Long Garland Poems
Long Garland Poems. Below are the most popular long Garland by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Garland poems by poem length and keyword.
Written: September 9, 2025, for contest sponsored by: Rob Carmack
Quote: "Lovers have heartaches that can't be cured by drugs or sleep, or games, but only by seeing their beloved" By Rumi
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In the garland of ailments, we sip nepenthe,
anodyne tinctures in elegant flasks—
murmurous promises, beauteous masks,
each fard a façade, each pill a palimpsest
of pain rewritten in mellifluous ink.
Pneumology sings in stertorous sighs,
dyspnea dances under the aegis of relief.
We stroll through the lanes of this lush haven.
The breathtaking tablets gaze into bliss.
What trendy medicine pills and supplies
Supply human beings with many ways to support?
I share on the matter of preventing slurs.
The breakdown of moiety and the rise of risk.
For even the most ductile clay
may crumble in the quagmire of misuse.
In the seraglio of spurious bliss,
the simple and the iconoclast alike
grasp the absurdity of escape.
Acherontic powders, hexed and hissing,
wafture through the penumbra of parties,
where flapdoodle masquerades as rapture.
fear grips the veins—
a jussive urge, impetuous and egregious.
We extemporize joy, inhale incarnadine dusk,
and resile from reason with pertinacity.
turbulent dawns, wan and woebegone,
usher in ischemia’s kiss,
a paucity of comeliness,
a summary of sorrow.
The lush becomes lurid,
the sumptuous turns stygian.
Even the most miraculous odyssey
may cease in necrotic silence.
Meliorism in time to come
Yet still, amid the desiccation,
a scintilla of optimism coruscates.
The riparian soul, lithe and lit with Love,
may manipulate a raw moiety of meaning.
Through the shield of empathy,
the one who heals
may reclaim the palimpsest of self.
Not all who inhale are lost—
Some merely seek the empyrean
through alternate doors.
Let us not belittle
the addict, the patient, the seeker.
Each belongs to a consanguineous ilk
of yearning, of zoetic ache.
So let us offer not just palliation,
but propinquity,
not just summary judgment,
but the sacred burnished balm
of understanding.
Let Love be the panacea,
let compassion be the coruscation
that flickers in the penumbra
of every pharmacological night.
SEASONAL LOOKS IN MUSE
Curtains of heavy rain showers from nimbus
are removed after moistening Earth.
Torn pieces of fluffy cotton cloud
scattered in clear sky to float in mirth.
Nascent novel colours in niche of Nature.
Golden touch of crimson glow to flow in rapture.
Dry withered leaves leave deciduous trees
as the season proceeds.
Tender foliage in luminous luster and shiny lamination.
Classy cluster of chrysanthemum, cosmos, hypericum.
Season's radiance paining sky,
adorning calm amiable ambient to amuse.
Emotive urge surging to converge
at focus of my cherry dream drinking desires.
Mystic morn-mist with glistening dewdrops.
Dazzling dawn ! Bright sunny day to forecast.
Fragrance of fresh jasmine recalling redolence.
Ruminating childhood memories to share and relish
homemade candy with siblings in zest and zeal.
Sweet tweets of song birds !
They lilt melodious, mellifluous
resonating in symphony of my muse
on display of spectacular seasonal hues.
Maple tree in fiery flame to flash .
Display of diffracted refracted rays of
shimmering Sun on tranquil Twilight.
Flocks of eager egrets flying framing garland
on firmament targetting to nest on dusky evening.
Amour in glamour to glaze in my apple heart.
Bubbling blood to flood with scarlet passion.
We too cooing doves tied in rosy love
to observe amour in glamour.
You and I to try open air outdoor romance.
