Long Gold Poems
Long Gold Poems. Below are the most popular long Gold by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Gold poems by poem length and keyword.
With a canvas so blank, pristine and pure,
In every fleeting thought, allure does endure.
Failed to paint love, no tales to unveil,
An empty enchantment, a lingering spell.
In Monet's embrace, a figure I mold,
Beneath cherry blossoms, a story unfolds.
Yet scorned by imagination's cruel hand,
Portrait mastery I seek, grand and unplanned.
Then the canvas whispered, a silent plea,
"Fill me with stories, set them free.
Let your emotions dance and play,
Create a masterpiece, in your own way."
A splash of blue, like the open sky,
A dash of green, where meadows lie.
Bold strokes of red, a passionate fire,
Blending hues, creating desire.
Each stroke a journey, a chapter untold,
A symphony of colors, a tale to unfold.
Mountains rise, rivers flow,
In the canvas' embrace, stories grow.
Sunsets painted in hues of gold,
Moonlit nights, mysterious and bold.
Whispers of wind in the painted trees,
The canvas alive with the artist's ease.
Whispers of art within, the painter's spirit set free,
Nature's tableau unfurls in strokes, a vibrant theme.
Trees, seagulls, ducks, mountains, lake, and mirage,
Treasures of my heart now rest in the garage.
Late December dreams clinging to the vine of January
a quandary thought of curiosity arises, when will it?
Over-due vision boards sit on our desk's usury
end of year expenses, alongside the what if's
Clinging to the vine of January, a December ordinary
Departed hours bringing us joy but also sadness
behind the hands of time the heart is willing
but sometimes we hold things that can't be harnessed
in this life of woe release the things your fearing
for there is joy and sadness in every hour of madness
A new beginning is what you need come January days
be brave dear soldier and you will turn the dime
Embrace the gold, release things that weigh
the world will be yours time after time
Come January days you will grow strong, with life's arrays.
Brandishing the lightning lance, the sun arrives,
The mighty, majestic monarch of the day.
Kissing the mouldy mountain rows, he comes
Banishing mist and frost from night’s blotched brow.
In what rich ruby ring of radiance, he appears
Smearing and splotching liquid gold, he gracefully moves
With sparkling splashes, the world becomes bright
The prompt and punctual rooster raises his raucous revelry.
Birds and beasts wake up from their slumberous sleep.
The feathered folks tweet and twitter in harmonious notes.
The verdant vales below send up a welcoming sign.
The leaves stay bright tipped with dainty droplets of dew.
Morn, the bashful, mousy maiden with modest grace,
Peeps and peeks through half drawn curtains in the East.
Removing all trace of a tarnished yesterday,
The day arrives making me smile in burgeoning bliss.
Restless is the evening's song,
so eager to release the throng
of scented jasmine's sweet sachet.
A first star takes my breath away...
while clouds pile high like pink parfait
with fringes gold in soft bouquets.
Two lonely spruces thrash and sway
in orchestrated breeze ballet,
while dappled in the shadow's play,
a weary earth turns shades of gray
My silhouette is growing long.....
as moonlight begs to come along.
_____________________
Now Entered in PD's Contest: Never Before in a Contest: #7
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Duo Rhyme Contest: Lovely invention of poems by Mary Port: Sponsored By Andrea Detrich
Hanging high in the autumn's ebon sky,
A Harvest Moon is so majestic to this beholder's eye!
Rays gently caress God's good Earth far below.
Vast is the reach of its calming, mellow glow.
Each silent passing of that eternal orb stirs feelings of romance,
Sharing it with my love as it traverses the heavens' vast expanse!
Trees raising arms as if in homage, clad in brilliant robes of gold,
Mark the passing of the Harvest Moon as they have from old.
Orbiting Mother Earth as it has done since the dawn of creation.
Octogenarian tho' I am, it yet fills my being with inspiration!
None but He could sate this mere mortal's soul with such a view.
So soon, all too soon, I must bid the Harvest Moon a sad adieu.
(August 27, 2012)
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved
Placed No. 2 in Francine Roberts' "Autumn Acrostic" Contest - September 2012
After the Occupational Therapist told me I’d never walk again (see my poem “What She Said”); I was in shock, but my being turned to my ballet days to recall when my legs were strong and I immediately wrote this, while listening to The Butterfly Concerto. It is a poem of my courage.
“THE DANCE OF THE BUTTERFLY”
Oh! How she sparkles through her dance!
