Long Feathers Poems
Long Feathers Poems. Below are the most popular long Feathers by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Feathers poems by poem length and keyword.
I’m feral like a fox
misplaced in the
maroon mists
of wilderness,
only found in
woeful woodland.
My skin is blanketed
in crimson balmy
hyacinth feathers
from a
forsaken rainforest.
Misguided on
delusional paths,
where spring-tides
mirror liquified colors
of warm diamond tears
I’ve suppressed
behind ice blue sighs.
And I’ve seen
splintered petals
beneath thick-leaved
jewel orchids,
that surrendered
to greying leaves
on tainted twigs
and broken branches.
I’ve walked through
fields of thorns
where the
musky scent
of roses remained
a poison to
my aching soul.
So, why does it
feel like I’m chained
from vines of changes,
that suffocate
the sun within me,
crucifying the fragility
of premature
begonia beginnings?
Am I to follow
the darkness,
to cast away the evil,
constantly pushing me
into a cave of
cacophonous silence?
As I see beyond
the gossamer veil,
hiding sharpened talons
of treacherous eagles-
flying amongst
vicious vampires;
emerald foes
masked as friends,
feeding my conscience
with cruel concoctions,
oblivious to the truth,
that I am a bark believer
of marigold miracles.
So let the
steel black breeze
and the
faceless ghosts
of fleeting time,
witness how I
rise against
wicked wolves
lurking behind
stars within
a chiffon laced
canopy of nightfalls.
For, I am more
than the empty labels
you’ve placed,
like the shame,
I’ve buried beneath
lyrical lies drizzling
from vanilla skies.
The heavens rupture in a scream of gold,
As Michael’s legions face the dark of old.
Once Lucifer, the brightest morning star,
Now leads the renegade brigade of war.
The Light-Bringer ignites a cosmic flame,
To strike the throne from which his glory came.
Then Satan strikes, the adversary grim,
With million-winged horrors following him.
Great cherubim with burning, spinning wheels
Crash into mountains as the galaxy reels.
The Prince of Darkness swings a blade of night,
To slice the feathers of the sons of light.
Beneath the thunder of the holy shield,
Destructive Abaddon divides the field.
Apollyon unleashes plagues of fire,
To turn the silver towers to a pyre.
While Gabriel’s silver trumpet sounds the charge,
Against the shadow growing fierce and large.
Old Beelzebub, the bitter Lord of Flies,
Pits swarm against the lightning of the skies.
And worthless Belial, with lawless spears,
Pierces the music of the celestial spheres.
The ancient Dragon thrashes in the cloud,
Wrapping the sun inside a bloody shroud.
The Prince of Lies morphs into holy forms,
To trick the angels mid-assault in storms.
But righteous blades of judgment cut him through,
Exposing the decay beneath the view.
The Tempter twists, but steel of truth prevails,
Against the heavy armor of his scales.
Cruel Mephistopheles seeks out the weak,
Where wounded seraphs can no longer speak.
Yet the supreme Evil One is forced to yield,
As holy lightning sweeps across the field.
Cast down, the rebel host begins to drown,
Leaving the scorched and broken heavenly crown.
Epilogue: The Aftermath
The smoking skies fall silent, cold and gray,
As ash and broken feathers drift away.
The scarred horizons heal with quiet grace,
But shadows now infect the cosmic space.
Deep in the dark, the fallen nurse their scars,
Plotting vengeance underneath the stars.
Imagine an angelic being, wrapped in robes of pristine white,
With wings unfurled, spanning wide, glistening in soft moonlight.
Her face radiates with a serene, divine glow,
Eyes filled with compassion, a kindness that will always show.
A crown of stars adorns her head, twinkling with grace, While brunette hair cascades around, framing her angelic face.
Her skin, a delicate hue, emits a gentle, celestial glow,
As if touched by heaven's light, a luminescence to bestow. Feathers of purest white, kissed by a celestial breeze, Gracefully flutter and sway, as the angel soars with ease.
Each feather carries whispers of peace and comfort divine,
Soothing my troubled soul with love, a comforting sign. Her presence exudes a warmth, a love beyond words, An embrace that heals and mends, like songs of singing birds.
With every step she takes, flowers bloom beneath her feet,
Gifts bestowed upon the earth, a symphony of beauty so sweet.
In her hands, she holds a celestial harp, strings that glow so bright,
Strumming melodies of hope, casting away the darkest night.
Her voice resonates like a beautiful choir in the heavens above,
Guiding lost souls towards serenity, embracing them with love.
