Long Edges Poems
Long Edges Poems. Below are the most popular long Edges by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Edges poems by poem length and keyword.
Wild overgrown hedges gleam through the mist,
enchanted wildness and curiosity cannot resist.
To experience that longing of its source to claim,
to know that purpose due to some strain.
Pacing along endless entangled hedges,
with distance footsteps echoes, at mental edges.
Round green corridors and spiders stretching time,
every wrong step seams like a web of chime.
All mighty thoughts just simply suggest,
to give the rational mind a rest.
In still the ego dies with a tear as a start,
remembered mantras gushing to the heart.
From spheres to spheres in harmonic ease,
the path more bright speaks melodies.
The pulse of quiet and greatest care,
centerfold and intimate shrine to declare.
Every little love that counts as tiny tickle star,
strength that moves worlds from very far.
One equal temper of a heroic heart,
taken life’s mazes to virtues art.
Loving circles in circles of relation,
choices from a free will to free will foundation.
The labyrinth disguised in melancholy blues,
not considering the quiet divine in confuse.
I've given myself some ideal times to reckon.
My musings meander for no apparent reason
I don't settle what to predict on the challenge.
Where I'm being idling within the lucid adage,
Notwithstanding, it is thus somewhere out there.
With his pensiveness perfectly elsewhere,
It's likely the case that this would be creedal.
Suspicions, then again, may as well tweedle.
It is helpful to inquire over evoking glints pitch.
That could only hit the one to maul his switch.
My surmise is this is a direct result of reality.
You're adding a snide view on my apparency.
From the edges of your lowly litters' haven,
It's vital to grasp I would instead foil this beckon.
Written: January 12, 2022
There, my eyes fixed on the yellow paving stone.
Amongst a slightly tangled dandelion leaf is a
little purple demon staring back at me.
Just stood casually as the suns rays continue
to bounce vividly off the heated ground.
I notice those pointed eyes all sharp and looking frightened,
that I might disrupt his peaceful unity with the warm breeze.
I won't, but I'll remain enchanted by such presence.
His gold earrings reflect many colours of the passing day,
as they appear all the way up those elongated ears.
A tiny ruby shines from a chain around his neck
and there I see the hour glass dangling unthreateningly.
The indents of aged muscle mould above his chest bone
to form perfect pectorals. On each tiny nipple is another hoop;
only, they are bronze in appearance, almost wilting in their achingness.
I'm overwhelmed as I thought I recognised the curling of his mouth,
a smile for me. I smile back uncertain if he would think I am afraid.
Then his sharp ivory teeth poke out and I know I have done a good thing.
The greens of his emerald eyes enlighten the evilness,
he just wants fresh air from the summers sky as I do.
A tail slivers like a python in the air with a triangular form at its end.
His nails look dangerous on the edges if his twig like fingers.
But I do not feel them piercing my soul.
For his hour glass is not pouring any golden sand on this day, no.
So I watch him leave and I am left to thoughts about a small world
with the beetles, flies and mice.
I find myself then laughing at such mythical fantasies.
Of course, art is always somewhat
subjective, breaking established rules: the artist
intuitively adding imaginary inches to a canvas;
a work in progress, riding waves, finding depth
both on and off the easel, creatively flowing – a
vision on the loose –
(paused, but never finished...a true birth
having voice and life beyond the parent's release,
like a child going out into the world alone...
a must, for the painter to keep fluid a moistening eye:
that mysterious exorcism by his instruments...a true descriptor
ultimately not bound by the Catechism of Lines nor a Page's
World-edges;
no mural out of the soul, seeking spectacular release
is ever entirely confined to interior walls nor the sides of buildings~
that is why certain poems are read over and over, as if catching up
with an old friend~filled-in on what is new, an evolutionary rapport...
or one revisits The Museum of Modern Art – finding aged modern
in the old modern, the past meeting perhaps a cloudy moment and
today a day of awakening transparency – each vintage, an individualized
spirit-manifest,
a motivating shade of scentful-color~of brightness and overcast,
with searchable, unseen dimensions, the spaces science
has yet to fill,
the private domains of both
experimenting student and seasoned mystic...
the limits of what we
know, transformed by the revelation of what we dream,
the artist, and not the scientist, life's true conjurer of miracles,
only bound, when at all, by his own restricted conceptions of
time transforming space.
Between the Indian plains and the hills of Burma.
Protected by the affection of its three guardians,
The Ganges, Brahmaputra and Meghna.
From there - this story began.
On a grassland full of hopes and dreams.
Right at the edges of Brahmaputra river.
Lying there without any wheezes,
A sad and lonely royal bengal tiger.
He remembers the smell of the Sal trees,
In Bhawal Park near Dhaka, his place of birth.
He remembers the sounds of peacocks, elephants, and deers
His heart wish they were not yet became a myth.
He has been a part of Pohela Boishakh feast.
When people bathe early and dress in fine clothes.
All the men put on their kurta, or the finest lungi at least
While women dress in sharee, letting their beauty to be exposed.
