Long Filmy Poems
Long Filmy Poems. Below are the most popular long Filmy by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Filmy poems by poem length and keyword.
it is cold and the flowers are dying
becoming withered memories
leaves are drifting and rain is falling
and the river flows like a stream of glass
the grass is fading
and birds are flying away
and the forest is taking on a sombre hue
and storms shake the ocean of my sleep
where my hair is soft as a spider web
and my filmy dress a paling green
and I stand still in this decay as a tree
with my arms outstretched to the sky
oh, the fine thread of summer is a fading thought
yet, there is a hazy beauty all around me
and within the crumbling fragile leaves soar
oh, the splendor of the whirling burnt orange
and red leaves spinning
like weeping blood red raindrops
oh, listen to the sweet chiming
of falling leaves
that I will hold like a blanket of memory
while the wind utters low wails like a hundred violins
and hidden birds sing
a beautiful symphony just for me
Life, here hangs on a filmy thread of hope
Unskilled acrobats, making tight rope walks
With the deep chasm gaping below
Some too fatigued to feel the stress,
Empty beds bearing
The scars of lost battles
Shaded rooms brooding in the gloom,
Pervading silence speaking mutely
Of burnt hopes and dreams,
Of flipped hour glasses!
The morbid stillness
Occasionally broken
By stifled groans and whimpers
In a corner room, he lay,
A dead heap upon the bed,
With no one to keep vigil,
Loneliness, his only companion!
Crowds of fans queued up once
To have just a glimpse of him!
Now suddenly grown older
With all energy vanquished,
He stares into the claws of Death.
His frail emaciated body,
Rejecting the drops of toxic drugs,
The dried up neurons refusing
To send signals to the brain,
Eye balls sinking deep,
Cheek bones sticking out,
Tentacles of cancer tightening hold
On every lobe of his lungs,
He lay looking at the granules of sand
Sliding slowly down, so slow at snail’s pace
That he wishes if the hour glass, all of a sudden
Had flipped upside down!
He lay- on his bed,
A dead log tossed by the currents
Moving in and out of consciousness
He was finally trapped in the snares of Death.
The vanquished soldier exited out,
Sans songs, sans fanfare!
Placed First
Jan.2.2022
Pick-A-Title, Vol.28 Poetry Contest
Sponsor- Edward Ibeh
Sudden was the descent of poetry on me
I tottered under its weight
My body heated up like the sun
A frying egg yolk on the pan
My blood started burning…. burning
A strange madness crept across my senses
Intoxicated as by an excess dose of ale
Or drunk with the vintage wine
Or by some mystical disengagement
I started levitating
Wings sprouted up suddenly on my sides
I reeled round and round
Flew up and up
Meteors flashed past
Stars blinked
Larger celestial bodies stood still
Strange sounds fleeted past my ears
My heart palpitated,
Like the rumblings of thunder
My eyes glowed like fire balls
A shout I heard afar
Over the heavens’ mysterious rim
Muffled though, I could decipher it;
“Welcome to the clan of poets”!
Around me, I saw multitudes of poets
Young and old, their faces blazing
Like a thousand lanterns lit
In that blinding brilliance
My filmy wings burnt outright!
Like Icarus, from the heights
I flopped down to the chasm below
In the scattered heap of flesh and bones
A faint stir …..
…………………..
The feeble flutter of a poetic heart
Before it was finally stilled!!
November comes down gliding on filmy wings,
Bringing cool and dank days on her way
Sweet it is to watch the spectacular changes she brings
In a medley of colors, plants and trees proudly stay
Earth puts on a finery no other season can beat
In glinting flashes, the land and sky look so bright
The delectable pumpkin pie is the season’s favorite treat
As the day advances sunbeams fall in sparks of light
.
Early mornings come covered in snowy mist
Soon leaves nose dive and mournfully weep
The fallen leaves tremulously cry under our feet
As their last goodbye before they finally fall asleep
Evenings turn colorful with sinking sunlight, bleeding red
Squirrels chatter noisily as they gather nuts in the wild
As autumn tightens its grip, men retire early to bed
Wind blows all through the month with a temper mild
Soon the air turns chilly with blizzards coming in a row
And winter waits impatient for its icy-cold embrace.
The land will then be covered in a maze of snow.
Even the last flower shall fall and fade from earth’s face
The fallen dead leaves lying in piles and rotting away
And the sound of wind whistling the dirge of November
Bring to me the thought that we must all take leave one day
Down on earth, fall and rot, thus be fodder for new life ever!
Nov.13.2022
~ Placed First~
November or December Poetry Contest
Sponsor- Caren Krutsinger
through the mist
vision blurred by the bias of our views
intelligently present our clouded vision
never attempting to walk in another men's shoes.
blinded by the fog inhabits our thoughts
signs in hand we offer our misted words.
convinced we are right
our dissenters lost
so we draw chalky lines
dare others to cross.
the air thick as stew our opinions attempt to dice
destroy the filmy feels of those on another side
war is declared
battles commence
with our guns blowing smoke,
our swords red hot metal forged
and still wrapped in the rising haze of heat.
our voices raised
yell through the dirty streets.
nowhere in sight a space of clear rationale
take the time to hear or see through this toxic mist
not a chance my friend
my eyes blurry with tears
the gas they release
the inner pain that i feel
through the mist
no one hears
everyone deaf
this our reality
when ideas
supersede our fellow beings
through the mist i see no love
hate covered and guised as ideas
oh if they could see through the mist
that is us on both sides of the street.
