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.
The suffix nut specifying the skull,
defining the coconut, is misplaced,
for it’s not truly a nut,
but botanically, a drape.
A salinity soaker, the prolific palm,
sultry sea-shore colonizer copious,
it’s sky-searching trunk with spiny leaf crown
holds the fruit, the traditional tropical icon.
In certain societies around the globe,
a notable cultural and religious symbol,
it’s a multipurpose fruit is versatile,
used as food, fuel and folk medicine.
Its tough shell is a strong fortress that guards
the treasure of water and kernel, sweet and pure,
like the tender heart hiding
behind stern persona façade.
Written: July 28, 2026, for a contest sponsored by Brian Strand
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The poem is inspired by the sonnet “That time of year thou mayst in me behold” by William Shakespeare
This variation on Sonnet XL1 illustrates what Kuhlmann intended.
Kuhlmann is a verse poem of two phrases interspersed with three related syllabic stem- words(nouns, adjectives )with an integral title. The label and form are derived from the baroque poet Quirinus Kuhlmann's 50 sonnet form Love-kiss XLI.
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Through flame: volatile, heat, light:
the metamorphosis
by night: stygian, cimmerian, peaceful:
near oblivion
by season: perennial, vernal, brief:
ochre haze
through heart: pulse, trust, will:
mystic confluence
from time: aeonian, transient, rigid:
euphony linger
through creed: esoteric, hollow, dogmatic:
undying spark
through age: golden, venerable:
filigree prison
through soul: immortal, eternal, cosmic:
oracular obelisk
by heaven: empyrean, elysian, celestial:
ethereal erasure
from perpetuity: ceaseless, fixed, static:
cenotaph sermon
through love: fervent, serene, poignant:
amber drape
from belief: devout, pragmatic, visceral:
inmost pulse.
My God knows where I am, my body, soul.
He sees me now inside this deep, dark hole
imprisoned in these rooms and in my mind;
escape from each, I know I cannot find.
The window gives a view of life beyond,
and just a wave from me, a magic wand
for sustenance and warmth, to be set free.
But inner voices say this cannot be.
My demons dance around me with their smiles.
They led me through dark paths for many miles
toward this abandoned house to live my days
with apples, water, paper, pen; my maze.
A journal kept, the fragments of my brain
so scattered in the wind of thoughts insane
of living in this web with no escape
but for the final curtain of death's drape.
Oh God, this trap; I'm lost and so afraid!
Don't know what's real or just my mind's facade.
You see me now within this deep, dark hole;
but, out of reach from you, my anguished soul.
That ever moving panorama,
with its diaphanous filters,
its ever changing shimmers of light –
blue skies.
Then there is the crush and crash
of an iron clad drape thundering downwards,
or yet still the burning spiral
of a remorseless gaze, a branding iron that seeks
to etch its power upon all caught under its sway –
other skies.
It’s climate, nothing more than a global swirling
of one atmosphere jousting with another
and what we see, what we encounter is nothing more
than the energies of oceans of air.
Or is it the dance of Shiva?
Some of his steps bring death and destruction,
while some give life -
breathe joy into lungs.
Where then is a sky beyond her sky,
one which is ever still in the eye of all storms?
Where the artists brush?
The climate of mind,
the climate of mind,
the climate of mind,
that’s a real sky worth painting.
Asleep contented, dead to the world
Inside she hears what the outside has never heard
Her inner fears and nightmare dreams
Flow within her torrent of screams
What entities posses a soul so young
What has she done, to become their chosen one
Her nightmare starts with hands through the walls
In every direction she hears them call
Every time they touch, her blood they draw
Their clamping hands like vice like jaws
Her eyes open in chilling stare
As she greets the entities sitting there
Beings so different with humanoid shape
Clothing scant in skeletal drape
Piercing eyes in her mind they search
This five, on her bedside perched
Her body now in levitation
This beings of five in realisation
She has been chosen to continue their race
Their experiments tested her grace
She awakes in the morning in normal stare
Her parents find she's just not there
http://www.thehighlanderspoems.com/dark-2.php
I am a real scaredy cat
and there's absolutely nothing that
I could do about that.
I'm scared of 'roaches
I'm scared of rats
I'm scared of spiders
and afraid of bats
I fear all arachnids
and I fear those gnats
Oh I fear all the kinds I find
of those creepy crawly brats!
And but what can I do about that?
Huh and who woudn't fear
a midnight rat-a-tat?
So I've resigned myself to being
a lifelong scaredy cat.
Yeah and I'm scared of heights
Scared of noises at night
Gah, I'm really quick to fright!
I'm scared of grasshoppers and even of dogs
Gosh there's hardly a thing that I ain't scared of.
But I admit I am a timid tigress
otherwise I'm a harmless human who don't hurt a fly
Normally just a normal lady, a humble poetess
I attack only when provoked to the limits
so as I'm a cat after all
I do show my tiger claws if the situation demands
or else I don't mind chickening out
of aggressive and foolhardy involvements.
And maybe if everybody was a coward like me
they wouldn't hurt each other with sheer brutality.
