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.
Stomach-wrenching body blows dog those
blighted by endemic fiasco,,
grim dervish whirl of death a maybe one day royal flush,
predicament that hoodoo mark in frozen ink,
cataclysmic episode relentless as unfolding bleak plot,
monumental exploits somehow never quite transpire,
catalogue of hair-brained schemes hatched,
bearing doomed lugubrious stamp,
dream laden Walter Mitty high wire act,
accomplishment on Richter scale peak,
yearned from one’s deep canyon gut,
now faint spark ashen bonfire residue,
gilt-edge province fosters stainless steel chariot endeavour,
before mockery of ego rejection slips encroach,
painstaking gumption beyond familiar human norms boomerang,
mishap strewn pathways evince ghoulish graveyard howl,
magic is anathema to wretched soul oppressed by contretemps,
reverse that coy euphemism for continuous blunt flop,
Midas gold tarnished outlier but gutter bound nightmare,
subconscious eerie whisper that most rough cast turnscrew,
havoc wreaking spiral to amorphous gridlock,
blunder prone DNA blueprint askew,
self-esteem a rudderless craft whose
guile is rent on wicked sea,
photo finish phantom world frustration,
triumph that slippy eel marsh light,
almost there whiff of breath podium glory,
yet tantalising distance an abject sandbank,
one can only shudder, tender ocean womb mourning,
for such victims of satanic wrongful bind,
whose chilling lack baffles earthborn portrait
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
A sea of tents, stood side by side,
raised at the Dragon’s Gate.
And bonfires roared, red firefly light,
as round them Giants ate.
Maids and Matrons decked in gilt,
chemise ‘bout bosoms and knees;
came to and fro with cup and bowl,
to serve the giants’ feast.
The warriors held the stanchions straight,
while beauties tasted treats.
The bards sang sad, songs, with a sigh,
and faint hearts felt defeat.
Goblets gave surcease from pain,
as darkness did retreat;
for fair maids with undone hair,
charged valiantly to the breach.
And as the sun rose in the East,
each dragon banked their fire,
then one and all proud and tall
Havens Clan retired.
Mystical amour of moonlight moth's whimsical lure,
a glowing flame in sensual saffron gold attire;
restless tease with every breeze, gilt-cavorting contour,
pale green fluttering, her wings stirring his breath afire.
Lilting lightness in beaming brightness, her dark eyes shine,
in the night renewed flight, fragile love on agile wings;
aerial display of desire's ache amaranthine,
hungry heartstrings crave what evening's ebony brings.
His illumination sparks her imagination,
heart’s replete, breathless beats, she basks in his halo-heat;
fascination with chance her hot romance, damnation,
flame’s fickle spurn, wistful wings burned, by love bittersweet.
Susan Ashley
October 18, 2017
~ First Place ~
Contest: Favorite Rhyming Poem Ever
Sponsor: Laura Loo
Midnight boom town streets have this allure
imagining an uncanny venture
eavesdrop veil surround but dark as coal
how I love my after hours stroll
Secret worlds unfold their impish plot
mesmerised entanglement a tiered whatnot
black crush velvet sky we must extol
how I love my after hours stroll
Gilt fantasies that float across each lane way
fluorescent gremlin from some ghostly parking bay
gust on salt ice pier might buttonhole
how I love my after hours stroll
Snow clad mall whistler gaffe prone
while wandering the ink hue urban zone
a chapter lift and snatch from begging bowl
how I love my after hours stroll
Traffic signals stellar stoic stance
heartbeat of nocturnal moonlight dance
frozen digit signage reeks of twinkling North Pole
how I love my after hours stroll
A citrine leaf in lingered lilt
did savor breeze of sapphire whisk
and Autumn’s honey-secrets spilt.
A hopscotch star.. an ember brisk,
she sighed and fell— then took her chance!
a citrine leaf in lingered lilt
with wind-a-whirl in saffron dance,
below the western-cirrus gilt.