I thought poetry is
-name of Mesopotamia which was the first civilization to emerge in human history
-ancient cave peoples surviving life struggle
I thought poetry is
-an immortal love story of Yousuf- Zulekha, Shirin-Farhad, Laila-Majnu or Romeo-Juliet
-a telephonic or open love conversation of smiling postmodern girls
-drying wet colorful clothes of beloved in the courtyard of the house
-haring of beloved with tuberose garland before a mirror
I thought poetry is
-lizards chirping from the deserted house; cockroach flying
-quarrelsome cats in the black dark or barking dogs
-the struggle of mosquito for human blood
-traveling of the arrogant indecent animals all over the night
I thought poetry is
-thrilling venturous ghostly stories of J. K. Rowling
-self-expression of known-unknown writers
-unspoken tale of a war-wounded soldier
-the regret of the thousands of dead soldiers
-the unwritten fantasy of an isolated poet
-the lonely guitar or ektara of dead singers
I thought poetry is
-without reel tie an independent flying of a kite in the sky
-in the blue sky sovereign flapping of birds
-movement of invisible winds everywhere
-hearing story of fairytale crossing of green forest
I thought poetry is
-handmade airing of newly married girl to a new groom in lunch time
-dyed hands of nubile girls by mehndi,
-captivating sounds of jingling anklet and kamarband of dancing damsels
I thought poetry is
-classic music of Pandit Ravi Shankar
-immortal tune of Ustad Bismillah Khan's shehnai
-compilation of humanitarian lyrics of the legend Bob Marley
-heart touching reciting of the Holy Quran of Qari Abdul Basit
I thought poetry is
-unforgettable philosophical discussion of Socrates with his disciples
-the philosophic lineage of learning such as Socrates-Plato-Aristotle
-immortal scientific creations of Newton, Galileo, Einstein, Nikola Tesla, Hawking
I thought poetry is
-unremitting prayer or worship of any prevailed religion devotee to get heaven
-inhuman history of bombing on the Hiroshima and Nagasaki or brutality of 1st or 2nd World War
These all are just my thinking,
my thinking is free
on my path
but poetry is poetry,
more than any thinking, many more;
on its path
Poetry is independent fully
-June 27, 2019 Chattogram
An evanescent bouquet of skewed briars,
is how a tinsel laden tawdry essence wickedly unfolds ,
scuppered signpost to a fetid human compost,
faint light pendant on soul crushed quantum migrant,
who might chortle at vivid veil flimsy vacuum,
skirt recklessly around bogus symbols,
peer behind the squalid limp sodden hedge,
mock myopic moribund mist upon boundary busting dawn chimera,
sneer at synthetic spectrum elastic in its irritating tidal wave surfeit,
cerulean fabric‘s milky way escape plot,
in a perilous quest for that eternal tape loop mantra,
the synaptic heart of that vainglorious horizon,
self-knowledge under charcoal moon and silver cloud veneer,
or feral waste rapid fire contagion,
the indecisive day glow dither on the margins ,
of fly weight feeble frantic dash,
that velvet shadow treason daubed pettifog,
known as tangential wanton cobweb fester creed,
the mind a bloated ripple vortex numbing in its scope,
golden mirage but faux fur real concoction,
against the banal backdrop of complex-ridden superficial eddy,
from floral garland poseur stricken en train,
some vox pop indignation mere shrinking violet showcase waver,
the gleam-hued truth has this dastardly demonic derailment,
that I brush aside as spiteful oxalic sting repost,
that deceptive mint green forest of chameleon cant,
sly nuanced molten maple syrup hint,
from out of kilter tree pierce otherworld,
unseen yet bliss-edged virtual garden of firm conviction,
not just from isolated enigmatic individual script,
such as torrid turbulence or mindless scattered rim shot,
when conventions can be altered in exotic prose,
human zeitgeist has this far too often penchant,
for silkworm rapt effervescent double speak,
whilst plain unvarnished uplifting utterance,
resides within the deep crystal spring well,
of us torch aloft emerald earthling sages,
please augment the rock buttress stark phrase,
whose bluntness is a carrier pigeon of candor,
devoid of muted gray cloud blind waffle,
aromatic sprig to giant spasm of bold pluck,
quandary of human race at hearth,
frightened cliques, hidebound yes men who yen,
to swim the azure gulf of august freedom,
to the Eden where lucid tongues herald pristine witness.
where values at the centre of our being should blossom
" Tortured metaphors
spilling from tequila lips,
t i p t o e on my pulse ~
breaking in an arced smile
of the featherless eclipse,
where I waltz as a secluded steel-shine,
sobered s o f t l y
by the taste of satanic stars..."
