Long Drapery Poems
Long Drapery Poems. Below are the most popular long Drapery by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Drapery poems by poem length and keyword.
Luminous lids lift, languidly unveiling vistas of vibrant verse, as lavish laughter lines lips that lure with lyricism.
Sultry syllables swirl, a sweet serenade that saturates the senses, summoning sonnets that soar on solar winds.
Gentle gestures glide, a gracious gamut of elegance, as each delicate digit dances, dripping with dignified demeanor.
Fiery fervor flashes, a fervent fusion of fascination, as fervid fingers fan the flames of fantasy and fiction.
Ravishing radiance reigns, a resplendent rainbow of ravishing beauty, as rosy rouge revives and rejuvenates the senses.
Lissome limbs undulate, a languid latticework of loveliness, as lithe lines limn the landscape of the lovely dame.
Velvety vowels vibrate, a vibrant vocalization of vitality, as vivacious voice whispers sweet nothings to the willing heart.
Dazzling diamonds dazzle, a diadem of dazzling delight, as delicate digits decorate the divine with diaphanous drapery.
Svelte silhouettes sway, a sinuous serpentine of seduction, as supple skin shimmers, shedding shimmering shadows.
Gossamer garments glide, a gauzy gamut of gorgeousness, as gilded gowns glimmer, glowing with golden light.
Lustrous locks cascade, a lavish landslide of loveliness, as luxuriant tresses tumble, tumbling tenderly to the ground.
Ethereal essence emanates, an exquisite efflorescence of elegance, as the lovely dame embodies the essence of the divine.
Shadows blend, darkened forms melt as the chilling night falls
Into the splendor of the unknown blackness, answering your calls.
Hearing you calling me from the wilderness of the night.
Wandering through the dark abyss, searching without a light.
I fear not, of the ghosts and goblins, their presence subdued.
Still faint your calls grow louder as my hope is ever renewed.
Blindness created by the pitch-black veil I venture into.
Mesmerized by the silence surrounding your calls, now few.
Step after step I feel the night engulf me, stirring a bravery.
Tripping over brambles, surging through this black drapery.
Ghosts begin to taunt me swirling around my head.
I am not bothered and run through them without dread.
Chilled by the cold night air, as it dries up all my tears.
Stark silence stirs me as now I realize my worst fears.
Solitude wakens me to what night did not allow me to see.
My beautiful one you are calling me, from a place I cannot be.
Whispers whirl in some distant lands,
Where sunshine spills on shifting sands,
Some deviants stroll diverse ways,
Beneath the shrouded clouds of grey.
They`re the ones who query the core,
Their spirits crave for something more,
Not bound by strings of common thought,
They yearn to be eyed as big shots
To them the divine, a pale glow,
A faint truth, that with the breeze blow,
A scintillating sinking star,
That wanders from some realms afar.
Perhaps the deviant don`t care
How others think and how they stare,
How shattered mirrors shine unclear,
How they create worries and fear.
They dance where angels fear to tread
And weave their thoughts with added threads,
Their hearts a compass, keenly tuned,
To melodies of worlds perfumed.
Some customs grown over long time,
Amidst the common minds do shine,
But to deviants, a true source
Of annoyance, they don`t endorse.
They carry burdens from the woods,
The gleam of what is bad and good,
A drapery of light and gloom,
That by their very hands is loomed.
The divine, in its grand design,
May find a beauty, that does shine
In every soul that dares to be,
Unfettered, unchained and quite free.
Deviants may seem out of place,
With an obdurate, upright grace;
Yet in their eyes, a knowledge deep,
Secrets the slumbering world keeps.
The divine isn`t reached through one gate,
But diverse roads that clinch our fate
And those who diverge, with eyes clean,
May see truth others mightn`t have seen.
So let them stroll, at their own stride,
Where the inner streams softly slide.
For in deviants` shining soul,
The divine may find a round whole.
