Long Drape Poems
Long Drape Poems. Below are the most popular long Drape by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Drape poems by poem length and keyword.
In the dark she is waiting, 200 kilos of velvet
separating one world from the other.
It was art to her, she was under no pretence,
she was an instrument, and she made the other instruments merge in a delicious unprecedented harmony.
A poet, a warrior, a lover, a sinner. She has tasted the divine and the melodramatic, to capture moments, photographs, for the use of summoning emotion and reality.
She had been hurt and she had hurt, she had walked towards hell and ran away from heaven. Beginning as a muse and then enslaving the musicians one by one with her whispy and sultry tones.
An electric keyboard breaks the mumbling, vibrato, a pause, a cheer. The drape rises and she peers from the darkness, masked by shadow to the floodlit mass in front.
The drums are brushed gently as the crowd softens to the figure emerging from the dark. Not knowing if they were permitted to break the spell or join it, the crowd pay their respect with silence.
You can almost see the phantoms she has witnessed being beckoned into her. Short linear smoky essences, touching her then being pulled inside. She saunters slowly towards the mic, eyes closed, and with both hands it becomes a sceptre. This will be a heartfelt song again.
She inhales, her belly fills, and she breathes life into the mic. Her tones slice through the thick air, soft yet with such projection and feel. The crowd can not contain themselves and let out a cheer as their eyes fill. She masterfully picks up her bass, as if resurrecting a lost love, and it sings for her.
Her hair is gone now, most of the crowd know why and they want to cry. But she holds them, captivated, and hypnotises a smile into them. They sway to her, some hold their chests as if covering some hole for fear of their hearts falling out.
This will be the last time we will feel her grace. But she will be summoned herself. The band know this. She sits, the treatment has taken it out of her. But her voice never falters. That chair will be kept alongside the drummer that loved her. Her bass will be his kryptonite. But he will keep it close anyway.
The curtain will not fall tonight, it shall remain at half mast. She will bow and we will fall at her mercy one last time. In homage, and respect. She will leave but she will never be forgot. She has trained herself into them, and she will always be singing.
Back straight, shoulders down. Straighten the computer. Stop staring at the purple walls.
Light the candle once, twice, three times -- why won’t it light? --
before the flame finally catches,
filling the room with the scent of pine.
Breathe in, breathe out. Start typing.
Sunlight slants across my fingertips, and I turn to face the source
impossibly far from the window.
The clouds are tinged the golden white of times flown by,
of the yarn of the Fates that winds tighter and tighter and tighter and tighter in your chest until you’re suffocating, asphyxiating, gasping for breath, panic turning your body to crumbling stone.
The mushrooms know this process well. It’s been inscribed in their DNA since well before humans were graced with the knowledge of how to care for their dead.
Over the eons, they’ve befriended Time and Death alike.
What would I give to have such an intimate connection with the two?
To sit back amongst shadows that drape me like a blanket rather than grip me like a vise?
Too much time has passed. Too many seconds lost. Time, time, time, slipping away from my scrambling fingers.
Can’t grip the yarn; too silky, too precious. The Fates wove quality too fine for mortals to grasp.
Clear thoughts like an etch-a-sketch, sending fireglow hair flying. Breathe in, breathe out.
Start typing.
The words that appear are damn near incomprehensible, shrouded and hidden by
ghosts of memories that weave themselves through my thoughts.
A dark lake house lit by candles and the fire in my eye as I take my grandma “exploring”
over forest-colored carpet and around oak tables,
a land she’s already familiar with.
How do I rectify that vision with what’s facing now?
112 feather-light pounds of gray hair and fading eyes,
reality’s cruel reward for a life of purpose and love.
I’m scrambling to keep up with all the changes, but my grasp is slipping.
Suddenly she’s falling faster than we thought.
The heater’s white noise is the only constant,
the handfuls of M&Ms the only distraction.
I’m all too aware of the bills I’m racking up,
too cognizant that synthetic dopamine only shoves away what’s real,
but I’m crumbling too fast to care.
Shaky breath in. Straighten the computer. Stop staring blankly at the purple walls.
There’s too much to do; the future’s jumping down your throat and running away.
