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.
Time in ebony night stops to flow in aloneness undefined,
where infinite pathos in the congealed instants wanders
on the shadows of the past, void perception in seclusion,
gets shaped by strata of darkness, framed in psychic canvas.
The dispersed grains of darkness drizzle down silently
from the cauldron of the infinite blankness of eternity
that my sky starts to shape at the edge of ductile dusk
since the beginning of my time lost in the crypt of isolation.
The silken tapestry of the black blanket spreads slowly
as the twilight dissolves at the hinge of the hazy horizon
like the timed rainbow melting upon the sinking skyline,
where the silhouette darkness dances with the flowing night.
Sonorous sound of silence echoing ethereally in night sky
wakes up the sleeping stars one by one to sparkle bright
on the bejeweled crown the amorous ambiance adorns,
as the moonbeam strands weave dulcet dream of you for me.
Each stardust-sequined silent night I wait awake alone
for you to emerge lively out of my dream like an angel,
walk through the pining corridor of my craving mind,
as I let my thoughts drift in the emptiness of night’s silence.
The road to Rio ran his every day
Aerobic fitness was his daily way
The lactic acid ate his muscle mass,
but soon the aching pains began to pass
The win reward a fine line to the tape
He fought the fight to get into best shape
He made his time to take him to the start,
to peak his strength and win the race an art
Just five circles his only dream tattoo,
or maybe under forty three will do
A gold the prize for him, a life reward
it looked so easy, Wayde’s new world record
He lived the dream a life in golden hope,
but ductile gold a sweet success tightrope
-A tribute to Wayde van Niekerk’s new world record in the 400m almost breaking 43 s yesterday. The record was held by Michael Johnson and was 16 years old-
The dispersed grains of darkness drizzle down silently
from the cauldron of the infinite blankness of eternity
that the sky started to shape at the edge of ductile dusk
since beginning of time when its primal time was created.
The silken tapestry of the black blanket spreads slowly
as the twilight dissolves at the hinge of the hazy horizon
like the timed rainbow melting upon the skyline clouds,
from where the satin darkness flows with the fluid night.
Sonorous sound of silence echoing in night sky ethereally
wakes up the sleeping stars one by one to sparkle bright
on the bejeweled crown the amorous ambiance adorns,
as the moonbeam strands weave dream of you for me.
Each stardust sprinkled night I wait awake fervently
for you to emerge out of my dream like an angel
and walk through the craving corridor of my mind,
as I let my thoughts drift in the air of night’s allure.
Written : August 10, 2019
May 15, 2020
Contest : Brian's Choice D
The splendorous span of my fervent firmament,
twinkled with the tinsels of the cerulean night,
where my yearning gleamed with transparent tinge,
suffused with the sequins of the silver moon,
sequestered within the stream of stardust.
The beguiling breeze rippled in mesmeric moonbeam,
with its cadence my heart beat danced,
made the mystique motif of rapturous jewelry
for my dreams to be embellished,
and for my life to revolve in the kaleidoscope of joy.
I dreamed of your ductile touch so tempting,
impregnated with intangible charisma,
until you drifted away out of my entranced essence,
across the seraphic sky of my dream,
like the fading autumn cloud of shapeless charm.
From the ebony edge of the dusk of despair,
the surging storm with thunders of tearing strife,
splintered the fragile facade of the sky,
and the shards of the demolished dreams,
dispersed in the debris got buried in the sands of time.
Trudging the weary path in the tawny wilderness
to the cool cauldron of the tranquility thicket,
I now try to absorb the senile sense of serenity,
in the niche of my mind I strive to stow,
create in my colorless heart an emerald meadow.
I walk the final mile of the ordained journey,
in the remaining hours of the twilight glow,
I illumine the dark domain of memory where the lost lies.
Waking up from the transient trance of deceased dreams,
metamorphosed, I live another day, mocking the dead.
