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.
Saddle your horse and get ready for the ride; this will be your final day before you take off to the sky, the weather is too dry over here and we have nothing more to share; I have to reserve what I have for the others living over there.
Come and stir the pot with me and walk with me through hills and valleys, we will survey the vast landscape, lofty mountains and fine river bed. You will observe where the skyline meets with the earth and where the river is washing away the dirt, and then you will understand what I have been telling you all along.
Saddle your horse and come with me, I will take you through the route that leads to the top of the mountain and you will see the optical phenomenon that is baked beneath the earth giving rise to a meteorological vision.
I can see streams of light parachuting from the earth , carving out a circular spectrum in the sky with multi-colored dyes spreading all over the sky. It meets with steep slopes interfacing the earth and refracting around the slopes.
Saddle your horse and come with me, I will take you to the corner store
And show you why poor people are always asking for more. The cost of goods and service are real and grocers have to work out their own deal, a pint of oil is sold in plastic bags and thin slice of cheese is all that they have. The backs of chicken makes good curry and the necks of turkey is poor people’s luxury.
Saddle your horse and come with me and let me show you what life is like in the inner city. They are running up and down the street with guns shooting at one another for fun, the Don Man rides in with his motorcade and flick a sharp blade. He cut the box open and shower gifts to the whole community.
Saddle your horse and come with me, we will ride to the other side and you must tell me what you see. People are hustling and bustling in the street and men and women are dressed in suites and fine gown, their tables are laden with lamb, beef, lobsters pork and all the meat in the butchers shop, but wine, beer and whisky are pouring from the top.
The trees are laden with fruits and everyone is wearing a fine pair of shoes and they are dining in fine restaurant and having nightly party. You have got to correct this disparity. Saddle your horse and come with me I am ready for the next leg of the journey.
3.
Or down yet another city street,
This Way down that grand Hiway,
That Third Eye opened:
Random patches of dandelion manifest,
Climbing the overgrown commons by the road;
Disappearing out of sight -
By the cracked, sun-blanched sidewalk;
Golden and deep emerald green dandelion
Over the smog-choked horizon.
Humanity on the brink,
Sliding down that proverbial 'slippery slope" -
To the proverbial abyss of our insouciance, to
Our bourgeois folly, infernal cruelty fed by witless greed,
The more mundane, mere surface of all things, as they may be.
But again, surely, this can't be all that is: So mean, so toxic.
Refreshed, one looks again, looks with eyes wide open with
New Saving Knowledge.
Now the patches of dandelion seem even more startlingly
Alive and vibrant.
They seem, somehow, almost "more real than real".
Illumined, they appear hyper-real, dazzlingly brilliant,
Appear preternatural, mesmerisingly coronal, and
Opulent, yet as though man-made, like ethereal origami,
Like the sun itself, another Saving "Point of Navigation" to
the Hidden Infinite Divine Source behind all things mundane.
*****
"Jesus said [to Judas Iscariot], 'Come and I will teach you ...
about a great realm and a boundlessness whose measure no angelic
race has comprehended. In it is the great Invisible Spirit ...'"
--- The Gospel of Judas 10: 1 - 5
"God is one's very 'own'. It is the eternal relationship. One realizes Him in
direct proportion to the intensity of one's feelings for Him. Don't be afraid.
Always remember that somebody is protecting you."
"He who is really anxious to cross the ocean of the material world will somehow break his bonds. No one can entangle him."
--- The Holy Mother, Sri Saradamani Devi, the divine consort of
Sri Ramakrishna
"Mary [Magdalene] said [to Jesus Christ], 'Lord, is there a place which [lacks truth]? The Lord said, "The place where I am not!'"
--- From the Dialogue of the Savior
"God is a dyer. As the good dyes, which are called 'true', dissolve with
the things dyed in them, so it is with those whom God has dyed. Since his dyes are immortal, they are immortal by means of his colors."
--- From the Gospel of Philip
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.
Ever since my parents bought me a Grundig TV for my room,
And every week day unquestioned and without fail,
I've watched the Channel 4 News avidly, glued to it,
From when I was ten when my ship did at last sail.
I fell in love with Jon Snow instantly as a father figure,
A socialist or social democratic who would interpret,
Political and social events in a way that I understood,
Without any superiority or cold, aloof mood.
My best subject at university was marketing,
Came top in my second year Easter class exam
And everyday when I watched it I analysed Jon’s socks and ties,
Until I was 17, I could predict to myself the next days dyes.