Start typing.
~ Oh, maiden of light cracks the wispy air open ,
wandering around viscous spaces
like virgin shadow caressing the edge
of sleep… and the days stretch longer,
taller than guava trees dreamingly shedding
laces of northeast streams when
songbirds, orbits, and a pageant of flowers listen
to a single humming breeze… and when all else
is sprawled quiet, waterfalls marry her certain
lingering star straying on mouths of gentleness
past eons bound by nuptials in iridescent realms…
*O, ilaw, sa gabing malamig, wangis mo'y
bituin sa langit… O, tanglaw, sa gabing tahimik,
larawan mo, Neneng, nagbigay pasakit. Ay! *
Somehow ,curlicues drape a fragrant smoke
leaking out a folk sky; dancing in the mirror
of the mountain pool… a serenade weeps;
quivering, moaning along the inland pass that
someone said morning becomes electra,
that learning how to hear her blossom or
pearl stone unravels the very skin from
which it was born is allowing time to
shed her purity far beyond unknowing a
water’s need to keep still: the juice spills…
**Gising at magbangon sa pagkagupiling
sa pagkakatulog na lubhang mahimbing;
buksan ang bintana at ako'y dungawin,
nang mapagtanto mo ang tunay kong pagdaing. * *
Peeling new faces of time, shaping the width of
endless rhyme in sprays of endless mystery...
like so, a thousand times before and after,
twilight and daybreak entwine… oh,light elusive,
passing through calm eyes of young maiden’s season
is love’s way of coming back to itself. ~
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* O, light, in the cold night; you're like a star in the sky
O, light, in the quiet night, your picture, Neneng,
makes one ache…. Oh!
** Awake and arise from slumber,
from your sleep so deep.
Open your window and look out to me
So that you may understand my true lament.
~ this poem is inspired by a harana, a traditional Filipino serenade. The suitor
is accompanied by his friends who back him up both vocally.
At first, the woman's window is closed. The man calls out to her
and if she's interested, she'll open her window.
Singing harana originated during the Spanish
colonial period in the Philippines.~
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NYueJU0Ufws&feature=related
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For Debbie’s Bi-lingual Poetry by nette onclaud
Endurance is not of your nature,
Solidity glides in wavering motions upon my pitiful neck,
Now brazen silver does linger,
Trite lance, ravenous knife does make one last,
Sorrowful trek...
I know you'll adore each compassioned endeavor,
And your canvas lay pared, splayed and sculpted tissue.
You've rendered such precious jet-black clouds...
They drape their vile vined misted shrouds...
Within my gray eyed gaze,
Such hues temper your violent palette...
Vanished breath-flickered candle haze.
Lifeless wick, gurgling crimson wax.
Your beloved paint trickles in balmy clotted puddles,
I shudder adorned in radiant rubies rolling from my fingertips,
I feel your veteran-mastered art pouring from my throat...
Am I not your first? What imaginative vision you possess!
For it is not to say mine is fading, fleeting plasma afloat.
They told me of your gift,
How endowed you are,
Able to plunge, plunge, plunge,
Your hands into the crevices of torment,
In your swayed, celestial delusion,
You heaven's exile, wicked-bound and hell sent.
Engraved in lifeless form ascending from tip to hilt,
Still I lie mesmerized by the atrocity,
Of apathy jaundiced guilt.
Predator, what is your name?
May I slip your ill-willed syllables from my lips,
for you have brought my tamed veins shame.
I value your corrupt knowledge found pledge,
As you mar my shivering body to your own image,
Ingenuity, you said was the plight laid upon razor's edge.
Poetic justice you explained was reason to heal,
Mankind in his errors,
Of humanity's devil-signed, soul-phantom deal.
If I could speak I'd ask for the pen,
Should I sign in ink? Skin pricked red-wine?
Rolled parchment, contract or covenant?
Sign here along the dotted line?
I lift the golden-feathered needle,
And pierce, finger signature in place,
Advocate of Satan take my soul,
Where we are then,
Vaccuum-voided into fiery space.