Written: July 5th, 2026, for a contest sponsored by: Unseeking Seeker
*****************
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”
******************
Hagioscopic hymn to the Divine kernel
We keep God-search accessible,
yet the cosmos cleaves yield when we gaze —
a hagioscopic hush, an oculus of golden light
thrumming over the welkin as an ariose aria.
All else may fall asunder,
but the Divine remains the ductile, eternal nexus
where every archetype melts into exegesis,
where endogenous ardor swells to a plexus.
Call it aurora, call it elixir, call it Elysium —
the Source supervises every epoch,
collocating our chaos with its capacious calm,
turning our dismal nest into blithe, balmy rising joy.
We are peripatetic flâneurs,
panting through labyrinthine days,
beleaguered by ephemera, beset by fatuous fears,
yet happiness morphs only when we aurify the heart
and let the Divine’s mirific mettle press into our clay.
For without that empyreal embrocation,
we writhe in desuetude —
a ruinous simulacrum of ourselves,
gripped by gnawing doubts,
careening through the clamor and clangor of the world.
But with it —
with that svelte, sylphlike, shimmering connection —
even the stygian gloaming grows gossamer,
even weariness winnows into wistful felicity,
even our molten moiety of sorrow turns comfort.
So let the Divine be our vade mecum,
our velvet panacea, our veridical panoply of peace.
Let its sonorous ardor regale our spirits,
its mellifluous mercy inure our wounds,
its lapidary light aurify our days.
For happiness is not a clod of chance,
nor a knavish chimera,
but the salient, sacred truth:
we thrive only when we tether our hearts
to the empyrean wherewithal that made us.
And in that connection —
that luminous, living nexus —
we become blithely, buoyantly,
free.
In the pediment of the blue hills rolling down from the horizon,
the rising crimson sun spread surreal splendor on the landscape,
etched with carvings of meandering streams, verdant meadows,
transparent ponds, thriving thickets and emerald vale of flowers.
My youth embedded in the naïvety of juvenile exuberance,
fluttered on the wings of indigo birds scaling the cerulean sky,
like my colorful kites flying at the fringe of the fleeting clouds,
my flying fantasy took their nebulous shapes, I keenly marveled.
I wondered what they meant, for they were so expressive in form,
designed by the intricate play of the opposites, light and shade,
like the pattern the filtered sunbeams created piercing the foliage
on the floor of the forest where I ventured to chase the butterflies,
or like at dulcet sunset the dancing design of lengthening shadows
are sketched by the trees on the pond rippling at sailing swan’s wake,
I followed swimming away from the seething heat of summer.
The infantile motifs engraved on the ductile young mind
lie buried under the dust time blew across the uprooted life.
At the edge of the falling night I trace the faint footprint trail,
searching beneath the dust for the pale picture of my youth.
January 10, 2021
Contest : The Good Old Days
Sponsor : Mystic Rose Rose
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: 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.
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
The old man was no longer a hunter,
But he would not stoop to women’s chores.
A storm was brewing as he sought
Shelter in a round cave.
Soon he had a fire going but he preferred
To stay near the entrance and listen.
He did not know yet what music was
But he could tell the difference
Between each sound that echoed outside.
The wind was strong that began like a rigadoon
But reached its forte in tone and pitch,
A crescendo that reached its apex as it climbed the hills.
There it hit stones and sent them down crashing
Like the sound of synchronized drums.
Slowly the wind lost its force and vibrated into a cadence,
Leading to an herbaceous plain as it wandered off
Like a soft funeral march.
The old man heard all and knew what was to come.
Promptly a bird began to sing to the now calm night,
A mellifluous sonata and then subliminal silence.
A breeze whipped up, a silky serenade that like an arpeggio
It grew ductile but strong as it flew amongst the trees,
Leaves replying with a trill till the moon came up,
Shadows dancing on the now calm groove.
All was at peace.
The old man picked up his reed. Someday he will learn
And emulate the sounds around into a coherent aria.
18 December 2020