Long Encircled Poems
Long Encircled Poems. Below are the most popular long Encircled by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Encircled poems by poem length and keyword.
Things sacredly sworn should last forever.
Wedding rings aren't meant to be removed
but love doesn't always end like a fairytale.
This is a rendering of what was forsaken,
in a painstaking tale that wounded my heart
but all's well that ends well... after a sale.
Vile words spewed from inebriated lips...
daggers drenched with the stench of liquor.
Upon my left hand, I'd worn a wedding band.
For a year after leaving, it encircled my finger until
it behooved me to take it off.
There's no sense holding on to what is over.
Marriage isn't always as palatable as waffles
covered with honeyed clover syrup.
Removing that ring was easier than I thought,
but getting rid of it was something I fought to do.
I almost tossed it out, but put it in a box,
still feeling tethered though I'd weathered
the storm of sorrow. Courage to do that
came the day divorce papers arrived with a
"Please sign." I did and never felt more alive.
I smiled knowing he had to pay court fees.
I looked at the ring later that day,
knowing what I needed to do with the thing.
The one that once meant everything to me,
but now it was an agitator, an aggravator.
It dawned on me that I should pawn it.
So, to a hole-in-the-wall place called Fast Cash,
I drove without giving thought that my heart
would make me turn around.
NO! Not this time. I was going to win this round!
It may have been a rash decision,
but I took what I was offered because
divorce papers don't come with a provision
that states, "Rings given must be returned."
'Marriage adjourned' the document stated.
Give back the ring? I'm not addlepated.
I was better off without a wedding band,
no longer on the third finger of my left hand.
I sold it for less than the measure of its worth,
but felt like I'd given birth to a new me.
Free from the emotional chain around my neck.
Heck, selling it gave me more pleasure
than I would have known had I tossed it out.
SONG OF SONGS 7:2 Your navel is a rounded goblet that never lacks a blended wine.Your waist is a mound of wheat encircled by lilies.
THE BELLYDANCE
A performance for one - the dance of love.
Her supple waist; he never knew she could.
His eyes like a mesmerized snake, his dove —
She gyrates left and right - she’s really good.
The darkling wine on lips — a sparkling feast.
Such contrast with taut lily-flesh; no sin.
The draw to pull her close unto his breast.
No danger here — her palms soft-wave him in.
The naivety sweet — her navel’s gold.
His hands encircle hips - he reels her close.
The butterfly goblet — his tongue is bold.
Scent’s aphrodisiacal — and time has froze.
The bellyache of loss should two break up.
O rather drink the everlasting cup!
7/16/2019
Oh, thou “Lesser Light,” created by the Master’s voice on the fourth day of creation to provide light at night.
Your greater companion, the sun, marks the boundaries of a day, you determine month’s beginning and end.
At night you fascinate us earthlings as you move through your phases, reflecting the light of your superior soul mate.
He rules the day, you rule the night with your diffused light. Together you affect the ocean tides, causing spring tides and neap tides by your varied alignments.
You are believed by some to affect the mood of those we call lunatics.
While you move through your phases, they are calm, but when you are full, they turn raving mad.
Thou celestial cupid, who mesmerize lovers as they sit under the atmospheric canopy encircled by your silvery light.
Oh, ancient prophet, that signals the nearness of your Maker’s return to earth.
You harbinger of tumultuous events. The ancients studied you to decipher your prognostications.
On this side of eternity we revel in your benefits, because when time gives way to eternity we will have no need of sun nor you for God your creator will be our source of light.
Strolling down the old, gray, cobblestone path, encircled by soft shade,
Golden plumes enhanced by indigo and violet are visible as light fades.
The emerald and clover leaves of willows weep, drooping from limbs overhead,
bubbling, trickling, water is audible from a nearby creek bed.
Freesia, Lavender, and sweet honeysuckle scents hang in the air.
Succulent, juicy, and tempting ripe fruit hang everywhere.
Desiring a taste, I clutch a shimmering, burgundy plum,
I lose myself in the decadence of its flesh on my tongue.
Suddenly, a soft, gentle breeze teases my hair, tickling my skin,
Alas, I awaken, to pull on my overalls, and head outside and begin,
It’s not as perfect as what my dreams held within,
not as fragrant, shady, or filled to the brim,
but as I bite the product of my own hard work again,
I realize it’s MY perfect garden.
By the white-bleached shrines of the exiled,
the clan—Eden’s aftermath—broke in despair,
the distance to the next pasture too far.
