Long Ductile Poems
Long Ductile Poems. Below are the most popular long Ductile by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Ductile poems by poem length and keyword.
In the pediment of the blue hills rolling down from the horizon
the young sun of the east spread surreal splendor on landscape
with the carvings of meandered streams, verdant meadows,
transparent blue ponds, thriving thickets and emerald vales.
My youth embedded in the naïvety of juvenile exuberance
fluttered on wings of indigo birds scaling the cerulean sky
like my multicolored kites flying at fringe of fleeting clouds,
in their adrift enigmatic shadows sweeping the meadow
I saw my freak fantasy take nebulous shapes I marveled,
wondering what they meant, they were so artfully expressive
in the intricate interlacing of the opposites, light and shade,
like the patterns smoky sunbeams created piercing the foliage
in the forest where I ventured chasing the motifs of butterflies,
or like the dancing design the lengthening sunset shadows
the trees made on the pond rippling at sailing swan’s wake
I followed swimming away from the seething summer heat.
The infantile images deeply engraved in the ductile young mind
trampled by the footsteps that have walked me so far away,
lie buried under dust of time that blew across the uprooted life.
Now at the edge of falling night I trace the faint footprint trail
to search beneath the dust the frayed tapestry of my youth.
(Note : The world events uprooted me and my family from our native
land which I still miss. This poem is a nostalgic trip down the memory
lane to the lost root and to my youth, and hence is significant to me.)
May 6, 2019
Written: September 29, 2025, for contest sponsored by: Robert James Liguori
*************
In pavonine dusk, she composed—
A letter sealed with crimson wax,
on velvet parchment,
a mosaic of sighs unfurled.
In the crest of ecstatic swirls,
each word an anagram of longing,
hidden at the start
and the cease of each slash.
Inside: faint violet grapes,
nectar balm for the worthy,
on an idyllic steed embossed
with topaz sparks—
solace for those who tremble
at the edge of heights.
A soothing draught for swollen hearts,
pierced by dazzling rays.
Follow the trail of lost words—
a ductile prayer to the empyrean,
the veil-maker of celestial mist,
a weaver of dulcet dawns
amid the soaring storm.
For the nyctophile: a tale on cambric linens.
Iconoclasts embrace angelic ache.
Her soul yearned for joy.
An idealist cultivates love
within a glistening haze.
Circumvent the storm of memory.
Behind an unusual confession—
not bucolic, drabness, or triviality.
Supplication in silence, in ache,
of your rekindled awareness.
To shape you, to yield you.
Climb as a phoenix toward eternity.
Without hubris, blame, or bias,
she traced her scorn in a smear—
as the untamed primate’s roar.
Freed from that vile sweat,
from the heat that others dread.
Because you will not
shift her spinning thoughts.
Hypoxia in mirrored forms,
and their inverted shapes.
A tinge of prosperity, a rush of truth—
Not every wicked soul can grasp
the weight of lifeless ghosts.
The king of calm purple,
shrouded in serene shadow,
set near the heart of star clusters.
A servant in utopia,
unaware of the katabatic chasm.
I look back at the dusty trail of memory,
in the reflecting time of the twilight hour,
see in the pediment of the distant blue hills,
cascading down from the hazy horizon,
the young scarlet sun burst to spread
the surreal splendor on the landscape latticed
with the carvings of meandered streams,
verdant meadows, transparent ponds,
thriving thickets and emerald vales.
My youth embedded in naïvety of juvenile exuberance,
fluttered on the wings of indigo songbirds,
scaling the cerulean sky like my multicolored kites,
flying free at the fringe of the fleeting clouds,
that made enigmatic shadows adrift on the topography,
sculpting my fantasy into nebulous shapes,
so expressive in the intricate play
of the opposites, light and shade,
like the pattern slanting sunbeams created
on the far flung foliage of the thicket
where I ventured to chase the butterflies.
The infantile motifs engraved in the ductile young mind
lie buried now under the dust of time,
that blew across the memory lane of the uprooted life.
Walking the last mile at the edge of the falling night,
I now trace back the faint footprint trail,
to the fading eroded plateau of the past,
sweep the piled up dust, trying to retrieve
the scattered pieces of my youth,
shrouded by the mist of obscurity.
August 2, 2020
Contest : Dusty Old Memory
Sponsor : Constance La France
Swans row the sky
just feet above the copper water.
Gulls twist their necks to watch
a lone sailor on the prow
of a sludge-decked dredger.
On the slate thatched gambrels
of a lesser known roofs
spotters search for night bombers,
the figures have turned to stone
as do all oft repeated passages
from dog-eared scripts.
London growls under the axels
of diesel driven dreams.
A stork has visited
an attic full of discarded toys
bells ring out for new born sales.
Barges reek still, just as when
sweat was as common as dirt.