I'm the loss of a leaf
from gold-dew aspens,
rippling upon
turquoise typewriters,
where drunk fingertips dance.
Turning to ashes,
my heart m e l t s
as a metallic grenade,
and no philosopher's stone
ever reverberating
in its silver-winged silence.
Seeking shelter from smoldering seas,
I curl up in the womb of a guardian willow ~
she's a weeping angel of n e v e r l a n d,
with an ornamented garland
of guns and roses,
enveloping me in the corpse of sunset.
Plunging from diamond cobwebs
into isles of champagne,
like a dynamite dove bloodthirsty for sun,
I l u r k along reefs
studded with rhinestones, unfurling –
lotus manuscripts
as poetic pearls s l i p and t w i r l,
snorkeling in an obsidian oasis.
I miss being
a purple-whisper prophecy,
threaded in fractured letters,
for now, my ink b l e e d s
in the marrow of moon,
where an alchemy is lost and found...
In the chronicles of carnelian clemency
and supernova sorcery,
I've seen arctic assonances
hibernating
in the throats of those,
holding lethal jewels
as a nightingale's neon noose.
So, if my soul is an opal widow
of your thistle-light affection,
a verse romanticised
will be my crystal coffin,
and in the caricatures
of kohl and karma,
our silent soliloquy
shall delicately be shifted.
Surfing in the splitting s i n s
of a salty saviour,
this whiskey damsel
shall evermore remain
a scentless phrase,
scrapped by pencilled brush-strokes,
i n v i s i b l e
in our paper-cut destiny...
Inspired By Connie Marcum Wong's Poem "Dreams Of India"
Dreams of India
Her music haunts me
in such a knowing way
it makes me weep
and causes my heart to ache.
I become homesick for her
scents, her sounds, her food,
her enchanting dance
which spawns dreams
of her romance.
I know in my heart
I have lived there,
I know, I have loved there.
Her poetry transcends
my spirit to encompass
a wholeness that is
so familiar to me.
I dream of the Ganges ,
and her gentle cleansing flow,
of reflections on its surface
when the moon is hanging low.
Of crickets singing nightly
to serenade me to sleep.
I dream of colors of the saris,
the beauty that they keep...
Of garlands placed with care,
a gajra in a maiden's hair
and the hues of floral leis.
I hold a reverence for Hindu
Devata and Devi.
I aspire to learn the sacredness
of varmala in the seeds of
past lifetimes I have shared.
A passion grows for those
whose love glows through their
auras to welcome strangers.
I'd love to share a cup of chai
to chat with friends in open air.
I long to return home, though
I have never been there.
Notes: *a gajra: flowers which females use as a decoration
for their hair.
*Varmala: is a tradition from ancient times where a beautiful garland of flowers symbolizes a proposal of marriage. In the tradition of Swayamvar. A female would choose her life partner from a group of suitors by placing a flower garland around the neck of her chosen man. Once the girl had made her choice, a marriage ceremony would be held right away.
MY TRIBUTE TO CONNIE MARCUM WONG
Connie never went to India, but she thought
she should have been born there…a mythical, mystical, sacred land of her
dreams ~ a Princess wearing
a Banarasi saree, a gajra on her hair…stunningly beautiful!
In my mind, she is there holding, for her beloved, a Varmala!
September 24, 2022
Short Connie Tributes - How Did Connie Marcum Wong Inspire You Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Andrea Dietrich
Tresa faerie was excited.
Today was the day assignments were coming out.
She had been in training for six weeks.
She wondered where she would be placed.
Alaska? Paris? Tokyo? Hawaii? New Zealand?