I am a wall painted purple, oh, I remember that day well,
a girl of raven hair, standing on a ladder painting me;
I was laughing because her hair had streaks of purple paint,
and she was dappled all over with dots of me.
The next few days I was left alone to dry in quietude,
then came the antique furniture and mauve drapery;
art work was attached to me in hues of purple so lovely,
my whole essence was of peace and tranquility.
I liked to watch the girl dance around the room so pretty,
she looked at herself in an oval mirror attached to me;
and I felt she was looking into my soul, often she was writing,
at her desk into a diary with tears in her eyes.
How I wanted to reach out and stroke that head gently,
but of course I was just a purple wall, I felt her sadness;
then one day she was wearing a beautiful white dress,
I did not realize that she was leaving me that day.
The door to my room closed with the furniture covered,
I spent my days in darkness as the curtains hid the sun,
at night all I had were my memories of that raven haired girl,
then one day, the door creaked open, so slowly.
An old lady with white hair holds the hand of a little girl,
she strokes the raven hair of the girl with such love;
the dark haired girl smiles- the lady calls her granddaughter,
she tells her, "this is the room where I used to dance."
Then, they open up the curtains and throw off the covers,
and they begin to dance and twirl all about the room;
I am happy- I want to join them but I am just a purple wall,
that little girl now looks into the oval mirror . . .
attached to me, and it seems she is looking into my soul.
_______________________
October 14, 2016
Poetry/Personification/Just A Purple Wall
Copyright Protected, ID 16-839-255-0
All Rights Reserved. Written under Pseudonym.
Submitted to the contest, Personification
sponsor, Lewis Raynes
Sixth Place
I am T'áno Shemu
of the Washoe Indians.
I am the mountain’s breath
over the rose wildness
carried through four hundred generations,
guiding you into the rose-lit silence
where our old winds
still remember your name.
I wake within Rose Wilderness,
where rose-quartz ramparts
rise in radiant rapture,
and the Carson crestline
u
n
v
e
i
l
s
its silk-spun symphony
of Washoe winds.
Here, pine-perfumed pathways
pulse with four hundred generations
of earth-etched echoes,
their ancestral ardor drifting
through the dusk-kissed drapery
of dawn.
Granite glimmers
in blush-born brilliance,
a mythic mosaic
of mountain memory
holding embered epics
of every spirit
who once walked
these wild inclines
with sky-seeking steps
and soul-sure stride.
I feel their presence
like warm wind
on winter’s wrist,
a tender tremor rising
from the land’s luminous longing,
guiding me through this rose-lit realm
where want becomes
wild-hearted worship
of place,
people,
and past.
So the dawn drapes
the Carson crestline
in blush-born brilliance,
and the Washoe winds
u
n
f
u
r
l
their embered echoes
across the granite glow.
In that wild stillness,
I feel the land remembering me
as gently
as I remember it--
and in the rose-lit rapture
of Wilderose,
I rise wrapped
in ancestral radiance,
carried by the mountain’s molten memory
into the shimmering forever
of its sacred breath.
I’m hot in a careless way,
Like a barn fire, or a stolen Mercedes.
I’m the B-side of a 45
That never got much air play
Except at the request of lonely girls
Sitting home on prom night
With thin slivers of moonlight
Slipping through their drapery
To caress their disappointments.
I’m an organ grinding gypsy,
A vendor of cognitive provocations,
Subliminal symbolism,
And academic totems.
My vagrant delinquencies
Have accustomed me
To settle my accounts
With handy lay about cash;
My ledgers are always well balanced.
So, when I need a little bodily love,
When I need a little bodily love,
Yes, when I need a little bodily love
I summon that sylvan nymph coven
Of nubile forest vixens
To witch their carnal spells
With dirty talk and tongue lashings
That cleanse my insecurities
And teach me the usefulness of emptiness.
