feel deep in our bones miracles without mirrors,
Ugly hyacinths melt under the melodious mint of magnolia.
We are but moments dissolved in the silent meditation of evening,
The thread of turmeric love binds us to lemony light,
The neon Nile flows through our intuitive isles, dancing,
Under the moonlight, separated from the watching darkness.
The dazzling luxury calls us to place our trust in it,
Bleeding into the constellations of our higher virtues,
The heavens wonder about the sirens singing forgiveness imperfectly,
The fragrance of forgiveness carries the sailors of nirvana to dawn.
This hummingbird has hushed its beats under the eternal sky,
I am a dialect of dawn, in the scentless sunrise of life,
A patriot of peace, pirouetting in the ephemeral elixirs of time,
Burning auroras pour over the lips of loving angels.
In the depths of Winter one December night
As my thoughts slept I awoke in delight
For at the end of my bed was what I'd always dreamed
He was tall of stature, just as my hopes seemed
His outstretched hand beckoned my rise
Standing before him looking into his eyes
I could see he had passion and a warmth for the dark
When he touched me so, he left his mark
In a broken dialect, with a Latin trace
I could sense gestures of welcome as I stand in his grace
~~ ~ ~~ ~ ~~ ~ ~~ ~ ~
We sit together as his language turns to mine
Declaring me his second for now it's our time
We must summon his legions from the depths of this earth
To do this we must sacrifice to make the dark worth
He touches me again as my birth voice turns to black
A change in me I now feel, my allegiance to never lack
This devil so called to me immaculate to any man
To extinguish the light to be his master plan
As we step into the night, the earth opens like deep sores
His masses now march to spread darken spores
~~ ~ ~~ ~ ~~ ~ ~~ ~ ~
Standing together we are, whilst his legions look on
Above us ravens and crows circle, deterring the light from being strong
He raises his fist drawing black clouds from the blue
Whilst his flocks of dark angels into the distance they flew
For they are his eyes as they patrol darkening skies
To seek out the light of which we despise
This man now my master turns to his legions and declares
If it shines like a light, no one is to be spared
The hill we now stand on, glows of crimson red
For the day has come that the earth has dread
~~ ~ ~~ ~ ~~ ~ ~~ ~ ~
On chariots of fire winged serpents follow
Spewing out their flames, many villages swallowed
Silhouettes combust in momentary capture
Whilst the dark march on, in death plunder rapture
His ultimate aim is to turn day into night
Extinguish the light and turn the dark to the right
Heaven and Hell to be absorbed for the one
I am no longer second, for I am his son
Days, weeks and months, turned into decades of fear
Earth now lies spent, too arid for tears
Written 10/7/2010 4:51:00 PM
A angry sky, as cauld as Loch Lomon'
fair drew me out from cot o' peat, an' bed.
The wolves wus wailin', an' thund'r respond'd
Ah gather'd tam, me tartan, an' dug Red.
To 'orse ah took an' found the 'erd sam 'urt.
The 'ungry wolves 'ad already fed.
Inta the bi'er blaw, the rill ah skirt
thro braes a white, t'ward ham an' fire burnin'
the bleatin' sheep, the 'orse an' ah alert.
We wud mak it hame, stomaches churnin'
O smell the peat fire on the wild wind now,
'ear the cows faint distant ca', a lowin'
'erself wud know, we'r near ta the brow.
Noo, we 'ad beat the storm hame, an' kep' me vow.
Dedicated to Jimbo Goff & James Fraser
and the spirit of Robin Burns
See About the Poem
to splash …
words like watercolors
dialect, dripping …
a canvas of cognition
soft-stained with dreamy notion -
tinged with tender twilight
and sins invoiced …
oh, to throb a heart
or draw the briny issue of an eye …
to mutter of the ages
or a meadow of highland heather
to change a mind
or a world
with phrase alone …
what more could a soul ask
but (gently) this?
no blushing reach
or starry vault
could e’er match the wonders
of simple pen and page
put to task by one
foolish man’s meandering …
and his child’s heart
I …
of all such beasts
am blessed …
indeed.
