Long Dyes Poems
Long Dyes Poems. Below are the most popular long Dyes by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Dyes poems by poem length and keyword.
Silk Smiles, Silent Knives
I gave my time, I gave my name,
I hid the cracks, I took the blame.
I stoked their fires, I kept the light,
I bled my nights to feed their fight.
They smiled in silk, they smiled in lies,
They painted truths with poisoned dyes.
Their colours bled; their masks unrolled,
They bought my trust and sold my soul.
I kept my pace, I kept my place,
I stood the long, unpaid embrace.
They learned my steps, they learned my track,
Then found my back and drove the jack.
The blade was theirs, I never knew,
The hand I trusted cut me through.
~Fizza Bukhari
Sleep.. indigo’s eyes, night loving allies,
Sol’s flare is stars' disguise dawn till dusk’s reprise,
peach awe-inspired skies effuse juice sunrise,
east, grapefruit pink lies - lemon slice rhapsodize.
Pastel wash replies to Zephyrus sighs,
morning glory highs yield to afternoon’s surprise..
wings golden butterfly's, squires sun clockwise,
ruddy west implies cocktail hour’s devise,
sunlight’s demise creeps in blueberry dyes,
plum, mango fraternize as prim-rose chastise.
Sunset complies sending signal-light fireflies,
Wake! indigo’s eyes, night loving allies,
tantalize poets to romanticize.
Susan Ashley
August 17, 2017
~ First Place ~
Contest: Your Best Monorhyme
Sponsor: William Kekaula
Rhymes checked at (RY) rhymer.com
on the painting:
IMPROVISATION OF NATURE - Oil Painting On Canvas By Leonid Afremov
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A Story of Hope
Walking, in the flow
Of dyes, hues of melancholy
Changing summer’s light
To the music of a holy night
Fall’s essence, bleeding
Soft colors so alive, so bright
Journey, through the still breath
Of a muse, when laughter
Beckons – a caress
Autumn’s blessings, a song
Flowing beyond the ache of a past
Where summer melted
Into this season of sweet grace
Traveling, a road both rocky and calm,
Steady whispers, whimsical edges
Of the joy that echoes truth
Beyond the maples, the oaks, the birch
Heavy shades of glory, broken hues
Listening to the harvest notes
In the mist, the silence
Only pierced by the crunch of a leaf
Fallen down from its limb,
Where life was spent in shadows
Hopeful, and strong…
Enduring, the wonder of softest golds,
The trembling mysteries
Hesitant wine and gentling orange
Rusty and brave, the leaves
They keep falling across the dawn
As hearts find a blessing
In the sensations of a quiet yawn
Flavors of autumn, intense
Brighter than the passing stars
Flow of joy, comforting
Each crisp leaf, a thought
Between yesterday, summer’s soft
Writing words of blessedness
Through the morrow where life
Continues on…
And the blessings, autumn reveals
Come through notes of courage
As each thought is taken captive
By the fresh and stunning notes
Of the healing breath,
Beyond the seas, the sun
Where trees remember, and flowers
Echo their prayers in a song
Meant for lovers – but also for the lone
Heart, the one who needs to see
Blessings…
Poured out through the artist’s brush
Spoken by a river’s tenderness,
The stars, the moon, the trees
Imagining the beauty…
In autumn’s tender grace,
A story, written by hands of faith
A history, broken apart by a season
And telling each heart
Each weary heart… the story
Of life, through a leaf, falling
Leaving home, only to begin once more
It's impossible to steal a rainbow, as much as it is impossible to steal true love.
If I could steal a rainbow
Would you appreciate me more?
I know you love all colours,
harmonized in a kaleidoscope of dyes,
pastel mixtures of inexplicable art.
But to steal a rainbow,
I'd have to trudge the earth,
sail over shimmering seas
or slog down verdant vales.
And if I do arrive somewhere
where a rainbow might begin,
I'd find it’s just an illusion,
a myth like the crock of gold
that elves leave at its foot
to enrich whoever really finds it.
But who has ever found a crock of gold?
So if you really want from me
to get you a big whopping rainbow,
I'll know that you loved me not,
that your kisses meant nothing,
that your caresses were for someone else.
