Long Gilt Poems
Long Gilt Poems. Below are the most popular long Gilt by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Gilt poems by poem length and keyword.
Quote ”Expensive gifts are no substitute for love nonetheless a thoughtful gesture on one’s part leaves a lasting impression especially on a child.” By Poet
In my childlike innocence I was magically transfixed,
by this spherical glass object stunning in its Jack Frost design,
prismatic snowflakes that mystic magic carousel spellbound,
Christmas reindeer coterie that cast a wide charm bijou wink,
nirvana within luminous tantalising universal infant pneuma,
layer upon layer of compacted fallen snow as aftermath divine,
then weighty rucksack on Santa’s back of glitter tie band bundles, in boot slush transit knee-deep in annual mirth,
December pageant peering deep inside my mental cavern of cartoon fun,
reassuring hug from both parents is the essence of goodwill season ethos lofty,
they beamed with festive warmth so noble when watching me,
touch and glide that silken urchin hand of mine so impish,
on this prized hypnotic treasure captivating in its glow world sheen,
with its gilt-edged gallery of down the ages Noel features bountiful,
it had this red cheek sprightly offspring gazer in a trance,
a token souvenir star dazzle as eternal recall dwelling cosset,
including mesmeric Yuletide batch of swoon and sway serenades and tunes,
chorus boom o’er ice chill swathe from dome mould gift,
enough to goad and prompt that beneficial item I yearned for,
from benign folk Elysian who lavish so much radiant attachment without curb,
especially at foot of tree swaddled present to whet the curious,
till Doomsday nipper awestruck by dream fetish awash with flair,
cute whirl and swirl toy gadget a nebula for me the tiny tot,
whose imagination swept to the furthest North Pole sighting and beyond.
"Every sunrise gives you a new beginning and a new ending." Norton Juster
****************************************************************
Sunrise at Early Morn
With the rise of the sun at early morn
Darting silver rays as from break of dawn
Lush leafy trees sparkle on distant hills,
Cane plants shine with gilt tints in nearby fields
Flowers open their petals to the sun
Bees dance in the midst of blooms seeking fun
Birds start to hum their cheerful morning songs
Hop from branch to branch clutching on along
Some grass to shape their nest atop a tree
Or just flutter in the calm air carefree.
Her hair, blonde, is twisted in the wind.
The whipping strands are the colors
of the shinning cropland
by which she is standing. She is alone
by this golden feed that is bounteous; wholesome as breast milk, as youth.
Her young face is turned away,
though her face is radiant like the Sun,
her tresses the flames..
(Perhaps her locks are more like the hue
of the gold sought by the pioneers of the 1800's Gold Rush. Then again, no..)
Her face has freckles that are sorrel-dusky
sun-spots as the star roasts the "spires"
of the semolina(wheat).
The schoolgirl is poised,
the saffron spelt(wheat) is erect
under the royalty of the thermic Summer
empyrean(sky)-wherein a solitary cloud
is a blossom, full of grace,
yet a cloud is never delicate like the flower-
and the girl's tale is morbid..
as is the cancer caused by the sunshine.
The future Harvest is burned as the Sun
kills the land..the young lady
reaps an unquenchable lust 'til the cessation
of zoetic puissance.
Yet the flowerly nebula
becomes a cloudburst..
the sunlight shimmers;
her cilium(hair)
metamorphoses into gilt lavaliere(jewelry)-
a gleaming tiara.
And the ignited pedicle(stalks)
bend as the rain-drops sparkle. And yet
a maiden crown of light-
her fair-haired halo-travails a genesis,
within which the roots of the Earth
glaciate,
within which her strameneous mane
becomes like straw, easily snapped;
and is now shivery split ends.
'
Like a morning hag in curlers
Without a trace of makeup on,
Ugly is thy name, O Desert;
A gift from those who know you not.
Show me the glass-eyed towers
That match your crystalline skies.
