Long Gelid Poems
Long Gelid Poems. Below are the most popular long Gelid by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Gelid poems by poem length and keyword.
Urges ushered Est’bel out of her abode –
a cottage cobbled together from cobwebs and clapboard –
and she scuttled forth,
her nesty hair tousled
by a leaf-laced breeze
In her bony hands she clutched
dregs of a nightmeg broth
in a porcelain jar stoppered
by a coffinwood shard
Her bare feet stepped on thorny twigs
but she felt them not,
for her soles had been hardened
by countless treks across hot coals
washed up from stygian shoals
Leftward she turned,
meandering down the narrowing, twisting path,
where uprooted mandrake tendrils
clutched at her anorexic ankles,
while ravens pecked at her frayed follicles,
until she snatched a leaf
from a passing philodendron,
folding it into a tri-cornered hat
and plunking it atop her pate,
rakishly askew
Dewey sap from twisty-trunked trees
dripped onto the nape of her gnarly neck
and a raven on a nearby branch
cawed his amusement,
earning him her owlish scowl
She spied a row of rotting poppies
and plucked a bunch,
sticking them into a crevice of her hat,
then stepped onto a walkway of cracked shale slabs,
which shunned her footprints,
replacing them with snail streaks
to mark her passing
She made her way to a listing tombstone
atop a gnarled knoll encased in gelid moonbeams
and fringed by shushing sawgrass
She took a small vial of indigo glass
from beneath her shabby shawl
and pulled out a stopper made
from a finger bone of an unfaithful lover
whose pickled tongue hung from a
silver chain around her neck
She poured the contents of the vile vial
into the porcelain jar and
listened to the fizz.
It subsided into sloshes,
reminding her of the sounds
issuing from demented shells
snatched from the forlorn shores
of stygian shoals
She gaped at the sky
as an owl flew past the moon,
stirring the dark craters,
which broke up into swirling spirals,
sucking lunar beasts beneath the surface,
where they dissolved in the ceaselessly sliding sands
And Est’bel raised the jar to her lips
and drank a toast to the moon,
and awaited the enshadowed shades
drifting down the snail-slimed pathway,
propelled by a leaf-laced breeze
The blood and lapis daylight sets
in ether. How the mind resets
brutality of winter chill
with February's codicil;
what gossamer a dream begets.
I hear the crickets in the dark,
their clicking takes up where the lark
has been. The flagrant marigolds
have huddled into twilight's folds,
on sanguine nightfall to embark.
The eastern zephyrs fall and rise
with rapid movement of my eyes
and echo whispers midnight makes
of blood white trails on moonlit lakes.
In silhouette I recognize
a dogwood, though can only sense
its glowing coral consequence.
The blossoms tell me they comprise
sweet spawn of sun rays in disguise
and capture all my heartbeats hence.
Now honeysuckle is entwined
on crisscrossed pathways of my mind
with jasmine in a potpourri
to conjure shamrock reverie
that leaves the pewter scape behind.
Around the lambent dogwood tree
alone upon that verdant lea
buds can prosper, bees will hum.
As though seduced by opium
I greet a vista I can't see,
at least not quite. I know it's there
and feel the dogwood everywhere,
behind me, flanking left and right,
an omnipresence in the night,
like answers to unconscious prayer.
Now high upon a clovered scarp
the tree is standing clear and sharp.
In silence I see restless blooms
play music that my ear assumes
is chiming dulcet as a harp.
Such Efflorescent star bursts splay
like windmills on a gusty day
that in ebullience do portend
a vibrance that will never end
and all my reticence allay.
In waking to a winter storm
that's February's gelid norm
I long still for my fulgid tree,
resplendence that surrounded me,
but only meet a turbid swarm.
I rise and pull back hermit drapes
to see the torrid flurries traipse,
yet through the chaos can discern
the leafless frame for which I yearn
beyond the window storming scrapes.
The dogwood stands just as before
unclad upon the icy moor
with nascent berries undeterred
as though through humble verse and word
like daylight through an unclosed door.
2/23/18
Strength Thru Adversity
Gregory R. Barden
The glossy lamp-posts,
like the tremulous stars and awakening stars,
light up one by one with a click;
and with incredible manifestation
they announce a spectacular sunset
to impatient and eager lovers...
lost in profound contemplation,
feeling the urge of improvisation!