Tchaikovsky himself gazes from the stage’s wings
Applauding the height and instants of hesitation
Of her punctuating arabesques. He applauds
With his hands in his pockets, tapping the sides
Of his thighs and a tear of appreciation rises
In his eyes. There can be no doubt she has caught
The audience in her fluttering net, in her crossings
Of the stage so carried by the violin’s sweeps
Of the scales and the flute’s endearing notes
Of imitating a breeze-buoying flight.
But it is the ballerina herself who sets the gold
To crown his composed inspiration as she
Performs a pas de deux with his concerto!
The violin marks each pointe set to her chines.
The orchestra is a narrative riding her eclipses
Of beauty. The timpani exclaims her leaps.
With port de bras, from bow to extending reach,
Her arms become marigold wings...and
Her elan lifts her heart to address the stars.
The young girl, with her head above, yet sunken into,
The soft, cloud-like folds of her pillow, listens
To the riveting Butterfly Concerto sound up
Through the foam of her pillow
(Where her radio will not bother her parents)
...And her shoulders
Slightly rise with each crescendo. She inhales
At the peak of every releve, and, with a lifting of
Arms to barely cross above her head —
In elegant elan — before a rapid circling of the stage.
The music’s tempo mounts to conclusion. She
Takes an instant to feel she is performing her
Best...Surely, oh, surely,
Tchaikovsky, stands rapt
Aside the curtain wings, applauding.
**********************************
by sally Young eslinger 8/25/2020
Thanks be to God!
“Cup of Hope”
Blood poured from his heart,
staining the floor.
Thundering tears poured
from the rafters in her soul.
She kissed his lips.
His last breath hers.
She held him tight,
Her Knight had passed.
Lightning struck,
the sky turned black.
He rose to the heavens.
She prayed for life anew.
That time will cease,
when they renew.
She knew it then,
she knows it now.
She lives in dreams;
paints one every night.
You are my love.
my life, my hope.
We’ll love again,
in a galaxy far.
In my hands
I hold a cup.
A cup of gold.
A treasured cup.
It runneth over.
It runneth over with love.
We’ll share this cup
when we meet up there.
pennies were so priceless then
counting them like
Scrooge McDuck's gold
yet not in a greedy way
instead a thankful way
no matter what it seemed to others
it was the best of times
upon a storage box we'd dine
with wine of the finest
pink Catawba
in mismatched glasses
carefully balanced and gleaming
in the light of a half burnt candle
its wax dripping between and upon
last night's dried traces
on the wicker hugged Chianti bottle
yet
if we could buy those times today
we just might trade
our bottle of Dom
our plush dining set
and our California king
for a cozy twin
because then nothing
was too small
nor too simple
to share...
"And so it begins...".
Fabled story of two lovers, how it's weave is tangled.
Never has there been any, who have loved so much.
For the two are unique, bred by the gardener of soul.
Recorded in the book of being, with lives of destiny.
The fallen hide themselves, with fig leaves of shame.
Looking up into the silent sky, they leave the garden.
The world gives no favor to the foolish, only sorrows.
Then gather the wisdom distilled, from all life's losses.
For they who love, will return to their garden kingdom.
Fashion rings of gold, made to profess undying fidelity,
and once more reign over, their kingdom of royal love!
date:2/11/2019
contest: AND SO IT BEGINS
sponsor: LINE GAUTHIER
Life is all white butterflies and yellow flowers
For the rich and blue eyed you
You want for nothing except perhaps
Teal tribulations
What do you know of amethyst angst
How it reels from your gut
And paralyzed purple souls
Vomiting violet verses of pansy poems
You lack liquid death felt by
The mother of a soft stillborn infant
How could you know peach pain
When your long lashes flash as magic wand
Instantly your wildest wishes are granted
You’ll never know hunger harm or hell
And I desperately despise you for it
Because you lack emerald empathy
You gloss over others loss as “God’s will”
Disenfranchising demise of dandelion dreams
As if death is a green gift to be opened
Your happiness is snorted in white lines up your
Nose leaving psychedelic rainbows in your spirit
An artificial light illuminates your mind
But you feel elaborately enlightened even elevated
Your life is rich your words your food even
Your grief seems scripted by gold and silver pen
The soft satin lavender lies you tell yourself
Are a jaded justification of lack of life’s joy
You dig a grave for the less fortunate in
Your poetic world full of magenta misery
Dressed up as colorful inspiration
You feed off others like a blood thirsty vampire
Never quoting never worrying at all
That AI stole your doily soul
No your rehabilitation is red white and blue
A flag burned by drug paraphernalia and
False imprisonment in cranial concentration camps
False because your mind doesn’t have to be there
You have all the tools you need to bleed
Feel reveal and write truth but
You chose not to
Your verses in ash smell of smoky hell’s dissent