Tears streamed from his cheek. As the old tiger weep.
A momentary recalled the legends of his ascendant.
The story of the one whose once Sultan beloved,
And the one whose survives the liberation war in 1971.
The tiger now stood, underline his courage and chivalry.
"Will this liberty be felt by my offspring?" his mind fly.
Despite the poverty, instability, and all its vulnerability,
There is more to Bangladesh than meets the eye.
~ For the "LOVE LETTERS TO THE INDIAN SUBCONTINENT" contest by Cyndi MacMillan
With pen in hand I sat, clearly I could visualize
the graphic scene I intended my readers to see.
Each detail was so vivid when I closed my eyes;
a child, happily singing beneath a dogwood tree.
Trying to write the words, my breath was shallow.
How could I describe the curled edges of a leaf.
or the color of soil in the field beyond, left fallow?
How was I to aptly convey Spring in poetic motif?
My pulse quickened as I filled my pen with ink
Images were copied from my mind to stationery.
Blue skies came alive; leaves were fringed in pink
Verses flowed freely; I dared not dawdle or tarry.
There was nothing ambiguous in what I had penned
Expressed realistically, the child's voice could be heard.
Through imagery, a poet has the ability to transcend
readers into each verse when the imagination is spurred.
Wings settle, feathers light as the glistening dew who rests gently on each tender petal. The crimson edges of melancholy, roaring with the wind’s breath, listen to my prayers and I hesitate, uncertain. Will God hear the hunger in my voice, the famine that lingers, the need far greater than any prayer I’ve spoken in my sixty years? Will He hear, listening for the fear, heeding the tear, welcoming my plea for healing? And, will cancer fade into remission because my voice holds a thirst that I’ve yet to quench, a thirst for a future with the person who sits closest to me in the pew each Sunday, the person who rests his eyes on me first thing each morning, the person who is my person? Will cancer listen when I pray and will it listen when God says for its shadow to fade from my life, leaving only the slight impression of a memory where it once grew into a grief far more severe than the blackest night? It must listen to my voice, my prayer, my praise of the One who is my heart’s resting place at this moment when all else has failed and nothing on earth feels quite as warm as it once did. It must hear the voice of our Creator and realize that it has no right to consume the person that has been my person in good times and hard times. It has no right. It has no right. It has no right.
Wings settle on limbs
Leaving impressions of grace
My heart bleeds prayers
Sickle moon gray above the waves
The quiet directionless wind
On the earth, and in the sky above
A veil is drawn, cutting into dark spots
Slowly round and round,
Murals are etched into the sand
The statue waits with eyes unblinking
Silent wonder, solitary armless stone
Twisted, counter-pose, forever fixed,
Wonder, what does she see under water?
Rusty bows and sterns, shipwrecks,
Silvery fish fluttering in and out of hulls, a
graveyard outside hallowed ground
Archway, the great doors dark and closed
Murky, wet light pours in vaulted windows
Through water-worn edges of stained glass
Seaweed tendrils curl around an altar
Once, quiet processions marched up the aisle
They are now only filtered ghosts,
Murmuring, wavy impressions of what was
Forever, the tide calls upon the great steeple
And the lonely under-toe,
Pulls a mote in the sand around her,
To protect the bastion in the sea,
Dark, lovely, lost forever to those above
Climbing fragile skies, with honesty clinging to the wind,
Reflecting the gentle in the spirit, who remembers to yield to the graceful sea,
Hesitating against a shore of gratitude, delicate reef
Stumbling in rhythms, June through December….
Revealing the music that abides in the tides, swelling the heart,
Trembling against the aching sand, weathering the stars,
Coloring smiles in grace that remembers, calming every scent
With salty memories, glowing like the gentle that comes to those who see her truths staring back, from cerulean songs, on the edges of listening,
Revelations poured out like victories, Seas of silence, sighing through the star studded nights, moonlight shimmering, plunging through the darkness,
Remembering the new soon flows from the thoughts,
Who slide from the clouds, tangerine symbols, Soaring so the spirit feels its warmth, its healing linking the sea to the sky and restoring the seeds of a life,
Who decides, the remedy, sea glass joys, purposeful and knowing, the sun’s overflowing, stirring awake the fires, silhouettes of beautiful, peace
Like mists, absorbed by the backdrop of light, sensing the depth of need, the greed, the seed, restoring all that sunlight will feed with sea glass dreams,
Relief, found in the center of a morning’s breath,
Aching to be fed the glorious presence of God’s rest, pacific kiss!
I am neither
good nor bad
I flirt with the devil
and dance with angels
high octane is my adrenaline...
labels just don't stick to me.
I am neither
selective nor indiscriminate
I am a willing accomplice
with mischievous imps
and frolic with the likes of cherubim...
play boxes have no boundaries, no sides
I am neither
moderate nor extreme
not even mediocrity is my stance
I swing high, I swing low
between the edges
and stretched out wide
I am neither
polarity nor yin and yang
Never on a slider scale
Bird mentality is my desire
Any contradictions ....
Label me when I'm dead,
If you wish!