And I, alas, am but a shadow,
an unattainable, fictitious illusion
who'll live to my despair?
when scorpions crawling on the boiling sands
dance the dance of death with tail culled up
the gaudy toadstools grow in the dark and dampest spot
in the wasteland, and as day progresses the never-ending
merciless killing under the very same scorching sun that hangs high above
the wasteland drags on and on in the urban, areas where people carry out
the activities of daily routine to sustain ordinary lives.
on the street and alley the children’s corpses
though laying here and there
no one knows how to stop the deafening roar
that comes from the blasting bombs and the report of the guns
that take more innocent lives away from loved ones which do not allow
even a moment to the bereaved one to mourn with own accord, and when
the tears of a woman in black burqa slaps forehead and bangs her breast with palms and cries, her maternal affection benumbed and become stone as her tears coagulate and harden.
a small rough and simple wooden coffin goes
carried by the stern looking bearded men followed by not requiem
but the shout of the angry crowd brandishing empty fists that won’t do
anything in air the agony of the incompetent father who incapable of
keeping his dearest daughter’s life
nor able to provide a decent funeral and burial services
for the child’s last journey overlays the new-soil-covered little grave
as many layers of sigh after sighs.
when the tanks and armored vehicles sweep through the street
where many, many of those horrible stories rolling and flying
all over like autumn leaves, the soldiers with dust covered
combat boots dash into the street with unceasing gun shots
that hit the shadows because it moves, only because it breathes,
and therefore must be slaughtered. the fireballs hotter than boiling
sun shoot in the air with loud report on the other side of the street.
and between those ear-piercing roars
another angry wave marches on the street
carrying a small coffin, and in this chaos
eventide with no tomorrow dyes the corner of sky
above the faceless battlefield with the red of blood.
Dunk in dyes, tainted, nor tinted,
In world, not by its ways weathered;
Come, put a patch of love ‘pon me
That we get not ever severed;
Death, only your shelter is such,
Op-eyed can one sleep undeterred;
Roads wind not any straight for long,
Beware, feet, of their ways wayward.
Birds ask branches: you know wood well,
Who’ll opt, be spade’s grip un-bestirred?
Old memories tend to get blurred,
Milk of life curdles into curd.
I know critics are keen to judge,
Would they, poems unread, unheard?
_____________________________________
Inspired by a Gujarati Ghazal by Anil Chawda, yet, this does not claim to be a fitting translation of the original. To retain the Ghazal form, style and diction, subject matter sometimes has to be modified.
Ghazal |13.11.2021| world, love, death, ways, birds, memories, poems
My heart goes weary; shrinking,
I can't think right.
My thoughts float sinking,
It won't go filming delight.
When all we build for all,
Break into pieces and flew in dust.
We wish but it is time for rebirth!
The inner dinner of the believer,
Is a threat to standard.
The outer doubter of the sinner,
Is a blessing to substandard!
When all we build for all,
Break into pieces and flew in dust.
We wish but it is time for rebirth!
Washing all hearts should become our aim;
In all words, acts are more of success
Crying with kindled souls turned a wailing game;
In all acts, words are more of distress.
When all we build for all,
Break into pieces and flew in dust.
We wish but it is time for rebirth!
Comfort cleanse depression,
Without traces of GUISE.
StaIwart brings impression,
Beyond shadows of DYES.
When all we build for all,
Break into pieces and flew in dust.
We wish but it is time for rebirth!
Now, we will please His WAYS,
Despite all our natures.
Then, we won't remove His BAIZE,
No matter how hard to bear a nomenclature.
When all we build for all,
Break into pieces and flew in dust.
We shall at will go for rebirth!
Hallelujah! He nailed himself this the cross;
For us, He endured the BEING loss.
Hosanna! He embraced all the wounds;
Not a single curse, His efforts are been crowned.
Yet, for us are his pains,
To make sure we are ordained.
Lest, we may not have the gains.
Unto all is a life and its style,
Be ye man or woman.
Unto all is choice and its cost,
Be ye strong or weak.
Yet, for us are His pains,
To make sure we are ordained.
Lest, we may not have the gains.
Don't be afraid of their smiles,
The enemies of great Aaron.
Rather, be joyous that they defrost,
Hence, doors of pretence freak.
Yet, for us are His pains,
To make sure we are ordained.
