Long Epithet Poems
Long Epithet Poems. Below are the most popular long Epithet by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Epithet poems by poem length and keyword.
Ebullient ecstasy cascades in the vale of rolling time,
changes the tenor with the reflection of the spectral sky
on the parchment of the delightful dawn and dulcet dusk.
On the imposing cerulean canvas the emotive mind
paints the poignant panorama of the unseen reverie,
perceives the vibrant essence ignored for long unfelt,
making life an opinion of euphoria called dream.
The miasma of surreal trance envelops in perception
the revelation streaming from the cavern of contemplation
through the furrows in the sands of time, past and future.
With the multicolored strands of possessive passion
the mystique mind weaves the tapestry of thoughts,
swathing everything that seems dismally distant,
making life an opinion of emotion called joy.
The swirling currents of the vagrant mind
then find the course of introspection to the absolute
through the layers of designated consciousness,
getting the glow from the lamp of adulation
that illumines the swathe of the self-designed acuity.
In the diaphanous night drizzling argentine moon dust,
the existential epithet of heavenly discernment
adorns the bejeweled crown of the sensuous sky.
The soul then shines in the spiritual glow,
reflecting the patina of the perceptive lotus of love
as the self-enchanting ethereal dance begins
in the sublime sanctum of the supreme.
When my wayward mind is unsteady,
unbound from the righteous roots of sanctified soul,
the dislodging thrust of the negative sensitivity
unleashes the base instincts to rush feral on sordid trail.
Vanity, anger and greed, innately so compulsive,
distort the ethos of my obdurate ego,
condition the oblique vision to look selfishly at the world,
as the insight turns into an opaque layer.
Beneath the surface of the mortal wisdom,
where my mind builds the edifice of ignoble desires,
the damaging traits lead to the abyss of dark ignorance,
I suffer wandering in the wilderness of barren life.
Deflected from the path shown by the moral compass,
I am sucked within the vortex of the vicious storm,
that breaks me into disillusioned discarded debris,
I then hear the divine voice of conscience.
I perceive life as the epithet of unique acuity,
the matchless construct of the divine elements,
manifest magnificently with the heavenly essence,
encompassing the trinity of body, mind and soul.
Refined consciousness reveals the meaning of existence,
as on the lighted pathway of the devout life I take
the inward journey to the sacred sanctum of spiritualism
to reach the ultimate destination of nirvana.
_______________
April 26, 2023
Contest : Refining Consciousness
Sponsored by : Unseeking Seeker
When at last we go silent
deep within this internet hive,
will the delayed surprise
travel more or less than a minute or an hour?
Did she or he die, or were they always
apocryphal names written on dead air?
If we ‘pass’ known only to a few
who knew our covert compulsion to speak
to the invisible, to write to strangers,
(a secret we may take to the grave)
shall we miss being so mislaid?
Will a minor fame, a little flame,
die with only an ethernet epithet
knowing it left a mark so digital
it could be deleted by a fingertip?
When we go silent will they suspect,
assume that we are just gone away,
or imagine they hear once more
a phantom voice on distant lips
some other day?
mystique mist
of opaque veil
designs in desolation
amorphous ambiguity
swathes with singularity
penultimate pathway
obscure
at terminal time-post
of future crypt
a m b I g u o u s
sunset swansong
in transient twilight
resonates
in void valley
of abandoned present
silhouetted still
on somber skyline
of indigo filigree
morphing into
melancholic epithet
e n g r a v e d
turmoil threads
embroider morbid motif
at pallid tassel
of obsessed clouds
latticed by passion clumps
with fervor fringe
f r a y e d
sensuous storm
from onyx horizon
ornate once
with halcyon hues
constructs chameleon chimera
of configured illusion
on yearning canvas
ablaze in cold flame
of dormant desire
f r o z e n
memory menagerie
from burnt relic
flies away
in wasteland whirlwind
u n b o u n d
hope shards adrift
in poignant current
of fluid psyche
ductile
flow flustered
in sullen stream
of billion teardrops
in twilight terrain
reminiscent
of remnant rays
of sublime sunset
shape shifting
to intuition violin
r e s o n a n t
symphony echoes
the last vibrato
behind fallen curtain
for the lone audience
latent concerto
suffuses listless life
with tuneful resonance
of sonorous sanguinity
e t e r n a l
I am absolutely disoriented while I wait.
I am unable to reclaim the time I have lost.
I was entirely sure of my counterpoint.
Being warned led to her bewildered epithet.
Something odd is going on in this universe.
Her nightmare overwhelmed her deeds.
It is a rare occurrence on Planet's surface.
This was observed in a variety of breeds.
"I'm sorry," the doctor whispered in her ear.
These are her worst, deepest plights.
My main concern is how I fit into this fear.
Put her most deepest anxieties to rest.
This is a sign that the tumor is carcinogenic.
Tumor proliferation is increasing rapidly.
She left the hospital; she was beset neurasthenic.
With too much imagination, she went loopy.
Thus far, it is the fatal endeavor I have ever faced.
She was fearful if she would meet with fate.
Notify her relatives of the specialist's prod.
While being unseen, she felt the impact.
In the same way, they depict her experiences.
Also, I'm going to faint, and I'm pretty upset.
I am willing to make voluntary sacrifices.
My children are crying, and I'm stressing out.
My tears mirror the early-morning rain to me.
What she is saddest about is the cancer scare.
After all of that, her concerns started to grow dim.
She said, "I love you," and closed the door.
Written: Juin 1st, 2021
Cancer Ivy Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Chantelle Anne Cooke
Strolling down the streets of ancient Pompei,
I discovered the tomb of a freed noble man;
unearthed from the volcanic black ashes,
now it blooms surrounded by fragrant lilies
as it appeared in its imperial, glorious days!