Kenya? Texas? Rome? California?
She was quivering with pure excitement.
Would she be an April Faerie?
An April faerie gets to paint the flowers.
She had put it down as her first choice.
Second choice was not bad either. She might be assigned to a prophetess,
Whispering premonitions in her ear, being rewarded with love and affection.
Prophetesses were known to take especially good of their faeries.
Third choice was tree faerie; she loved trees, especially the Cottonwoods,
And the oaks, the elms, the weeping willows, the Rose of Sharons.
Which reminded her of flowers. Yes, being an April faerie was her first choice.
She sat up especially straight, wearing her favorite colors of pixie dust.
Her faerie wings had never been more shiny.
Her friend Garland winked at her.
He waved his envelope at her and laughed.
He was sitting up front; had his assignment first.
The instructions were to wait until everyone had their envelope,
but Garland never heard instructions; or followed them if he heard them.
The way he was grinning, she knew
he probably got his first choice – fire faerie.
His job would be to inspire people to have campfires,
sing, and listen to each other.
Her envelope was placed in her hands.
They were shaking now. She ripped it open.
Desk faerie! One of the worst jobs of all, a muse to a writer! What?
Disappointment flooded her; she was shaking now,
and harder, for she was crying.
The instructor came over, took both her hands
and said, ”It is the most important job,”
For writing the truth reminds people what mistakes have been made,
and shows them how to correct them, live with each other,
love each other, and it changes the world.”
She was not convinced.
A muse!
She was a muse?
She had never wanted to be one.
Muses had bad reputations, like brownies and elves.
She would HATE being a muse.
She hated it already. Until she was assigned,
and then she immediately loved it.
It is all a matter of being assigned to the right person,
you see, and she was…assigned to you.
The Clanking Chain of Wild Geese
I was watching the September sky every day,
With a hope to once again get a glance,
Of the clanking chains of those lovely wild geese,
That suddenly appears with their music melodies,
But quietly they disappear every year,
Like a Rainbow that comes and gets lost gradually.
No one knows when like a rainbow,
The wild geese would appear suddenly,
While changing their forms like clouds in the sky,
Mesmerizing our eyes for few seconds or more, and then,
Disappearing in the sky, like the dim vanishing evening.
The wild geese often appear in the sky,
Forming a shape like the garland of God,
And quickly changing shapes, like our emotions,
While moving in the sky like an arrow,
They sing the joyous songs of today, not tomorrow.
Forgetting the past and the future like an arrow,
Which keeps running, until it reaches its marrow,
The destination to pierce a heart,
They create either a joy or sorrow,
While singing a song of today, not tomorrow.
Oh, September sky I watch,wonder with ,
And hope to see them once again,
My childhood friends wild Geese,
Coming from north and vanishing in south,
Like my thoughts which arise and fall.
But this year, I did not see the winged necklaces of God,
Neither could I see a rainbow being formed,
Nor even hear their chorus like songs,
No clanking of wings, No music of their joys,
No rise and fall of images like thoughts,
No sounds and music touching my heart.
One day, I was stunned to hear,
The species of goose are in great danger,
Man has stolen many of even God’s necklaces,
The rainbow of birds and the grandeur of sky,
A great heritage of Nature is vanishing before our eyes.
Oh, my sweet friend,
Will I ever be able to see and hear you again?
When you would clank your wings, in the windless sky,
Creating a dance and music, on such lofty heights,
Where no musician can ever fly,
With a hope till I am here on this earth my friend,
I would keep waiting and watching
For you O wild Geese in the September sky.
Ravindra
Kanpur India. 1st Oct. 2010
Dedicated to my loving wife Dr. Shashi Kapoor, as a birthday gift for her
Birthday on 2nd Oct. who loves animals and birds more than any thing
Else.