Show me the fiery tresses
As fair as your rosy clouds at dawn.
The doyens of cosmetics,
With their scientific skills,
Make no blushes that compare
With your evening skies and hills.
Richer than a thousand gardens
Are your flowered plains in Spring;
Lovelier than the splendid robes
Of wise Solomon, the king.
Fort Knox’ gold is a piker’s hoard
Beside your banks of sun-gilt peaks.
The diamonds of Fifth Avenue
Are dull beside your morning dew.
Your pogonip is a blanket
Much cleaner than the smog.
And who would shun the coyote
For a heavy metal lullaby?
in the rusty tide animating bones
of deluded gods reaching for the lie
etched on eroded steles in dead lisps
licking flames of seers tossing guts
filled with blue and red fascists
infecting the hands of the curious
willing to taste microscopic spiders
gulping their blood pumping poisonous
chants of starlit fevers soaking doubts
in baptismal orgasms growing fingers
measuring spirits down to the remnants
of angels sleeping in cellars drinking
emotions of residents disheveling linen
drenched fear perspiring throughout eye
movements of broken nightmares straining
to be painted in fixed oil imbued with lead
thoughts cracking in corridors hallucinating
dripping madmen sharpening revolts smearing
screeching phrases fed intravenously milking
the life of beasts for ravenous wisdom awaits
cold to the heart thuds of silence defy adages
preaching surrender to the surgeon’s pride
flashing silver pain pooling mercury bulges
of phallic power parading atrocity elements
churning in the metabolic circumference of Gaia
digesting busts of Caesars forgetting Romana
as peace basks in the annihilation of metabolism
directing the jet-streams crossing sunrise
and sunset like catholic rites glossy and gilt
flat personages etched by bright children
bending down to surrender to the priests
speechless in empty piety moaning high-
ways returning in internal engines conbusting
beside Masonic erections adorned with devils
sliding between walls where innocence lived
yellowed pages of periodicals recall fabrications
stitched into the screens of televisions changing
until the entire hymn of Satan rests in every palm
Golden years in time of summer and autumn;
gilt leaves turn into their color artwork.
The cool ushers the night's drawing in warm fires.
Days smile at withered scarlet blossom wreaths.
Dreary days bring them here both together;
since children, brothers not in blood, but in bond.
They sit warm on a park bench as they indulge
in enjoyable recollection of past events.
As warm at noble heart as leal in bone.
They grace the distant past they have left behind.
With their wilds as children they changed the world as adults.
They leave their memories for another time they meet.
But never mind, you will always find them
sitting on the same park bench with joyful noise.
4/15/2019
Noble Macbeth! Perverted by a scheming wife, Oh sorry fate!
So write the critics ,mainly men, but you, Macbeth, and I know better.
She was the fourth witch who brought home the message of the spectral three.
She was the helpmeet of your choosing who spoke out what you dared but think.
Yet noble you were, like Lucifer, lord of the false dawning light,
And proud you were as he who scorned Creation for being not his.
While they who love continue creation, grow fruitful as the vine,
They who hate are barren, must hate the seeds of life and wish their death.
So with you, the vanquished of Banquo’s seed, whose death was life.
You have one weapon yet, to mock what you cannot beget,
To declare all vain, an illusion, a cheap trick, an idiot’s tale
Though you named “King” do wear the gilt-rimmed crown, I hear your end’s approach.
I hear the rustling of leaves, and though you hang the herald of truth
On the gnarled trunk of a dying tree, green leaves and fresh wood advance.
To the hill they come to close you up and cross your vain ambition.
Where died a seed a plant shall grow whose leaves shall heal the nations
[the Egyptians are extremely interesting to us today
for various reasons. How science today wishes to
understand the secret ingredients where that the Egyptians
used when they wrapped up dead people so that their faces
would not rot for innumerable centuries.]
LIKE SILVER BIRDS before the wind
enthusiastic looking religious people who sit in sky seats.
