Long Dissipates Poems
Long Dissipates Poems. Below are the most popular long Dissipates by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Dissipates poems by poem length and keyword.
Under the heavy and ash-gray wing of the evening,
In the melancholic waltz of memories awakened in rains,
Through the night stretching its hand like an old bell-ringer,
Ringing the bell of departure and appearing desolate in the mirror.
A veil of sadness weaves the starry vault above,
Where the moon, in silence, watches over mortal frailties,
On this fertile earth, yes, once it was fertile,
The echo of steps disintegrates the soil in strangers and wanderers, fatefully.
Oh, sister in destiny, proud land of heroes and poets,
Now you are the stage of a tragic act divided into many separations,
The brotherhood that was said to unite us, quietly dissipates,
Oh, mother, my homeland, how we sold our hopes for silver!
The air is laden with a heavy burden of heavenly pallor,
From the fields where wheat grain by grain whispered songs to the sun,
No longer pours gold, but only regrets, thoughts that fade,
In all we try to have, the shadow of the nameless ones lingers, who.
We live, simple people, with broken nature and torn souls,
Under the sign of signatures on forgotten and voiceless papers,
We struggle between walls of indifference, singing only in the boundless,
While life drains from us, vomiting the poison of bitterness.
Peacemakers of sweet whispers, now hoarse in pain,
Apologize for an unjust curse that can no longer be washed away,
A nation born from dreams and fierce struggle, slowly fades under humiliation,
As if the ancestors were only ghosts in the heavy history.
Mad poet, who dares to write in verses an elegy,
When our house is a game, a bet lost in our own room,
Now, even the dead in stones bow in a silent prayer,
For Romania that wears the gray coat of helplessness and payment.
But do you hear the bell that separates time from immortality?
A prelude to what is to come, over everything that once crackled,
It's the evening of the last ball, where our steps are counted in stars,
From dawn, we will be only Romanians from everywhere, in an endless song of regret.
Perhaps, tomorrow – it will be desolate here, silence will speak more clearly,
And we, with hearts in chains, will start a bittersweet exile,
Farewell, lost brothers in the relentless wheel's motion,
Goodbye, motherland, I throw you a last kiss, in the wind, a farewell.
Gradually the crystalizing dawn -- more hardened
Than folded steel --- more sharper than
The blade that cuts!
Wisps of thin vapour, once loitering insidiously
At the steps of each staunch door,
Swirling away -- seemingly almost alive!
Coiling and uncoiling. Has all the litheness of a
Dancing girls weightless silken ribbon.
Until, retreating back, high, into some lofty,
Inaccessible mountain...
Dissipates as if just abandoned dragons breath.
The trees and streams are no longer so solemn.
Circling over the temple, above the brittle lands
Frosted chill, red-beaked choughs noisily engaged
In agitated clattering...
But now the temple bells are commanding those
Monks to prayer.
The blind and withered monk, who sits alone
In his unassuming corner, reminds us:-
"An emperor who abuses his power unsettles the
Equilibrium of the whole nation, the workings of
Nature,
And the livelihood of all people;
His responsibility is to maintain harmony in
Himself and the empire...
By acting in accordance with Confucian principles".
It is for them to contemplate what we cannot
Comprehend:-
We are peasants and it is not expected of us
To understand such wise things; nor should we.
We understand the fish and their ways, and the
Ways of the Blue River...
Just as monks understand our gracious lord Buddha.
Rouses the sun. Slowly lifts an enormous sky.
Glistening hoarfrost spun from bramble to
Bush -- strung from bough to branch like
Giant spider web;
Stiffened grasses that so pleasingly crunch
Underfoot;
And from these grasses, droplets of moisture
Ready to be released like slow weeping tears;
They will join with and sweeten the vibrant
Spring waters -- clearer than quartz --
That stream in tripping rivulets over yellow rocks
To splash from shallow cup to pouring pool...
Once you have tasted these waters you would
Have little more need of wine.
Wine is for idle men, or for our warring masters
To drink when celebrating great victory;
What use have we of intoxicating wine?
It is better kept as an offering...
Lest the river Gods grow angry and
Spoil our catch.
