Long Flittering Poems
Long Flittering Poems. Below are the most popular long Flittering by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Flittering poems by poem length and keyword.
Sounds of morning, fluid undertones, yet cacophonous;
Rhythmic rustling of nearby trees form the baseline for tropical chaos.
Each added layer draws me further into distraction.
I hear the shadowy neighbors breaking their silence,
Attendant to their morning chores.
A distant train chimes in, noisily announcing its slithering passage.
Sounds of morning vie for my attention.
New, hypnotic rhythms spiral close, retreat and then surround me,
to further crystalize direction for the day.
Can I break into the layers of deepening trance to realize the quiet peace
of enlightenment just beneath the busyness and violent distraction?
Pairs of red chested robins, lyrical cardinals, yellow flittering finches
each visit the backyard feeder in their turn,
While the brackish pigeons, bullish bluejays and sulking squirrels
noisily muscle their way in to feed among the bird-tossed seeds,
now scattered haphazardly on the ground.
Beneath it all there is Silence.
Stillness quietly directs peaceful calmness
to the center of swirling time.
"Just another dream." I smile.
Next door, loud frenzied dogs and deep tinkling chimes
add their voices to the concert of morning.
Busyness abounds, directing all attention outward.
While the Silence of enlightenment, like a stoic sentinel,
erectly stands, patiently waiting.
"They also serve who stand and wait."
Copious mirages pass through the early hours,
rising with the stifling heat, and yet,
Beneath it all I am drawn to Silence.
Yearning for Peace, order, calmness: where joy and childlike wonder
view the world through eyes of young divinity and matured praise.
I realize each moment is precious as it passes.
But I know there is only Now. There is only Here.
As I am here I am everywhere.
And so, I observe as the concert rages on about me.
It is enough to view the contrast within the borders of crystal sanity.
"Just another dream." I smile.
A marble Buddha sits atop a comforting splashing fountain.
It's waters of life spray the arid air with relief.
I wonder what He's thinking, behind his Mona Lisa smile.
What do His closed eyes watch so intently?
Will I ever break through the noise of embodiment
to reach His supreme level of attainment,
And walk beside Him on His jeweled crystal pathway in the sky?
"O! Just another dream." I smile.
To Heal A Soul Waning In Want
A collaboration with Robert Lindley
12th April 2019
Man thus beseeches
Angry midnight moon spat at earth far below
twinkling stars applauded then went dark
time paused, its powers but a laughing blink
as with eyes full of bitter ashes
this soul woke to weep at this world's hate
Fragments of hope flittering about in a ravenous brain,
can life ever give more than this human waste.
Then cold, silent house spoke with deafening moans
as cool breeze entered through a lustful window
I was stirred by this welcomed new gift,
but a brief moment and it vanished like a shy ghost.
Why, why does night send its invading powers
into a dream now broken apart,
can not dawn hurry its renewing rays,
its long overdue relief,
that warmth flowing through the air,
into an earthen realm desperate for a sweeter touch,
with its magnificent light to heal a soul waning in want?
What pray tell, does an angry moon want
a bow to its shine,
or an angry curse at its own basking vanities?
The Angry Moons Riposte
What is it that you seek, vain mortal ?
shall I absolve you of guilt,
or worse yet forgive your innocence ?
It is not the scorching sun that you ask,
for its radiance may reveal your pitiful failure.
It is not earth or wind or water that you ask,
for their power is greater than you know.
But it is at my hand that you seek what you seek,
so seek and speak plainly.
In the night when all is quiet
and you believe my eye to be dim as the hour,
seek and speak plainly.
If it is absolution that you seek, or forgiveness,
these I cannot give,
yet I would not even if I could.
If it is understanding that you seek,
I shall answer, and you shall forget,
or remember weakly or less.
Now hear this, vain mortal:
Your path is ruined at your own hand,
you are afflicted, for it is what you are worth.
Poetry is tangerine and other potent or poisonous colors.
It is the breath you feel at the nape of your neck and
the strong caress of flesh on flesh, defying death.
It is most certainly Spring with petal flutters and jays
flittering about. Melodies come alive…words almost too
ravishing to versify…like brilliant diamonds and crystal lines.
Poetry is rhyme and not…it is time well spent. The clock
doesn’t give a hoot. It’s cuckoo to stand on your head
to get just the right angle, the geometric high. Likewise,
the adjustment on a thin wire, with ink blots to examine.
