Long Ere Poems
Long Ere Poems. Below are the most popular long Ere by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Ere poems by poem length and keyword.
The sky breaks into mauve moths,
fluttering against the unlighted bathroom window.
Three minutes ago, it was a solid, stern day,
now the trees rustle and tap with purple rain,
and the sun has been hidden
by a secret mountain that wasn’t there before.
The insect of thought retracts its claws,
wilting in the lavender hour.
Perfume of light hangs heavy in the hallway,
while the tap listens for footsteps that never come.
The horizon bleeds red,
a slow, velvet hemorrhage,
and shadows blend into a silent, watery, inverted sky.
It is all over:
The horses have forgotten how to run,
and the moon is busy hanging glass stars on the pines.
It weaves a new net for the waking dream.
— Of Wind, Longing, and the Privilege of Touch—
O, that I were the mild vespertine air,
that steals through jasmine when the day is done,
and, fragrance-laden, wander'd everywhere
to find her face before the sinking sun;
I'd pass where rain lies dark upon the stone,
and draw the tellurian breath of earth,
then lose myself where roses bloom alone
and breathe their secret back to fragrant birth;
I'd find the hollow sleeping by her cheek,
where one loose filament trembles in the air,
and, being less than silence, scarcely speak,
yet feel her pulse make all the heavens bare;
And should her lips breathe softly, “Who hath been?”—
I'd be the wind... and love her all unseen.
Today as ere Dhara’s alive,
So is Goddess of all Learning,
Vivacious learned seem to thrive,
Bhoj back to Earth, long live the king.
__________________________
Translation | 27.10.2025 | alive, education/learning, king
Note: To continue from the preceding verse… the king, not really dead, returns, and Kalidas, when asked, just modifies marginally the earlier verse to paint a different picture. One can note here the felicity of poet Kalidas to pen a piece extempore-- a minor twist and the meaning changes 180 degrees. Alas, the English translation cannot match it. Transliteration of the Sanskrit is as under:
Adya dhara sadaa-dhaaraa sadaa-lambaa sarasvatee |
Panditaam manditaam sarve bhoja-raaje bhuvam gate ||
Like a string of smoke
Slithering...
Up and away from a raging flame
As though a Phoenix is rising
From the ashes
My passionate heart
Which beats for thee, and only thee
Which is stubbornly tethered
To every conceivable ounce of thy being
Which holds thee with a vice-like grip
Could grow cold, unprying suddenly
No longer beating for thee
If thy own heart isn't given
Just as willingly
JAN 2019 WK2,ANY FORM,ANY THEME UPTO A MAX OF 20 LINES
Sponsored by Brian Strand (Winner: 1st Place)
Date written and posted: 01/07/2019
All are feeling anxious on the old camp ground this night.
Weary Yanks are girding for tomorrow's awful fight.
Young soldiers loll about, staring blankly into slowly dying embers,
Dreaming of home, recalling happier times that each remembers.
Supper is finished, the usual rancid coffee, hardtack and beans.
The sentries call out, "All Is Well!", one of their hourly routines.
Sergeants huddle with comrades, offering solace to their platoon.
From across the way is heard a harmonica's melancholy tune.
From afar, Rebel cannon is heard, a portent of things to come.
Men in gray are readied for battle to the beat of muffled drum.
The ebon sky is aglow with the cannons' awesome display,
Competing with the moon, overshadowing its mellow ray.
Here and there a Bible is opened to the Twenty-third Psalm,
To once again be comforted by that eternal message of calm.
Pensive eyes that on the 'morrow may be forever sealed,
Gaze upward, imploring God's embrace as their guardian shield.
Hastily penned notes read, "If I should be borne to heaven above,
Know that we will be reunited in The Father's gracious love!"
Gallant men draw upon their innate will, apprehensions to allay.
The dulcet strains of "Taps" lowers the curtain on another day.
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(© All Rights Reserved)
Abode of Lord be this world sans bound
Where everything back to Him redound.
Sacrifice ere ye eat,
Forgo ere cherish treat,
Give if ye hope to gain---
The hallmark of souls sane,
Greed not like wolves in shrouds,
What’s wealth but passing clouds?
Be not in manger a greedy hound,
Hold this in a divine trust profound.
________________________
Translations | 01.09.2026 | enjoy, God, giving, wealth, world, Rhyme
Note: This world belongs to Him. It is His abode and you at best are the caretaker. Therefore, share it and then enjoy it. Greed not like a vulture, the verse says.