Before the winds began to wilt
and aspen whispers rose a wail,
a citrine leaf in lingered lilt
did fly where camp-fire-clouds grew pale,
where songs are spun from angel dreams,
their rapture wrapped her like a quilt,
no longer needing rhinestone streams,
a citrine leaf in lingered lilt.
In the onyx darkness of night,
on faint forest path out of sight,
I need to walk with no worry.
I seek God’s blessings to guide me.
I’ve lost the track of time drawn deep,
in faith I’ve promises to keep.
To reach the fate’s edge I’m weary,
I seek God’s blessings to guide me
A dark pall of pain hangs with wrath,
can’t find the end of distress path.
My mind is gripped by agony,
I seek God’s blessings to guide me.
I see the rise of new sun bright,
floods me with flash of divine light.
Out of forlorn moments’ debris,
I seek God’s blessings to guide me.
Let His gilt rays show me the way
to my last home on the bliss bay.
Holy gleam lights soul, I foresee.
I seek God’s blessings to guide me.
To heavenly glow of splendor
with devotion I surrender.
With great trust I devoutly plea,
I seek God’s blessings to guide me.
If you’re crushed by misery wheel,
the supreme healing touch you’ll feel,
I’ll embrace you with empathy.
I seek God’s blessings to guide me.
Stone clad hotels and banks,
stone-faced facades.
Stone monuments carved by old money.
The stone-poor have no stone history,
they will leave no archeology
to be excavated and raised.
Their throw-away artifacts
go to the landfills,
If they have stone. it must be dug up
to clear the way for more hard-scabble.
Here is a celluloid picture,
I am in my prime,
a pretty woman by my side,
we walk a downtown boulevard
where solid stone is raised high.
The image engenders another image,
that same photograph
bursting into flame,
now curling to ash in a grand chimney
and hearthside,
a fireplace that speaks
of an opulent and gilt-edged wealth -
one built of an ageless and abiding
stone.
Sonnet: The Ruins of Balaclava
by Adam Mickiewicz (1798-1855)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Oh, barren Crimean land, these dreary shades
of castles?once your indisputable pride?
are now where ghostly owls and lizards hide
as blackguards arm themselves for nightly raids.
Carved into marble, regal boasts were made!
Brave words on burnished armor, gilt-applied!
Now shattered splendors long since cast aside
beside the dead here also brokenly laid.
The ancient Greeks set shimmering marble here.
The Romans drove wild Mongol hordes to flight.
The Mussulman prayed eastward, day and night.
Now owls and dark-winged vultures watch and leer
as strange black banners, flapping overhead,
mark where the past piles high its nameless dead.
Adam Bernard Mickiewicz (1798-1855) is widely regarded as Poland’s greatest poet and as the national poet of Poland, Lithuania and Belarus. He was also a dramatist, essayist, publicist, translator, professor and political activist. As a principal figure in Polish Romanticism, Mickiewicz has been compared to Byron and Goethe. Keywords/Tags: Mickiewicz, Poland, Polish, Balaclava, Crimea, war, warfare, castle, castles, knight, knights, armor, Greeks, Rome, Romans, Mongols, Mussulman, Muslims, death, destruction, ruin, ruins, romantic, romanticism, sonnet, depression, sorrow, grave, violence
I don't know any happy
super rich people -- a
friend of wealth once
told me: "See all this,
a huge property and
home, dripping gold
gilt, "I have nothing...."
I thought, myself spared
leaving, as I gave my vehicle
the usual primer finessing of
the gas pedal, before it would
prayerfully start --
Of course, having spent much
of my life with those suffering, I
have dried many an impoverished
tear, and know no joyful hungered
belly --
I often conclude, the best of my
blessings found somewhere between
two hells -- bellow the peak of
Supreme Religious Zealots, just above
The Valley of Heretics -- best years
recalled, are middle-age....
God's grace and love independent
of experience or knowledge --
Having abundance is opportunity
to better the lives of less fortunate
others....