The germs breaking out of mankind with lumps of famous bronze.
They will clear up your guts.
Say, 'shh.' The corduroy forest is luscious and black smoke
of the lamp. Dots of red ants are upon the Letter we Opened.
They build trampolines in the dish but we have forgotten.
To not be able to shake the wrinkles off of time and memories.
How they watch and laugh!
Look, there is something we all want.
It has steps.
Here is the key:
"Shh."
The stoat jumps out of the fur and runs away to catch the scent.
Shh. -- only for a moment then from behind the awful gilt wings of a magnificent
palace of life shall be painted on the blackened door. And when it is done it will
be our palace of course. Bluebells, bluebells, bluebells of hundreds--like far-off suns--
hand strayed from that beaten path.
:: 03.18.2022 ::
Sometimes, I cannot help but sigh
and wonder--
wonder deep inside of me
whether I could ever be like you.
I riffle through the pages of my soul
and find a lot of them empty
Unlike yours, which seem to be bursting, blinding,
bursting, and still continuing to burst with brilliance...
So much so,
that your soul's light
has spread far and wide,
very much like sunlight's fingers
opening the morning sky curtains,
touching and warming
those who need it.
Tanglaw
Each step that you take,
each breath that you exhale,
each prayer that you whisper,
each beat of your heart
Tanglaw
I receive a smile,
and chat
with that man
who you've helped change...
Because of you,
the silent man now speaks, smiles.
You sit down to rest,
I see you talking to someone,
and I am almost fooled,
since you seem like old friends.
Because of you,
the lonely strangers become kindred.
It mystifies me sometimes,
of how you never seem to get tired.
It seems like I am the one who gets tired for you,
who gets worried for your own strength...
Then I see that glow from all around,
and I am reminded how you glean from this glow.
I see you as this beautiful ball of energy--
Never static,
bouncing from soul to soul,
illuminating parts of themselves
that even they never knew existed.
It is so amazing seeing this at work,
since the next thing I know,
the place is lit up,
Alive.
...and it is all because of you.
It makes me feel unworthy at times,
but oh how it also makes me feel so proud,
that I am a part of you,
and you are a part of me.
I have a lot of catching up to do,
since it seems I am lightyears from where you are
But I will try.
I will catch the tail end of your light,
clutch to it with my life, winding it around me,
let it embrace me--tight, so tight.
And I will never let it go. Never.
Until I also begin to glow.
Until I too, become that ball of light.
Hopefully when someone
riffles through the pages of my soul,
they will not find it blank,
but filled with gilt pages of light.
Just like yours.
Bursting and brilliant just like yours.
Tanglaw is pronounced "tang-lao"
Where I live, mothers are said to be the "light of the home"...
Once you sailed upon the dawn
to grace the eaves of Pomona's verdant lawn,
but now in splendor you have drooped;
no longer shall you unleash torrents from your tongue.
Oh, white-hot zephyr of the morning,
How I wish your fall had come with warning!
Now your incandescent train is gloom;
no more will you water the thirsty orchards and summer-famished corn.
When you trawled the horizon with golden voice,
and with your sickle sliced the noise,
I never thought your time might be curtailed,
cut down by blade sharper than the one you hoisted.
Pluck Apollo's lyre: scatter drops of pearlescent dew,
Once your music winged over tangles of elm and yew,
yet never shall the harmonies of eternity be dampened:
or so I thought before the sapphire goblet was drained to the lees.
Words are immortal beings: spinning, flailing, sinning, wailing:
We cannot taste fluttering rose-buds but we can send language tailing,
to hoop, bedeck with gilt the firmament
and shoot rays of opalescent ecstasy to blind rogues into submission.
Yet far more and far higher is life than words can tell:
What more can be said? Strike the ages-worn bell.
Let it shoot its brawny waves over the seas,
and whip its well-worn message to the stars.