Long Dreamscape Poems
Long Dreamscape Poems. Below are the most popular long Dreamscape by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Dreamscape poems by poem length and keyword.
From the edge of the ebon night sky,
under the engulfing clouds of gloom,
the promise of moon I’ve made to you,
I’ll keep before the eclipse starts.
The somber storm of smothering strife
drifts me away across the slate horizon,
the clouds melt in the torrent of tears
as my sky falls with the marooned moon.
The promise kept after the agonizing wait,
your fervent window opens on vista of hope,
ushers in the dislodged moon called heart,
rolling onto your satin bed long unslept
In the dark niche of your desolateness
glows the frozen moonbeam burst,
while the floating tinsels of silver dust
flutter like fairy over your silhouette face.
Holding the magical moon turned crystal globe,
you look deep into the illumined fortune
in kaleidoscopic images portending the future,
where my yearning paints dreamscape for you.
Written : March 10, 2020
June 9, 2020
Contest : Strand No. 790
Sponsor : Brian Strand
There are days fulfilled by wonder,
When a solar leap meets the horizon ahead.
Leaving remnants to unanswered questions,
For a tutorial dreamscape instead.
Timing seems unimportant, as if no
Difference exists between old and new.
While a flood of bits and scraps flow by,
With strong currents to obscure any clue.
The lengthy productions have never shown
Repeats, only new scenes yet to ignore.
As if a giant jig-saw puzzle is tossed down
In pieces, and when unsolved, I'll just snore.
Regardless of any duration, the nightly
Views seldom reach any memory to explain.
So I'm left with more clouded mystery,
That only a sub-conscious can entertain.
So many balloons I can spy -
colorful air-ships above me.
This happens each Fourth of July-
a sight all the valley can see.
How glorious is this dreamscape.
So many balloons I can spy
making me wish to escape
and float with them up to the sky.
I’d want to go higher than high,
ride clouds, and gaze down like the birds.
So many balloons I can spy
so lovely that I have no words.
In morning’s bright light how they gleam.
In a hot-air balloon may I fly?
With feet bound to ground, I but dream.
So many balloons I can spy.
Feb. 8, 2023
for the Balloons Poetry Contest of Anthony Biaanco
[- with 2-4-6-8-2 syllables in a stanza]
Calm sea
curves in white frill,
as gentle, lazy waves
dash against each other, playing
catch me.
---------------------------------------------
Scrawny
cats gather close.
A bevy of them meet
on the gravel sand discussing
conquests.
---------------------------------------------
I learned
to watch the sands
of shifting friendships sink
like tides that ebb and flow with wind
pushing
----------------------------------------------
Her voice
a cruel thrust
plunged deep into his mind.
cold shivers made a ladder of
his spine
-------------------------------------------------
Light spills
breaking shadows
weaves a patchwork of hues
painter’s dreamscape etched into his
palette
-----------------------------------------------
Mountains
with crests of snow
look somber and sleepy
as distant mists of dawn start to
creep slow
---------------------------------------------
“Imagine,” he said, “the magic of pretending,
whether one is in bed or on a mountaintop.
—quote by poet
The rush of wind,
and hush of chimes, between breaths.
Full sun carries
no tune; it tarries, stimulates
my too pale face.
To sail, to sigh; shells on the beach.
I bury my feet
in crush of waves, deceptive suds.
Flood of feelings;
momentum of time displacement.
Floating, glistening.
My eyes confused, maligning sight.
One thing is true:
the rush of wind, the hush of chimes;
and there is more -
the sun does not play lyre; or flute.
A golden ornate cup once full
a mystical reservoir filled
now half-emptied of love and emotions,
as if the night would be emptied
of moon glow and starlight;
sipping in and savoring, bitter delight
in the last few remaining drops
of inner peace and tranquility,
harbinger of melancholia time
bewitching poetry of sage and antiquity;
inebriation, intoxication, imbibed tippler,
the maudlin sour darkness of sleep
rest and forgetfulness of the forlorn soul
the old soul, the soothsayer extraordinaire,
a primitive, ecclesiastical realist;
give me rest, satisfy my thirst
quench my fears and anxieties
in restful sleep and dreamscape
awaiting escape, release, freedom
through this chalice of night.
1/18/22 The Chalice of Night
contest sponsored by Chantelle Anne Cooke
When Neptune's
nostalgic sighs,
weave ruffled rosaries
of brocade ink,
bleeding from
blackberry wrinkles
in torrential time,
I wonder if
herculean eyes
of my earthen heart,
are afraid of being
abandoned by the
electric rhapsody
of life's alienated
aroma.
Swinging on the
translucent
parabola of a
frozen rainbow,
my fate is
skewed as a
cantaloupe
silhouette, of
helix-shaped
maple pamphlets,
where, bluebirds
feast on decaying
seeds of love
and sing
hemlock-croons
in those magnolia
gardens.
