Long Echoes Poems
Long Echoes Poems. Below are the most popular long Echoes by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Echoes poems by poem length and keyword.
Calligraphy in the Air for a Fleeting Muse
Each morning I try to capture in the net of my metaphors the dance of your steps through the corridors of memory,
But the words melt like ice butterflies in the palm of a child who wanted to keep winter forever,
While you continue to exist beyond the edges of the paper, more alive than any verse could encompass.
Your laughter is a silver seagull playing among my thoughts like among the sea waves at dusk,
And I try to catch it in the web of stanzas, but it always escapes, leaving behind only echoes and shining feathers,
Which turn into stardust when I try to stick them to the page with the tears of my helpless inspiration.
How to describe in measured syllables the way your gaze makes light stop and dance,
As if the universe itself holds its breath when your eyes reflect constellations unknown to astronauts,
And I remain here, with a worn dictionary in hand, searching for words for colors the Romanian language hasn't yet dreamed of.
You are like a living poem writing itself on the sky of my heart with letters of fire and dew,
While I, a mere scribe of the impossible, attempt to translate into black ink
The multicolored symphony of your presence that makes the air vibrate like an Aeolian harp in the hands of the wind.
Every verse I write is just a pale shadow of how you complete
The gaps in all the world's unfinished love songs,
Like a secret musical key transforming the noise of existence into the purest melody.
Perhaps your beauty is not meant to be captured in the cage of my unworthy stanzas,
But to fly free through the memories of those who have met you, like a hummingbird feeding on the wonder in their eyes,
While I remain here, between blank pages, trying to paint infinity with the finite alphabet of mortals.
At the edge of twilight,
where thoughts intertwine and the labyrinthine paths of the mind stretch infinitely,
I find myself on the shore of my own desolation,
sculpting dreams in the ephemeral grains of sand.
There, I built for you a castle,
each tower a testament of my unwavering devotion,
but the relentless tide,
a metaphor for destiny,
washed away my aspirations,
leaving only the echoes of my defeat.
I dreamed for us an Eden,
a sanctuary where the fruits of our love would blossom untainted.
Yet, beneath the surface, the roots of our desires were already rotting,
and in my blindness, I fed you the poison of my hopes,
unaware of the imminent decay.
In the silent solitude of my dreams,
I envisioned a family,
a union of two souls acting as one.
Yet, the demise of my truth only sowed seeds of farewell,
leaving me lucid in the unraveling tales I spun.
I wished for us a future,
resplendent with joy and laughter,
but I took for granted the ephemeral nature of our happiness, and thus, it withered.
In the deepest corners of my longing,
I desired for you a partner,
steadfast and true,
but the cruel irony of fate decreed that man was not me.
My heart fractured under the weight of this truth,
and in the silence of my resignation, I promised you would find happiness.
And in a way, you did,
with a man who loves you as he should.
Yet, one wish remains—that it had been me.
The River of Days, in ceaseless flow it glides,
Yesterday's whispers carried on the tides.
Sun-dappled fragments, like ripples on the stream,
Dim echoes fading, a forgotten dream.
Today, a shimmering drop, a fleeting spark,
Caught in the sunbeam, leaving its gentle mark.
Where memories mingle with the future's call,
A precious moment, poised to rise or fall.
With steady hands and reason's guiding light,
We carve our virtue in this fleeting might.
A seed of action, sown with mindful care,
To blossom brightly is a burden we can bear.
Tomorrow's vista, shrouded in soft mist,
A canvas waiting for the artist's kiss.
Unfurling whispers on the whispered breeze,
A symphony of maybes, rustling through the trees.
Will dawn ignite with hope's celestial fire?
Or will the storm clouds gather, dark and dire?
The river whispers secrets, yet untold,
Only time's embrace will make its story bold.
So let us gather fragments from the past,
Lessons learned, that forever seem to last.
With virtue's compass guiding every stride,
We meet the future, with hope as our guide.
For in the river's dance, both swift and grand,
Yesterday, Today, and Tomorrow, hand in hand.
from: "The Calyx of the Oboe Breaks", by Conrad Aiken:
"The calyx of the oboe breaks,
silver and soft the flower it makes;
and next, beyond, the flute notes seen,
now are white and now are green."
