Long Ensnares Poems
Long Ensnares Poems. Below are the most popular long Ensnares by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Ensnares poems by poem length and keyword.
In a corner of the world, where silence weaves its web like a spider in the night,
Lives trickle away in lines of systematic renunciations, like rivers slowly retreating,
Each step backward is a knife plunged deep into the flesh of attempts to live,
And each unspoken whisper becomes a weight pressing on the shoulders of dreams yet to be told.
There, in the corners of the mind where courage once resided,
Now reigns a cold that leaves no room for the fire of desire,
And the fear of life, with its sharp claws, digs deep trenches,
Turning illusions into stone walls that can no longer be scaled.
When days become a series of mute retreats,
The heart loses its old beats, like an autumn without wind,
And in every corner of the soul settles a heavy silence,
An echo of a destiny that never dared to be truly lived.
The fear of living gives birth to an even greater fear of dying,
Like a vicious circle that ensnares us in the web of an endless dance,
And in this tango of hesitations, each step back
Is a step toward an abyss from which there is no return.
In this universe of shadows and silences,
Only those who dare to face their fears
Can escape the narrow corners of existence
And embrace life as a dance of daring and dreaming.
Dreams On The High Seas
I dare reach my dreams on the high seas
Calm sea sweet is the night air
High tide with the heightening of the full moon
Wearing its payne’s gray watercolor skies
Laced with glimmering constellation stars
On this vast universe that lie before me like a land of dreams
~
I dare reach my dreams on the high seas
With sails that ensnares sea sweet night air
As I stand on the bow with cold shivers running up my spine staring at the horizon
Waves crashing against the slowly drifting ship
I hear the sounds and catch a glimpse of a spout of water
From a knobby head of the humpback whale
Breaching the surface to breathe and sing its songs
~
I dare reach my dreams on the high seas
To command my own ship, the Black Pearl and ride the Seven Seas
From sun rising at dawn until the twilight of the seductive night
As the sea beckons me on to a life journey
With cannons blasts splintering ships apart and my cutlass swinging
While I hunt for my fortune of sparkling gold and rainbow diamonds in the sand
~
I dare reach my dreams on the high seas
9/20/2015
“Even if something is left undone, everyone must take time to sit still and watch the leaves turn.” -Elizabeth Lawrence
Still, soft colors
like blushing roses,
dew kissed, dancing quietly,
in the gentle wind –
rustling like the songbirds,
bursting with a melody,
chortling on the twisting
lights of morning’s reflections,
glowing like the face of love –
still, soft rhythms,
murmuring like the sea’s spray,
soothing away the night,
breaking through the quietest dreams,
flames of sunbeams,
swaying on the sweet, calm air,
erasing the soundless summer
with hesitation of autumn’s prayers,
giggling at the moon’s memory,
excited as the tempest ensnares,
bidding farewell to the comforts of solstice,
resting on the afternoon gusts,
testing the heart of yesterday for hopes,
intuitive grace unfolding.
Still, soft blessings,
defying the doubting,
balancing light and shadows,
blending faith with grace,
ending every fear,
like a dream who believes,
beyond the grief,
there is music that pleads,
pours out light over the soul,
inklings of truth,
beautiful, too magnificent
in hues of rich feelings,
unspoken treasures, words
in private wars,
healing, hoping, helping,
shall I ever know such acceptance?
Still, soft autumn trails,
rising beyond the moments –
quaint, crisp crimson,
vibrant gold and lively tangerine,
warming the spirit
intriguing, yet tender
like a feeling who steals the thoughts,
near dusk, when twilight
lulls the deathlike grasp of autumn’s voice,
manifesting the ache of a lonely
far wiser than her friendly face.
Still, soft moments
sigh, then sing through the spirit,
like the destiny of dreamers,
impressing each other with faded notes,
ballads of yesterday,
promise of unending love,
love that influences hearts with peace,
amazing tranquility.
quiescent as everlasting breaths.
To create art is to dance with the unseen and the ethereal,
A mystical journey, an enigma even to its creators.
Poets feel this deeply,
A difference they can't yet define, an unspoken aura.
Within them, emotions boil in a vast cauldron,
Every wound they bear, every fleeting joy, becomes magnified,
Everything brings pain. Everything.
They traverse this world as vessels of fragility,
Supersensitive souls drifting in a realm of the mundane.
The mundane dissolves before their enchanted gaze,
They see spectral realities, hear whispers in the celestial silence.
Others move forward, but they linger in the liminal,
Held by the gravity of visions unseen by ordinary eyes.