I guess for ladies it's not so bad to be
a bit more cowardly
In any case that's far better than being
a ruffian who's dastardly!
And oh, lastly but not the least
ah yes, I also greatly fear
any lustful male leer
I'd rather I'm invisible to their view
So I really find huge refuge
in the dear divine idea that exhorts me to
to drape and wrap myself from top to toe
in flowing garbs when I step outdoors
and that veiling attire does make me brave
as I feel vulnerable no more
and that's when I feel the transformation from lil kitty
into the big cats
from scaredy cat to formidable tigress
and that's when for once there's NOTHING I fear anymore! :)
as I go out veiled in soft armour from top to toe.
And I feel I can face the chauvinistic foe
Line of inquiry:
“Of the fact we are alive, we are sure
All else scriptures say, may or may not be
So presence vibrant, heart pure and demure
As formless awareness we become free”
The embodiment of our unique existence,
life is the construct of transient elements
that align in the plethora of perishable patterns
within the mundane entity of the living body.
The miasma of surreal trance envelops the perception
by the fleeting swathe of the eternal time.
With the multi-colored strands of possessive passion
the mystique mind weaves the tapestry of thoughts.
The swirling currents of the vibrant mind
then find the course of introspection to the absolute
through the layers of divine consciousness
that illumines the drape of the self-designed acuity.
Across the multi-layered receptive mind,
the sense of existence vibrates at the inner depth
where awareness configures the essence of freedom,
reflecting the sedate splendor of the pristine heart.
The existential epithet of heavenly epiphany
adorns the bejeweled crown of the sensuous psyche.
The sanctified soul shines in the spiritual glow,
reflecting the patina of the selfless lotus of love.
HEART BEATS
They threw a blanket over her
yellow tape around the crime scene
made no attempts to revive her
and yet the monument persists.
Slowly crowds gathered after dark
laying roses upon her past
church bells hang silent in mourning
the fullness of an empty time.
From within the crowd a murmur
”She is not dead!” “Her heart still beats.”
A gust of wind stirred the church bells
candles flickered in dark windows
children gazed upon new beauty
looked up to greet another’s eyes
smiled, and felt the heart start beating
removed the blanket drape of fear.
Like hearts, touching one another,
a forgotten dream rekindled
silent voices speaking as one
beating in the Heart of Christmas.
11/25/2016
submitted to – THE HEART OF CHRISTMAS – Poetry Contest
Written: May 27, 2024, For Robert James Liguori Contest, Inspired From Glenn Hughes Song " Burn"
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The sky spills scarlet, a burning stain,
Even after midnight, ghosts remain.
Shouts of oblivion and a lady's name,
A swell of her palm burns a voracious flame.
The city is burning, a blaze at night,
Her inferno evolves, a frightening sight.
We labeled her as coarse and dissed her claim,
Ignorance of the reality intensified the flame.
Devil egg yolks, they dissed, an awful deceit,
Her envious says ripped a tear in the peat.
Wrath you all, she said, that you'll not learn,
My departure bars any hope for a return.
They chuckled, ignoring the sarcastic refrain,
Until she whispered, Burn!, and shared her pain.
The ground trembled, a warning unheard,
We were transfixed, by the horrible word.
There is no time to leave, no way of escape,
The inferno's outrage is a merciless drape.
There's not much time for prayer or despair
The fire devastated it without compare.
See these tiny things
Filled with thought profound;
Cute miniatures spring
From creative grounds.
In a format small,
Craft miniature books;
Haiku moments call:
Browse and take a look.
One and a half inch,
The book height is short;
Words squeezed just to lynch
Warm poetry is wrought.
A sure design feeds
Steady hand-skill mints;
This collage craft seeds
Finesse that now tints.
A paper stock craft
Comes forth from ideas;
Design a rough draft,
Mental image steers.
Visuals now take shape,
With thought focus here;
Measure out or drape
What impulse sparks clear.
A tiny book page
Via plain prototype;
Step by step each stage
Styles wonder not hype.
Imagine the route
From a plain blank sheet:
Until success shouts
With product you meet.
This crafty craft fits
The collage art flow;
Poise flavours sure wit
To let tact now show.
Print the outline page,
Trim, cut and align;
Patience works each stage,
Keep eyes on design.
Arrange each page right,
Guide the lines of fold;
Set rule to guide sight,
Keep pulp sculpture bold.
Fold each page well,
Now back-to-back;
Frame by frame tells,
Allow some slack.
Press the stack stage,
Glide steel rule straight;
Sharp blade trims edge,
Both sides look great.
Fit hard cover,
Like a sandwich;
Forge maneuvers,
Paste each to each.
Surely and truly,
The book sculpture grows;
Practice works surely
When rough edges show.
And then, finally:
A tiny book sums
The effort nicely
With a fine outcome.
Mini book that forms
A miniature whole;
A focus sets norm
In dealing with soul.
So crafty craft shows
In body mass cute;
Feel a certain glow
In silence that mutes.
Little treasures here
In miniature books;
To spread ease and cheer
In satisfied looks.
Start again now
To make one more;
Watch skills endow
A fine rapport.
Leon Enriquez
12 December 2014
Singapore