In whirlwinds of dreams, where silences dress in whispers,
I urge you to steal from the night fine grains of darkness,
To lay them in raven feathers, gathering divine secrets,
And to spread the torch of light over hearts deaf and blind.
I urge you to carve from words new echoes for dead souls,
To mortgage with butterflies, in their dance, all the mulberry leaves,
To buy tears from those forgotten, rejected, lost in love,
And to bring solace to your doorstep, to each abandoned child, wronged.
I urge you to share your cloak with those deprived of freedom,
To bear the world's injustice, like Jesus, on your back,
To be silent alongside Anne, caught between cold walls,
And to cross horizons in the arms of forever disabled grandparents.
I urge you to be patient with the old man who seeks his dignity in a cane,
To empathize with the hunger that begs for a little kindness on the streets,
To offer the bowl with broth, in the cemetery, for those who have passed into non-existence,
To pity the hearts that know only the garment of misunderstanding, distance.
I urge you to tax the morning grass with dew, to discover how clouds flee,
To wing the plough, to light the lamp for the lost, to no longer hide,
To confess your sins when you can't commit them, to drink comet's milk,
To sell your love to the unlucky one, to fall madly, completely in love.
This is my urging, wrapped in magic and melancholy,
A poem that crosses the spectrum of humanity, with its goods and ills,
Urging compassion, courage, to dare to love,
To be light in the darkness, to open your heart, to simply be your best self.
I was asleep when I saw him at my beside.
He gasped the dark air and tried to hide,
I stretched my arms wide but it was in vain:
few feathers amid my fingers was my gain.
A mark I found where no one should see.
I blushed, half in panic and half in pure glee,
Did he missed or did he hit the right target?
Oh, may he attack me again with no regret,
This time I will clasp my hands together
And I will catch more than one feather:
Oh, love, we will craft together a new doss,
I want your victory, I delight with my loss,
But there is a secret I will quickly share:
I captured you with my first morning stare.
“Token”
We went looking for Love
in all the wrong places imperfect
there We received perfect bodies that warmed us
in darkened rooms where We chose to lie like gods,
freedom nourished us like holy sacraments
sustained us daily like bread and wine
We ate up life too fast, hungrily We took flight
We were greedy unrefined for the colour Red,
such is Life,
our alters were over-refined
last suppers We missed regularly shuffling unsaid goodbyes
hurriedly trading youth with time,
We read poetic minds that seduced us
to kneel in front of Books like men We idolised
of course We wanted to be seduced like Eurydice
yet Hades and all the Erinyes called us in like Furies
We lost our way in the wars of life,
inside a burning house the Heart remained closed tight inside
where children come and go, where once all remembered
is forgotten in time, their comings and goings We no longer know,
sins of the fathers and mothers sigh, there for the grace of God went I, still,
inside something remains holding its royal flame ultra violet high
kissing passionately and impatiently what little is left of us,
our lives never seem to rhyme but in cracked dark sentences
something external within the tarnished mortal boundaries still shines,
We debate internally all the time counting our hours and days and nights,
our sensibilities are flickering ebulliently dreaming to die
We roll our dice shooting roulette like crazy blue Russians to cast the cage aside;
Hope is a strange ride
Its destiny unpaid, an invisible token
We cannot afford to hide
Candide Diderot. ‘26
"Hope is a good thing, maybe the best of things, and no good thing ever dies."
Stephen King
“Hope is the thing with feathers -
That perches in the soul -
And sings the tune without the words -
And never stops - at all -
And sweetest - in the Gale - is heard -
And sore must be the storm -
That could abash the little Bird
That kept so many warm -
I’ve heard it in the chillest land -
And on the strangest Sea -
Yet - never - in Extremity,
It asked a crumb - of me.”
Emily Dickinson
Is the unknown always concealed by the dark, I wonder
What if the unknown has been basking in the light all along
Hiding in plain sight while we make deals with fear to try and reach its borders
The light allows us to think that we see all that we need to know
It's a distraction we look forward to, makes us feel in control, so we never feel a sense of the unknown when it's in command
How do we embrace the unknown when we can't be at peace in the dark
I mean, if we are to believe we find our true selves when we embrace it, like some say
The unsightly mess long tucked away from prying eyes, but still holds us hostage somehow, lurks somewhere in the dark
Maybe the dark is the tunnel that takes us to the mysterious unknown
So if the dark is the tunnel, is the unknown the light at the end of tunnel then?
Which would make sense in a way, because no one ever knows if that light is the train coming to mow them down or a sign that their time in the dark is over.
Could even be a firefly's glow in there, you just never know!
Or maybe the unknown is the time spent in the dark tunnel?