But a poet does, again and again, pounding at raw meat,
to settle a matter…but we never settle…there is always
one thing more. Death, maturity, seasonals. Let’s dig
up that grave. First we jump in, holding onto leaves dyed
in various tinctures. Often we swing over, on our trapeze,
thinking we are invincible - we don’t see the six foot ravine.
Not feeling trapped at all, until the Ice Queen shows up.
We paint that buttercup white, as if it were virtuous.
She vividly holds up the scales to weigh our slights,
to slow us down…now,
we dribble upon the page…drivelling every nuance, as if
our kids (our words) were leaving home and we need to drill
just one more thing. Sadly our words will hang
and slowly scroll away…our scribbles fondly remembered
by a few for a while (and our smile)
Paint giraffes ouside the line, and gaffes - keep them in time.
Don’t be afraid to annunciate or not…to be literate or
alliterative…to be silly…oh do be silly…to be human…
to be common or uncommon…we all have our place.
We are the apostrophes, colons and periods. We stop
in mid-sentence a lot. We throw the hammer down
with an exclamation point or dot. We write run ons
or put out briefs. We admire awe. This is just a small
treatise of thought…a mud pie, but certainly not
a prize…but I say, the prize is in the beholder’s stall.
3/13/2023
A simple toy mother gave me
on my sixth birthday,
the best gift I ever got.
Its gentle turn creating changing color design,
and shifting patterns, mesmerized me,
filled my transfixed childhood vision.
I can’t resist looking through it even today.
The turning wheel of my time
rotated the rhapsodic living scenario.
The patterns performed persistently
with languid life’s mélange of motifs.
The chameleon colors transformed
the visage of the mind’s topography
into the ashes of burnt barrenness,
or to the elegance of emerald valley.
The diffused dreams on the drift,
floated on the cascade of shifting sight,
meandering on the mesmeric tapestry,
weaved with the strands of ebullience,
replicated the wings of butterflies,
flittering on the ripples of rapturous air,
and before they all flew away,
formed for me a fountain of fulfillment.
In my listless lonesome travel
across the wanton wasteland,
or along the glittering garden path,
lined with spring saplings
with buds of bursting colors,
it opens the shutter of my mind.
The receptive film of sensuality
captures in the fascinating fresco
the sublime snapshots of beauty.
In the mist of my journey’s last mile,
at the edge of the fading future,
the sunset swansong resonates
in the realm of the twilight time
for the forlorn essence of being,
silhouetted like defoliated tranquil tree
against the blazing skyline
of transient chromatic brilliance,
witnessing the last flicker of the dying day.
The shards of the splintered sky’s spectrum
in the swirling squall of torment
roll on the dismal waves
of the curled up clouds of discontent.
The remnant rays of sanguinity,
flickering on the ebb of time
with the departing flashes of the sinking sun,
fabricate the latent lattice
of the unframed dreams
in the petrified life’s captivating collage
of my childhood kaleidoscope.
Hey, A Beautiful abode of Nature, who is a Fairy
The Golden Wheat makes your floor colorful like Brown Berry
The Green Forests at far away Mountains are the Walls of you which look Merry
The Flowers at your Floor keep dancing that make you Contrary
Snow on Dauladhar adds to the beauty of your walls, thus making them extraordinary.
Hey, A Beautiful abode of Nature, who is a Fairy
The delicious cuisine of you adds to your rich Heritage
The Sweet Fragrant Kangra Tea makes one Merry
The Tasty Vegetable Rice brings one a healthy Advantage
The Crispy Spicy Noodles make one Gay
The Paratha served with Butter/Pickle/Curd makes one's Day
The Colorful Nachos keep one's mind free from Negativity
The Traditional Siddu fills one's mind with Creativity.
Hey, A Beautiful abode of Nature, who is a Fairy
You are full with Vibrant and Attractive Cafes
The Cafes are Blue, White, Gray and Airy
The Cafes where people share Meals & Memories along with Frappe
The Cafes where people exchange Smiles
The Cafes where managers keep managing orders in a Style
The Cafes where nights stay Glittering
The Cafes where people keep Flittering.