Their hearts are stormy seas,
Emotional whirlwinds that others cannot understand.
It isolates, ensnares, encasing them in solitary luminescence,
Yet this brilliance often feels too heavy for their delicate forms.
The raw beauty they perceive, untouched by mundanity,
Is both a shining gift and a crushing burden,
This hypersensitivity is the key to the divine,
But it can also be a curse that imprisons the soul.
In their veins flows the luminous river of inspiration,
Yet it cleaves through their existence, a double-edged knife, blessing and peril.
Seeing through this transcendent lens touches the divine essence,
But feeling every nuance can shake the spirit.
They balance on the edge of ethereal creation,
Where the abyss of despair lurks, waiting.
For some, this edge becomes an eternal battlefield,
An uninterrupted struggle to withstand the storm.
And yet, in this hypersensitivity lies the seed of magic,
A spark that can ignite shadows into radiant light,
Illuminating the darkness, bringing forth
Art that speaks to the essence of human existence.
At the heart of the artist, a sacred flame flickers,
With each creation, an echo of their soul is released,
A shard of their infinite light, bestowed upon the world,
Yearning to be felt, to be embraced.
They are both cursed and blessed,
Guardians of a fragile, boundless beauty,
Striving to navigate a world where everything hurts,
And yet, they endure, for in their pain and perception,
Lies the extraordinary magic that makes them sublime.
Storms glistening sporadically
Inspiration wavering dramatically
I can’t move like I should!
I am fighting against the reveling, reviling flood
Evidence of many spawning deaths cannot stop me
And the zombie maggots grow as they are left rotting
I can’t stop now—but I have no particular place to go
Mentally merrily on my slithering way
Into creepy caves of my intellect and hemorrhage
The saliva of its mouth and the cruelty of its teeth
Ensnares me into multitudinous quicksand of truth
Raining in this cave is the vile that will keep me working
I watch others drink it and it drives me to fury
Take of me what you may—but don’t take me all away!
I will remain in the inspirations of time!
I will remain like the grime on the succulent wine
Like gathered dust on the ivory keys
The music will always stick to me
Your words will plant a grave into my lines
As my madness entwines and bewitches their minds
Weathered in the snowing wrath of immortal sorrow
I cannot wish for a bloodier tomorrow
I will glisten like blue fires as long as it storms
And the rest will shred into dumped, plumped worms
Infecting everyone in the inspired malevolence
Of pure, sick false innocence
Braid your way if you dare
Encircle me to your snare
But do not drink of me within a fathomed rig
Or I will turn you into the stone of a pig
—An Astronomy of What Love Leaves Behind—
There are nights when heaven dons
its argent hush, and all the stars seem less
to glitter than to keep their elder watch
over the fathomless remainder of the world.
A train goes through the fields. One window
briefly ensnares a face—then yields it back
to night.
Yet nothing yields back what it has touched.
A word may enter blood.
A kindness, long after its utterance,
may burgeon in another's darkest hour.
A father's voice, long since surrendered
to silence, may haunt the cadence
of a daughter's speech.
Thus absence is no vacancy.
It is continuance
wearing the vesture of loss.
The dead do not ascend.
They permeate.
They pass beneath the common skin of things
like telluric fire beneath a winter field,
altering what they nevermore can touch.
What love once enters, time cannot expel;
It makes the soul the place where causes dwell.
And far above, the stars—
those sepulchral reliquaries of flame—
still pour their antique splendour down
long after their furnaces are ash.
What strange celestial jurisprudence:
that light should outlive its begetter,
that tenderness should outlive the hand,
that one mortal life should leave its impress
upon a life it shall never behold?
Then, between two stars, the darkness opens—
not as a wound,
but as an iris
for which creation has forgotten the colour.
For one breath, the void grows lucent.
I look away.
Some immensities become profaned
the moment language lays its hand upon them.
And I understand—though understanding fails me—
we are not preserved by remembrance.
We are preserved by alteration.
Whatever has entered another soul
has crossed beyond the sovereignty of return;
it cannot be restored to what it was
before the crossing.
I thought the stars preserved the dead in light;
They showed me how the living make them bright.
The stars may perish into their own abyss.
The dead may relinquish every name.
But what has once entered another life
becomes an irrevocable syllable
in the grammar of its becoming—
and what has altered the living
cannot be made unborn.
Oh, what is this thing called love?
It's a concept I don't understand.
Delight that occurs at first sight?
Or can it be carefully planned?
Is it something that lasts for all time,
or will it run into the sand?
Would Priapus profit from praise,
or should he be promptly trepanned?
