Long Discoloured Poems
Long Discoloured Poems. Below are the most popular long Discoloured by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Discoloured poems by poem length and keyword.
In May two thousand and seven I was on a beach on the sand
When it was time to leave I noticed, I was missing my gold band
I started digging the sand frantically, my wife she helped too
We were flying home the next day, there was little we could do.
Before we left the beach I took a picture, of where we had lay
I hoped that sometime in the future we'd return here one day
My wife about five months later found a cheap holiday online
It was for a holiday to kefalonia and to me it was a clear sign.
I packed my metal detector and brought the photo with me
Would I find the treasure in the sand or find it in the sea?
After about half an hour of searching I heard a loud beep
I'd brought a small shovel with me and started digging deep.
But eureka I'd found it, and was good as new after a clean
It had slightly discoloured and had turned a little bit green
My wife had been trying to sleep, when she heard me shout
Some people looked our way, so I explained what it was about.
That night we went out to a restaurant and we celebrated
I was still smiling and over the moon and was feeling elated
I'd already claimed for the loss because that's what you do
And I don't have one wedding ring, because now I have two.
(A true story )
Written on 22nd June 2022
One In Five Poetry Contest
Theme chosen - A Lost Ring
Sponsored by Joseph May
When nylon nights
trade crystal colours
in the stalls of nimble
butterfly wings,
I blossom as an
irenic origami
fervently fabricated
with snowflakes of
greedy gloom,
stealing royal violets
from the smokey estuaries
flowing beneath the
heavens befogged
with indigos, glistening
in periwinkle-arcs of
abstract auroras.
I reminisce those
amaranth stars
that whisper
graphical pantoums in
pearlescent pixels
of plum pentagon-
shaped skies,
as everytime when
porcelain acrylics
get spilt upon mauve
pages ribboned
with hydrangeas,
my orchid lips spin
a twist of leathered
spells amidst
frozen fahrenheit of
frostbit textures.
Painting heliotropic
oxygen with brushstrokes
of peony petals,
I carry unspoken
words of iris,
so that artificial aroma
within sculptured truths
remains caged
behind these dark
magenta carnations
printed upon
cashmere curtains
of hallucinating hyacinths.
Do photogenic pansies
never get frozen in iced pyre
of parched patchworks?
For, I believe that,
drowsy poppies
too have streaks of
wine stories
to narrate in their
ages of ache.
Perhaps, I'm a
glasswinged sorceress
of arctic hailstorms,
tracing phlox-
fluorescent forests
with tropical crayons,
as oiled hues of
multi-dusks flutter
across lavender orbs,
sprinkling mauve
dewdrops upon
watercolor dusts of
pencil-shaded luna
who unlocks
silver secrets
with skeleton key,
washing my bones
with lilac fog.
So, when these
thistle shaded leaves
crack their crystal
cocoons and
the sun sheds its
fluffed feathers
of hibernation,
meet me along the
horizons where
bright Veronica
takes the shape of
the moon and
reincarnates as a
crocheted sangria
memory along the
translucent sleet of
snowy sights.
My skin is softer
than raisin pearls
of mulberry seas,
as my spirit is stained
with glamorous grape
dyes and amethyst-fresco
distemper across bitter
skies has discoloured
every apathetic shade
that doesn't seem to
define my airbrushed
heather heart.
Narrow winding road passing through the stretched fields
A flock of white storks strutting on the ridges
As if they were the landlords
Slight warbles and trills of birds
I went on enjoying the symphony during my morning walk
A chaos...
The purring of a gasoline car
All the birds soared upwards with a flapping
One confused stork flew in the reverse course
And hit the hood of the car
A thudding sound followed by a weak wailing
I sensed what had happened
Saddened at the sight of the discoloured bird
The static stork plucked my heart strings
An unknown bird...
Still, turbulence in my heart
The hard lucked bird has become my storyline
My tranquil RIP to the hapless soul!
Premiere Contest : 3rd Place
I always weep for you in the hush of eventide hills.
In their mystical muteness I can hear your heartbeats.
As tears indulge in indigo dusky deepening horizons,
I put my hope in the last morning star which lusters
upon waves with sapphire iridescence shades of eternity,
flowing upon seashell shores stroking your sacred footprints.
Ever since your opulent hypnotic essence
stole the innocence of my lucent purity,
you've left me drunk on the wine of passion.
I'm stumbling like a drunkard in the dappled depth of desire,
with my provocative facade forming into a bodacious flame,
searching for my poetic pearl lost in a sea of mauve enchantment.