Serenity descends on the white crushing waves...
to conceal the ablaze horizon with indignation;
will this splendor incite the writer's inspiration,
whose simple words, with elaborate insight,
can console the painters' hearts
when they lack inner inspiration?
Already the conspiring fire-flies seem frantic,
they cautiously search the grass by the tall pine-tree:
to plan a night of mystery,
and to adorn the fragrant air with magic!
There are no lush hills or
snow-capped mountains
to ward off the unpredictable ocean,
or the unguarded sky so prone to invasion;
a sky that harbored the cowards' madness!
They came forward, with full force,
to bring down the impressive Twin Towers;
symble of wealth, of power...
of brother-hood and unity!
They came to kill with hideous minds...
to destroy thousands of innocent lives:
but our selfless,fallen heroes
have made us stronger,
and we are still free!
Even when the weather is unkind
and helpless flowers are swept away by a gelid wind,
snow and rain still embellish, with fine decor,
Manhattan's magnificent sky-line;
and Lady Liberty,weeping,
still welcomes to her thriving shore:
the freedom-seeker and the dream-maker...
so immensely grateful and widly smiling!
The spectacular sky-crapers
can hardly breathe
among those limited spaces;
ask the laborious builders
with sun-tanned faces!
They were the ones fighting off sweat and heat'
waiting to behold,with pride
and rewarding hard-ship,
their ingenious work before the applauding
and cheerful elite!
With beauty and gloominess around,
to spark the writer's inspiration,
this unsteady hand jots down
vague words swerving on the straight lines,
to conceive his defination,
which one day will be repudiated with disguise
by literati's own interpretation!
The sunless evening is deprived
of its ardent and vivid colors,
the mischievous clouds
in their hastiness extend
their thin and tenebrous veil
increasing my body's chill.
They intensify the dreary darkness
invading the lively landscapes under
a silent universe so distant and squalid,
less fascinating and mysteriously far
to be contemplated for its blazing sunsets...
besides the frightful sensations that billow
and imitate every approaching shadow
as they detach themselves completely
from the contemptuous soul liberating
itself with painful groans of dissidence,
refusing to alleviate their heartwrenching
cry; denying their sympathy with insolence.
I'm staring at another gloomy sky in November,
it's menacing and ready to be transformed
into a storm more violent than a tropical hurricane of summer;
a loud thunder is heard followed by a sheet of lightning
that knocks down those vulnerable, aged trees falling
on the yellowed dry grass and on the bare bushes
that was the home of the cyclamen rendering them harmonious,
seldom sad; who remembers how they lulled by the gentlest wind
of this past spring in the well-tended gardens of the smallest town...
did someone smell the fragrant roses only parched by the hottest sun?
The shady, undulating pines are being caressed
by the brisk breeze accelerating the marching evening
gloomier than a moonless night too enmeshed
in a sense of sadness that deepens the emotional feeling...
missing the absence of the blazing light that blinds the eyes
as darkness and fright cast shadows on the fields
of drooping sunflowers ready to declare their demise
more than the gelid air that freezes the steaming breath
and decrease the temperature of the cold body willing to enwreathe
itself with the instinct to warm up by a campfire consuming a balmy pine.
,
I thought about my older brother when I wrote this
One morning I woke up
and my bed was now a king size,
No more chow lines
and my wisdom[wife] was puttin' in kitchen work
and I was blessed to gaze into my queens eyes,
She prepared a good breakfast & I swallowed my feast
Then I hit the rain closet
and came out smelling like Hugo Boss
and I'm appreciating my new attire,
Praise God no more D.O.C. suits, kites
no more roll calls or pass the wire,
So I put on my armor, ready to face the outside world
with my best battle cry,
" I'm Free "
But I remembered I was on parole
and somedays it's like being up manuer creek
solo with no paddle I,
Use my survival tactics
from studying the boulevards theatrics
and with confidence I straddle my,
War horse for the rough ride
plus I sharpen up my weapon of choice,
I know victory is the key
So I illustrate it through voice,
I don't gallop as I eagle eye the hood,
The change lets me know
I went from platinum status to wood,
I briefly reminisce on when the time was good,
The hawk's present
so I pop the collar on my 6lb coat,
Chip getters & the thick chick sweaters
stalk the block and hounds quote,
Each others psudonems, some issuin' the news,
If you part of the society
that lives by the ' Quiet Code '
you stay true to them
I hear the ghetto winds whistlin' the blues,
See city life plays a cold tune
and ' No Love ' is the bass line,
So when my mind rewinds
I realize that sometimes prison V.I's[visits]
is your only source of face time,
That's why I have much love for my peers
doing much time on tiers,
See hard time & yard time keeps your mind on clear,
And you must conquer all your fears,
In this, frigid world that's been gelid for years,
So for all my loved ones who couldn't be here,
I toast to the ' Most High '
and spill liquors and beers,
Because i'm back in the outside world
But am I really free?