Looking closer, I noticed tools itched
on its sides, the trade of a freeman
once enslaved by his wealthy master,
and to prove that he was also of a noble
spirit, he wanted to be remembered
for his achievements and his intellect!
Not all Romans were cruel as History attests,
but had a good heart helping the lower class;
had the Emperor made aware of such generosity,
they would have been killed or thrown to the beasts!
Our greedy society is similar, workers being underpaid;
its an invisible slavery and yet it gives us shivers
for their unhuman condition and horrible abuse:
Rome's mentality of slavery survives to our day!
The proud sons of immigrants will arise to avenge
their fathers rage, they will sit with the prominent ones
sharing the same ideals and status that honor freedom!
Build my marble tomb by the shade of cypresses,
plant jasmines and lilacs around it and let them bloom;
the late image of me on the top with a pen on the right
and a notebook on the left...what a lovely display
of my vocational trade! Will someone discover my grave?
The brief epithet itched in italic letters should read:
" Born a free man and died a free man in a foreign land."
I have claimed to be apolitical but there are times
when the crop is ready for harvesting, so I put fuel
in the John Deere, ink in my pen and wrote...
He'll get millions of votes for that nicked ear
The vengeful narcissist people should fear
Picasso President
With malicious intent
He should be given the famous Bronx Cheer!
It looks like the graffiti on the wall
Four more years and America will fall
Trump will blow his own horn
Guilty of loving p.o.r.n.
And the rape of all the women he's mauled
There's another Trump, Junior's daughter, Kai
Brought a tear or two to dear grandpa's eye
It was her intention
During the convention
To convince people that he's a good guy
Melania was there but just for show
Since he paid off Stormy... well uh, you know
She has kept her distance
Abhors his existence
She can't be with him since he's had a ho
His Trumpeters may be humbled one day
Those who will vote for him and have their say
Those who are so headstrong
Thinking he's done no wrong
The beast who led America astray
He hasn't made the US great again
He's torn the nation apart... friend from friend
Time will tell the story
But there'll be no glory
Picasso President is no Godsend.
Trump toadies must be in a state of bliss
When his venom spews like a snake, hiss, hiss
They praise the dictator
The alienator
His villainy too baleful to dismiss
I've never liked saying, "I told you so"
But D J Trump is a jerk and a schmo
He's a divisor of men
When he's elected again
His tyranny will reign like a deathblow
I've read a few posts about Trump and yet
Not one comment did I write to upset
Another poet's view
I expect that from you
Without hostility or epithet
Your soul survives the kiss of death
continuing when life’s passed on.
And charisma and persona
morph into photos when you’re gone.
And though time writes your epithet
fate decides if it’ll be read.
For your legacy, good or bad
can carry-on after you’re dead.
Whether you will be remembered
rest on how your life was perceived.
For if you were loved and you loved
life’s highest hurdles were achieved.
Selflessness and dedication
spin gossamer threads into rope.
And after your bones turn to dust
your soul can still inspire hope.
Love can make all the difference
though history knows not your name.
For although you’re anonymous
your footprint matters, all the same.
(Quatrain)
02/28/2016
I thought the layers of dust had settled
over what used to be the togetherness of 'us,'
and buried were our last tarnished traces.
But today, I found your pictures in an album
and my emotions started playing tricks on me.
Thought I heard echoes of your timbered voice
and even imagined your footsteps in the hall
and then it stopped...
When I recalled that you'd fallen again, by choice
but this time I continued walking,
leaving behind the memories of 'me and you.'
They'd returned unbidden as they often do
after being hidden away for years.
Your barks of bitter words were spoken in haste.
Each epithet laying waste to what had been love.
Verbal daggers were lethal weapons
and your voice threw them in brutal battle
and then it stopped...
Because I'd left, but emotional scars remained.
I thought of them as gravestones,
each marking the end of 'me and you.'
We've both moved on since those dismal days
but there are times when I still feel you near
like when I hear piano notes in a song
about a love like ours, gone miserably wrong.
It hurt when I tried tearing you from my heart.
For years I tried to drown out the sound
of your laughter, the touch of your hand
and then it stopped...
My emotions were swaddled in melancholy blue
remembering the music you composed for me...
the unfinished symphony of 'me and you.'
Now, sometimes I wake, and the night is too quiet.
By habit, I reach for you across the bed
then hang my head and bite my lip,
licking the sanguine drop, I've drawn.
The taste of salt is on my fingertips
after wiping away tears I thought were done.
On nights like those I shudder in angst
and then it stops...
When I remember why I finally walked away
and relive in my mind what you had done
the night you fractured the memory of 'me and you.'
What do I call that young coquette?
My shadow self; my silhouette.
Those clothes, that hair, a cigarette.
The joie de vivre; the vain regret.
What sort of pithy epithet
will she recall, lest I forget?
Perhaps, instead a sobriquet
for who I was back in the day.
But what would she wish to portray?
Somewhat naive, a bit risqué?
A wounded child or power play?
“All that and more!” is what she’d say.
That girl who played a victim game
(though she would make the counter-claim).
A femme fatale; a wild flame.
A spirit not a soul could tame.
Both full of pride and full of shame,
all contradiction just the same.
It all feels now as but a dream,
that martyr of her own regime.
A fog of war; a distant scream.
An echo of one’s disesteem.
A soldier who would self-redeem
and break her shackles at the seam.
Now when she comes to mind I smile,
recalling each and every mile
we marched and fought in rank and file.
We failed, we wailed, we shed the guile
to wake and heal and reconcile
a misspent youth and life worthwhile.
*****************************