"Light Wings and Gossamer Black"
tears of all the lost years
ghosts' pearls falling softly gossamer black
caressing your sad heart’s crimson
its bleeding broken beautiful cracks
a small heaven winks back
some of your light wings
the other side reflects
some of your light wings
a small heaven winks back
light wings sent for unholy hosts
Inside me there is always you
wormwood wisdom
the killing of time gliding
praying for aphids on the tar plain view
some of your light wings
Blue Silver, Silver Blue
Light Wings
for pearls falling
into your shining pools
spinning softly gossamer black
walking forever towards you
through silver blue
(LadyLabyrinth / 2020)
"My Favourite Ghosts" / Bianca Strega
https://youtu.be/C01MHTTZCfs
"...Terror made me cruel" Wuthering Heights, Bronte
“The people you love become ghosts inside of you, and like this you keep them alive.”
"The ghosts of things that never happened are worse than the ghosts of things that did.”
"Ourself, behind ourself concealed,
Should startle most;
Assassin, hid in our apartment,
Be horror's least."
Emily Dickenson
Gossamer adj.
Gossamer is something super fine and delicate – like a spider web or the material of a wedding veil.
The original gossamer, from which these meanings come from, is the fine, filmy substance spiders excret to weave their webs. A dress can be gossamer-like, if its fabric is so sheer as to be see-through, or almost.
Blue Silver
"This is why Simon wrote the line "Sing Blue Silver" in lyrics for the song, "The Chauffer": as a child he read a book about time travel, and in it said that allegedly, people who are coming back from a trip in time see blue silver. It adds to the song's supernatural element."
https://songmeanings.com/songs/view/12577/
https://youtu.be/8ZkEF-7I8js
Aphids.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Aphid
Contest: Brooding Nimbus Sponsor: Edward Ibeh 6-19-23
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Brooding Nimbus
Midnight trails a filmy brooding nimbus,
Idle shadows etch lines on the daylight;
Vertigo lingers, teeters on limbus,
Distorted ghosts escape into dawn’s sight.
Remnants of realms, inborn of misshaped clouds,
Ruminate raindrops to bleed the bizarre
Palpable phantoms the mid-day enshrouds -
Reclines as shape-shifts in murmuring stars.
Hobbled memories drifting unresolved,
Surrealistic needles stab dazed eyes
Fretting repines, floats in veils unabsolved,
Fades slowly into the unanswered why.
Slowly day chases back mystic extremes
Evening broods in misty nests of new dreams.
The Leaves are Hushed
Alone
she stares through a skylight
playing I spy with the sky,
creating fantastical creatures
out of skimming, brimming clouds.
Suddenly
a shadow swiftly smears a window
staining its filmy, hazed glass;
a corrugated feeling, firm and undulating
settles steel-hard in her stomach.
Hurriedly
her hand reaches for her heart
but it isn’t there…….,
it’s replaced by a beating drum
which beats and repeats the words:
Someone somehow has been outside, somewhere sometime staring inside!
Fear
begins to mock-shock,
taunting, teasing her thoughts
sharpening, tightening like countersunk screws
then she hears…. silence creeping towards her.
Shockingly
as if reinforcing her worry…
a door creaks, a floor shrieks,
a foot whispers and the leaves… are hushed
as a hand prepares to….. strike.
Outside
the evening’s flag of sky
has rolled itself tightly up
allowing the dark to leak-sneak everywhere……
even inside her head.
Abruptly
there’s an escape from
the night-tight tension;
a car’s headlights torch the side of the house
and a yellow warmth washes her room.
Instantly
the leaves agitated and distressed
begin sprinting in different directions
seeking out safety from the ominous threat
while the girl’s corrugated stomach is shredded.
Immediately
she flees to her bedroom window
sees her parent’s car and relief floods her
but a shimmer in the shade of the shadows
reveals the hand still…. ready to strike.
Ian Souter
There is a part of me, an obscure mossy part
that is an underlay, a lichen-like carpeting
of scud and muddy surf that some might call earth.
Within that membranous sub-coat
neither devils nor angles live, yet there are creatures
they merge and mingle swapping their miniscule bodies
with each other just to scurry hither and thither
as different aspects of a microcosmic,
yet ever growing awareness.
I think sweet St Francis would have seen through me;
I believe he would have blessed my animalistic sub-existence
while teaching each germy, parasitical, symbiotic
cellular organism of mine how to knit together
the image of God in this filmy mire.
Progress
by Michael R. Burch
There is no sense of urgency
at the local Burger King.
Birds and squirrels squabble outside
for the last scraps of autumn:
remnants of buns,
goopy pulps of dill pickles,
mucousy lettuce,
sesame seeds.
Inside, the workers all move
with the same très-glamorous lethargy,
conserving their energy, one assumes,
for more pressing endeavors: concerts and proms,
pep rallies, keg parties,
reruns of Jenny McCarthy on MTV.
The manager, as usual, is on the phone,
talking to her boyfriend.
She gently smiles,
brushing back wisps of insouciant hair,
ready for the cover of Glamour or Vogue.
Through her filmy white blouse
an indiscreet strap
suspends a lace cup
through which somehow the nipple still shows.
Progress, we guess, ...
and wait patiently in line,
hoping the Pokémons hold out.
NOTE: This poem is almost entirely fiction. There was a Pokemon craze when my son Jeremy was a little boy, and I did see birds and squirrels foraging in parking lots from time to time (and sometimes fed them myself from my car’s window), but everything else is fiction. On the rare occasions that I went to a Burger King, I would go through the drive-in, so I wouldn’t have known who the manager was, or how much time he/she spent on the phone. I think the poem probably started with the image of birds and squirrels squabbling for scraps of food in a parking lot as I waited in a line of slow-moving cars, then evolved as I imagined the hassle of going inside to “speed things up.” Keywords/Tags: America, Americana, American, culture, society, vanity, youth, progress, fast food, video games, Pokemon, MTV, music videos, glamour, models, supermodels, fashion, transparency, see-through, bra, breast, nipples