Long Elixirs Poems
Long Elixirs Poems. Below are the most popular long Elixirs by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Elixirs poems by poem length and keyword.
Intoxicated Rondeau
Totally intoxicated in prime movers’ immortality
Never hidden in punchy illusion
Broken heart dips into sacred circus hilarious absurdity
Images of staggering lightheadedness - cleared vision fusion.
Stronghold built on the perfect harmony suffusion
Of love’s author – dizzy with tipsy truth’s reality -
Distilled Spirit's healing balm - giddy epiphanies in profusion -
Totally intoxicated in prime movers’ immortality.
Shouting slaphappy cheers for reveries tonality
Elevated toast to the holy love’s effusion
Gleeful, inebriated, rolling peals for grace vitality
Never hidden in punchy illusion,
Staggering in your waves of affection’s conclusion
Dropping rags of shameful brutality
Revelations of solace in my heart’s seclusion
Broken heart dips into sacred circus hilarious absurdity
Released, then freed from frost stagnation’s legality,
From enigma’s toxic labyrinth exclusion,
Torn temple curtain reveals forgiveness jubilee
Images of staggering lightheadedness - cleared vision fusion.
Giddy epiphanies of Eden love resolves confusion
Eternal elixirs of glee banish banality
In sweet essences my “I” consumed without occlusion
Saturated by the great “I Am’s” affusion totality.
Totally intoxicated.
6-8-22
Contest: Rondeau Redoubled
Sponsor: L. Milton Hanks
"a heartbeat pulsating as living light
free from each and every limitation
I Am that dwelling in unbound delight
the source wherefrom arises creation”
O, ethereal emperor of my poem,
read me... as my initials shape the cosmos ,
the energetic essence of this eucalyptus heart
and I spill stars on the perfumed pages ,
that never leave the diary
of d i v i n i t y and d r e a m s ...
there is no sacred warmth without the sun,
thus, on the lips of the sky, I sleep with hope
~ in my humble honeysuckle heaven ~
listen, karma-reapers, sipping sins from kismet
life is a yoga, my meditative muse,
and I yeild no jealousy from the yarn of jewels,
that soaks not the silence of my soul.
I have no confession, no explanation,
I am answerable to the amethyst starlight,
that sleeps in the kundalini of loyal truths
for, what remains in the silhouette of the spirit,
if not something, inked with empathetic elixirs
breathless ... ageless ... limitless ...
boundless in the bonded petals,
like the blizzard of bougainvillia butterflies ~
the one born from those blessed brushstrokes,
where, unfurled within fluent flames
by a sage-spun saint, I am a saffron soprano ,
a line of l o v e ... laced with the last star
I am that I am, but I am no more ~
because all that lives has a pulse of light,
but I a m o n e with the source
a feeler, fond of the alchemy of Almighty ...
and his elysian flower-fused footprints ...
Demiseville, USA
Karen, a vivacious redhead, she.
Looked in the mirror and spotted
three gray hairs.
"O tempora, O mores,"she declared
Off to her attorney in defeat,
Signing papers in the summer heat.
Off to buy an expensive coffin,
With a compartment to put her best
Friend, the iPhone in!
Rushes home to give away favorite
Figurines and beloved Books,
The Grim Reaper she awaits at
Her ivy covered gate.
She created this insane scene...
All of her own desparate making.
Diseases with a passion she seeks to
find and does.
Suffering so needlessly in her mind.
With poisonous elixirs.
Walgreens, she believes, cures all ills.
She refused to learn Hippocrates lesson.
"Let food be your medicine, and medicine
be your food. "
Let Karen be a lesson to us all.
Live joyfully in this day.
Live life, stop, please, stop, planning
our final curtain call.
Panagiota Romios
3/11/2019
* O, Temopra, O Mores*
Cicdro said this. Meaning "oh the Times, oh the customs."
In a white realm, where optimism drifts away.
Frescoed moonbeams on walls, in swirling array.
Such silky cream and vanilla, delicately sifting.
As the full moon lingers, its light briskly heaving.
Languid souls quest elixirs in ewers that drip.
Crystalline nostrums for life's moribund ship
Water mugs crammed with jewels of ivory,
Smidgen mellow, a malodor for the misery.
As we tackle the maze of vivacity and strength,
While anguish and grief seem the only wealth.