A frosty whitewash, whirling winter snow
smoothly shrouds a secret silent slumber.
Skies all awake, flying mosaics of row
music chirps cavort the sunset amber.
Gelid air turfs, chilled in birds of wonder
gliding through miles, unknown lands asunder.
Crackling wings flutter, snuggling in romance.
Distant forage calls, "Move till Sun is back".
Searching lakes and meadows, looks not askance.
Soaring high they perch, steer and gear in stack.
Feet tucked in wings, they roost in adhoc shack.
Coats, scarves, gloves, plummets an echelon track.
Cardinals and Bluejays, plump with fork tails.
Martins, Owls, Robins, in chorus engage.
Lens of cameras spy, beaks, wings and scales.
Moulting leafless trees, flamboys in plumage.
Willow, alder, birch, dark eyed Juncos stage.
Seeds and nuts in tree crevices, cold assuage.
Hope surviving Life....as Twitter migrates
Mystical Winter........ Marathon Flyways.
Dated 17th December 2018
submitted to Gregory R Barden's Strength thru Adversity contest.
HOW THE POEM HELPED ME GROW
As a beginner to the world of poetry, I always thought that sonnets were something very very difficult only to written by people as talented as Shakespeare. This was my first attempt to write a sonnet. For one whole week, I read all details about migratory birds, and almost gained an encyclopedia of knowledge. First time i realized how difficult it was to limit your thoughts to syllables and lines, and I struggled for another week to find and use correct words, counting syllables. The poem didn't get placed, but it gave me lot of confidence to attempt writing other forms of poems.
This poem was originally submitted to Winter Wonderland Poetry Contest
Urban Sonnet form ABABBB, CDCDDD, EFEFFF, GG
Poetrysoup Syllable counter- 10 syllable each line.
Sponsor Emile Pinet
It was Long ago.
From the break of dawn
July 23,2003.
To the plenilune of the moon,
After the bullets have surceased.
The cry of a neonate hearkened through out the waves of the sea.
The gelid breeze alleviated my stress with a smile;
From a million mile.
Dancing to the rhythm of my heart
And the luscious smell of July.
My mom gave birth to a solicitous heart.
Her smile lights me life;
For I am her King.
At that sweet moment,
Flowers blossomed,
Birds vocalized my birthday song,
Trees beckoned their branches,
Kids frolic with aesthetic roses.
The waves of the oceans vociferated my name.
To me, the age 17 came .
This day brings the new version of the old me.
It extirpates my antediluvian and juvenile demeanor.
The ocean's tides fall.
My name the mountains call.
WILLIAM!William!William!
The sound from the mountains enter my ears;
With outstanding gears.
Reminiscing me of this grt day.
My mind ran with haste;
because it's my b day
The scene of this day was a happy one.
It was full of super fun.
All activities were put to a halt.
This day chockablocked my heart with love.
With great elation and euphoria,I am delighted to annunciate my umbilical cord emancipation day.
It's not just a mere birthday.
It's one of the best day of my life.
With this day I can cross the blue sky.
This day fill my life with golden moments.
Far from my corporeality went all my ailments.
I feel so bless to descry this my 17th birthday.
On this day,some people said "It was the rebirth of the late president Tubman",
Some said "It was the birth of a scholar",
Some said "It was the birth of a liberator",
Some said "It was the apocalypse of the ancient coming to reality",
Some said "It was the birth of a great man".
Hearthside: an Imagined Sequel to "When You Are Old"
by Michael R. Burch
“When you are old and grey and full of sleep...” ? W. B. Yeats
For all that we professed of love, we knew
this night would come, that we would bend alone
to tend wan fires’ dimming bars?the moan
of wind cruel as the Trumpet, gelid dew
an eerie presence on encrusted logs
we hoard like jewels, embrittled so ourselves.