Lest, we may not have the gains.
He standout as the only One,
Pleading at the right hand of God
Despite our betrayals like Simeone,
He cares for all against every odd.
Happy to know you are willing...
Gracious you, should not lean on SELF.
Be open and call for His help killing...
Every hindrance knowledge binds on shelf.
"...you have one duck... I saw it."
"no crickets, but yes, the sound"
~I have some fish, swimming around...
Who are you? And where do you be?
As I walk this forest, how do you, see me?
A cricket's sound, some fish around,
But you and you lost to my sea.
Why, do you two follow me?
An open door, extended before,
A hand, a smile, I waited awhile, with
hopes and maybe some fantasy.
I hoped you woulda, woulda hit on me.
But in retro, I did so see...
My time of past, dyes deep and fast,
a flow, a hum, my life was numb.
In a time of change, I rearranged,
the elements of my being.
I changed, to my Me Becoming.
And I stopped in my tracks,
while in my running.
Hanging there was Venus dear,
A photo I gave you, from above.
The Sun ablaze, the Moon amazed,
while I heard your Heart. My love...
But questioned I when you raised an I,
and you didn't reply to my song?
I sang again! And I glared at you then,
but you turned, as though I were wrong?
A butterfly, a kiss by your eye... and yet,
I still wonder why your park is gone.
And the Indian Sang, but you heard no song?
~Know. The journey is Long...
Georgie Porgie was a little overweight, since he loved tasty desserts,
Like puddings and baked pies; or green woods, full of robin concerts.
Georgie was ten years of age, possessing an impish sense of humor;
And played tricks on his classmates, involving frogs, it was rumored.
This sometimes left girls in tears, while boys wanted to thrash him!
But Georgie ran away, laughing, like violet blooms, of nature's whim.
As Georgie was only having fun, he gave those girls who cried, a kiss;
Like dazzling rainbow colors slip away, silent, before they are missed.
'Georgie Porgie, Puddin’ and Pie,
Kissed the girls and made them cry,
When the boys came out to play
Georgie Porgie ran away.'
Fetching flowers were fading fast, lying on motley beds, in cool fields;
As fall season was flourishing, with friends coming, for fun and meals.
Fireproof, fragrant summer flamed furiously, on fuchsia fourth of July;
When flying family rode fluffy, pink clouds, eyeing bluebirds going by!
Georgie lived in the house of huge moon, inescapable in the darkness;
And dreams arose in glittery, gold dust, when all roads were calmness.
Saucy, scarlet blooms wore polka dots, skillfully crafted by the sun days,
On his street of striped, petunia contrasts, following nature's wild ways.
Nonrenewable hours drifted by, noticed, midst noise of neon songbirds;
As new neighbors dropped in, casually, with the noted confetti of words.
Black orchids lent dark to noon, as 'King Kong' coleus terrorized towns;
And plum, 'persian shield' plants guarded, the hues of sunset drowned.
'Brazilian blue' cacti were melancholy, in affinity with the sapphire sky;
Like the crimson rose memory of fire, or red butterflies, of no goodbye.
Silvery years passed, with velvet tick tocks, as Georgie tired of pranks;
And he dreamt of being an engineer, like stars, the adoring planets flank.
Soon Georgie took girls out on dates, and they often ended with kisses,
Like dinnerplate dahlia days of delight, in many dyes of summer riches!
Georgie Porgie, Puddin’ and Pie,
Kissed the girls who no longer cried.
When midnight flames flicker aesthetic reveries,
releasing ashes of rainbow petals,
upon the canvas of undressed seasons,
I delve into blue blurs of butterflies,
framed in floating colors of nostalgia,
aching for dried dyes to home this scraped heart~
hanging loose, within smoky imagery,
as if every pigment will sprout from lilies of longing.
But can memories thaw frozen zeal,
illustrating steamy sunsets with liquefied rubies,
to unveil a timeless era, retouched and restored,
from the dust of dusks composed in surrealism?
And I, the splattering of an ink-blot,
persist as a dramatized kiss of tongue-stroked silence,
like a portrait, isolated in artistic utopia,
as love is more than a metaphor that speaks to the moon;
a pastel palette textured with melted roses~
saturated stars can interpret…