Hey, A Beautiful abode of Nature, who is a Fairy
You are not just Beautiful Only
Sometimes, the Adventures of you make you a bit Scary
Sky Cycling, Paragliding and Bungee Jumping etc make you a bit Stony
But, after Paragliding, I changed my perception of you being Scary
Now, I have understood that these Adventures make you Contrary.
Hey, A Beautiful abode of Nature, who is a Fairy
I Visited you in the Summers
You appeared to me, a world which is Contrary
You had Amazing Views, Countless in Numbers
You had crazy Creatures of God
The interaction with whom made my mind Broad
From you, I had a lot of Gain
That's why, I have decided to visit you Again.
( Dedicated to Bir Billing of Himachal)
On the weary wings of winter the northern winds depart,
their harsh whisper in the frozen air
the frost-fastened mulberry trees hear,
“wait, you’ll listen the sweet music soon,
don’t despair, the serenading southern breeze
will embrace you with verdant melody”.
The misty mask melts, turning the sky into cobalt cauldron,
the ambrosia of resurgence drizzles the aura diaphanous air.
The gossamer clouds gorgeously embroidered
appear with the wispy ribbons of regal robe.
Lured by the shifting shapes of their soft shadow
the mulberry foliage begins to unfurl the malachite fresco.
The burgeoning branches flutter with emerald wings,
nascent leaves look up with budding fruits to the rising sun,
draping them with the patina of new verve rising high.
For the lofty trees the sprawling luxuriant life has begun,
as the lively boughs raise the copious canopy to the sky.
On the cadenced flow of the joyous zephyr
the berry fragrance finds the aromatic course,
trailed by the beguiled butterflies,
flittering in the rhythmic waves of jade symphony.
When the leaves offer the amorous cradle in sunburst morn,
the monarch butterflies make lilting aerial lattice,
entwined with the sailing sequins of the chromatic dawn dust,
they flitter in its cadence, searching for the larval host.
The heavenly beauty of the scene sublime unfolds
as the butterflies dance with ethereal exuberance.
When the rippling winds sing the moonshine song,
sparkling silver lines embroider dulcet design in drifting clouds,
reflected subtly in the mesmeric motif of the butterfly wings,
fluttering in the tempting tune of the mystique moondust melody,
the midnight hour contours the image of bliss with divine glow,
as the butterflies dance to the rapturous rhythm
of mulberry rhapsody in the garden of love.
***AND NOW GOD BRINGS TO YOU… ***
Ladies and Gentlemen!
Through the auspices of
Our Glorious God’s
Creation Company…
Traveling the infinite of Love…
Across the heavens, then
Through our atmosphere, and,
With His eternal nearness to
The Earth’s moving horizons ~
In His wanting to reach
Every bedroom
Door and window with His Light…
All rise, please, as
The New Day
Now Presents to you:
The Sun!
See how
She first appears with a single, flaming peek
Out from beneath
The opaque black curtain of night,
Which stirs us to wake from
The forgettable dreams of dead sleep.
The fanfare of trees,*
which grows and breathes,
just beyond my window,
Now tunes up to accompany
Sun’s early swim up the sky,
Their punctuating notes, their leaves
swishing and flittering
In time with whistling breezes to
Signal
Sun has begun
Her welcomed performance —
Quite delighting our eyes
With her dazzling, ornate, orange dress.
There are exclaiming cheers heard
from Mother Nature’s
“Sold-out” audience — that color-lush
Everywhere around,
Holding hope for this re-rebirth of
A new day, preceding all
The days of discovery still to come.
————————————————
** Note: “fanfare” of trees —
SO, For the trees outside my window, it is not a “group, border, array, cluster, grove, mass, or forest.” Since I needed to describe and define with a NEW adjective, Writer’s License was used - after research — i coin the trees with whom I interac as a “fanfare” of trees, meaning essentially, an ‘addition’ or enhancement to a specified principal thing, which adds value.
Written with concern for world’s areas
surfering severe drought. Prayers going
Up for your relief & all peoples to work on the global environmental crisis.
(c) sally young eslinger 1012/22
Abiding Beauty
By Dane Smith-Jonsen
Above the fern at the forest's edge, a butterfly gracefully glides.
Beautiful yellow flittering near tastes the sugary buttercup.
Flashing sulphur wings, happily spreading, upon a placid breeze rides.
The wild flower bed will not subside as the beauty drifts up and up.
Long slender wings black with light stripes, zebra longwings come hovering. Sight!
