Long Distill Poems
Long Distill Poems. Below are the most popular long Distill by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Distill poems by poem length and keyword.
As daylight fades beyond the distant hill,
Dusk paints the sky in hues of soft repose.
Through swaying boughs, the birds their songs distill,
While gentle breezes dance on tippy-toes.
Lotus treads the path with a weary stride,
Her thoughts are as heavy as the fading light.
Yet with each step, her burdens seem to glide
Away, as if prepared to take their flight.
A flower, bent and worried, catches sight
Of Lotus passing by with a slowing gait.
Its petals tremble in the dimming light,
As if to share in her conflicted state.
The blossom and the woman, kindred souls,
Find solace in their shared anxiety.
As twilight deepens, nature takes control,
Embracing both in sweet serenity.
In the evening's hush, a transformation blooms,
The flower straightens, and Lotus' spirit lifts.
The worried stem no longer bends in the gloom,
As peace becomes the night's most precious gift.
Together in the gloaming, fears subside,
A fresh perspective blossoms with the stars.
The day's concerns, once seemingly amplified,
Now fade like distant, long-forgotten scars.
I once wished your praises to pen
O in our exclusive love den,
But most of such dreams—nine of ten,
Oh, buried were ere they began.
Poems are now bereft of words,
Our den, nestled by no more birds,
Before blossoming died have buds,
There’s no alibi to meet you.
I tried to distill me from me,
To filter my fair will from me,
And go uphill along with you,
Alas, it’s too late to meet you.
There’s darkness under a lamp
All undergrounds far too damp,
Now that I’m used to my camp,
It’s too late O to meet you.
I once wished brightness of Sun,
All shadows in life to shun,
From very Self I now run,
It’s too late O to meet you.
Flowers have lost old fragrance,
From steps hast gone usual dance,
Betwixt us two, no romance,
Far too late O to meet you.
I still carry old tuneless harp,
Old memories no longer sharp,
With life’s mixed-up woof and warp,
I wish no more to meet you.
_________________________________
Inspired by a Gujarati Poem by Rishabh Mehta
Quatrains (rhyme and refrain) |06.03.2024| lost love
WHISTLING IN BLUE HILL
You walk on lean trail in blue hill
The winds waft to take you along
Whisper in the ear a sound shrill
Reaching your heart it becomes song.
Whistling a dulcet song in the wind
You walk on lean trail in blue hill
The song wraps the tree leaves to find
How music in them winds instill.
The song echoes in the valley still
Sounds of serene silence persist
You walk on lean trail in blue hill
With music rippling in grey mist.
In mind joyful aloneness stays
In ecstasy your senses distill
Your within lighted by sun rays
You walk on lean trail in blue hill.
September 27, 2017.
Form : Quatern. Syllable count : 8 each line
As a lad four years old,
I knew what I could see,
and I knew what I was told...
and that was reality.
Then something popped that balloon -
appearances might lie.
It was a TV cartoon -
a mirage tricks the eye.
As a teen in junior high,
I found we only see
what sends photons flying by
in wavelengths we can see.
Our brain then does translation
into what we perceive.
Our brain's representation
is what we believe.
Now, I'm older than a hill,
and everyone knows what's true.
Reality they distill
and impart to me and you.
Society and politics?
They'll tell you for free,
Maybe we're all dumb as bricks,
and see what we want to see?
The storm recedes, its rage now spent,
Leaving the earth to emit a scent,
A dank, damp, earthy smell of wet grass,
That breaks the drought, from its parched impasse.
In the quiet there after, all is still,
Thunder's rumble quelled to distill,
Sound to liquid, rage to peace,
As hopes of rebirth and new life increase.
The scent of rain is a heaven sent smell,
Wafting up to dispel a lingering spell.
It's a therapy from nature's apothecary,
Dispensed from a dry-grass prairie.
Imbibe the aroma of the heavenly scent,
To flush the stench of discontent,
From your life's toil and strife.
Imbibe its smelling salts, revive your life.
In the whisper of twilight, where shadows meet the edge of dreams,
Lies the truth of our times, a somber murmur carried by the wind of mediocrity.
Once, the soul soared with the ambition of stars; now, the commonplace mind,
Knowing itself to be mediocre, proclaims its right to mediocrity,
And imposes its dullness wherever it can.
Life, in its raw essence, is insipid—a mere act of "being there. "
Thus, for man, existence transforms into a poetic endeavor,
A task akin to that of the playwright or novelist:
To invent a narrative thread for his existence, to give it character,
Making it both suggestive and beguiling.
In the stillness of midnight, under the quilt of countless stars,
The mediocre soul may contemplate its right to mediocrity,
Spreading its mundane essence across the tapestry of time.
And yet, in this silent rebellion, a melancholic magic awakens, weaving truths into metaphors.
Man, that being wrapped in thoughts and desires,
Finds the fabric of mere existence distasteful,
Turning to diversions as an essential art, a salvation from the void of simply being.
Thus, in the corridors of the mind, he creates unseen worlds,
Where every heartbeat whispers a symphony of purpose.
The commonplace mind may seek to impose its dull hue upon the vibrant canvas of life,
But the heart, in its secret chambers, remains an alchemist,
Turning leaden moments into golden narratives,
Inventing threads that shine with unseen light, characters that dance in the shadow of the mundane.
Serious examination reveals the existential melancholy,
The distaste for the unembellished universe, the thirst for something more.