Is love as elusive as luck,
or can it be had on demand?
A candle that burns all alone,
or a flame to be furiously fanned?
Is love like a light in the soul,
that will last and endure and withstand?
Is it not just a chemical shot,
just a spurt or a squirt from a gland?
Does this love thing ennoble us all,
or should it be totally banned?
A danger to all it ensnares,
or something incurably bland?
A bonus and boon for mankind,
that ought to be loose in the land,
or a danger deserving restraint,
to be chained and detained on remand?
Oh, what's this enigma named love?
Allurement? Procurement? Command?
Will it harm me, or charm me, I ask:
should I fake it, or take it in hand?
The most courageous act is still to think for yourself.
I am no bird; and no net ensnares me: I am a free human being with an independent will power & self determination.
I am a crazy traveller.
I walk on the wind.
I am a friend for my all friends.
I meet everyone with a smile as Charity.
There are countless aims or target in my empty pockets .
There are big dreams in my small eyes.
Decorate my paths with self respect,dignity & pride. Open your arms
I am coming O Life, I am just coming.
Come,Be friend with me.
I have listened to my heart & soul.
I shall always listen to my heart & soul.
I have lived like crazy.
I shall always live like crazy.
I do not care for any kind of my victory or defeat.
I am in love with those people who donot hate & hurt true love feelings of real lover.
I Donot like to hate & hurt people.
Raise the skies
Raise them even higher
Let me open my wings
Let me enjoy the flight.
I am full of determination
Just Test me.
I am self determined pious maiden muslim girl
The only person you are destined to become is the person you decide to be.
By Miss Aliza Kashmala Kiran.
The night sky sways,
Like a cobra
And ensnares me in its web
Bidding me to dream of
The eyes of the one who waits for me
In a heavenly abode
Too magnificent for me to even dream of!
The night sky lays itself out
And recounts to me
Of endless poetic odes,
All written in love drenched ink and
Each one more melting than the other
Having me glide down in ecstatic lanes
Breathless,
At the mere thought of how deep
Must be the eyes of my own love poet!
In its silence,
I hear its songs being played,
Solely for me,
Songs so empowering that they push
Strength in my lonely heart
Bidding me to want to live, even if
Neither this world nor this life
Shall ever be mine!
The night sky hides from me
That which I yearn for,
My love, whose deep and dark eyes
Reflect the bottomless fathoms
Of the abyss in which I was thrown in,
And in its shades
Do I passionately wish to indulge
In uncontrolled acts of sin
So that the love that flows from me
And the one that gets thrust in me
Reaps the admiration of one and all
Merely by just being recounted of it!
Be it known as convenience food, junk food or munchies;
whether spicy, melt-in-your-mouth soft, or crunchy,
food, inglorious food, seduces with ease
and ensnares with the emptiest of calories.
Disguised as a comfort food comes macaroni
with creamy Alfredo and kin, Fettucini,
To not be outdone, spaghetti entices
with large fattening meatballs and sauce rich in spices.
“Deep fried” knows our weakness for fat, which gives pleasure
and saturates fast foods, it seems, in great measure:
KFC (finger-licking), batter-fried fishes
and chicken fried steaks -high cholesterol dishes.
Even fruits will attack with enjoyment unhealthy
as tarts, pies or pastries. That apple is stealthy!
Veggies can also be treacherous things
in guise of corn fritters and gold onion rings.
Too much of a good thing is pizza (so cunning,
so meaty, so cheesy), which no one is shunning.
The taco, burrito, and big burger too
in great numbers descend on us. What can we do?
Those delectable luscious desserts that we eat
have only to sit there; we cannot retreat!
Candies and chocolate, our decadent sin,
sweetly defeat us. We simply give in.
Ice cream, a smooth foe, knows when we are blue.
On a cone or a spoon, it drips, waiting for you.
As a milkshake, a frosty, a sundae or float,
or between split bananas, it sure floats MY boat!
Buttered popcorn is one salty foe, and we love it!
The hot dog implores in our mouths that we shove it.
Baked bread, so alluring, entraps with its scent,
which wafts through the air as if heaven sent!
The standards of junk food -America’s pride -
crisp bacon and nachos, chips and foods fried,
invade our malls’ food courts and lurk high and low.
Their smells overwhelm us wherever we go!
We might try but we can’t make our junk food desist.
for only the health nuts can dare to resist.
In the war with inglorious food I adore,
I say, Bring it on! Here’s my plate; I want more.
For the The Synathroesmic Cat Contest Poetry contest of Suzanne Delaney
*So now you can all know why I try to get to the gym a lot. hahaha