Long Frieze Poems
Long Frieze Poems. Below are the most popular long Frieze by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Frieze poems by poem length and keyword.
Happy 212th birthday Charles Dickens
Though written three hundred
and sixty five days ago,
the following poetic commemoration
doth not warrant any modification.
Said prolific author born February 7, 1812,
whose living descendents
I would be thrilled to befriend,
hence if anonymous reader
by some genetic fluke
linkedin to said
prolific storied author
please kindly reciprocate.
greetings mutual friend,
hard times dash
great expectations in this bleak house,
whereby battle of life ensues
when Sunday chimes
from master humphrey’s clock
issue somber american notes
invoking overshadowing doom
from young gentlemen:
oliver twist, nicholas nickleby, barnaby rudge
martin chuzzlewit, david copperfield,
young cricket and on the hearth little dorrit
collaborated on pickwick papers
with dombey and son detailing
how I (a haunted man/
ghost’s bargain) alias mudfog
got self absorbed in his old curiosity shop
hunted down by boyhood days
(akin to an endless Christmas carol
frieze as child’s history),
now a thick dust covered holiday romance
memory portraying this signal-man
(according to george silverman’s explanation)
eerily similar to the mystery of edwin drood,
exiled after his trial for murder
birthing three ghost stories
inhabiting a haunted house
affecting the young couples lamplighter
an uncommercial traveler
evidenced by pictures from italy
prone to speeches, sketches
by boz and his lazy tour
an oft repeated tale of two
cities best read at dusk.
Pale brimstone
emerge
on days windblown
hover
flower to flower
ducking Spring's sudden shower
Common butterflies so blue
each season
two
generations new
small heath marbled white
& speckled brown
so slow in flight
Winter's caterpillars
green & small
fragile miracles
to enthrall
No breeze tonight
trees pose
statuesque
flowers icily still
time slows
to a stop
Grasses stand
to attention's call
thought holds on pause
air has
that feel of fall
Once,summer green
then autumn gold
bedecked the ancient trees
now in silhouette
laid bare
mistletoed
in winter frieze
flurries of snow
fine & dry
on its branches lie
white stars scurry & shift
in piles
of patterned drifts
Pale brimstone
emerge on days windblown
hover flower to flower
ducking Spring's sudden shower;
Common butterflies so blue
each season,two generations new,
small heath,argus,marbled white
and speckled brown,so slow in flight;
Winter's caterpillars green and small
fragile miracles,to enthrall.
Once,summer green
Then,autumn gold
Bedecked the ancient tree-
Now,in silhouette,laid bare
Mistletoed in winter frieze;
Flurries of snow,fine & dry
On its branches lie
White stars,scurry and shift
In piles of patterned drifts.
No breeze tonight
Trees pose statuesque
Flowers icily still
Time slows to a stop
Grasses stand to attention's call
Thought holds on pause
Air has that feel of fall
Listen to me read these poems on youtube under name ichthyschiro
an average of 2,830 cubic meters
per second of rich silt
forms an alluvial plain
spreads outward in a fan shape
from sedimentary deposit whereby
ancient Egyptian civilizations got built
adorning arid topography invaluable
like aorta pumping blood at the nape
of the neck, yet analogous context
engendered engineering feats without guilt
whereby artisans, craftsmen,
early geographers illustrated in frieze and drape
frozen timeless statuary exhibiting
phenomenal abilities to the hilt
associated from mainspring within
fertile crescent swollen like a plump grape
which longest river often overflows
banks whereby coveted materiel gets spilt
feeding the rift valley and allowing,
enabling and providing peoples to dominate
flooding the history of mankind
with accomplishments that marvel even today
epitomized by innovations -
alphabets, wheelwrights, pyramids, etc lives did create
baffling historians how each mortise and tenon
snug as a bug in a rug mortise and tenon block
construed edifices persons did intricately lay
perfect with near geometric exactitude
ranks as wonder of webbed wide world great
faint hints of daily trials and tribulations
recorded for posterity in clay
or shards of broken pottery pieced togethe
coupling revelations a mosaic plate
which functional artifacts
provided dietary staples
to pagan spirits populace did pray.
Iridescence and subliminal flow has condensed within your fragrant bower,
a scene of isolated beauty that portrays the essence of all splendour and redeeming
power.
You are repose and renewal to my longing soul
which in hunger for such a sight could have stayed unrequited still!
barren and with plighted role unto my desperate ill.
Now seen suffused in the radiant glow of you, like mirrors
are placed surrounding flowers inset in your resting place or in bunches,
frieze like and still, are coloured floral showers.
They experience no passing hour, in lilac clad repose, you gift this domain
with abundant russet locks a’ spray in a cascade of feral purity
shining vibrant gleams, diaphanous and serenity proclaimed.
You exude ephemeral and delicate majesty in coalescence
with this limpid mystic scene, pure spiritual visions profound combine
with siren-like illusion seen.
Desire calls as from traces etched on heavenly walls,
reflected pinions fan-like show through emerald hued illumination
in subtle sweeps below the surface of this inviolable creation.
© Joe Maverick 21-02-2011
Footnote: I have written this piece for the Reflections contest by Constance La
France. This is a fictional write and I ascribe none of the above attributes to the
scene or character names, these same attributes belonging solely to Yahwah, the
one God manifest as Father, Son and Holy Spirit.