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
The ides of March have gone and come.
Still, strains of vernal music sound
clear echoes, in my ears, of early times,
of other years: an orchestral swell
of oboe, flute, and violin.
The feel of warming wind,
the scents of orange blossom,
daisy, buttercup, and clover
I once enjoyed --
are those days over?
My recent times are flavored
with metallic clank, with oily odor --
my eyes fatigued by newsprint
and small-screen glare.
And music: the blare
of claxon-horn and siren-wail
and, sometimes, noise which
issues from a box borne on shoulders
through the street; an empty, but compelling,
quite insistent, loudly pulsing beat.
I welcome all new, although slight, intrusions.
Pale sensory perceptions bring back images,
now faint, once acute, of places, times,
and pleasures past. Faded sights and faces
and shadowy, unquantifiable pursuits
evoke a time when love, like freedom,
didn't cost a dime.
These times we know are saddening. These times we know are hard.
Our faith in life is being attacked and it will leave a permanent scar.
Our minds are crying for what we’ve lost and what we’ve had taken away.
Our ancestors fought and died for our democracy and payed with so much loss. A debt that we will never be able to repay.
Their blood was spilled in the hope that for the sake of humanity we could find a and live together in a better way.
New horizons inspire deeper depths for learning and understanding in so many different ways.
The history of life echoes a recurring warning to each and every single one of us, every single day...
Open minds create mankind’s most beautiful desires and thoughts and challenge us to find and live in more harmonious ways.
Closed minds contain the fuel of hate and create a cold dead space of lost, unchartered ways.
It’s down to us to take each other by the hand and to learn from mankind’s mistakes.
Faded into the shadows, drifting aimlessly,
Soft and fragile details, stirrings of a sigh, breathless,
Like a smile – erasing all the needless anxieties,
Preparing the heart’s voice to invite…
Precious joys, laughter, expressions so wonderous,
They feel like tears, pressing into the sensitive corners,
Of yesterday, where light sends the shadows to early graves,
Leaving only the winds calming to appreciate the grace.
Flavors of healing, beautiful and fulfilling,
Satisfy the darkness, the blessings – fires burning,
Where the passions silence the angry storm,
Trembling with the goosebump privilege of anticipation.
Kissing away the dewy promises of a morning,
When yesterday is only the soundless wings of joy,
Fragile as the shadow’s tempting embrace,
Whispering through the light, softly welcoming praise.
Listening to the miracles abiding on a soul,
Singing through the rhythmic thump of showers,
Inviting the echoes of a moment to static moods,
Where life remembers only the music it has understood.
Driving out the anger and pain, reassuring,
Like the sea who waves to its friends,
Those who see it and reflect on its dance,
The music it plays with sprays of nature’s chance.
Embracing the colors of dawn, the tangerine sun,
The cobalt skies, bleached blond clouds,
Perched up on high, reflecting on the lasting serenity,
Abiding in the waves of God’s gentle mercies…
Singing to the morning, a soft and tender warning,
Where the heart has drifted, glistening stars,
In nocturnal visions – warming the spirit with blessings,
Promising that yes, we’ll see Him – the brilliance…
Of a grace so alive it lights up the soul’s faith,
It comforts the spirit and promises there is a way…
Through the darkness, through the storm, through the fears,
That cling to the soul who needs to simply let go –
Let go and let God work His wonders through the heart,
His miracles in the soul – His grace providing more hope,
Than any other hope that is known – thanks to HIM,
I know the meaning of leaning on the arms of Jesus –
Leaning on the arms of LOVE!
My footsteps echoed the echoes of Time
as through the streets of Salem I walked.
The hour was early and the city still asleep
with only a cat sitting quietly on a cold granite sill,
the sky slowly turning from night into dawn,
my mind still in twilight as my footsteps echoed on.
The Ropes Mansion looked proud
as I strolled Essex Street,
its pediments and roof balustrades all stately,
its fence posts freshly painted
and hydrangea all in bloom.
I faintly heard voices
of a long-ago family
gathered about the hearth
in its fine parlor room.