Written: November 10, 2024 For Contest Sponsored by: Ink Empress
__________________________
Homeric moonstone sparkles at night.
a glowing globe of gleam amid galaxies,
Its shimmering shafts as flowing fantasies,
gliding glimmering, giddy waves of a wild ocean.
Glowing gaze glances into the gorgeous,
glistening sapphire depths,
where wild winds whirl, a wondrous waltz awakens—
ruby glistens amid the thunderclap.
amethyst whispers in the misty screams.
Hearken: harmonious hymns hover in heavens
colorful loops of capturing emerald and turquoise
every hue is a harmony in a mariner’s melody
each ebbing essence echoes magical epics of yore.
The fracas outside fades
as nature’s narratives naturally navigate—
dense drapery, like drowsy dividers
drawbacks divulge a heart displayed delicately.
Moonbeams meander over majestic mountains
limestone and obsidian, luscious layers lost
while wordsmiths weave wondrous words,
In a cascade of captivating couplets,
that shimmer and crumble.
Do you hear the sirens sing?
a chorus of longing from the depths
they call to hearts heavy like stone
yet light as ashes caught in the smoke.
We walk where men have trodden,
tracing footsteps worn soft by time,
with wonder in every glance, every sigh,
painted worlds vibrate in the very air.
So, step into this symphony of starlit spells.
a captivating collection of contrasting senses—
where dazzling diamonds dance delightfully
and the fierce fight for fervent fantasies flows with the tide.
Out here beneath the blackened blanket of night,
Elysium eagerly awaits our embrace—
a splendid symphony, and you
the softest serenade nestled in its depths.
had a hectic day with
lots of things to do
so glad i found my way
home from work
did not think i would make it
not with the dark, the cold and
the exhaustion conspiring against me
opened the door after some time of
fumbling with the keys
not sure what goes where
slummed the door shut and
dropped the bag on the floor
why let it burden me after
what i had gone through today
was hungry but it could wait
had only one thing in my mind
my sweet little comfortable bed
finally reached the room did not
think to turn on the light and
just fell on my bed
did not think i would wake up
did not care if i did
all i wanted was just a little sleep
was that too much to ask
forgot to draw the drapery
and when morning came
i felt a kiss of sunshine
as the morning rays raced
to my face, i smiled a little
and got a glow on
reassuring and brightening my day
because there was still hope
working under the sun
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Your black carriage moves through perpetual gloom~
Ravenloft’s castle sits, perched atop Barovia’s bone-white crags,
its spine hunched over fog-choked valleys.
You sit alone in Ravenloft, tracing chess moves on dusty marble,
fingertips lingering where Tatyana’s pawn once stood~
writing names in your ledger, the ink brown as blood.
You are a silhouette of despair, swirling brandy in your amber-hued snifter~
the moonlight bruising your study’s velvet drapery,
the centuries calcifying the ache behind your ribs.
Your shadow clings to the castle walls long after candles sputter~
haunting notes of an unseen organ drift through the night,
calling lost souls to your eternal embrace.
You stalk the hunt that cannot feed~immortal thirst, forever starved.
Yet you smile and pour yourself another century.
The revolving wheel of the ceaseless time
rotates the contrived kaleidoscope of life,
the riveting patterns change persistently
in the mélange of motif within the mind.
The chameleon colors transform transiently
the visage of mind’s topographic tapestry
into ashen canvas of burnt barrenness,
or into painted exuberance of emerald valley.
The diffused dreams on the desolate drift,
cascade away along the stream of sight,
meandering on the mesmeric drapery,
weaved with the strands of ebullience.
The vision replicates the wings of butterfly,
flittering on the ripples of the rapturous air,
and before it flies away beyond the horizon,
forms for me the facsimile of fulfillment.
On my lonesome travel on the tortuous path
across the green wasteland in reviving rains,
or along the golden garden trail in autumn,
I am suffused with the splendor of colors,
As the shutter of my sanguine mind opens,
the flourishing film of receptive sensuality
captures the sublime snapshots of beauty
for the collage of life called kaleidoscope.