I have always lived in this house.
Yet, these floors I don’t seem to remember.
From parlour to pantry there were once rugs
from Persia and Minton tiles of cherry in the halls.
Now the boards are decayed and rotten and I can
see the earth and worms through splintered holes.
These walls make me shudder and cringe.
From skirting to ceiling there was once willow bough
wallpaper of olive and cream and a gold Roman frieze
that soared between arch and chimney breast.
Now the panels are damp with mould and peel away
in greying swags that reek of bugs and putrefaction.
I shade my eyes from, the windows.
The light that once shone through the panes was a
mottled spectrum of purple, green and yellow that
glowed alive through the face of the Arch Angel Michael.
Now the glass is fractured and stained with rust as
freezing winds blow through their sacred cracks.
Today I found something new.
A piece of paper pinned to a tree in the garden.
Upon it, a message read, ‘you knew all along’.
I don’t recognize the hand.
I don’t recognize the sentiment.
I put it in my pocket.
Today I found something familiar.
In the scullery, a clump of hair clogging the sink.
It’s red and thick and not mine.
It wasn’t there last night.
It wasn’t there this morning.
It wasn’t there an hour ago.
Today I found something lost.
A single harpsichord key on the music room floor.
Its edges are chipped and scarred as if bitten by tiny teeth.
I thought he had stolen it.
I thought it was gone forever.
I’m so glad I can play once more.
When twilight comes,
be morn or eve,
a time when cares
and fears take leave,
when the sun arises,
when the sun does set,
when the trials of the world
have not come yet,
nor will they you beset,
when ferns and flowers
are tender with dew,
when dreams
that you've dreamt
become alive and new,
when the stir of a breeze
and a rustle in the trees
become as music
to the soul
and the landscape all about
is as a heroic Grecian frieze,
when Time knows no time,
when sorrow has no pain,
when grief is lost forever,
when joy is free to reign
when the heart
is filled beyond measure
when Love abounds 'til never
then will you see and feel
things more precious
than all the world's
golden store of treasure.
born February 7, 1812,
whose living descendents
I would be thrilled to befriend,
hence if anonymous reader
by some genetic fluke
linkedin to said
prolific storied author
please kindly reciprocate.
greetings mutual friend,
hard times dash
great expectations in this bleak house,
whereby battle of life ensues
when Sunday chimes
from master humphrey’s clock
issue somber american notes
invoking overshadowing doom
from young gentlemen:
oliver twist, nicholas nickleby, barnaby rudge
martin chuzzlewit, david copperfield,
young cricket and on the hearth little dorrit
collaborated on pickwick papers
with dombey and son detailing
how I (a haunted man/
ghost’s bargain) alias mudfog
got self absorbed in his old curiosity shop
hunted down by boyhood days
(akin to an endless Christmas carol
frieze as child’s history),
now a thick dust covered holiday romance
memory portraying this signal-man
(according to george silverman’s explanation)
eerily similar to the mystery of edwin drood,
exiled after his trial for murder
birthing three ghost stories
inhabiting a haunted house
affecting the young couples lamplighter
an uncommercial traveler
evidenced by pictures from italy
prone to speeches, sketches
by boz and his lazy tour
an oft repeated tale of two
cities best read at dusk.
My phone’s a funny statue now,
A frieze, antique, a relic,
Who’s arrogant in silence,
Probably enjoying the respite,
Released from my hand.
It’s speechless and it’s faceless,
No usual miniature letter arrives and illuminates,
So it’s solid, quiet, and unusually untouched.
So I search for words elsewhere,
In the only other world I trust.
It works for a while, Mayer’s almost been read,
But then, on the page, a film clip begins,
Clattering and spotted,
Of a November coach and the back of your head
Which turns, and I’m fixed, as you look
Not at, not through, but into me.
I try again, I pick up Zarin,
But I find each word is left unread
As I wander happily through my head
To recall some words with amazing grace
That you once wrote for me.
I apologise to Greenlaw, her world looks so serene,
But my messy head wants nothing other
Than you,
So reading bows out nobly
And allows me to lie here and live within
Each sparkling memory.
And just as if my mind made it happen,
My phone wakes up and hums and screams,
And there you are, where you belong,
You miss and kiss me through the screen.
When trees awaken from their winter sleep
Their silent buds unfold and turn to green
Row upon silent row they gently lift
Bare branches, no longer in winter’s keep
Spring flowers burst from dormant bulbs unseen
A gift
Wearing her royal robe of blossomed trees
Like a mist descending, this forest queen
Blesses the forest paths with leaves adrift
Paints with an ardent brush her verdure frieze.
So swift
Entered in A BRIAN STRAND PREMIERE CHOICE
Contest Judged: 4/7/2022 1:12:00 AM
Sponsored by: Brian Strand
N/A
Submitted to Writing Challenge - X'd Poems Second Chance Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Constance La France
Curtal Sonnet (Short version)
A curtal Sonnet has eleven lines with a rhyme scheme of abc abc dcb dc
It has ten syllables in lines 1 through 5 and 7 through 10, however
it has only two (2) syllables in lines 6 and 11, and they rhyme with lines 3, and 8.