I passed the Athenaeum
and hailed this library noble, so renowned
its soaring columns and arched doorway
have welcomed countless seekers of knowledge
and those sharing the wisdom of learning
and the comfort of reading from volumes well-bound.
Ten generations of Pickerings
have lived in the 1660 house
situated on 18 Broad.
A descendant, Timothy Pickering
under George Washington had served
and witnessed the surrender of Cornwallis’ sword.
I admired the house’s gables, its unique fence and its posts
then journeyed along to find more of Olde Salem’s ghosts.
At the Broad Street Cemetery
just steps across the street
I tipped my hat to those
who once lived here
now in honest sleep
at the second oldest resting place
in Salem Town.
But I shook my head over the grave
of High Sheriff Corwin of the Witchcraft Trial
beneath his time-weathered obelisk
he must be tossing for all Eternity
in his dank unholy ground.
For the true ghosts of Olde Salem
haunt the air of Proctor’s Ledge
where 19 innocents all
swung in the 1692 breeze
and it was there at the edge
of this hillside they died
overlooking a town
where too many had been tried.
How real was their torture
how sad was their pain
and in their lonely silence
do they relive it all again?
And when it all was over,
all said and all done
Salem would feel cursed
for its unforgivable deeds
that could not be undone,
for as I walk the streets
of Olde Salem
in the still-early morn,
I see their spirits all around me
along these sidewalks old and worn.
Copyright 2020 Gregory Joseph Firlotte
In twilight's hollow, where shadows play,
I find myself lost, in a heart's gray day.
A soul once afire, with love's pure flame,
Now flickers faintly, in loneliness's cold frame.
In secret gardens, where memories reside,
Our laughter echoes, a haunting, mournful tide.
The ghosts of our whispers, the shadows of our past,
Torment my waking, and forever will last.
Like autumn's leaves, our love withered away,
Leaving me to wander, in a desolate gray.
No warmth of your touch, no gentle summer breeze,
Only the echoes of what we used to be.
In this limbo, I search for a way to escape,
From the prison of longing, the weight of heartache.
But like a migratory bird, lost in endless skies,
I'm left to navigate, the dark and lonely sighs.
So here I'll remain, suspended in time,
A heart forever trapped, between love and loneliness's chime.
O hush of night, you sacred veil,
Who cradles hearts when strength grows frail—
Receive this soul, so gently stirred,
Whose silent grief has gone unheard.
Receive this soul, so gently stirred,
Whose silent grief has gone unheard.
You walk with those the world forgets,
Who carry dreams like faded debts.
The ones who smile through aching breath,
And meet each dawn with quiet death.
Praise be to those who speak in sighs,
Who gaze with hope through tired eyes.
Whose tender hands have known goodbye,
Yet still raise stars into the sky.
For in the hush, a light remains,
Unseen, unclaimed, beyond life’s chains.
It lives where memory softly treads,
Among the echoes of the dead.
O Night, you hear what day denies—
The whispered truths, the muffled cries.
You gather tears that fall unseen,
And sanctify the in-between.
Let not this shadow pass in vain,
Nor every breath endured in pain.
But crown it with a final grace—
A quiet smile, a resting place.
For lives not marked in grand parade,
Still leave behind the love they made.
And all that time cannot erase
Is held within your vast embrace.
So now, O Night, your silence keep—
Around this soul that longs for sleep.
Not lost, not gone, but taking flight—
At peace, at last, in hush of night.
I caress the black
leaning into its soft
velvet hold, hoping
to blind the agony
but,
the reflection of my sadness
overwhelms and sickens
I swallow nails with each gulp
food carries the stench of death
uncaring of a torn psyche
I continue to look back
searching my mistakes
rehashing every word
with each glance at our end
a slice of sanity is lost
and consistently shaking
my anchor is breaking loose
I dream into nothingness
becoming a lost beggar
who can never come home
for it is barren and bare
profound truth eludes me
despair cloaks me in ashes
as my sight ebbs to fade
I begin to slide away
I awake to each breathless day
in the realm of the forgotten
lying with the shredded ribbons
of my love scattered to ground
this long endless night
echoes with silent howls
and the dripping tears
bled from my crucified heart
in this self-made prison
I am now living death alone