Memories on Branches
There is a time that I recall
a memory I hold so dear
a place to keep my wandering soul
to find a God or use my mind
and search for peace outside the void
I found a cabin made of wood
and furnished it with only good
to lay in repose for a destined time
the face of Winter will arrive late
to allow me time to meditate
I walked outside my quaint abode
and felt the cold breeze in the air
covered branches of ice and snow
spreading its arms to say hello
my cheeks are red my sweater white
the sky began to cast a light
the sunshine came and smiled at me
the warmth on my face as an omen of love
that Spring will come to change the days
I sauntered in the early Spring
toward a leeward path where bluebirds sing
and apple blossoms here and there
bearing pollen for the bees to sate
and someday an apple will emerge
a natural friend in Edens field
the branches will sprout baby leaves
as children in a novice site and a raindrop
will nourish the promised land
anon to be joined by its brothers of Rain
Summers dew is in the morn
Sols hot hands have touched the earth
and fauna come to quench their thirst
and by the Water of Llfe I join their quest
to bath in its glory and drink from its gift
it beams on the lake a reflection of blue
and fish swim by a butterfly sits on a rose
to strike a pose for Currier and Ives
I’m overwhelmed by the sight
but I long for the coolness of the night
To rest on a branch and stare at the Moon
to await a new season that will be here soon
Autumn has come and has splashed its hues
from the color of leaves it has given the news
as they fall from their branches and lay on the ground
a tapestry of color is drawn in ocher, brown and red
I continue down the path with a same colored shirt
with loose fitting pants being held with a belt
I have blended with Nature and created a Psalm
a song for ages for I have become a beacon of light
a guide for all seasons to give me a sign
My memories have colors, sights, sighs and cries
and feelings of highs to see what can change
without fear or strife
as my world dissipates there is no fear of death
just an unending breadth of Life
© Ralph Sergi
I tried to see what life would be like on the other side of the mirror
I knocked on the glass for days, but no one ever let me in
Cracking, finally, the reflecting world showed me the truth
That it's just like the one I’m in; it only makes you bleed in the end
I only close my eyes
To find something worth looking at
I can only hear your voice
When I’m screaming into the wall
I only think on you
When the cynical inspiration dissipates
And sometimes only the freezing cold
Is all that reminds me I can still feel
Living this perfect life, dream lover, dream house, dream happiness
Take for granted the gift, not accepting your needy independence
Lust, greed, emotional gluttony; everything you've ever wanted
It’s only thanks to me, I created the twist in your soul, I made you who you are
I only close my eyes
To find something worth looking at
I can only hear your voice
When I’m screaming into the wall
I only think on you
When the cynical inspiration dissipates
And sometimes only the freezing cold
Can remind you that you can still feel
Taken by the presence of an all too familiar enemy
This man staring from the corner; he never leaves, never leaves me
Gentle whispers of deception takes hold and only tightens
Painful sobriety renders me vulnerable and helpless
He only laughs as I pray to God to save me
I only close my eyes
To find something worth looking at
I can only hear your voice
When I’m screaming into the wall
I only think on you
When the cynical inspiration dissipates
And sometimes only the freezing cold
Can remind you that you can still feel
Stare into a face, frozen for eternity
Never aging, never moving, never leaving; its world merely fades to white
Longing to go back, wishing to be, nothing humors the hope
Not tears, prayers, nor blood can bring them back
Trapped behind wood and glass; imprisoned in this photograph
I only close my eyes
To find something worth looking at
I can only hear your voice
When I’m screaming into the wall
I only think on you
When the cynical inspiration dissipates
And sometimes only the freezing cold
Can tell me that I can still feel
In solitary silence i commune with my own heart,
And diligently consider its questions and awnsers,
It declares to me that all real questions have real awnsers.
Truth offers herself to all who enquire after her.
If insulted she will look for better company,
From better dispositions and warmer hospitality.
She exists like a spirit; not timid and weak, but powerful,
And she will share her power with all her followers,
To bless or curse those who use her influence;
If used for justice, she will protect and defend,
If for mercy she will inspire benevolence and goodness;
If used for love she will make worthy of the same;
If for hate she will bring misery, if to deceive she will condemn.
Of all in existence she is the most excellent!
Because she illustrates lucid and clear choices,
She conveys the most profound feelings,
And the grandest most sublime imaginations,
She plainly discovers beauty and ugliness.
She is not property to be owned and controlled,
Nor will she own and control those who know her,
She imparts the power of pure intelligence,
Witch is nought else but her own power.
She makes the best people, and also the worst.
The great and wise who raise others to her vitality and glory,
The wretched and miserable who by her abuse and oppress.
She discovers what is, what was and what will be.
She influences the highest and most beneficent liberty,
And also the heaviest oppression and cruelest tyranny.
Lies can be vehemently hurled against her,
But she overthrows all direct contact with her enemies.