So that embracing the unknown would mean being comfortable
in the darkness of the tunnel enough to face our fears
To find in there, the right mental stimulation that doesn't ruffle the feathers unnecessarily and set any triggers off
A place where thoughts can safely unfold at leisure in their own time
at their own pace
Without the pressures to blossom into action or to be anything at all
That must be part of learning to just be
Self awareness and self acceptance would certainly thrive in such a place
To stay still within the passage of a moment, to sense it, feel it and be ok to let it pass through you without trying to define it, must be how it feels to taste the unknown in my opinion
Form:
Christmas Cometh
by Ingrid Showalter Swift
Through a wind that never stops blowing
the house holds fast to the light
flickering candles in each window
hope calling out over a canvas of landscape base painted
in solid white
Auburn gold shadows creep along the horizon
where morning and night crest like waves upon each other
frothing sudden color in thier blending fight
Ruby red undertones flame up across the frost filled clouds
then die away slowly to golds and then ice gray
and then moonless white
in the lights of a passing car... flakes ignite..dazzle and die away again
an owl ...its bright black eyes
against round white face
calls out
"ahhhhooooooooooo"
swoops down across the vast field
its feathers struck out white
like white flames held aloft..........or flashing silver polished metal
against black forest and gray sky...
against
the now darkening of night
and I am reminded of a book from my childhood
that read...
"Who.... who... who ....are you?"
The candles flicker on dainty dancers of hope
leaping and falling and leaping again...
so like myself...I have to wonder...
do they never learn? do they never give up?
Turning from the window I smile at all the richness of the bright within
the colors of red and green...
the sparkle of packages and bows not yet even wrapped
but that will lie beneath my tree in time
the crackle of a wood fire...the smells of pine bows and of things I have collected
to celebrate these days
and I am merry ...in my soul
ever hopeful ever believing...ever true
ever listening ......
for your key hit
hoping it will still come someday...
if I am lucky...perhaps before Christmas has grown cold
in the hearth and heart once more
the owl calls out again
"Who who ......who are you?"
and I know who I am
I am a woman who loves a man
and for him I keep on the light
and ration like gold
the oil
Raven was Death. She dwelt in death. She lived on death. Ages past, she had worn
the blue-black, purple, feathers of the raven and dined on royalty at Tower hill. A
tumble from grace had lodged her here in this fragile form. No more would her maw
drip ruby red, no more would her caw fill the mourning, or her soaring flight slice
the air like a Frenchman’s sword. A Raven, with clipped wings, was she.
Centuries had passed since she, in her feathered form, had feasted on the King.
**Bran the Blessed, giant, King of Wales, had been her down fall. Cursed was she,
as she dined on his eyes, in the field of battle. Ah, what did a raven know
of the curses of man. But, she knew now. Bran's head was placed,
as a talisman, on the grounds of Tower Keep in Londontown. She,
transformed, cursed, walks the night in this beautiful, weak, human vessel for
as long as, Bran's name is remembered.
Her satin-sandaled feet hold her earthbound. Just as superstition
holds her clip-winged brethren in the Tower courtyard, Bran's Curse holds her here.
No longer can she fly, but, she is free to roam. The churchyard calls her. Ashen skies no longer welcome her, but the gravestones, spade-shaped like the tails of carrion feeder, beckon. The evening corpse has arrived. Draped in mourning weeds of black, her death-like pall, luminescent in the moonlight, her lips a tell-tale crimson, she arms her self with a firebrand. The bluish steel glistens. Death with a gun, certainly, one could see the
over kill? She laughs. Looking skyward, she calls. “Husband*, children…”
she mimicks the caw of her unfettered kin. “Come to Ma Ma..dinner is served.”
*Raven's mate for life...or death? ;)
**Bran is the Welsh word for Raven/ King Bran the Blessed
***A NIGHTMARE
Ageless and amazingly, the nerves sing,
butterflies flutter within the begin
like the bowed tension of a cello’s string.
Let the trailing flow of sweet kisses sting.
Pain so close to passion, adrenaline,
ageless and amazingly, the nerves sing.
Nipping ear and throat so breathtaking,
as we fall and roll on the white bear skin
like the bowed tension of a cello’s string.
Peacock feathers trace the grace amazing,
flames dance high on the walls of the cabin
ageless and amazingly, the nerves sing.
Double backed, we ride through the heat lightning.
in the firelight her eyes are fetchin’
like the bowed tension of a cello’s string.
My wife, my life, my so happy ending,
who but thee could there be so bewitchin’?
Ageless and amazingly, the nerves sing,
like the bowed tension of a cello’s string.