Long Drifting Poems
Long Drifting Poems. Below are the most popular long Drifting by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Drifting poems by poem length and keyword.
When you call me in your dreams, I will come
Find my way through the valleys in your mind
To reach you breathless, before I succumb
With every kiss you offer to remind
Where softest sighs will echo through the night
Filter through our lover's wish of misty dreams
So our souls can find passion free in flight
And soar on dreamers' eyes of brightest beams
Keep our dreams in love's dim-lit realm of shade
When our eyes are closed, drifting in our sleep
From the lonely, distant nights we have made
Tethered to our loneliness, we're asleep
This essence of soft shadows from our heart
To love inside our dreams when we're apart
born under the sea, an irresistible force
two bodies reluctantly embrace, shunting, shifting, tectonic drifting
alongside the southern Iapetus Ocean
equatorial deep-time child of Laurentia and Avalonia
journey northward, surfacing, submerging
surfing the waves again, a colder Hibernian dalliance
precariously perched on Eurasian plate
old bedrock confused, youthful erosion above the ancient order
darkness entombed around channelled winter light
early New Grange civilisation, the Boyne valley before the blood
river mouth vikings, raiding, assimilating
birth of the coming capital, eastern stronghold, Baile Atha Cliath
chain-mail Norman conquerors castle-building
appointing pious supplicants with sword, cloth, crook and cross
wholly unholy alliances unravel
rival hierarchies sharing ill-gotten earthly reward from overseas
saintliness, brutality, men and women
expanding Christendom, pagan kingdoms adjusting to defeat
Patrick, Brigid, Columba, Columbanus
Irish civilising roman catholic conduits, Dalriata to Lindisfarne
outreaching, a strand of Irish character
yet to encounter future revisionary metaphysical thought
protestant rebellion, mainland overspill
praying elites competing, preying on the island's god-fearing people
avian watchers on Skellig pinnacles
warm ocean currents well-up, catching the southwestern gale
enduring the ill-will of nature and man
supplanting, subjugating, saving souls, the power of might and fear
treachery within or well beyond the pale
fair and dark hair, ginger genetics existing on the edge of life
tossed thin people hanging on, many leaving
scraping blighted ground, returning to the sea, promise of the unknown
Beneath an azure canopy I rest,
myself- listening to the serene day, and the
green trees shivering above in the wind; and
I wonder what that chirping bird is saying,
as I just dreaming while drifting clouds go by!
Such a sweet calmness fills my heart, and I
let go of all the trials of life and find tranquility;
I love this rest and sweet bliss. A time
for dreaming and for pondering my life,
on a perfectly lovely tranquil day!
_____________________
August 11, 2012
Poetry/Light Verse/On A Perfectly Tranquil Day
Copyright Protected, ID 08-1063-908-11
All Rights Reserved, 2012, Constance La France
Contest - Late September 2018 Premiere
Sponsor - Brian Strand
First Place
Welcoming Christmas, with the birth of Christ as family gather round the Christmas tree.
Quote by_ poet
As they slept, winter welcome Christmas night.
The moon upon a clear fixed starry night
used its immutable alluring charm.
The icy winds howled pilling up snow drifts.
The morning warm sun rose to a sparkling
crystalline rug of snow and trees buckling.
Gray smoke rose from the fire in the fireplace
drifting into the air from chimney top.
You never outgrow the need to get up early
on Christmas morning, a favorite part
with family round the tree and children's
faces glowing as they open their gifts.
11/28/2022
Writing Challenge - Write A Christmas Poem - Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Constance La France
When drifting water of the river Hebrus murmurs
a heartrending cry surges from the bottom of the river,
and when this cry reaches the midsummer night’s sky
the stars echo and a lyre in the constellation by Zeus’ throne
plays sad music. And when tone adds pathos to deepen the darkness,
a nocturnal bird soars in the dark air, too, singing a sad song over
a grave in Libethra.
The reason the river weeps with a plaintive requiem is,
not because Erebus is too far or Styx is too wide,
but the stern ferryman denies Orpheus’ passage
to netherworld where he once passed with the crowds of the dead.
Although he once made the Furies cheeks wet with tears,
won a Proserpine’s sympathy and made Hades himself gave way,
why Orpheus has to cry a heartrending cry over Eurydice again
with his plaintive tuned lyre and song of touching story of his beloved wife?
It’s because he couldn’t cross Styx for second time.
He cried through the weeks of sleepless nights,
regretting why he turned his face back to assure
Eurydice followed, and therefore, heard her last cry of farewell.
He called Eurydice’s name for the weeks of agonizing days and
nights without food stretching his arms in air as if trying to hold her,
though she is not there.
Since his second farewell to his beloved wife on the dark and steep passage
of Erebus, Orpheus played his lyre and sang sad songs unceasingly. He sang
to tell his regretful experience on the way to this world at Erebus to the rocks
with melancholic but touching tunes, he chanted an account of the tragic life
he underwent with a gloomy but moving sound to the trees.
A viper, therefore, struck Eurydice with its sharp fangs again,
a horror that of the Maenads’ desire to capture Orpheus
tore him limb from limb.
And when the river murmurs, Orpheus’ limbs fell in water
parted from his body call to one another wishing to come in one again,
Orpheus’ keenness to see his beloved Eurydice grows more and more.
After a long week it is Friday,
and that means it’s time to go
to a corral twenty minutes off,
the weekly circuit rodeo.
Get there early ’cause they always have
a barbeque before it starts,
also basic line-dancing lessons
for ladies and their sweet-hearts.