This made me so happy and empowered me to continue,
In that Christian fundamentalist world of criticism and guilt,
But the C4 News was my little secret which I kept to myself,
As I was taught not to love things like that, of a worldly, societal lilt.
I was a devious child towards my parents and their religion,
And lived by admitting only to liking that which I loved,
So that they could have the satisfaction of disciplining me straight,
But pass me by as someone who religion did very much hate.
I had my own sequence, mathematical formula in my head,
And the first day I got my television when the light was ahead,
Because my dad used to monitor what I viewed with intense interest,
I did not flip channels somedays, to suggest no deviation was in my head.
And when Krishnan Guru-Murthy joined the show in 1998,
(I had predicted it from his way at BBC news presenting);
As he reported in Newsnight and BBC 24’s current events programme,
And I thought he would compliment Jon Snow and for youth be an emblem.
I'm hesitant to say that I used to be able to,
Predict when he would grow a beard in playful discourse,
But I knew that he would always shave it off again,
‘Cos that concerned, innocent face is not for recourse.
I like Garry Gibbon, love Kathy Newman, Jackie Long and Matt Frei,
And Paul Mason always gets to the roots of the economics issues;
Lindsey Hilsum and Helia Ebrahimi give such good reports,
And Geoff White always excites me with his technology eye.
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 nylon nights
trade crystal colours
in the stalls of nimble
butterfly wings,
I blossom as an
irenic origami
fervently fabricated
with snowflakes of
greedy gloom,
stealing royal violets
from the smokey estuaries
flowing beneath the
heavens befogged
with indigos, glistening
in periwinkle-arcs of
abstract auroras.
I reminisce those
amaranth stars
that whisper
graphical pantoums in
pearlescent pixels
of plum pentagon-
shaped skies,
as everytime when
porcelain acrylics
get spilt upon mauve
pages ribboned
with hydrangeas,
my orchid lips spin
a twist of leathered
spells amidst
frozen fahrenheit of
frostbit textures.
Painting heliotropic
oxygen with brushstrokes
of peony petals,
I carry unspoken
words of iris,
so that artificial aroma
within sculptured truths
remains caged
behind these dark
magenta carnations
printed upon
cashmere curtains
of hallucinating hyacinths.
Do photogenic pansies
never get frozen in iced pyre
of parched patchworks?
For, I believe that,
drowsy poppies
too have streaks of
wine stories
to narrate in their
ages of ache.
Perhaps, I'm a
glasswinged sorceress
of arctic hailstorms,
tracing phlox-
fluorescent forests
with tropical crayons,
as oiled hues of
multi-dusks flutter
across lavender orbs,
sprinkling mauve
dewdrops upon
watercolor dusts of
pencil-shaded luna
who unlocks
silver secrets
with skeleton key,
washing my bones
with lilac fog.
So, when these
thistle shaded leaves
crack their crystal
cocoons and
the sun sheds its
fluffed feathers
of hibernation,
meet me along the
horizons where
bright Veronica
takes the shape of
the moon and
reincarnates as a
crocheted sangria
memory along the
translucent sleet of
snowy sights.
My skin is softer
than raisin pearls
of mulberry seas,
as my spirit is stained
with glamorous grape
dyes and amethyst-fresco
distemper across bitter
skies has discoloured
every apathetic shade
that doesn't seem to
define my airbrushed
heather heart.
Jack Sprat and wife Mary, lived in a glory of lemony, chiffon days;
Like maroon birds keep on singing, until the sunset, orange phase.
They were comfy and happy, like a picnic in lavish, emerald grass;
And had a black dog and a calico cat, like red Mars making a pass.
While Jack was a large man, his beloved wife, contrarily, was tiny.
They gardened after church on Sundays, as sweet time went slyly.
At the mauve hour of dinner, they enjoyed each other's company,
As well as a single glass of wine, while the animals played clumsily.
February fawned over early flowers, smiling fondly into sun's face;
As friends came in feathered hats and finery, through jaded grace.
Floating fuchsia clouds were frilly, in futuristic times of red sunset;
And family visited the fun hours. Moon pearls were not falling yet!
They lived in the house of amenity, like living with ones most loved;
And a fireside welcomed evenings, under skies with dyes smudged.
Swift, strawberry seasons were somewhat surprising, and sudden,
On their street of purple sage. Redbirds visited by striking dozens.
Noteworthy navy blue twilights brought nearby neighbors, laughing;
And new night was bejeweled with stars, that were forever flashing.