But,
what if stars
were edible and
I devoured their
ivory scintilla,
submerging
cosmic potions
in my arteries,
iridescent with
clusters of
quasar's quivering
rays and pulsar's
pistachio glitter?
So now,
I collect
volcanic ash
from rust-orange
ruins of dahlia's
dreamscape
and embalm
them with
paradise-pink hues
of distilled empathy,
for my swan-white
halo of faithful
silence, is still
glowing with
sombre yet
glossy shine
of the linen sun
and I inhale
the fragrance of
my marshmallow moon.
Met Anouka in my artistic dream.
Skreech, fzzzt, ch-ch-ch-ch beep boop click-clack.
Ooooo, aaaaah, vroom, virtual booting machine.
Zap, plonk, and whoosh into a time-loop sack.
Anouka crafted art that made gems rock!
She sails far above stars in rocket dreams.
Skreech, fzzzt, ch-ch-ch-ch beep boop click-clack.
High tech ignites surreal dreams on jet-pack.
Eeeeyowww power-down wails through feedback-tack.
Pew-pew ding-ding, zoooop-strong glitch-burst dream-hack.
Anouka crafted art that made gems rock.
Static discharge fzzzt skritch bleeee krrrshhh thwunk shock.
Bleeble-bloop strong sunlight's bright light clock-tock.
Ooooo, aaaaa, vroom, virtual machine bot-rock.
She glides far above stars in rocket dreams.
Ooooo, aaaaa, vroom, virtual dreams bool machine.
Glitch-bursts unravel what the swoop-code deems.
Onomatopoeia blooms in moonbeams.
Sci-fi textures whirr-click through neon streams.
Zap, planks, and whoosh into a time-loop sack.
Anouka's inspiration shines in beams.
Pulsar void pulse with tick tock astral gleam.
Anouka swirls in streaming swooshy dreams!
I met Anouka in an artist's dream.
Blue studio shined.
Cosmic clouds swiftly divined.
Ethereal finds.
Cloudy blue sculptures
Await dreaming visitors,
Future creators.
There was a table
With rectangular artworks,
Each with its own cloud.
The shapes were simple,
Embedded in the dreamscape,
Clouds becoming bright.
Art from inner mind,
As soul relays a message
About tomorrow.
Sparkling bright jewel,
Delightful blue renewal.
Absorb the meaning.
Sparkle fizz fuzz fizz
Inner whoah woo woo night bizz
Whoosh whoosh stars sizzle!
I trace bitter trials of
another Helios spark~
as a collapsed marionette,
barely seeing colors of clarity,
between onyx-glazed flames,
tangled in the hollow temple
carved in medieval calligraphies,
bleeding seething scars,
incensed with coiled confusion~
reverberating macabre voices
that thrum distant decays,
clouding inner dusk
with disoriented dandelions.
Yet heaven waits above
the impregnated wilderness,
its unlocked gates eager
to wrap me in cryptic clusters
of withered, cold oleanders,
poisoning my poetic pulse
with ceaseless critique~
as if
I am a sacrilegious sin~
no longer your muse,
but a blistering burden,
unmoved by the warmth
of frozen asteroids,
a gossamer blasphemy,
suffocating the spectral sighs
singing star-spun psalms
to the swan-soft skin
of the mythologized moon,
still plagued by malignant memories
of truth I once wore~
a frangipani on the fervent frills
of your milky-quartz dreamscape,
now a festering flicker
of bewitched demons,
a phantom ember
breathing elegies
for a dark romance
long deceased...
You'll remain my immortal camellia
soaked in the crimson
wet rush of raining silence,
oblivious to the ominous
odes etched to the cosmos,
mirroring chaos in my heart,
as every chamber within
homes glacial grief~
frost-clawed rivers
ferrying forlorn phrases,
stirring the air
that emanates triggers,
casting tiger-snake spells
from the slithering angst
of Medusa’s mourning mane,
turning midnight runes of my soul
into stone-rinsed sorrow,
cradled in the dust
of distress, forevermore…
Not remembering you in joy
how had this come to be?
No memories of you content,
no happiness to see.
No happiness for your whole life
though plenty filled your plate.
Bards filled your mind at early age
with beauty on the page.
The home you had was pin cushion small
pincushion small, it pricked
with a violent soul rent from the Guf
raw poverty , rent and licked.
While violets held the windowsills
and mother’s soul was sweet
denial visited much too oft
father’s drunken anger did compete
Longfellow laced your nascent mind
The Children’s Hour your treat.
You escaped to Edgar’s house
The Raven at your feet.
You read to me from Golden Books
of Joseph’s many colored coat.
Mother goose set the dreamscape
as Nod rowed by in boats.
I know this must have happened oft
yet no memory do I retain.
Just the lilt of longing reciting
of others happiness on the page.
May the Guf be kind to you
and return you full of joy.
May the sparrow find for you
a kinder living story.