The moon's grasp soothes with a placid embrace.
A lambent chimera is a dreamer fulfilling grace.
Within the vault of night, dreams unfold.
As fingers of fate in the shadows reach and hold.
Impending doom may cast its darkened spell,
But within moonlit dreams, all is well.
The moon's magnitude moistens maligned hearts,
Mending muddles and melding the brittle parts
With sanguinity as a mentor, the moonlight dance.
A beacon of solace, a happenstance for romance
In moonlit dreams, the world is at peace.
As anguish and grief descry revered release.
A sanctuary of quietude, serenity, and grace
Dreams amid the moonlight, a sacred place
No longer burdened by the weight of despair,
In this ethereal realm, troubles strive for repair.
The moon's healing touch, such a gentle caress,
A soothing balm, a respite from life's stress.
Ignorance is a rhyme without a soul, an art fading into slow oblivion,
like fallen tulips swirling through captive rays of a weary sun,
amidst hot sighs tearing through the deafening silence of the evening,
and they are more than the burning thorns of a phoenix rose moon,
infused in scarlet elixirs of an enchanted dusk weaving its silent spell,
braiding love into golden glimmers, among double scales of blazing flames,
burning my velvety heart and asking, could you be the galactic gardener,
the one who waters my weary spirit, when I am but a simple memory,
tangled in vengeful vines of vanity that choke and smother,
for I have a voice and sing with the grace of garnet amidst ignorant silence...
If tomorrow you feel my heartbeat among old and forgotten verses,
of a scentless sonnet, long erased and lost in the mists of time,
remember that I am the silk and the sage, the untamed silhouette of a flower,
a gentle flower that refuses to breathe in the ossuary of withered petals and dreams,
wrinkled and ostracized dreams by the thorns of prejudice and unrefined ink,
which sting the soft stems facing cyclones of greed and arrogance,
spinning in circles of pure and dazzling vanity that know no bounds...
Tonight, I follow the warmth of the hyacinth, of unwavering and burning desire,
drawing bloody smoke of love with a thread of winged and fragile gossamer,
tied to the fragrant roots of horizons untouched by shadows,
as I craft promises of petrichor along the spine of a nocturnal garden,
where handmade wreaths of hope and faith feel softer,
softer than the moonlight that caresses and soothes the bare soul,
while my heart resembles a maternal bouquet of burgundy happiness,
a woman who does not heed misogynistic mantras, but follows her own path.
Containers come with different purposes
as they hold, wage, measure and engage.
From stone walls to fragile shells,
blood vessels to cage to idea.
Containers come with different protections and methods for treasures to unveil.
Each of a different purpose and story to tell.
Holding memories, secrets, or material, spirits- preciousness,
like a ring of a bell, a bluuurpbglllpll-
vomit of a puppet, a ouija for a demon of Hell.
In wooden chests, treasures lie hidden,
till the creak of hinge is bidden.
Whispers of history, stories in books, either Holy, educational, entertaining,
mysterious or forbidden us.
The brain to house memories,
where they belong,
the skull for the brain,
to help keep harm from,
or as a placeholder
for grey matter placebo for some.
The vessel of a porcelain teacup,
holds warmth and comfort, it's mold to stand
and deliver, as your lips gingerly quiver, bracing for
impact, careful it's hot, you lily liver!
Aww yes, sipping nature's elixirs
with each delicate sip,
in its delicacy, (pinky up sophisticately)
we find wisdom's mold to behold, pattern,
symbology, continuity, ingenuity, bounty,
Thrift Store Old Lady looking at you look at her.
antiques like security.
Aaarg matey!
A ship sails the vast, uncharted sea,
bearing straits of discovery, to arrive in one piece and enjoying the ******* luxury.
Contouring the wind's sweet glide.
A private plane, a non fossil fuel of the Elites,
a vessel of travel and privilege,
reaching for the sky, off to Little St. James,
though Hell is a contained container,
and Hell is from here to Eternity.
Continued....
