Long Enamel Poems
Long Enamel Poems. Below are the most popular long Enamel by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Enamel poems by poem length and keyword.
Foraging through time's annals
Peering through the faded panels
Catching a glint through corroded channels
Seeking the sallowing bridges to re-enamel
Shuffling along desert lanes beaten down by Assyrian
chariot trains
Walking subsumed Royal Persian road, linking cultural
chains
Striding through exhumed Alexandrian cities'
ethnocentric strains
Strolling pebbled Roman boulevards accentuated by
aqueduct drains
Riding the Mongolian steppes listening to the murderous
refrains
Traipsing through gold-crowned Ottoman mosques
sprouting Christian veins
Lumbering penitently along Via Dolorosa grasping
sacrificial blood stains
SENSE OF DECORATION
flattering in detail
defined
with such
dreamy effects
common
&undulating
in shape
so carefully
constructed
beyond foliage
a fingerlike canopy
shaped
whilst striving
for the
simplified
swirling &uncovered
in enamel segments
an
outline
utilised
by the enclosed
synergy
sought
& juxtaposed
stark
angular
a spiralling manifesto
deployed
with gentle folds
shaped
to
bestow a
fundamental
observation
winding its way
THIS IS AN OPEN(organic) FORM VERSE without grammatical symbols the ' open' relies upon 'the one breath limitation' & so inherently requires the 'reader' (reciter) to input and respond thus making the form a two way interplay and often a unique interpretation by the enigma so derived
Bili’s one of my two best chums. She's exquisite, cagey and ferociously funny - compared to her I’m tomboyish.
Her hair is a straight corn-silk that shines like black-enamel. When we watch movies, I get to brush it. Her heritage is Japanese, she has perfect, warm-ivory skin, but she’s as American as sarcasm or gun-violence.
When she talks to me, sometimes she’ll be flirtatious or motherly, but always jocose. She bullies me, good-naturedly coaxing and chivvying me onto the trajectory she selects.
I’m jiggered - I enjoy being treated like a pet. I’ve been so harried lately that it’s somehow calming. I think I’m going to spend the rest of the summer, blithely letting her arrange me.
~Perfect Rain~
I can see!
All the tribulations around
A rage against the burning wind
Nobody hears the crackling sounds in my voice
Everybody avoids feeling the smoke hidden within
A rain so deep it burns all the enamel off my skin
A rain that cut my soul in half
Two-piece that will not entwine or merge down a dragon path
I feel this eternity has no ending blaze
Trigger happy rain, extinguishing a bonfire around my rose.
I will sleep under the artillery stars tonight
With the perfection of my fiery crystal lava teardrops
Washing the ashes of my face,
Suppressing the overwhelming fear
Knowing no one will ever, "BLAME IT ON THE RAIN!"
As long as the torch keeps loading another artillery round.
~*~
PD
4/12/12
Trashed #3, sponsor, Broken Wings
Date Trashed November 2nd, 2015
Myself, a cup:
Resting quietly
in a stained glass cabinet,
I wait for Desire’s approach
upon the uppermost
shelf:
That moment--
when the warm coarseness of His leather
dares to reach,
when the cabinet doors finally
breach;
when He lifts me
to the pursing slope
of pink.
He has not come,
yet content I remain.
(Dust becomes me, I think)
The glass hues rain my reflection
in purple and jade:
I am a shell of ceramic roses;
enamel strength,
delicately made.
I admire the pearly wax and wane
of porcelain,
all the wondrous variety that may be held
Within;
With or without knowing--
the brush of His lips
to my skin.
The Companionship of Darkness
By David J Walker
Why is the silence in the darkness
Of morning before dawn
More sacred than the first
rays of the sun
The emptiness of my coffee cup
Explains its perfection with perfect diction
Pleading with me to first admire its
Enamel base and the curve and grace
Of its handle
Until I decide the time and place to
Claim the space I take for granted
Meant for me
I claim as mine the perfection
Of companionship alone
The visions in the darkness
and the message in silence
Where I can see and hear
The clear black and white
Revealed
Only in the night
Crawling through the dust, memories
and blood, the search continues
for days and years.
Darkness slips around, growling
with thunder, threatening
the search for tonight.
Frustration mounts as droplets
fall, tears for those whose
souls are already flying.
Ivory, enamel, slate and glass
piece by piece, collected,
formed, prodded, studied
Searching the corners, gathering the
dust, pushing aside photos,
books and stories from years gone by.