Here, in the crucible of thoughts, we distill our dreams,
Creating a life both poetic and profound, beyond the mere act of "being there. "
For man, existence must transcend the assertion of the mediocre,
Must rise like a phoenix from the ashes of the ordinary,
Towards a realm where every breath is a verse, each moment a chapter,
In the endless novella of a soul's journey.
Thus, in the flux of consciousness, thoughts flow like rivers,
Carving new paths through the wilderness of the mind,
Where even the mediocre soul, in its quiet rebellion,
Might find a spark of the extraordinary,
Transforming existence from insipid to inspired,
From mere being to profound becoming.
Though Time is something we've devised,
Time's hold on us can't be revised.
While Time has time to spend at will,
We question Time when we distill
It into time spent ill or well.
It's just perception - time will tell.
Time can play games within our head,
It's Time we love - and Time we dread.
Time gives us time to think things through,
What to reject - what to pursue.
And, timeliness keeps Time involved -
Sufficient time gets things resolved.
True, Time can grant a host of things -
Good times that well-timed planning brings.
And, timely words - remember when?
Just simple truths, time and again.
Time can expand our views to see
The benefits of what might be.
But, Time can proffer problems too -
With time to kill what should we do?
Time can befriend untimely ways
That dissipate our time-bound days.
Yet, Time won't dwell on what we chose,
Time ventures on - not in repose.
When Time slips by, or fails to wait,
It's Time we tend to castigate.
Despite the time we set aside
Time only serves to be our guide.
Still, Time can help us do our share
As Time goes by with time to spare.
But, Time moves on at its own rate
Unmoved by time to contemplate.
If we take time to stop and look,
Time travels past the time we took.
Yes, Time is always on the run -
Time won't stand still - for anyone.
Messengers Of Hope
Our messengers of hope are leaders in the field, hardcore and always at the ready.
Our messengers of hope are here countable no matter their cause.
Our messengers of hope carry out orders without fail.
Our messengers of hope deliver support, like timely reinforcements they deliver!
Like the sun they shine bright even, when rain showers breath storms of hurricanes.
Our messengers of hope teach us, seeds they instill seeds of self love.
Our messengers of hope, they love themselves deeper than the entire earth.
Our messengers of hope carry the footsteps of one million voices, and inspire us with their strength!
Our messengers of hope are valiant, with a vendetta against malicious intent towards others.
Our messengers of hope carry on their backs the wings of grace, to which they use to shelter others from sea of storms.
Our messengers of hope lead their lives with an open heart, as open as the sky!
Our messengers of hope, they are the black dirt of nurturement our hearts yearn to grow in.
Our messengers of hope are the employees of the people of incorporated, as fortified in their cause as they are in their own lives!
Our messengers of hope have the desire to inspire positivity, and distill change in the hearts of others as well as their own!
Our messengers of hope do not once, not ever falter as the darkness grows, they show their hand of light!
Our messengers of hope we love them, and thank them with our actions for their relentless accountability, through their exemplary example we act to their accordance!
Thank you all Diane Ahrens and all the people incorporated here, from our souls to all of yours, bless them ladies and gentlemen!
~ B.L.A
Ideal instructor, shows integrity, impact in instruction.
5/2/2022
* Deuteronomy 32:2
May my teaching drop as the rain, my speech distill as the dew, like gentle rain upon the tender grass, and like showers upon the herb.
Work Perspective Monoku Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Beata Agustin
National Teacher Day is observed on the first Tuesday of the first full week of May (May 3) and we’re more than ready to show our appreciation to those who have taught us. Everyone has had that favorite teacher that has helped inspire them. This day meant to honor them was actually made by a teacher. None other than First Lady Eleanor Roosevelt herself. Eleanor Roosevelt was more than Franklin D. Roosevelt’s wife, she has a history of civic duty and was an advocate for fellow teachers. Her love for education began at a young age when she was privately tutored and encouraged by her aunt Anna “Barnie” Roosevelt. No matter how high she rose on the social ladder, she never forgot where she came from.
No rocket surgeon,
nor brain scientist called upon
but only Rudolf the red nose reindeer
solicited as psychological mentor
yes...undoubtedly countless
decades removed since *****
(not very gay at all!)
bodily changing phenomena
from thine angst riddled
biological metamorphosis allows me to peer
with greater theft of mine precious youth stolen,
via piercing overbear
ring mailer daemons,
when mine tender age did near
cusp whence onset of puberty
clapped development tight as if by
a doppelganger mutineer
warp and weft of mine lifetime tapestry
mine acute perception doth lear
as threads got tightly woven
into mine casual knitwear
though pubescent phase
wrought with oppressive foresight
interwoven with jeer
ring bullying hmm...maybe thine ability
to distill self actualization
extant among interlinear
teenage stage viewable
during my youthful days, but clouded over asper
mine more vivid perspective here
from this present moment
ha...amusing insight from present perch
devoid of adolescent glare
sire re: brill grade
do lobes gleam freer,
now with insight aye ear
rate at such pitch 'ere
perfect hindsight aye declare,
yet as a much younger self
when I hapt to be a boy, acuity seemed oblivious
to perceive via sight and sound
what social cues visceral, (visual,
and audiological) seems crystal clear
revisiting non verbal
awkward teenage mutant
ninja turtle memories, that now deafeningly blare
at the threshold of ear
splitting decibels, how hard of hearing human
(nada so) subtle in retrospect, I am aware
interpersonal nuances clear as the tune
Doris Day Que será, será
did voice, a catchy air.