Nexus
Spinning on a sharp point of connectedness
Fulcrum pivots on micro pinpoints
A pilgrimage, a crux,
From oblivion to authentic choice –
Sharp point of indecision and a-ha –
A sliver of either or pierces the tipping point
In conundrums of balance
Sharp honesty, gilded with empathy,
Or
Thorny truths on turning points
~
Intentional grace clothed in compassion
Or
Hard edges of exacting truth
~
Merciful discretion
Or
Bleak transparency
~
Authenticity
Or
Opaque imagery of the vague
~
Sharp pinpoints of objectivity
Or
Honesty framed in love’s elixirs
As the waking soul of indecision
Stands on two feet in balance
To oscillate upon nexus pivot points
Of truth
Or
Discretion
~
To seize wonder
Or
Tremble at the portal of the unknown
~
Remain in the numbing coma of wakefulness
Or
Enter true blissful consciousness
That leaves footprints on the source of love.
3-7-22
Contest: Consciousness Fulcrum
Sponsor: Unseeking Seeker
I saw a buggy at the antique store today, its beauty unsurpassed!
I couldn't help but sit and muse awhile about its esoteric past.
It was shiny black with roll-up curtains to fend the stormy weather.
Its lone seat was hand-tooled in the finest of cowhide leather!
I pictured it being pulled by a svelte, fine-blooded horse,
Clad in silver embossed harness, the finest to be had of course!
Seated inside was a young swain with a beauty at his side,
Awaiting the right moment to ask her to be his bride!
Or maybe an old country doctor used it to visit the lame and sick,
Or to deliver a babe, tho' the roads were blocked by snow and slick!
Could a veterinarian have owned it, visiting far-flung farms,
Attending to the maladies of animals, easing farmer's alarms?
Perhaps a revered old pastor once used it to visit his fold,
To nurture languid souls and bring solace to the old.
Then there was the usual huckster prowling from town to town,
Selling snake oil and other elixirs, he of nefarious renown!
Who knows, it could have been used by such as Carrie Nation,
Wielding her axe, creating havoc while preaching God's salvation!
Whatever its past it now reposes in regal grandeur,
For folks to admire and about its past to conjecture!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired (© All Rights Reserved)
Tears of a Dragon 8-18-25 Sponsor: Robert James Liguori Based on the song Tears of a Dragon and a Welsh Legend
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Tears of a Dragon
Into a cave without a door
Abandoned dragons dormant lie
Without the warmth of a prophet’s sun,
Their fire sacrificed by the sky.
Stumbling to a well that weeps
The forge of darkness not denied
Bullied by the loss of magic
To emptiness songs testify.
With dragon tears in moonbeam hues
Thick elixirs of honeyed balm
Restless waves of healing dews
Bid youthful ghosts find calm.
Dragon tears, white opaque gems
Sleep in bottomless pools of dreams
For future days – called to rise
Enchanted rainbows of dragon daydreams.
Released from the unrest of the sea
With spiraling secrets washed aside
Each tear heals a bleeding memory
Where new magic now abides.
With dragon tears in moonbeam hues
Thick elixirs of honeyed balm
Restless waves of healing dews
Bid youthful ghosts find calm.
I wonder how Donald Trump thought
and felt
about his King Midas political narrative
at the time of his electoral college victory.
Well,
actually I don't need to wonder.
He mentioned, once or twice,
how thrilled he was with well-marketed turnout
at his self-celebratory inauguration.
Still,
I wonder how these thoughts and feelings might compare
with King Midas despair
thoughts and golden touch feelings
after impeachment of his intentional neglect
for multiculturally inclusive
healthy wealth of resilient GoldenRule communication
connected with and through
co-attached interdependent values
of a cooperatively vulnerable democracy
built on robust and resilient trust.
For any narcissist,
this is a curiously compassionate dispassionate question,
but for a nationalistically successful executive
of win/lose competitions
precluding sight and sound and smell
of win/win green healthy cooperative organic structures
and empowerment platforms
for healthier climate multicultures,
even the GoldenRule is trumped
by GoldenTouch of toxic wealth
prejudicially measured as robust
regardless of absent compassionate health
Made more resiliently resonant
through integrity of Left minded with Right hearted golden integrity,
equitable ratios
and interdependently blended elixirs
ego-RightWing ebbing
with eco-LeftWing flowing.
Seems to me I remember someone
saying something
about not storing up golden treasures
in trump towers
where moths
and bedbugs
and rust
can so easily spread
moldy moral bankruptcy,
spiritless
nature-less
soul-less
nihilistic
climate pathology denialistic.