Drifting through the nearby western store
while things are getting ready,
buy a new belt with an eagle print,
it’s both rustic and steady.
In the ring they’re warming up horses,
preparing them to ride slack,
a teenage girls talks on her cell-phone
while perched on a gelding’s back.
It starts off with some nice pageantry,
a dozen riders with flags,
anthem plays to the stars and the stripes,
makes a free man’s soul feel glad.
I sit way up high in the bleachers,
bronc-busters the first to ride,
unbroken horses don’t like the weight,
they buck, they spin ’round, they dive.
The riders always will get thrown off,
it’s just a question of when,
next the ropers go line up to ride,
chasing steers loosed from the pen.
Lassos flicker in stadium lights,
and slowly they scribe a path,
then swoop down low and seize on a hoof,
how the heck do they do that?
Now the steer wrestlers leap from their mounts,
never fails to bring a cheer,
wonder if they put on resumes
‘Am adept at wrestling steers’?
Things slow down, the trick-roper comes out,
spins a line as if born to it,
then pops balloons from a woman’s head
with a swish of his bull-whip!
Then pony-tails fly behind women,
barrel-racers ride compelled,
moving so fast you’d think they were chased
by the damned devil himself.
Finally men, more crazy then sane,
sit themselves on a huge bull,
two thousand pounds of angry muscle,
testosterone flowing full.
One by one the riders are thrown off,
then the clowns distract the beasts,
buying the rider just enough time,
to scramble back to his feet.
But one young man will not break his hold,
he passes eight second by luck,
just enough to win the night’s small prize,
a hard way to earn a buck.
The crowd is drifting back to their cars
as the sunlight settles low,
cowboys and girls I’ll see again at
the weekly circuit rodeo.
The flotilla of the climbing clouds slowly slides away
across the smoky screen shifting from the twilight sky.
The beguiled birds bathe in the dome of the blushing bay,
in the flushing gleam of ambiance to their nest they fly,
as the fall arrives with crystalline splendor on the sly.
The transparent threshold of the halcyon horizon
splits the spreading sunbeam in the spectrum of hued spray,
sparkling shades spilling from its palette paint the dawn.
Bowed down slender blades of garnet grass sway
on the lap of maroon meadow in rippling air drifting away.
The pasture wears the ornate diadem of diamond dew,
flickering with the finesse of dulcet dawn’s chromatic glow.
Lining the sun-burnt cinnabar garden path paved anew,
dry trunks of defoliated trees stand on the soil fallow,
the gilded leaves rustle with the steps of hot days departing slow.
As the setting sun sets fire at the fringe of the serene sky,
making surreal celestial collage of vermillion ember bright,
under its crimson radiance my saturated spirit soars high,
as it perceives the mellow day drown in color cove out of sight,
the painting of Monet suffuses me with the aura of delight.
~ ~
What will my fantasy dreamt be, while dreaming?
My soul vulnerable, uncovered, open, revealed,
So many sweet places kept secret from the living.
Dreams, I keep hidden in a box and sealed,
I push myself past the mist, the clouds and haze,
My soul vulnerable, uncovered, open, revealed.
My fantasy lover, beautiful with his eyes ablaze,
It is the night, deep with velvet rich darkness,
I push myself past the mist, the clouds and haze.
I am but a lonely girl drifting in eternal deepness,
Touching the sky is easy for this seeking dreamer,
It is the night, deep with velvet rich darkness.
He strokes my black hair and winds in his finger,
Withdrawing my cloak, my damp tangled hair falls,
Touching the sky is easy for this seeking dreamer.
Then, I have wings as another fantasy dream calls,
Withdrawing my cloak, my damp tangled hair falls.
What will my fantasy dreamt be, while dreaming?
So many sweet places kept secret from the living.
~ ~
_______________________________
December 13, 2012
Terzanelle
Submitted to the contest, Villanelle and Terzanelle Only
Sponsor, Shadow Hamilton
Second Place
We stood by the river’s patient edge,
Where time curled softly like mist on water,
And the world felt young again—
its troubles paused, its noise hushed
beneath the whisper of drifting currents.
In our hands, smooth stones,
little worlds polished by endurance,
symbols of journeys shaped
by pressure, turbulence, and grace.
We held them like memories,
cool against the warmth of our palms.
With a gentle swing,
we released each stone—
watching it skip, dance,
kiss the surface again and again
as though refusing to sink too soon.
And in those brief, bright leaps
we saw ourselves—
defying weight, bending fate,
choosing motion over stillness,
courage over fear,
possibility over surrender.
Some stones sank quickly,
some traveled far.
Yet each made ripples,
quiet circles that spread outward
long after the stone had vanished—
reminding us that even small acts
can change a wide world.
Skipstone Adventure—
a place, a moment, a truth:
that life is not measured
by how long we stay afloat,
but by the ripples we leave behind
as we cross the waters of our time.
The snow is gently drifting down,
Not like two days ago,
When it was blowing sideways,
In a heavy dump of snow.
All the snow had melted.
The birds are coming back.
The flowers just now breaking ground,
And this dumps in our lap.
My lilies were up almost a foot.
Now they're laying flat.
I put some paper over them,
Hoping they'll come back.
The paper bags I used were large.
I made for them a tent.
I propped them up and prayed for them.
Poor things were limp and bent.
It's now April twenty-fourth,
And snow is drifting down,
Covering trees and flower beds,\
And blanketing the ground.
The weather man said we'd have rain.
We got cold wet snow.
Guess when Alberta is your home,
You just go with the flow.