Long Gleam Poems
Long Gleam Poems. Below are the most popular long Gleam by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Gleam poems by poem length and keyword.
once i had footprints as tattoos
the art was tasteless
the seed was a hateful hoax
once i had phlegm laced spit in every hair follicle
the gleam was unattractive
the roots were unbalanced and unevenly growing
once i had gnats fronting as a jazz band predominately playing dirges
the rhythm was a compulsive liar
the melody was basically a malady
then you came along
you saw me in all chapters of unkempt
you dried my tears
you gave me shelter
you made me pray with you
you Loved me to Wellness
now i am a better man
now i am smelling like lavender and vanilla
now my heart is richer than my many big pictures
now i know the true meaning of Prosperous Gratitude
now i know what it really feels like to be Definitively Loved
Now I Thank God and Give Him Praise For You.....
now i must go and get myself together and get ready
her funeral starts at 11am
her last words to me were 'You Blessed My Life By My Saving Yours'
Treasure The Pleasure Of God's Blessings......
The Mountain stands so tall and proud
Its Snow covered peak up in a cloud
As the Snow melts down cascades a gentle stream
The mountain side covered with an eerie gleam
Suddenly a Golden Eagle comes flying by
His wings outstretched across the sky
Its seven foot wingspan spread out on high
As he glides away like a noiseless Aeroplane
The Steam trickles further on its way
Other animals come out to play
A Rabbit and a Fox are walking around
Foraging for any food they find on the ground
They sense there is an Eagle flying up high in the light
So off they run to seek shelter to get out of sight
The stream begins to wend its way further down with a gentle flow
A gentle trickle amongst the Floral nice and slow
Suddenly an old Black Raven as large as life
Appears from nowhere all of a sudden with his wife
They stay together for all their life
Chattering loudly they go on their merry way
Probably to return another day
Many bright flowers are all around the place
Like a blanket spread out in style and grace
Edelweiss shines with their Silvery Bloom
And Snowbells glisten its Bellhead that looks just like the moon
Or Columbines with their Blue and White Petals
Shining brightly like some well placed metals
The graceful Rhododendren in Orange, Red, Gold or Pink
The sight so spectacular it makes you think
What a wonderful and lovely sight to see
And just to think it’s free it’s free
As the Sun comes out to light it’s way
The stream continues on its merry start to the day
Down towards the Villages far below
Well away from the Cold and Snow
The Mountain will always stand Proud and Tall
The Stream always flowing
A sight we will be able to see for evermore
To be enjoyed for years by one and all.
In the jubilation of the trellis
tossed emeralds and raspberries
gleam like comets
as cumulus crescendo
with April's piercing cornflower.
A determined wind
carries the masses' clatter
beyond cinder block walls,
hueing the landscape
with colors of redemption.
Daisies' and irises' imperial trespass
reverberates as umber trunks and chartreuse shoots
oracle forgiveness of crystal sins,
foretell magenta angels' coming
among a psalm of peonies.
Dusk's mauve whispers
sunshine’s lambent verses.
I shall dream in morning glories
and dandelion flowers
while floating on lissome breeze.
The city exhales steam like a tired beast,
its breath pooling in alleyways
where no one walks anymore.
Cold, wet cobblestones gleam
like the backs of forgotten coins,
each one holding a secret
you must step lightly not to disturb.
Streetlamps blink like they’re remembering
how to dream—
orange halos shivering on the slick asphalt,
casting shadows
with no one to belong to.
Shop windows sleep behind
grimy glass and rolled-down gates,
whispering to each other
in the hush of the sodium dark.
Rain slicks the world into a mirror
and I walk through it—
a ripple in the ghost of a market square,
where footsteps echo
as if they're unsure
whether they’re mine or someone else's
long gone.
Neon signs flicker with old jazz—
an inaudible tune,
all hush and blue
and the smell of wet iron
lingering like a lover's forgotten scarf.
I am alone, but the night is not empty.
It is full of watching things—
brick mouths and sewer grates,
broken clocks stuck at almost midnight,
windows that sigh when no one’s listening.
The city speaks its truest voice
only when no one asks.
Waves of thoughts hover over you my dear,
my precious pearl, my prince perfect, my pride.
As you gently grow up and glide with cheer,
I hide my love in pain when you I chide.
Why do I always put you before me?
Answer to such questions only God knows!
With bliss, joy and peace I wish you to glee,
when mother's instinct blindly overflows.
You leave me in awe with your deep insight,
In your light let many smiles of hope gleam.
May the path you tread illuminate bright,
as you give wings to your most cherished dreams.
You will be my priceless jewel ever.
My devout prayers will shield you forever.
Date: 12/22/2020
Submitted for: Completely Your Choice (41) Any Theme Any Form Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Brian Strand
The sparkling dawn lights up my onyx heart,
spreads the sunburst spectrum of yearning
in the fervent garden of feeling, blooming with my love,
designs the facsimile of your florid face.
In the lush valley of my mind contoured by desire,
I carve the channel of craving to reach you.
The fervid cloud of passion melts in tuneful torrent,
making my buoyant love a cascading river, I swim.
Wafting with the current of your charming allure,
my emotions soar high in your moonlit satin sky,
where my love weaves the enticing lattice of stars,
I gaze mesmerized with my sequined vision.