Floating above, sitting in the
way - souls, tired and
recently dispatched.
Not knowing where to go or
what to do, they watch
their own investigation
Crawling through dust, memories
and blood, the search continues
for days and years.
OPEN
Each
chiselled
line
enamel
images
to float
upon
sounds
sans
rime
staccato
syntax
align
symmetry
as
iambics
beat
the
drum
of
vers
liber...
....tine
crosswise MATISSE
Your art your notes your style
So varied so wise so true
Opened then drew close to
My eye my mind my heart
My eye my mind my heart
To love to learn to know
Your craft your theory your technique
Forever you made so unique
crosswise-GRAND-DAUGHTERS FAIR
Your innocence your purity your smile
So open so natural so wide
Charms enchants awakes
My spirit my eyes my pride
My spirit my eyes my pride
Inside in wonder in youth
To pray to gaze to praise
In love in awe of thee
quintile-SWEET VERSE
words too
familiar
or too remote
defeat the purpose of which,
he wrote
was his
hidden
enigma
a step too far,
if no-one could open
his jar
Inspired by Johnson's famous dictum
sequence-THE COUNSELLOR
He
opens
hearts and minds
in sickness and
health-
He
draws us
to himself
a quiet voice
we
hear
prompts
and reminds-
until peace we
find-
Then
fills us
with His word,
so we may be
heard
Fibonacci-faith quaternion
when
I
listen
God will speak
when God speaks
my mind
will
hear
when
the
open
door closes
light begins to glow
a new way
for me
to
go
An open verse
Will
my verse
reach your ear
can
your eye
stay the course
Does
unconvention
confound
the rhythm
of your eyes
Take
a deep breath
exhale and read
between my lines
unphased
by phrase and
habitude
or human voice
The choice
is always
yours if
my poem will
be or is
not to be
a tune upon
your ear
Sometimes healing is messy
It is a rollercoaster
Ups and downs
Sometimes I can handle it
Other times I lose control
I say I am in recovery for my bulimia
But I still struggle
I still consider pushing myself that extra hour in the gym
I think skipping lunch that day won't hurt
I sometimes spend too much time looking at teeth enamel strengthening toothpaste and whitening strips
I only look at healthy snack like plain rice cakes and original sun chips
Carboard is not the most appealing flavor
But it is the safest one
I don't have to feel guilty when I eat them
I won't need to punish my body later
Some days though
I will eat the birthday cake and not worry about it later
I will still go to the gym but only spend 30 minute there not 2 hours
I brush my teeth not worrying about if i will cause any damage to them from a purge
Healing is messy
Somedays are easier than others
But I know that I am trying my hardest.
Home is where . . .
The heart and reason mould into one and the same mirror of harmony
. . . the Golden Mean and centre of gravity as long as life’s turns spin around
. . . where dents in the mind do not mind but care kindly about gaping gaps
. . . when time juggles dis-synchronous consolation in the face of chaos
Memories and anticipation caress the wayward traveller into the harbour
. . . the ancient light house guides pirates of doom into tender submission
. . . where hidden treasures are felt beneath a dented compass’ rusty needle
. . . when jubilation overwhelms caved in darkness at the point of confusion
Vision and hindsight blend ambiguity and opposites of fragile consonance
. . . the myopic lenses lead the way from afar towards what can be touched
. . . where shattered glass causes new puzzles and chards for luminous mosaics
. . . when an empty canvas is shredded but gives way to a collage of dreams
Deafness and laughter combine to a symphony of understandable voices
. . . the auricles are pierced and adorned with truths and rings of delight
. . . where an ear for an ear is not an empty promise but sharing the way
. . . when the few want to listen to an old man’s attempt of feeble wisdom
Bones creak on the spiral staircase and master the voyage downwards and up
. . . the attic hold enough trinkets and memorabilia for a flea market or two
. . . where moths in the cellar feed happily in symbiosis with trodden dust
. . . when paradise is being in love and sharing glow worms and outlooks
Home is when the Self is good enough and life’s companion is gratitude
A Golden Mean happy to eat from enamel plates one spoon and a tin whistle
Light shines through cataracts of wild water and cascades of living surprise
Nostalgia is a way forward on the path one step at a future step in the making
Shades of eye sight observe perceive reflect condense highlighting the soul
A child’s whisper registers more deeply than cacophony of ubiquitous hatred
And the bones of one’s hands can still read a book and write the odd poem . . .
17th April 2019