Wailing winds have discoloured my eyes with stained illusions,
in their darkness, I yearn for your sunlit glimmer to reappear.
I've been kissing the emptiness of porcelain moonlight,
since you left behind the taste of your fragrant lullaby.
Wondering if my kiss illuminated the ebony entities,
veiled inside your mystique of midnight eyes.
Visions of your majestic scarlet seraphim lips,
poised in sultry pulsation, forever flutter,
floating like blended opal and onyx butterflies.
Their tender beauteous softness merging
like ambrosia echoes of a cocoon, composing
the sweetness of saccharine symphonies,
caressing my soul like a magnolia breeze.
Oh my beloved ethereal lover,
will I be forever dreaming of your paradisiacal grace,
seeking your celestial scent from dusk till dawn?
Won't you gift me one shimmery glimpse
of your rialto rosette silhouette.
Forever wrap me in the sanctuary of your satin wings,
like the warm merino shawl of love's allure.
Why leave me in this state of silent saudade,
where I hunger for the silken hymn of your tongue.
Why bless me with such treasures,
only to deprive me?
The Silent One
27 December 2022
He looks at the mirror and frowns at the image
‘Is it the glass or my face that lies shattered?’
Fault lines burrowed into borrowed time
Tim wonders about censorship and cracks
He sees a crossdresser between sadness and joy
A veil of burnt out darkness and shiny spectacles
Quorum of insanity and intense beauty alike
Bedlam carving out a picture of madness
Frowns and scars adorn past vision of duels
Of minds and a sword of common dissent
A freckle hidden under three-day stubble
Shadows of sleepless nights in despair
They say it is the persona or mask of retreat that
Enacts the drama of living enhanced by oozing
Wounds of battles long gone with no victor
But the lonely survivor who he has become
The looking glass reflects upon wrinkles and blotches
Attempting to scratch out disfigured pit falls of thoughts
Discoloured from jagged emotions at face value
Shades of discontent imprinted on countenance
As Tim tries to make sense of deceitful senses
Divulges the distorted prism that he has become
The mirror cracks into mute darkness and doubt
There is no escape and the trap door stays shut
When eternity of his ragged convulsion has passed
He decides that cutting through insurmountable walls
With a razor would only heap more meaningless blood
Whereas accepting containment can be a close shave
He pierces the conception of failure and reassembles
Broken shards into a mosaic of dis-ambiguous beauty
‘I am who I was and will reassign polarity to the centre’
He marvels in ink of realignment and scribes a way forth
01st December 2019
My cycling shoes of two and one year are on their last legs.
Stretched, discoloured, looking the worse for wear, with
sole departing from the body; their days are numbered.
The time is nigh for a parting of our ways.
They have served me well
Locked together , secured to pedal.
Turn after turn, countless revolutions,
Never ending kilometres, oe're hill and dale
Through winter splashed puddles
And sweaty socked summer days.
Sometimes cruising at leisure,
Or often pushing at pace
Never missing a beat, reliable as a trusted friend.
But, despite all of this they will be dumped.
Consigned to the waste bin, labelled as , useless,
No longer fit for purpose.
Dangerous, and an accident waiting to happen.
Your time is up.
There will be no breaking news announcing their demise,
Flags lowered to half mast, or, days of mourning
Decreed by a solemn address to the nation.
Schools will not be closed, or major events postponed
As a mark of respect.
They will be gone and quickly forgotten.
But, wait, its never to late to have a change of heart.
Clear a space on a shelf where other bits and bobs of
tools and parts that are seldom if ever used happily reside.
And there they can rest in peace , maybe only to be discovered,
In a future time long after I've departed this wonderful world.
When someone will say,
'They belonged to him, he who loved to ride his bike.
We cannot throw them out , those old cycling shoes.'
"I carry your heart with me (I carry it in my heart) I am never without it..."
E.E. Cummings
Amber hues kissed twilight's platinum pigments that night,
beckoning ivory pearls to weave patterns of astral flames.
Charm of the crescent moon glowed in a golden gem tinge,
dazzling in divine desires, devoted to admirers of starlit destinies.
Enamoured, we embraced, consoling under coral constellations,
forgetting fears, promising to forever remain as cosmic lanterns.
Galactic fires of euphoria, blazed celestial candles into dripping wax,
hushing horizons into a heavenly haven of honeysuckle hope.