I look back up at you with word choked reply,
Sputtering the eruptive branch volcano,
You snicker an exaggerated pain cry,
You tell me my soul's been granted,
I was never given choice,
You said, "You gave that up when I slit,
Your moral stained choral-voice...."
How I regret your wicked lures...
Your profound and deafening words,
The afterlife has no meaning,
Only death does gleam,
On Steel Sharpened Spurs...
Form:
He danced on the decks of tossing ships, danced only for dimes
He danced to the lash and sound of whips, hip moving like dream
And when he reasoned, his words sublime brought heavenly climes
Dance from plantation to Greathouse, dancing in gully and stream
And if we dance again today, he choreographs nuance and fiber
Still; this talented son, this bright native of the Martha Brae River.
He is the twin soul of that Manley, our horizons in the sun
And when at Mona, he taught me how to run with my ton.
O farewell, brother of my brother, mentor that from your distance shape
Me into a patriotic landscape where my children may build, farewell
Sweet intellect; and O may they bring our Mframadan like cloth to drape
Your rest. All your public life was nobly spent, farewell, Rex, farewell!
Your footprints are bright, not castles in sand, from high hills shine
The glory of your days. O Griot, go the bidding now of the Divine
O Blow the abeng now, beat the kumina drum, O village peel
The bells of jubilee again. Aluta Continua, Rex, go take your seal!
Mi mumma band her belly and bawl long time, yai water like rain
Hot like Clarendon springs, and the world like blue mountain mist
So cold, O emptiness, emptiness is such a dread, O such a pain
What shall we do with out hollowness now, and how shall we resist
Again the shackles of injustice, O that there were Marley
To sing this icon into the icon of memory, for all our history
Is but words on a page until we can retrieve the past to right
Today and make tomorrow bright again. He was that light.
Coda
O Kilmanjaro weep! O Timbuctu weep! O Meroe and kujo's clan
Weep for the death of man, a sterling man, a grandiose design
That met its worth in gold in deeds of him. All our life is like sand
Worn from the rock of being by tides and seasons, and no sign
To tell where wind or water carry us, we are blown away
The shadow of the sand is gone, but never cannot decay
It is too immaterial, its presence is like his fragrance here
Bill still O Niger, and you great Nile, I borrow you for a tear.
Castaway :-
Long day…longer it gets…
with no hand at a distance,
grey skies, with glimpses of clouds
that traverse together, like a bound existence.
far off, in the sultry fields
a raw sight, of a damsel,
a women…or a helpless maiden
hardly could anyone tell.
dry eyes, with a wry smile,
and a piece of black drape,
it was all, that she wore..
to hide her visage, from people’s gape..
thin frame, and ghastly feet,
copper-like rough strands,
but face, with a rare angelic cut,
wearing paleness, she walked, in a trance..
barely there, but starkly felt,
from within a distance, of her feet
her riches…that she firmly held,
some rags…and a piece of paper…old but neat.
Wandering, in those, smothered lands…
She trailed on…over miles of sights...
a faith, in someone, and the words he spoke,
kept her going…through days and nights…
as the fiery sun, with the glistening moon,
And the melting snow of the glaciers,
Months came…and passed…like a blink
And our lady was seen…lesser and lesser...
Winter ushered, with its full vigor,
Painting those parched lands, with its charm,
Untainted and pure it looked, as a sacred hymn,
Sung by a preacher, like a soulful psalm.
One such misty morn, as it was to be…
Blades of grass…still fresh with dews,
Wrapped in the pall, of countless blossoms,
There she lay, cold and stiff, in the morning hues…
Aged enough, when the day was,
Folks came…with melancholy on minds,
Someone saw, a thing, subtly hidden…
A letter it was, one of her riches, of good ol‘times.
It smelled of nothing, but selfless love,
That she bore, in her bosom, for her man,
Who promised, taking her along, upon his return,
The fateful letter, said it all, in a leaf’s span…
Tears weren’t enough, to mourn her loss,
All who came, knew it too well,
She came with nothing, but left with a lot,
Her memoirs, too poignant, stayed like a witch’s spell.