A weight settled in their chests,
a collective yearning to sink into the soil’s embrace,
to be still until the quiet returned and the will could mend.
They dispersed beneath the trees in fragile constellations,
like migratory birds grounded.
Ibex on high paused to observe them,
some upon the ridges, others lower down,
drawn by the sorrow woven through their speech.
Obedient children took the few remaining herds
to browse upon the sparse and brittle grasses,
a tender offering to their parents’ weary hearts.
And so they moved into the open light.
Under a solitary myrrh tree,
its foliage a living green,
a boy sat upon a great stone,
the sand below still holding the coolness of yesterday’s rain.
Clad in a skirt,
his robe drawn over his head and shoulders,
he sheltered his bare chest from the sun’s gaze.
He raised a five-holed gobeys to his lips.
Its voice, sharp yet of the earth,
carried the weight of ages,
a melody heavy with old grief,
conjuring images of men and camels
kneeling upon the bushy, parched land,
weeping for reasons unknown yet known to the heart,
before gathering themselves to stand once more.
Five black-headed sheep encircled him,
one a ewe suckling her young.
Farther off, a hundred others grazed.
His song was the only sound
that carried across the serene silence.
And there they stayed throughout the day,
listening from a distance to the boy’s chant,
and to the earth’s own song,
feeling their hearts slowly kindle
with the descent of the sun,
as the world softened into coolness about them.
I want to wake you
Wake you up and let you see the world.
Can you not see the tulips screaming triumphantly in their array
Or see the clouds dancing an endless waltz.
Touch the breeze and feel the climate of the times
The air is rich in expectation and warm with hope
You simply won't believe me if I tell you.
Would you assume a dream?
Taste and see that the air is intensely sweet
Do your seneses betray you
Do you believe me now?
I wanted to wake you up
So you would see what I believe
See what the world is
But Fear encircled you so the vision was of blur
Hate accompanied you so the odour was unbearable
Pride persuaded you so doubt had its fill
Oh! If you saw what i still see
Why do you not see
Why not the belief
In chains, did he complain —
this man of sorrows?
He wore his stripes well.
Freedom for all! Freedom for all!
Follow the cross, the bleeding tree.
This holy man, he wept for you and me.
Encircled by snarling beasts —
they mock and strike
like venomous serpents.
Can you hear the cruel heartbeat
of angels who weep?
Follow the cross, the bleeding tree.
This holy man, he wept for you and me.
How vulgar our tongues!
They rage feeling sorry for themselves.
But, look in his loving eyes —
what do you see?
Follow the cross, the bleeding tree.
This holy man, he wept for you and me.
Did he stand before saints?
Did they seek the truth?
Every last one was out for himself.
But this man looked to release,
to relinquish the chains even of kings.
Follow the cross, the bleeding tree.
This holy man, he wept for you and me.
He sees the one in terror, the lonely,
the poor, the sick and lame. He showed
us who can heal all infirmity.
Surprise your dim eyes — lift them up
to the light.
Follow the cross, the bleeding tree.
This holy man, he wept for you and me.
If he returns today, how will he find you, my friend?
Will you bare your teeth or crumble at his feet.
Are you about cursings or blessings?
How do you feel about life and death?
Looking into his eyes, would you dare
to compromise?
Follow the cross, the bleeding tree.
This holy man, he wept for you and me.
Saints are former sinners, under his righteousness not wrath,
wrapped up in a robe of glory, under his glorious wings.
Saints “one another” as in:
love one another,
forgive one another,
do unto others as you would have them do unto you.
Follow the cross, the bleeding tree.
This holy man, he wept for you and me.
Are you caught in a snare of your own making?
Do you judge and stare at the others made in God’s image,
same as you?
Look into his soulful eyes! See the Spirit’s wings!
Follow the cross, the bleeding tree.
This holy man, he wept for you and me.
Kim Rodrigues © 7/5/2018
When I am completely with myself, immersed in my reflections,
All the day's works are done - mundane and monotonous,
From far away in the past, an endearing picture emerges to me,
Surreal, yet distinctly visible!
A house which was left abruptly with no warning,
A porch where I scattered all my playthings, on splendid summer days,
The huge windows which smelt of drenched khuskhus herbs from its covering to protect from scorching heat,
Frolicking in the orchard full of shady Guava and Mango trees!
Oh! the spectacular garden of my father’s dream!
Chrysanthemums and Dahlias - I could smell the fragrance of the flowers - Roses, encircled with ferns!
The swing - the symbol of my entire childhood,
Of the laughter, the chatter, the admiring friends, the unforgettable scent of Jasmine flowers on the ground!