She is equally impartial to flattery as she is to scorn.
To doubt, wonder and question is to stand in her shadow.
To reflect, reason and believe is to see by her light.
She is not in words, thoughts or silences,
But manifests and presents herself through these.
She is the absolute that makes possible all absolutes,
She emanates knowledge, confidence and wisdom,
With her fear dissipates and disappears,
And beauty is her splendor; She is the mighty Truth.
Julian LeBaron
Form:
Under the velvet sky of night, where stars whisper silences,
A deep longing is born, a river of shadows flowing through ages,
The woman is a living temple, sculpted by the moon's light,
The man is a hidden fire, alchemy of the soul in forgotten dust.
Through the smoky veil of the body, my eyes delve into abysses,
Her soul dances slowly, a lotus rising from eternal mud,
He, like a blind warrior, seeks gold in the skin, not in the spirit,
But behold, an ancient voice calls: see your brother from the sky.
I repeat, oh, repeat, under the starry vault, essence is the key to rediscovery,
The woman is a book written with ink of dreams, not just with lines,
The man is a wind carrying secrets, a river of hidden thoughts,
In their chaos, a silver thread weaves, of eternal love.
Through the labyrinth of shadows, a choir of alchemy sings gently,
The body is but a gateway, but the soul is the boundless sky,
He, forgotten by himself, touches only the skin like a lost child,
But she, queen of the depths, calls him toward pure light.
Oh, repeat, oh, repeat, under the cosmic pulse of deep silence,
Beauty is an echo of the stars, not a game of fleeting shadows,
The man who sees with the heart becomes a poet of the eternal dance,
The woman, mirror of the sky, leads him to the lost meaning.
In the vortex of time, where spirits weep under a crystal sky,
Golden bridges between souls are born, beyond flesh and bone,
He learns to feel, like a knight of the night, her divine essence,
She guides him, like a priestess of chaos, toward light and peace.
I repeat, oh, repeat, under the hypnotic rhythm of the eternal wind,
Loneliness is a song of the stars, a longing for cosmic reunion,
Ephemeral beauty dissipates like morning's cold smoke,
But the soul, oh, the soul, dances eternally on the wings of destiny.
Through the dark waters of oblivion, a thread of light is born anew,
Man and woman meet, like two magicians under a mysterious sky,
In a dance of shadows and rays, they find meaning beyond appearances,
And behold, a poem is born, a river of love flowing into eternity.
A FINE LINE BETWEEN DEVIANCE & PASSION
There is a fine line between deviance and passion
The same line borders love and lechery
The barrier is not to be crossed, not even for a second
It is not etched in sand, as that can be dissolved with the tide
The line is bold, but the boldness dissipates in darkness
This line is horizontal and vertical at the same time
Not a cross
Although a cross is sometimes used to measure the thickness of the line
There is a fine line between dipsomania and moderation
The same line separates the happy revelers from the sad sots
The gate should be kept closed at all times
It is not locked, as combinations can be forgotten with time
The line is electrified, but insulation forms in acceptance
The line is angled and curved at the same time
Not a circle
Although a circle is the trap for the poor soul who strays across the line
There is a fine line between life and death
The same line forms the edge of sin’s cold knife
The blade unsheathed reflects the disappearing line
It is a sharp and distinct line one moment and then in the next it is blurred
The line bends when we want it to bend in our weakness
The line is not infinite
Not a universe
Although the universe is too small to hold the line
There is a fine line between forgiveness and grudge
The lines of our words cross over and then return
The damage is done and then the line is broken
It is too slippery to allow us to hold on for a lifetime
The line intertwines with other lines
The line is only as strong as its weakest fiber
Not invincible
Although destruction is often the only solution to crossing the line
There is a fine line between deviance and passion
The same line borders the moral and immoral
The barrier is not to be crossed, not even for a second
It is not given to us, but is self-created in our prayers
The line enters our head and divides the mind
The line is in a book, a song or a poem
Not fiction
Although the line between fiction and truth is often hard to discern
A bright star shimmers over once still seas:
my final destination
treks across troubled waves
and over seething storms
my instinct is heightened and honed
far from suffocating cold
northern climes
On the final ascent,
over the last bruising steps,
gasping...grasping for air.
Now I'm breathing
with consummate ease.
Once more I taste the scented air
and sense the cool ocean heaving.