Frolicksome freesias were in full boom, in pretty, prismatic colors,
In dusky days of dandelion delight, when sun rays crept in shutters.
Rainbow eucalyptus trees enchanted, as if glossing skies had fallen;
When 'strangler figs' wreaked crime after crime, noted by red robin.
Jack Sprat and Mary received bad news, within months of each other!
The doctor placed Jack on a strict diet, so his health would not suffer.
And Mary, who was undernourished, was told to eat more, and often!
She and Jack vowed to obey doctor's orders, like tonic rains of Austin.
Jack began to eat less and lose weight, and Mary made tasty meals;
And gained weight and hale vigor, like when purple sun's colors peel.
'Jack Sprat could eat no fat.
His wife could eat no lean.
And so between them both, you see,
They licked the platter clean.'
Front door brings in nippy chill,
You step onto the frosty path,
No pleasant air for you to initial,
Only a gut fight with the waft.
But friends are warm and bright,
Neighbours smile by their cars,
Old friends get in touch, write,
The hairdresser chats n’ chars.
What to give is a nice problem,
What to write on xmas cards,
Why not to give, there’s a hum,
Of distance, you only give cards.
Relative’s personalities summed,
Cousins hobbies are understood,
Relations interests taken, gummed,
And friends activities are all good.
Jumpers are purchased for mum,
Plus teapot, hand cream, soap,
Quality Street purple is a chum,
Candles jars are given in hope.
Sporadic robins brighten and light,
Kids build a roly snowman, just,
Dogs walk in cosy jackets tight,
And by-passers stop for a gust.
Families welcome drivers’ eyes,
When they look in the windows,
With flashing lights, mixed dyes,
In patterns, pictures, pure glows.
The atmosphere at restaurants,
Beckons xmas truth and tale,
When others also have nuance,
For special kin who chat, sail.
No negatives divide and split,
No text to state what to say,
Greetings are heartfelt and lit,
Your chat can be any old way.
Church is optional, a possibility,
But fires and heaters gaily blast,
Radios aptly inform about activity,
When Santa will visit stores vast.
Decorations furnish, fill stores,
Giant Christmas trees stand, line,
Large baubles hang on all floors,
Huge stockings see shoppers dine.
There is a righteous business,
In the air, filtering, at xmas time,
It’s friendship and happiness,
That's engineered, the told sign.
The central focus is a snug meal,
A slot saved and made for chat,
Where for each person the deal,
Is to converse, discuss and bat.
All are welcome, all can have,
Everyone can enjoy, participate,
Each one can find peace, shove,
Xmas with you does coaguate.
Whatever the question, give,
Everyone is part of Christmas,
A smile, joke, a chat, a forgive,
You can even restrain for a bash.
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.
In pitch black night there is no color,
For light is color's revealer.
In daylight, your eyes see an object as white, when all light is reflected,
White is all the colors from a billion rainbows, melded.
White light, dissected by raindrops, prisms and kaleidoscope
reveals the full spectrum of colors within.
Light is the palette array from which objectors choose what to reflect.
You see black, the absence of color, when no light is reflected,
You see grey, when only a wee little light is reflected.
You see red when all other colors from white light
hitting a surface are absorbed, except red, that is.
The objects and being out there, display the color they choose to portray,
by excluding all other colors, sucking them in.
Color is what distinguishes the objects and shapes
we see with our eyes, including white, black and greys.
The scene we see is an orchestration of color painted upon.
In Nature it's the array colors in the blue sky, white clouds,
green trees, black cat, white dog, and brown dirt outside.
Inside it's the brown door, blue painted walls, green drapes and decorations
In art and paintings it's the colors of pigments in paint
the artist chooses to use and mix together, whatever their source and composition.
In poems and writing it's the words chosen to create images
of the colors of nature, people and objects in the minds of readers.
And moreover, it's the moods, feelings and emotions
portrayed with colors, bold, pastel, stark and soft.
Color creates dilemmas and puzzles for users.
To a scientist its wavelength and spectrum.
To a chemist is clays, rocks, extracts, mineral and vegetable dyes.
To a decorator or house painter its charts, sample pots and mixed tins.
To an artist its what can be squeezed from pots and tubes and dabbed on canvas.
To a poet its words to create fleeting images of color, emotions, feelings and impressions
in the minds of readers.
The kaleidoscope of color is the milieu of everything perceived in the light of day,
through vision, thought, feelings and soulful emotions.