Intoxicated inside fireworks of ethereal lights, dancing on clouds,
jasmine jubilance filled the air, as shy silver sparks slipped away.
Kindled spirits like nocturnal diamonds yearned to be eternal
lovers of luminescent lullabies lingering inside opalescent orbs.
Magnetism of moonlight melodies are enchanting, but ephemeral,
nothing lasts forever, so at dawn with the arrival of a nightingale
orchestra, our obsession of obeisance withered like an orchid obituary.
Pastel passions of our paramour portrait discoloured with daylight dew,
quivering in nature's quiet quarantine of quintessence slumber.
Radiant rays only offered reflections of regret and rejection, as,
sorrows of sunflowers in winter winds shattered my hourglass heart.
These tribulations torment my tired soul, like a refugee of romance.
Unstable, under an umber universe, I've become an uncherished
verse in a voiceless vocabulary, no longer vibrant nor valued.
Wilting in the wilderness without your wisteria whispers, wounds in
xanthous tumours, hidden behind a veil of Xanadu metaphors,
yearn to heal from yesterdays, where your touch softened my burdens.
Zest of your zealotry is engraved in echoes of my zephyr heartbeats.
The sinful playacting of the leaders insists on
crowing over empty victories,
and words without being versed are cremated
on the despoiled landscape;
Elsewhere, night steps up on every toe and hangs fire.
All roads and lanes want bold footprints,
it will not matter whose,
the wind’s shrilling summons convivial light
on the blurry faces and their doleful cries
struggle to reach far and beyond.
Under the shade of sodium vapour lamps,
bodies morph from poor to rich, living to dead,
the rush of blue lights distils on the discoloured skin
of the mannequins; the city scrawls and scratches
on the marbles of the palace and cenotaph.
It was like the sun did not rise
and mourning birds sang
no morning melody.
The heavens were so grey,
pouring like Noah's floods,
preparing me for the storm,
which drowned my heart.
I felt like a butterfly helpless against the wind.
I had no time to build an ark
nor to sail towards those uneven paths,
which would allow me to hear your last breath.
Maybe hold your hand and hear you
call my name one last time.
I will never forget that moment of silence,
when the world seemed to pause
and I feel, I'm still standing still,
feeling numb, unable to express myself,
so I supress myself.
Waiting for the birds to sing.
To trigger suppressed sentiments,
but there is no metaphor for this void I feel,
like the emptiness of the room,
where you would say;
"my prince has come home"
You would always ask if I was hungry,
still force me to eat when I was not.
Together we would pick
sweet grapes from those vines,
which ran high up against
your sage veranda.
You would always bring out
the pot I cracked,
when I was six,
saying with a nostalgic look;
"Hands of my first grandson broke this."
How you would treasure such memories.
The season of death has returned,
to steal my jewel away from me.
I look in dismay at discoloured fallen leaves,
scattered like my emotions.
Will those fruits ever taste the same,
now that your precious hands cannot pick them?
Who will treasure what I broke?
You used to always call grandpa's name,
now I know you are together again.
Mama still calls for you,
I say to myself, she has gone, mum,
as has her laughter and her smile.
There will be no more hugs,
no one to call nanna now.
The sky still remains dark,
but the floods seem to be easing
and
I know one day the sun will return,
as will the birds,
singing in your remembrance.
In midnight gazes call me sullen upon my cheek
Rousing replies risen bound by chains
Lest mercy be tallowed by all frays
Lest my cheek rise by an untimely hour
Rid my face of discoloured honour
Until it shall stalk by the wretched wicker sun's rays
O wither upon the wicker's sun dropped desire
Feign, o swell upon the imperious bells
Dear wicker, o ire, shalt rain upon the sinner's drencht trap
Leave mellow cleaves upon a skull's prondered fallows
O wicker, dear wicker, fall'n be the strife within my own trial
Ris'n upon a mellow moon's impassive scamp
A whore within such heavenly light, where'n quarry shalt seek a seeming clamp
Fought a feign, O swallow, O blossom by my might
Shalt the wicker sun swoon upon my sorrows?
O life, upon a liver, foreclose a killer
For soon i shall take upon flight
Until the sun's swollen wicker shall take upon the morrow
Shall anguish thrive upon a famisht howl
Come without breaks, nor bend
I shall steal upon the wicker's whelms
Towards the sways, o sorrow shall bend
Belier my helm, 'til all else shall fall hither
'Til I hear the moon call upon the wicker,
And I shall fly.