Copyright © Gregory Richard Barden, July 10, 2022
Freedom ~ an inked kingdom
of macabre mirrors,
a vermiform lie
veiling the vehement suffering
amidst serpent estuaries,
surging within strangled skin,
as if I am the living sin,
jinxed by the crawling creatures
in the lamented labyrinth
of deceitful dreams,
inhaling venomous vapors
rising from the cursed creeks
that failed to caress
the brittle bones of delirious dawn,
where the nocturnal owl
sits, phasing stellar phantoms
on tattered twigs,
oblivious to the piercing pain I breathe,
as poetry feels like
a somatic hallucination,
a reflection of the phoenix crescent,
a dialect the naive can never comprehend,
the voice of truth,
the jaded outline of mortality,
can never interpret~
as the last sacred light of twilight
r e m a i n s
unmarked and lost to the Earth.
O wicked wind beneath
the crestfallen wings
of cruising constellations,
will this piece of paper save me
from the maleficent violets
in the spitfire blaze
of stigmatized stars?
I am stuck ~ hell-bound,
troubled placing my
tongue on Freyja’s chalice of tears,
for I feel oblivion closer than death,
I taste the flames of Tartarus,
I dance with demons,
I sing to the malevolent moon,
I see in distorted dimensions.
But would the ignorant know
I hear beyond what’s spoken,
in search of Eden and love?
I give gratitude to your God,
but the veiled care not~
this is beyond the making
of a self-forged inferno.
I am the harbinger of harmony,
my soul aches
to paint your scarlet spheres
in butterfly bliss,
praying in secret
that the deviant daggers in my spine
would blossom into russet roses,
their petals ~ like an elixir
to my paranoid psyche,
paralyzed in the
catacomb chaos of insanity,
as the scorpion Sun
k i s s e s
me one more time
with sweetened poison.
While you,
the spectators of this twisted spectacle,
condemn my insomniac aura
to stain the essence of my existence
with condescending colors,
unaware that
introspection is a powerful weapon~
all blood is blue,
and we breathe hypocrisy
scrutinizing the unknown....
Courtesy of Marx (albeit Zeppo,
Harpo, Groucho, and Chico), whose
acts (along Seuss iz Zacks Fifth
Avenue) brought generations of
laughter to Vaudeville, and then
the Silver Screen adlibbed, linkedin,
and ransacked skits zoid material
Bing very loosely based on his best
known writings (Oh Pee Yet Of The
Masses) by Karl Marx (no relation
to Bros Grin), and Friedrich Engels
whar they whiz instrumental qua
Cingular Capitalone political philosophy
paradigm as spit, and (shoe) shining,
seducing, and salivating players trans
formed Msn Netzero Linkedin Petsmart
Aleck outlook and pinterest, when their
collective insight did cents how masses
(i.e. bourgeois) took a rakish (otherwise)
up standing Norwegian bachelor farmer
for comic relief to break monotony of
agrarian obligations, and serve up one
heaping healthy portion per production,
sans whatever whims would crop
up by infusing thespian showdown
incorporating commune nic cache shun
(disproportionate) app peals studded terrain
with locked havens avast re shtetl ment.
Hoi Polloi re: common folk in sore need
of distraction and belief in a brighter side
of life, than saliva dehydrating brute nose
to the grindstone pathetic existence, yoked
as oxen to plows, where plodding tattered
shod feet scraped a pencil thin line, whence,
seeds sprinkled into futile ruts forecast angry
birds to shutterfly, twittering like bada$$
beastie boys Dharma bumming while On
The Yellow Brick Road.
Inn ascent bystanders avian avatars initially
supposedly sprung from ergot, mushroom
and/or smut spores, whereas the myth of
one mortal idol (Matthew Scott Harris) did
rival Vladimir Ilich (frequently corrupted into...
Tribute to William Soutar 1898-1943
A Perthshire Lad William Soutar
William S* showed a poetic voice
the quatrain form,his choice
he named a whigmaleerie
became a lasting legacy
Wiliam Soutar famed for his 119 American cinquains(which he labelled epigrams) also wrote whigmaleeries for children .
In dialect and lyric William’s
poetry soon found fame.
Whims and fanciful notions
these whigmaleerie were known.
Less popular yet, equally unique
verse in English, oh so terse. This
genre , American cinquain consolidated
a reputation,once again.
Grew to manhood on the river Tay,
Writing poems ,most every day;
Cinquains,epigrams, whigmaleerie-
& His diary of a dying man,left
Telling observations, for all to see.