Seemingly weak, suspended in air, they waft between passion vine blooms.
Family ties. Who would realize? Communally sleeping at night.
Seven, eight, no, eleven there were hovering beneath the new moon.
Dipping, floating, skipping in the breeze, viceroys mimicking regal lines.
Willow branches and cherry trees, disguised, chrysalis covered with leaves.
Colorful viceroys mimic. Hiding in willows they will sleep and dine.
Majestic, monarchs on milkweed feast; then, migrate to Mexico’s trees
Beautiful red-spotted purple or is it a pipevine swallowtail?
To grace blackjack cherries and willows that grows at the woodlands door.
Flipping. Flying! Bright orange. Fritillary finds food from flowers, frail.
Delightfully sips on passion vines, warming in the sun as before.
Spring’s sweet trip into summer slips; too soon the butterflies will be gone.
Chrysalises metamorphose on: twigs, beneath leaves, cleave to host trees.
Birds fly south ‘til caterpillars emerge. Then, return to sing hunger’s song.
Cycles of life! Interlocking beauty. Upon distant pasts proceeds.
Human hearts, over whelmed, skip beats. And God’s beauty bestows souls’ relief.
When in love’s peace and solitude, man rests in nature’s lovely abode.
There is no loss of life or pain, nor hurt, that can lessen one’s belief.
Abiding beauty becomes a crown when on the straight and narrow road.
driving through streets of angst and apathy
driving to the place where I can actualize my desire
to eat a 12 piece bucket of chicken hunks
smiling at the coo-koo bird with **** exposed
the paper words speaking in a greasy cacophony
that sings louder than the top 40 rap from the car next to me
the all encompassing fried waft fills the upper quadrants
of my olfactory facilities
my pavlovian salivary stalactites are noteworthy in the rearview
the napkins that won't suffice tonight
whilst sipping new dessicated sanguine juice
later I shall roll in the fractured bones and discarded cartilage
with the glee of a lion licking the last remnants of flesh
from the femur of the sleeping zebra
driving with my portable fan to scent glaze those caught at the precipice
of another uncomfortable intersection smoldering with the anticipation
of another color
it's night and my eyes work like the retinas of an great horned owl
hookers flittering about within the shadows in the fashion of desperate hyenas
eyes reflecting red to further emphasize the craze
the urge/smell to press forward is overwhelming
the distractions are fantastic
the howls of maligned dogs echoes over the canopy of green neon
I am the great white hunter bringing home my quarry and
park this steely beast making its heart turn off
metal and flesh move at different vibrations that only appear similar
yes it is time to work the mandible with great passion yet
with empty thoughts as the world outside the den
makes the brain short circuit from its normal capacities
other than hunting for the best family meal deal
because down by the facsimile of a watering hole there are whole animal parts
compressed into small and workable units
I sit here on this wide, stone porch,
the farms stretch for many miles,
even on sunny days you can
sit here and drift for a while…
but this is not a day like that,
the far horizon tells the tale,
a billowing of distant gray,
the storm is coming, without fail.
The first slow pickup of wind comes,
scribes rippled patterns in the wheat,
then birds and bugs stop flittering,
and to their nests beat a retreat.
The looming clouds slowly churn on,
air takes a charge, makes the hair prick,
you taste it with every drawn breath,
it makes the oxygen taste thick.
Next comes the first distant rumble,
that you can feel as much as hear,
you see lighting flicker far off,
knowing that soon it will be near,
then comes that sudden burst of cold,
I think I like that most of all,
brings tiny goosebumps to the flesh,
heralds of the oncoming fall.
The winds are moving faster now,
and the tree branches bend and quake,
you know some cannot ride it out,
and in the maelstrom them will break,
hard rain starts coming, picks up quick,
pelting everything that it spies,
now I’m no fan of getting wet,
so I rapidly slip inside.
The thunder is now overhead,
it’s so damn loud the house vibrates,
there’s something in its savagery
that I strangely appreciate;
when it roars like an angry god,
I am reminded that this earth
cannot be beat down or controlled,
all we’ve made is of little worth,
that for all of our great ego,
and our illusions on control,
mere charged air sends us skittering,
and we’re no longer quite so bold…
Of course there’s also the beauty
of nature painting dark and grim,
a short change from the green and blue,
I like watching the storms roll in.