A window in Baker street
opens to let pipe smoke out,
it uncoils in the air
like a left handed genie.
Tower bridge drops upward,
to quarantine all gawkers.
Meat mongers return to their
blood-soaked cradles
before the dawns leery light.
The city is a fable,
It is aflame with tall buses
that never were the same,
yet there is sea oil seeping
from the tunnels and runnels,
where entrenched gutter snipers
lie low.
Here in the denizen dinge
the sure footed dead
avoid being seen
by the googly eyes of alien robots,
tin manikins that crab-walk
along Regents Street
barking Chinese commands
at oppressed corgis
and other less compliant drones.
On what was once Speakers Corner
hunched pavement artists
dribble into the chalky cracks
between showcased hoopla’s.
Slyly the loitering snollygosters,
lollygaggers and stumblebums,
crane their ductile necks to see
shell games in full view
even as they vanish.
mystique mist
of opaque veil
designs in desolation
amorphous ambiguity
swathes with singularity
penultimate pathway
obscure
at terminal time-post
of future crypt
a m b I g u o u s
sunset swansong
in transient twilight
resonates
in void valley
of abandoned present
silhouetted still
on somber skyline
of indigo filigree
morphing into
melancholic epithet
e n g r a v e d
turmoil threads
embroider morbid motif
at pallid tassel
of obsessed clouds
latticed by passion clumps
with fervor fringe
f r a y e d
sensuous storm
from onyx horizon
ornate once
with halcyon hues
constructs chameleon chimera
of configured illusion
on yearning canvas
ablaze in cold flame
of dormant desire
f r o z e n
memory menagerie
from burnt relic
flies away
in wasteland whirlwind
u n b o u n d
hope shards adrift
in poignant current
of fluid psyche
ductile
flow flustered
in sullen stream
of billion teardrops
in twilight terrain
reminiscent
of remnant rays
of sublime sunset
shape shifting
to intuition violin
r e s o n a n t
symphony echoes
the last vibrato
behind fallen curtain
for the lone audience
latent concerto
suffuses listless life
with tuneful resonance
of sonorous sanguinity
e t e r n a l
Written: July 26, 2025, for contest Sponsored by: Kai Michael Neumann
Quote: "Be still, for the silence of God is the language of the soul." by Rumi
***************
I find my refuge not in clamor,
but in the pabulum pause between storms,
a meritorious maelstrom subdued by resolve,
where each heartbeat tackles dyspnea —
the lungs, twin sanctuaries of ductile grace.
Not all peace is pristine.
It is the palimpsest of scars deep in the psyche,
an arthroscopy of loss and lull,
each echo adumbrated in incarnadine hues
and scantlings of self painstakingly reformed.
From the outside, I might seem a yokel
stumbling into wisdom by accident,
but I have seen through the gadzookery—
the flapdoodle on polished tongues,
the hackneyed hymns of haste.
My ischemic edema has vanished,
peace thrills me
keeping my zeal is my prayer with each breath,
awe-inspiring, breathing mutters,
"Inhale—exhale.
I avoid the ornate vessels stillness.
I acquire it from shattered glass gleam.
And what of the noise? The crowd
that claim triviality as a virtue—
those who build their temples
on paucity and preach ergophobia
as a warning, wisdom.
I glide past them with quiet steps.
Extemporize no sermon,
But still I speak in zeugma’s elegance:
I bear burdens and breath,
loss and light,
quiet and question.
In the apiary of mind,
I do not cage the bees—
I waltz alongside them.
Let misanthropy molt,
let tarantism yield,
let even xenoglossia be translated
into the soft syllables of inner peace.
I am not an iconoclast seeking acclaim—
I shatter only what steals my serenity.
Peace is not antediluvian,
nor an oxer too high to overcome.
It is ductile—malleable—
crafted from the scantling echoes of life.
This is not pabulum wisdom.
This is the sovereign self,
the mind unbound from its anxious crucible,
coruscating in its quiet rebellion—
agog not with frenzy,
but liberated in its freedom.
Written: October 3rd, 2025, for contest sponsored by Mystic Rose Rose
************
Watch the aureate thread of certainty
unravel before you know what kindness is—
evolving into nebulous dusk.
Deprivation of appetency becomes truth,
like mist rising from a lake at twilight.
See your lavishness mirrored
in a shattered glass of despair.
What you grasp with aquiline vanity,
what you assess over ductile hours,
must succumb to the flow of time.
Feel the agony of unwillingness—
a cosmic silence spanning
the vestiges of kindness.
Ride through days of labyrinthine pain,
trusting there is no end in sight,
as travelers with casual yearning
stare into the empyreal void,
Their hopes wrecked, survival unfulfilled.
To grasp the sacredness of kindness,
You must linger where the outsider sleeps
beneath a starry sky,
The air cavorting with memory.