Buried she was, in heart of the earth,
As a dead log, that rots in the backyard,
Harsh a message, her death did foster,
That, people truly ‘fall’, in love, like a pack of cards…
As Mother Nature, has always had it,
Another long day, came to an end,
The world went on swiftly, on all its fours,
Camouflaging itself, with a blissful ignorance...
tread on! move on! in this life’s caravan,
unending trail of life from dusk to dawn!
pass skeletons in sand from days of yore,
sand has blown over, past footprints are gone
man with limp walks to meet destiny’s chore,
further he walks further the distance more,
trivial his rewards for journey he takes,
when death beckons all ends on zero score!
why take such a journey past eddy lakes?
through hurricanes and thunder when earth shakes,
the lure of unknown like fly to a lamp,
who can tell them of their pointless mistakes?
the weaving desert like slow moving ramp,
worn out camels stomping to distant camp,
with thirst to quench, in quest of needed rest,
joys of living traded to earn money stamps.
folly of growing wants, desire for best,
under billion stars where soul is a guest,
enamoured by body, life is lead astray,
voices of prophets lost in sweeping dust!
silhouettes of pretty maidens to music sway,
remedy for heartache, is lust for her clay,
the breath in synchrony with flow of wine,
passions swing past as night ends in day!
in pavilion of ignorance, wise resign,
on the carcass of wisdom, fools may dine,
truth is buried, shrouded in black silk drape,
where dance of the devil and lies combine!
the truth is somewhere deep within that grape,
that helps dreaming mind from falsehood escape,
in silver cup of fortitude pour some wine,
and kill the myth, give reality new shape!
in the warmth of fire where embers shine,
where greed plays havoc with cries of mine, mine!
pour them the taste of that fermented potion,
to awaken their soul to bring them in line!
in tented tavern amidst commotion,
truth frozen, but untruth is in fashion,
I feel your lips on my lips to reassure,
lips of damsel wine that brings elation!
I see the coloured glasses glitter pure,
jingle of anklets on bodies demure,
dancing to please insolence and wealth,
calamity, disease, pretences sans cure.
pour me a cup so I can drink to health,
to bemoan the tale of truth lost in stealth,
in flow of wine there is freedom of breath,
liberation of truth, from deep underneath!
Tamam shud!( original ending of Rubaiyat) means
all clear or the end!!
Based on Omar Khayyam’s Rubaiyat
Written 12/11/2021
I do not rule with iron hand,
but with the rhythm of sacred sand—
each grain a word, each line a sign,
where order breathes and hearts align.
Before the lesson dares to start,
I plant the law with quiet art:
Not carved in stone, but shaped in grace—
a whispered guide, a steady place.
I walk not tall with voice raised high,
but low and warm, where truth can lie.
A glance, a pause, a name well said—
can calm the storm that storms ahead.
Praise is light, and I let it shine
on every soul that seeks to climb.
The smallest try, the softest voice,
is honored here—it is their choice.
I set the chairs in sacred round,
where trust and laughter can be found.
And in that space, they learn to see
that peace is born in unity.
When troubles come—and they still do—
I do not shame, I don’t undo.
But meet them there with calm and care,
and ask what truth still waits to share.
Each rule is not a chain, but wing—
to teach respect, to help joy sing.
And every child I’ve come to know
has taught me how the Spirit grows.
Their voices rise in morning light,
unsure at first, then bold and bright.
They test, they reach, they fall, they mend—
and find their center in the end.
I walk the circle every day,
not just to guide but to obey—
the higher call that whispers low:
"Let love be what your actions show."
I watch them build with blocks and words,
their questions flightless, then like birds.
Some come with wounds too raw to name,
yet even there, I light no flame.
Instead, I offer space to breathe,
to let their guarded selves unsheathe.
The broken bits they fear to show
become the ground from which they grow.
And I—a keeper, not a guard—
hold wisdom not as rule, but shard:
A mirror turned to help them see
the brave, becoming way to be.
I do not wear a heavy crown,
nor weigh each rise, nor mark each frown.
But in my silence, I still shape
the kindness that their lives will drape.
So may this room, this ring, this flame,
forget no face, neglect no name.
Let every child who leaves this sphere
still hear its pulse in times unclear.
Let them recall the calm, the care,
the hands that held them unaware—
and know that even when alone,
they carry peace they've always known.