As the sky weeps
in periwinkle petals of
multicolored roses,
rinsed in lemons, and lavender,
the poet within me
releases a bougainvillea
bouquet of unfiltered gratitude,
swaying to the celestial duet
orchestrated by
the angel of raindrops,
adorned in braided
wildflower crowns and
windswept wishes,
echoing dulcet melodies
rendered in whimsical accents.
I ponder, if tears had a tune,
would it be the
sound of drizzling dewdrops?
Would you then feel
the pain I carry,
veiled in smoky silence?
Or would I forever be
the silhouette cloaked
in fogs of charcoal confusion,
too dark to be deciphered
by the fragmented eyes
that eulogize
all that sparkles and glows?
But when stained sunflowers
swirl beneath starless spheres,
scattering seeds of sorrow
to cultivate a garland of grief,
puddled with poignant poems,
I remain throned,
as the goddess of black rain,
riddled with cosmic rituals,
sprinkling kaleidoscopic dust
upon forsaken fields,
while listening to the
drifting leaflets in crisp air,
pleading for the demise
of my unfaltering faith,
oblivious to the truth
that I fear not
mists of melancholy.
I surf through surging seas,
unafraid of twirling torrents
and blazing tides,
piercingly striking
shimmering sapphires
floating in deafening despair.
There in the abyss of obscurities,
I’m nestled within restlessness,
in rooted resilience,
like a perplexed paradox
weaving crippled odes to
the sun that longs to rise and sail,
splashing hues of cinnamon clemency.
Tonight, I’m counting crooning comets,
amidst quivering hailstones,
dancing in cataclysmic rhythm above,
to find my home within
an island of daphne dreams
and singing seashells.
For I hear the flaming flowers
in their solitary stillness
serenade rain rhapsodies,
to awaken the petrichor
soul of heavy horizons,
wrapped in stringed
milky-quartz beads,
bursting forth blooming tomorrows,
illuminated by chamomile water,
concocted from charismatic spring falls…
Yet I think of us, engrossed
in umbrella moments,
Cupid too envied this
symphony of romance
where love conquered all,
and grief but a blurred memory,
in sunlit souvenirs of yesterday.
Original (Bengali),Translated song by Rudra Mohammad Shahidullah.
Inside and out, through every layer of my soul, you bloom,
Your presence weaves through tender folds, lighting every room.
Like petals cradling dawn’s own dew before the world can see,
Your journey charts the secret arcs of love deep-rooted in me.
You cradle me—an oyster guards its pearl with sacred hold;
Your essence stirs the azure depths, where silent stories told.
I flourish in your gentle strength, a harbor calm and bright—
Beneath your touch, my waves of longing soften in your light.
I stand made whole—be well, beloved, under heaven’s arch so high.
Now write to that celestial address where softest breezes sigh.
Cast me a garland—offer blooms to sway within my song—
O minstrel-heart rejoiced to guard your love foreverlong'.
Duet by me:
Beloved, across the quiet layers of my being, your words entwine like vines—
Your presence echoes in each fold of my heart’s hidden chambers.
As petals guard the promise of fruit,
your tenderness holds the pulse of life beneath my skin.
Like morning’s light caressing still waters,
your touch awakens the depths of my soul.
I am sheltered by your grace,
as oyster keeps its pearl, humble and secure.
In the silent harbors of my being, your love is the harbor light—
Guiding me with warmth, steady and luminous.
So I reach to the sky—my breath carried upward as a vow:
Be well, as you have made me well—wherever your spirit roams, may it find peace.
Another duet:
In and out, everywhere, I see you my love,
Your love shines on the dews of rose petals at dawn,
Your presence I seek in every corner of world,
Your love is more precious than rubies and gold.
The waves sweep the shores impatiently to be embraced by lover,
They dump seashells and sea glass treasure on the shore,
Maybe I will find the pearl, the source of your love, in one of the shells,
The azure sky shows the depth, with serene stories of love.
At dusk, I watch the colorful hues in azure skies,
Like the flowers from your lovely garland scattered across the sky,
Your love songs from heart resonate thru sky,
Ever lasting love rejoices with the songs of minstrel-heart.