His goals droop like asteria flowers,
folded into the flaps of his lost coat.
Consider how this could be you—
He, too, brimmed with optimism,
He, too, carried a flare of efflorescence
through the riparian dark.
Before you realize the full scope of kindness,
speak to sorrow until your voice turns hollow.
Hold the mourning cloth—
Its weave amalgamated, its weight elegant.
Then, only kindness remains significant.
It is kindness that laces your shoes,
that urges you to witness dawn’s ruby crust.
Kindness rises from the throng and says:
I am what you’ve been seeking.
And I walk beside you—
like a panacea,
like an astringent,
like a friend.
Written: August 16, 2025, for contest by Unseeking Seeker
Line of inquiry:
"conjoined with the whole - we play our life role
exuding a scent - granting love consent"
************
Conjoined with the Whole
Not as sovereigns,
but as sylphlike strands,
woven into a ductile tapestry—
Each act of kindness forges
a bond within the communal consciousness.
Love is not a shadowy incantation,
nor a glamour to inveigle us into isolation.
It is hortatory, beckoning forth...
a rosy summons to convene,
amid the clangor of squalor and sojourn
to supplant the slipshod ache
with a warm intention.
We are not mere wanderers
adrift in nebulous vacuum—
We are emulous embers,
thirsting for the amaranthine,
avid to imbue our days,
with seraphic resonance.
Community is not a chimera,
It is pavonine in its iridescent truth,
multivocal in its sweet sorrow,
edacious for connection
but never laden with avarice.
We do not dismiss the burden—
We collocate it, we share it
withdraw from silence,
and cast aside the Icarus myth,
a tale of solitary flight,
Even the untamed child.
crumbles for the quest of kinship—
Even the weary elder winnows,
the soothing balm of a neighbor’s touch.
Love sanctions its courtliness—
not merely a whispered sigh,
but as a philanthropic deed,
a calyx protruding,
amid the clamor of desire.
To love is to be an iconoclast
to find solace in a gentle embrace—
to forbear the yearning
to anathematize others
to witness the evocative elysian—
in the eyes of the distraught.
We are not aphonic.
We are harmonious,
even in our disconsolate times.
We are evocative, full of meaning,
even when our souls feel drained.
And when we reflect,
We accomplish this together—
in the emollient of shared grief,
in the soothing touch of shared joy.
So let us frolic with abandon,
Let us explore the hidden meadows of our lives.
Let us gather in our joy,
transcendent in our understanding,
Our sense of self is transient.
Let us be love—
not as an elusive dream,
but a tangible act.
Let us be united with the whole.
And play our life roles.
with eloquence
vibrancy,
and grace.
Written: August 07, 2025, for contest Sponsored by: Mark Toney
***********
Corset of steel tightens—ratified pain,
Vestigial breath trapped in ischemia thrall.
The ductile hope failed to placate
This Pyrrhic ache, this woebegone gall.
A sojourn in the squalor of soul,
Where sylphlike dreams maunder, downcast.
Ogle the embers of the miraculous nexus—
A seraphic visage lost, quickly.
Vivacious once, now virile with woe,
Panacea tastes of pabulum, slipshod, and cold.
Tinkling memories coruscate as zeugma—
Bright, yet untoward, they never hold.
Quixotic penchant for connection,
Grasping too late the nebula beneath.
What puissance is this—this throe, this tumult—
When tulle-wrapped love meets a gyre of grief?
Ululation beneath pavonine skies,
Adumbrate every glance, every sigh.
Crimson weave keeps a skirt in place,
Valuable, stained, adorned, and slain.
In the pediment of the blue hills rolling from the horizon
young eastern sun spread surreal splendor on landscape
with carvings of meandered streams, verdant meadows,
transparent ponds, thriving thickets and emerald vales.
My youth embedded in naïvety of juvenile exuberance
fluttered on wings of indigo birds scaling the cerulean sky
like my multicolored kites flying at fringe of fleeting clouds,
in their adrift enigmatic shadows etched on the sprawl
I saw my freak fantasy take nebulous shapes I marveled,
wondering what they meant, they were so expressive
in the intricate play of the opposites, light and shade,
like the pattern sunbeams created piercing the foliage
in the forest where I ventured chasing the butterflies,
or like dancing design the lengthening sunset shadows
the trees made on the pond rippled at sailing swan’s wake
I followed swimming away from the seething summer heat.
The infantile motifs engraved in the ductile young mind
trampled by the footsteps that have walked me so far away,
lie buried under the dust time blew across the uprooted life.
Now at the edge of falling night I trace the faint footprint trail
to search beneath the dust the frayed tapestry of my youth.
December 11, 2018
2019 Poetry Marathon Final Placement
Sponsor : Mark Toney