When my garden is drenched by the eventide hue,
I see your beauty blossom in my amorous arms.
The sapphire patina of the unfurling iris buds
glistens in your eyes with the lilting luster of love.
The drops of joyful tears in the corner of your eyes
gleam like the lucent pearls of shimmering dew,
reflect the radiant flicker of yearning of my heart,
the senses take me to the edge of the eclipsed time.
In midsummer mystique night of fantasy, I take you
through the moondust mist to the shining seashore.
As my heart pulsates with the rhythm of cobalt waves,
I place in your tender arms a bouquet and an entranced me.
With the melody of the whistling flute of beguiled breeze,
and the mesmeric music of the rolling waves of desire,
I compose the lyrics of my love that resonates for you
the rhapsody of longing, configuring my dreams in your eyes.
At the end of the rainbow, dreams unfold.
And some people say there is a pot of gold.
How well I recall a rainbow one day
that shone in the sky when a storm went away.
Rain pelted my car; I felt so afraid.
But as I neared home, it started to fade.
The sky, once so dark, grew more and more blue.
I thrilled next to see a rainbow arch through!
It bent toward the mountains, so beautiful,
a peace and great joy welled up in my soul.
No pot of gold at its end did I see,
but still there was gold and it beckoned to me.
The mountains were gilded with a bright gleam.
This is the magic that makes poets dream!
When I got home, I took paper and pen
and wrote of that beauty, God's promise to men.
Again I recall how my soul lifted.
At the rainbow's end, God's love is gifted.
“the essence in us is the same as the essence of the sun”
In the dark opaque night,
across the stupefied space of solidified solitude,
enfolding the languid landscape of existence,
bereft of the beguiled spirit in indolent life,
my forsaken journey’s pathway meanders
in the gloomy labyrinth of languishing agony.
The self-obsessive free-will,
ever seemingly dormant
beneath the sheath of ignorance
envelopes the mind with an illusory immanent veil,
obscures the visage of the ordained destination.
Trudging at the fringe of trying tolerance,
I hear the whispering wind of innate wisdom
tell me, this journey has no meaningful end.
I’m in the nebulous ambit of ambiguity,
find the desolate soul in the grip of distress shadow.
As I see the overcast bleak night sky crash down,
I collect fortitude in darkness from the debris of hope,
pray for the solacing sun to rise, illumine my essence.
I travel liberated out of the murky abyss of anguish
on the inward blessed journey of acuity
through the righteous layers of consciousness,
perceive the spirit of the devout soul
in the radiance of the divine beacon,
lighting up the screen of the enacting life.
The portals of the inner domain then open,
where the galactic lotus blooms for me,
suffused with omnipresent gleam of God’s grace.
My lighted soul shines with ethereal luminosity
in the infinite depth of the discernment space,
like the flaring brightness of a billion suns.
In my self-searching spiritual odyssey
toward the edge of the enlightened eternity,
I perceive the glow of the inner galaxy,
the dweller of my heart,
turning my essence into a living light.
The number nine,
when said, is a bright red!
As pleasant to see as a red rose,
hat opens for the morn'.
Whose petals I see may softly hold a raindrop,
that will slide silently off the rose
to leave the damp red velvet to dry..
amongst the sunlit Summer garden.
The number nine -such a ruby gleam-
is of the nineties..the carpet rolled out,
~for a life ahead~
~a lifetime past~
A captive blood tincture, a clot..
burst to bleed through the body,
to color inspiration,
that is steeped in a thick maroon glove,
of the month of June
that is the beginning of Summer..
that is a darker hue of the number nine.
To me, MUSIC: Red violins on a Sea's edge...
Picasso's hand, a sculptor's art,
Carved Dora Marr`s lines with his heart,
With strokes of genius, richly bound
To hold the world ever spellbound.
The vibrant hues, a dance untold,
Paint passion fierce and spirit bold,
A woman caught in moments bright,
Bathed in the artist's knowing light.
Her hands display a prying gleam,
Fingernails painted like in dreams,
A vibrant touch, a greenish hue,
A secret language, fresh and new.
Perhaps they reveal defiance,
Against the state of reliance
On the world`s order and its woe,
A bright spark, an artistic glow.
Her profile bears a fractured grace
Each angle finds its rightful place,
A cubist soul, a shattered view,
Yet in her essence, shining through.
The oils blend, an ornate embrace,
Capturing time and fleeting space,
A moment frozen, on display,
Dora Marr comes alive, what may.
In the strokes, a story does lie
Underneath her left piercing eye,
A moment held, forever bright,
Bathed in artistic golden light.
Her lips a curve, a hidden smile,
Lingering on for quite a while,
Captured by the artistic will,
Up to now remains sovereign still.
The canvas breathes with life's own fire,
Fulfilling the artist`s desire,
A portrait painted, bold and true,
Reflecting the vibrant bright hue.
A legacy of lines and shade,
A masterpiece, forever made,
In every stroke, a soul laid bare,
A lady`s feels, beyond compare.
Picasso's vision, sharp and keen,
Saw more than what was often seen;
He painted feelings, painted thought,
The essence of the soul he sought.
Dora Marr, a muse bright and grand,
Held captive by his skilful hand,
Her image etched, for all to see,
A marvel for eternity.