As Trinita Dei Monti marble
beckon,
a dark figure in the doorway
is veiled steeped in shadows
lifts a white hand,
parts the mask,
shows a pale face
aged wrinkled;
as if fated with a tragic task;
but in an instance
illuminated cold flesh
radiated by golden braided beams;
pale eyes by azure blue brightened
as all darkness dissipates in a flash.
Do I dream? a face
transfigured
transmigrated.
remembered with maternal smile.
unable to speak in this mortal world,
words silently mouthed, not uttered
like magenta moths caressing air
with fragile wings flinching close
still unsavaged by care
and disease,
opening the door
into the church.
its perfumed aroma seems a perfect release.
relinquished
now a warm hand
welcomes me
to this insubstantial tomb.
Is it an illusionary monument?
poetry has written
my name into a fountain
of dreams in eternal water
etched ripples that ruffle
a lake's troubled surface
skimmed by pebbled words
if you too dare to dream,
let these Spanish Steps
be your stairway
your path
your pilgrimage
to the high windows:
below, the square;
above, stark bright stars
vortexing
shuddering
shimmering the night
my life mask now a sharp new constellation.
In the Twilight of the Nation's Pride
Jesus! Where will it end? How low must one descend
In this country to become President?
How many masks must be worn, how many truths must bend,
In the quest for the throne, amidst the flames of burning desire?
In this land of endless dreams and fractured hopes,
Where stars and stripes are tainted with whispered lies,
How deep must one dig, on the slope of morality,
To ascend to the heights where the eagle's flight is bewitched?
Through corridors of silver tongues and gilded halls,
Where echoes of unfulfilled promises persist,
How far must one crawl, scaling the crumbling walls,
Of the fortress of integrity, in the insistent political mist?
Oh, the twilight of the nation’s soul, caught in twilight’s embrace,
Where ideals are traded and freedoms bruised,
How low must one stoop, to chase the grace
Of power's shimmering shadow, endlessly pursued?
The crown of ambition, adorned with thorns of deceit,
Weighs heavily on the heads of those who seek the light,
How many dreams must be shattered beneath the conqueror's feet,
In the race for glory that dissipates only in the night?
In this theater of aspirations, where actors play their part,
And the stage is set with the fabric of shattered trust,
How low must one bow, with a heavy heart,
In the dance for the crown, in the whirlwind of cloaked ambition dust?
Beneath eloquent words and grandiose claims,
Lies a river of sorrow, a tide of silent cries,
How deep must one plunge into the land of lost names,
To grasp the scepter that in illusion lies?
In the halls where history weeps and futures are forged,
How low does the spirit sink, how dark does the heart grow,
Before the dawn of reason, over the horizon is gorged,
With the hope of a nation, in the winds that blow?
Jesus! Where does it end, this descent through fire and ice?
In the land of the brave, where the noble dream wanders,
How low must one stoop, at what ultimate price,
For the promise of power, in the land of dismayed days?
I am also a prose poet, navigating the realms of expression unencumbered by the shackles of rhyme. In this vast expanse of literary freedom, I find my solace, my sanctuary. My words flow unencumbered, liberated from the constraints of syllabic patterns and predictable cadences.
I weave my tapestry of thoughts and emotions in a symphony of language, where rhythm emerges from the ebb and flow of ideas. Each sentence dances to its own melody, painting vivid images upon the canvas of imagination. There is no predetermined structure to confine my thoughts; they wander freely, exploring the depths of human experience.
Inspiration finds me in the subtlest of moments, when the world whispers its secrets in hushed tones. I am captivated by the delicate dance of sunlight upon dew-kissed petals, by the ethereal stillness of a moonlit night. Nature, with all its wonders and mysteries, becomes my muse as I wander in meadows and traverse the shores of my own consciousness.
Imagination becomes my compass as I embark on flights of fancy, unearthing hidden truths and breathing life into the intangible. I am the architect of worlds, the weaver of dreams. With each written word, I conjure realms of beauty and chaos, of joy and sorrow, bridging the gap between reality and the realms of the unseen.
In this realm of unstructured verse, I find a refuge from the clamour of the modern world. Here, time stands still, and the weight of expectation dissipates. I embrace the elegance of the old-fashioned, where sentiment is expressed with grace, and meaning is derived from the subtleties of language.
Through this medium, I seek to illuminate the world, to celebrate the beauty of raw expression. In each sentence, a story unfolds, a myriad of emotions intermingling. I surrender to the currents of inspiration, allowing them to guide me as I navigate this vast expanse of untamed verse.
I am also a prose poet, unbound by the constraints of rhyme, embracing the fluidity of language.
end part two
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