Written: May 12, 2025, for contest Sponsored by: Kai Michael Neumann
Quote: “Set yourself on fire and seek those who fan your flame.” By Rumi
**********************************
I sliced through the strings
that thawed my dreams in shadow,
tossing them into the time tiara
of celestial orbs and supple styles.
Periwinkle-plum dawns defy time;
Bright blooms grow in cosmic cracks.
Dusk falls on barren land, esoteric embers;
With an aching heart, I walk alone,
serenading with blue lotus meteors.
The wand of Kismet gleams akin to stone,
as cinnamon-glazed magic unravels.
Each shift is a fascinating fight—
light-flecked drape, lyrical elixir, elegies;
curling mulberry-leaf marrow fades.
After the kernel, I strive for clarity
without crash or catharsis, without pain.
A lovely wind touches my smile—
In the pulse of erased promise.
An impending divorce is stipulated.
In echoes of exquisite and ubiquitous,
lavender-sequined crystals of shift,
I sail beyond the rhyming reefs to embrace divorce.
Cut wistful strings, salty lines, diving into rhapsody...
Torn uncanny links below heavy waves,
free to explore unmet routes
amid vanilla plankton tears.
May I find solace in every crooked teal smile.
O, if sepia pearls and reverie state a split,
I release and love what is not meant to stay.
Even with moon megalomania, using past wisdom,
the plants wide wings amid the warm sky
and herbs flexed with a deceased breeze of joy.
I sip in the glorious, gold-and-cherry air,
Clouds of bewilderment have dissipated.
In a captivating cosmos, clarity clings.
Hunger, turmeric-tinted roses follow an idyllic climb,
and whispers shout boldly—unafraid, Nix!
Ominous night glows appear as we fly across the sky.
We claim our position under brilliant beams
and the rose-glazed moon,
while myths merge across endless twilight.
Heartbroken after its fateful odyssey,
among the stars, free from a fixed kismet.
I will sleep calmly, wishing for plum rings
to create a pearlescent paradise.
The Estuary of Esoteric Embers
laces my home with soul-searching chimes,
whistling away in flavors of forgiveness.
Beauty is in the keen eyes,
Not in the clear blue skies;
Clouds that twirl in shape,
Or forest greens that drape;
Life is beautiful, if only we have the eyes for it.
The flowers of colours rare
Will make the sights ensnare
You in their fragrant embrace
Of soft petals and curly face
Life is beautiful, if only we have the eyes for it
Men are blind, how to cherish beauty,
Even if everything they own is pretty;
Nothing will be there to see, or enjoy
Leading to happiness, delight, or joy;
Life is beautiful, if only we have the eyes for it.
The melodious nightingale singing
And the insects, in dusk, chirping;
Together, give us music so unique,
An atmosphere infinitely mystique;
Life is beautiful, if only we have the eyes for it.
We see, but in essence, we are blind,
The little things that we seldom find;
Better it is that we close our eyes,
To open our mind, and fully realise;
Life is beautiful, if only we have the eyes for it.
Gone are the golden days of yore,
We had time to enjoy to the core;
To look at sights, watch, and gaze,
At things that spontaneously amaze;
Life is beautiful, if only we have the eyes for it.
The human intellect is unquestionable,
But, never our character that is fallible;
We love destroying the things we have,
In irrational quest for what we don’t have;
Life is beautiful, if only we have the eyes for it.
Nothing ever seems to be right,
Except the times when we fight;
What more have we turned into,
With an eye on political power too;
Life is beautiful, if only we have the eyes for it.
Can we become humans again,
To work for humanity, not gain;
To make this world a better society,
To maintain peace, and our sanity;
Life is beautiful, if only we have the eyes for it.
To live a worthy life, fear not ignoble death,
When the time is near, cling not to wealth
We entered this world sans a stitch on us
We shall leave it amidst things worthless
Life is beautiful, if only we have the eyes for it.
Men who spread evil, hatred on Earth,
Never will find solace a penny’s worth;
Those who scheme to spread dissent,
Will, however fail, in the end repent;
Life is beautiful, if only we have the eyes for it.
mbfarookh