There is wealth of wisdom in ancient Sanskrit texts . This series on Jewels from Upanishads covers selected verses from various Upanishads of which there are as many as 120. We shall select only a few verses. Here we begin with Ishaa Vaasyam. The translation here is not verbatim but freely done. The transliteration of the verse follows. Alas I have to remove all the transliteration symbols.
aum isha vasyam idam sarvam
yat kim cha jagatyam jagat |
tena tyaktena bhunjitha
ma grdhah kasya svid dhanam || 1 ||
.ma grdhah: Covet not, greed not. The word ‘greed’ has come from the root ‘grdh’. The tendency
of man to consider what he has as his alone (grdha-vrtti) can be described as ‘the culture of
vultures’.
.Bhagavad-Gita also says something similar: maya tatam idam sarvam jagata avyakta murtina |9.4|
By me is pervaded all this world in my un-manifest form.
The languid days of summer passed so fleet - autumn's almost here.
Alas, I've fiddled around and left so many things undone, I fear.
Now, I must hustle about and cease buildin' castles in the sky,
Ere the honkin' geese and blowin' snows begin to fly!
There's corn to shuck and fodder to stack in golden shocks.
The hen house needs repairin' to forestall that wily fox!
There are taters to be dug and stored in the cellar bye and bye,
Ere the vagabond geese and the blowin' snows begin to fly!
Wood needs sawed and hauled from the oak tree grove,
And stacked in the woodshed for the parlor heatin' stove.
The punkins must be gathered ere too many weeks go by,
Ere those skeins of geese and blowin' snows begin to fly!
Another job that must be done, one I've kept on suspense,
Is the repairin' and paintin' of that doggone picket fence!
I really need to strew some straw to bed down the stall and sty,
Ere those Canadian geese and blowin' snows begin to fly!
Luckily, I'm spared installin' storm windows come this autumn,
Since I didn't take 'em down last spring - I jes' plain forgot 'em!
I need to pick the apples so my spouse can fix an apple pie,
Ere those majestic geese and blowin' snows begin to fly!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved
She came she strived
She forged through
Making success a mockery
Your dance a mystery
Your laugh an history
It was a disturbing wonder
To leave and not be forgotten
Lying still but not silent
Breaking fetters
Crossing borders
Draining the years
Running like sand
Between her feet
She moulded an extra day
Moulding her words to life
Made rainbow across a darkened sky
Showered dew on the deadened lives
Arousing the buried night
Bringing all a troubled sleep
Bridging two worlds
Fulfilling the dream
Raking all the unripened fruits
Into a ripening basket
Inviting her world
To a ripened Feast
I may well dream to be someone I’m not,
Wing my way to become Wordsworth or Frost,
And lose my roots, get in a lifelong rot
To lose self-worth and live a life of ghost,
On board a bullet train of becoming,
In world of books, still bogged down on page one,
Not my own, but play an alien inning,
And lose the game that I could well have won.
If only I try to be not but me,
None else but one designed by destiny
To play a unique role like none any,
I would have made my Creator happy.
No one hath He e’er made in idle mirth,
Let me pursue His will, my unique worth.
_____________________________________
Sonnets |01.06.2023| dilemma, life
Poet’s note: Each moment that unfolds is a place man has not been to. He should stay there as much as can and try to be one with it to find himself. One cannot ‘become’ without ‘having been’ in the first place. To become a butterfly might be worm’s ultimate destiny. But can it happen by the very morrow? Everything passes to the process of becoming, but only having been before. It is the law of change. To be what we are comes long before becoming what we are capable of. That be the only end in life. Let me hasten slowly not to get stranded in the world of becoming. This be the dominant note of this sonnet’s melody.
Don't stop the CHOP
dash the glorious bits of foam and froth
let the leeward side fill
let the fertile delta pray
for mercy from Poseidon
All hail the storm God...
Angry, black-and-blue, bruise
the coast, claim the futile calm...
meditate on the black hole of the abyss
Can’t STOP the chop…
Brash and brazen tentacle of DOOM
destruction stirs the devil’s cauldron
Watch the witches brew boil over the
capes of man
removing the zen garden
prissiness of the pandering fools
Batten DOWN the hatches boys
There BE a BLOW on ‘er…
ships flail like paper boats
RALE against the dieing, FIGHT
Ride the crest on boards LIVE the fright!