I decided not to go back! I was afraid the music had stopped, and the colours were lost!
The birdsongs were gone!
I decided not to open the shell and find the coveted pearl!
But the captivating vision doesn't fade away!
The crumbling door creaks open, and only whispers of the blowing wind I hear -
The black and white photographs on the walls unpainted for long, look faded, although the familiar faces are smiling,
A Rosette, immensely treasured once, is left on the floor - for so long nobody cared to pick it up,
The once-valued carvings on the ceiling is caving in, in melancholy.
The lonely, dusty, staircase which was once a refuge for giggling children playing hide-and-seek, has no footprints!
I decided not to go back,
To witness the decays, which break my heart beyond repair.
But I revisit again and again,
My heart takes me there.
For Decaying House Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Constance La France
Transition
between spring and summer, Santa Monica and Laguna Beach
despair to laughter, classroom to Zoom
Pagan festival brings renewal cinema:
In honor of May Day
Climbing 2200 feet
Encircled by a bed of yellow wild flowers
Special bonfires kindled
Yellow May flowers summon an eject on Big Bend trail
Screaming flames
off-beat-dancing inside shoulder joint
Roaring numb sinking deep
Beneath the puncture wound
Rainbow bruises cook up
one sexy hip
bloody lemonade rocking the carry-on bag
Bathe in wizard of Opium and Tylenol
Restless nights sneaking up without Full Moon’s warning
First time, may not
be the last – your suffering called forth
my morning dews
A time
to pray: May Tim and Paula watch over their beloved son
Safe and sound
Pagan festival brings
return of passion and vitality, self-healing and silent harmony:
Waves of euphoria without safety net ^ exponentially
Detach why > how > what > where > when
Immeasurable bliss
Aura of delirious tenderness – yet fruitful
Inherent presence – raw and unprotected
Unspoken immersion in realm of whole heartedness
Take nothing
for granted – from a simple bike ride to shampooing hair in kitchen sink
to
wrestle with arm sling
There are no mistakes in this Universe
Take nothing
for granted – from chopping garlic cloves to a divine prayer
to
welcome home kisses
There are no mistakes in this Universe
Take nothing
for granted – from mending torn muscles to sew up a broken heart
to
sponge a wrecked body of Fluffy Bunny
There are no mistakes in this Universe
Take nothing
for granted – from birds chanting and porched eggs in the morning
to
wake up ’sleepyhead’
There are no mistakes in this Universe
Embarking upon this most sacred timeless unification
Pagan festival brings the new norm:
The American Library Association
implores cognoscenti tubby alert
for impersonators, who
call themselves Ernie and Bert
took a page from Sesame Street Playbook
oft times accompanied
by a Soundcloud of dirt,
boot none other then Pigpen,
(who worked for Peanuts),
and pay-dirt, though
dismissed, cuz he did not exert
true grit, plus more seriously scandalous
sordid details suppressed kept from press,
(which scurrilous breach of conduct)
involved said scallywag
violating more than flirt
discovered in prurient compromised activity,
where his skin flute encircled,
with an ambrosia girt
transgressions possibly affected
public television station benefactors,
and sterling reputation of bottom line, nor hurt
locker talk (albeit via exaggerated mainly
to make a profit) sounding proper
sanctimonious Cliff (hanging) notes,
asper faux expected by
a "FAKE" trumpeting prophet,
sans motley crue comic
stripped of more'n
motion picture PG ratings,
hence future lurid, graphic,
banal, ampersand
(&) dressing room banter
muted, disallowed, and banned
so storied characters birthed by Charles Shulz,
(who passed away prior to near canned
aforementioned indiscretion debacle)
returning amidst fanfare hoopla
much as possible grand
jour "Making Peanuts Great Again" hand
diddly restoring full metal paperback jacketed
glory and apple pie order land
ding rebirth of cherished popular iconic
easy to digest bookworm feed
which unexpectedly, inadvertently,
and horrifyingly
brewed ferocious breed
on par with the Alaskan Bull Worm,
whereat armed guards
strategically stationed
at libraries entrances indeed
aware voracious young readers,
would pay no heed
to any obstacle, and such unstoppable
ravishing knowledge
hungry kids did exceed
capacity security details dashed away,
faster then Clifford
the big red dog re: oh speed
wagon in toto (oz suppose)
to escape paginated bound woes,
but especially to flee bozos
not tubby confused with Bezos -
(the richest cat on planet Earth),
whose cashiered spigot flows
née gushes without any need to faucet.