The books that line these close, familiar shelves
loom down like dreary chaperones. Wild dogs,
too old for mates, cringe furtive in the park,
as, toothless now, I frame this parchment kiss.
I do not know the words for easy bliss
and so my shriveled fingers clutch this stark,
long-unenamored pen and will it: Move.
I loved you more than words, so let words prove.
This sonnet is written from the perspective of the great Irish poet William Butler Yeats in his loose translation or interpretation of the Pierre de Ronsard sonnet “When You Are Old.” The aging Yeats thinks of his Muse and the love of his life, the fiery Irish revolutionary Maude Gonne. As he seeks to warm himself by a fire conjured from ice-encrusted logs, he imagines her doing the same. Although Yeats had insisted that he wasn’t happy without Gonne, she said otherwise: “Oh yes, you are, because you make beautiful poetry out of what you call your unhappiness and are happy in that. Marriage would be such a dull affair. Poets should never marry. The world should thank me for not marrying you!” Keywords/Tags: Yeats, Gonne, sonnet, Irish, Ireland, age, aging, mature, love, separation, parting, divorce, winter, night, fire, bars, books, shelves, chaperones, dogs, mates, parchment, kiss, bliss, fingers, pen, will, move, words, prove
The grandstand is gelid by a sharp wintry breeze
Carried off from the field are the last of dead leaves
The shrill of the whistle, muffled calls from the crowd
From the tunnel stampede, metal studs echo loud.
With high, flick-tossing coin each Captain his reason
To kick-off with his mates a new rugby season.
The kicker announces starting ball high and long
And on lumbering wind sings a rugby man’s song.
Fifteen players below impatient stand waiting
Eyes fixed to the heavens, the ball falls rotating.
To arms of the hardest with sweetest possession
Grueling match has begun— the rugby obsession!
Steaming bodies in scrums, deep grunt of engagement
Weary boots grappling earth now frozen like pavement
By tackle-ruck-lineout, each man one-and-for-all
With a powerful push a try-bound rolling maul.
Players leaping for joy, heads of others hang low
Elation, deception such do rugby games go.
So Grand Final is here, a long winter has passed
The crowd and the speaker say it happened too fast;
Cut-throat right to the last; Wing, Second Row to Prop
A try, then conversion, to make every heart stop.
(Far left of the uprights flew last quiet ball spent
but with westerly drift over black dot she went!)
…
And with sweet summer grass blowing crisp in the sun
where butterflies frolic, spider webbing is spun
White sidelines are missing, fields all ripe, rich ‘n’ green
Rugby season has passed, but young spirits are keen
A rugby ball punted, a lone boy, polished boots
To play for his country, his dream built on grass roots.
-------------------
Alexandrine Poem in balanced six syllable cesurae for each 12 syllable line
Between frosty cobalt-cliffs, cruise-ship hesitates to pause,
Amidst ice sculptures echoing cheers of spirited applause,
Mesmerizing enthralled sights evincing awe-struck trance,
Lauding vast gelid expanse, hypnotizing eyes of romance.
Buoying on inlets, flaunting aesthetics of sculpted designs,
Dark blue glaciers rise for miles, as our ship gently aligns,
Watching seals resting lazily, ruminating on blocks of ice,
Empathetic of frightened sparrow decrying the crowd-size.
Gracefully ship circles around, as if staging a festive dance,
When in enamored glance, caressing hints of romance,
We praise motifs on water~ floating white cotton balls,
Where shards chromatic fall from frozen-tall bluish walls.
Miles of crystals adorning yonder, glinting cerulean blue,
Stack mounds of white contrast on distant emerald hue,
As Glacier Bay begins to fade retreating in rearward view,
When ship's whistle blows aloud, bidding a fond adieu.
A journey we treasure now in albums of cherished past,
Where moments unsurpassed, coveting-forever last,
Embracing precious memories evoking paradise on earth,
Glamorizing place-idyllic, luxuriating in cadence of mirth.
May 28, 2023
Placed 1st: This or That, Vol 18 Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Edward Ibeh
Title Chosen: I Know A Place
Glacier Bay National Park and Preserve lies west of Juneau, Alaska and can only be reached by plane or boat. Glacier Bay was declared a UNESCO WORLD HERITAGE SITE in 1979 for the spectacular glacier and icefield landscapes.