Long Gowned Poems
Long Gowned Poems. Below are the most popular long Gowned by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Gowned poems by poem length and keyword.
Rosebuds draft in scarlet, crimson, or maroon,
dreams to capture the viewer's point of view,
as its blossom's sheath their basis to its prune,
magnificent achievers rise in rows queue,
as the loss of age cast their field of thorn strewn,
shadows the facades to pipe a distinct tune,
shear away those sharp pokey points of danger,
and frail petals to amend its life-changer.
Amendments trail the housed maxed of tabletops,
of revived rosebuds claim a home as their own,
a treasured wealth trades with the town's floral shops,
then set at one's front wicket by an unknown,
or adorn tombstones as floral wreaths that props,
and crowned on a princess who sits on her throne,
a taxing burden to detain the death masque,
not tiny but thornless as Bonsai craft's task.
The Pyramid steps like the Baguio steppes,
where Filipinos view as their time-out spot,
the other is ancient for tourists who peps,
while an isle serves the rosebuds to sprout and squat,
nature confides stemmed thornless maroon by reps,
students check articles of the course they plot,
as a new breed of rosebuds shelved a terrace,
elegance embrace the solitaire heiress.
Loosely sketched parcels that the rosebud dwells in,
fresh sod fertile and well-sopped sealed neath the sun,
from its current strain, since its birth in Eden,
inspire blossoming with faint buzzes outdone,
coy rumors, green greener, red redder, seeds in,
East rises, and West sets, how the rosebud won,
Bonsai is an ancient craft not deemed as new,
man named rosebuds since their virgin birth, it grew.
Spring sprung sprouts as their healthy roots hug the ground,
a wealth of newborns reach for the warmth of skies,
its outstretched stem hardens merely being gowned,
a promised promenade paramount to rise,
by patrons, the sun, moon, and earth make their round,
a glowing shape as a rosebud is its prize,
the fields are graced with rosebuds color-filled rows,
as they grow in opened splendor till it snows.
Botanical Society best: Sowers.
ranked by their breeds and regions where they were raised,
down to idyllic truths, forthcoming growers,
who take pleasure in their leisure being phased,
where growth is best tended as their height lowers,
promised its dowery by virtuous praised,
reach prosperous glory in you or outpours,
rain or shine achievers within or outdoors.
In the setting sun the Sioux Tepees look like vandalized pyramids,
the Tetons themselves appear as though angels raped
by the savagery of centuries yet noble in barbaric beauty and warrior ethos,
a Scalp Dance is begun, torches up high on the outside
a bonfire big and heavy be the center spirit,
the drums awaken from the caves of ancestral courage
and the voices of a thousand Mothers plead for the pride of their sons,
drumbeats raise the heartbeats into the heat of glory
as the rattles rake the mind with the cost of blood,
warriors enter the pit with bravery to prove and fate to appease
feet pound the earth and scalps shake on power rods
the currency of victories swing wide and thunder smacks the stars,
Afterwards, Chief Partisan presents us with squaws
pretty in young passion and fertile to the touch,
there is a custom of strength transfer through intercourse
they desire the seed of our spirit,
indulging in their spells of native kiss could leave us vulnerable
to capture or even assassination
we can't afford to be reckless in pleasure or mindless of morals,
I am unwilling to father a hybrid pioneer amongst a probable enemy,
embracing these temptresses gowned in scanty furs
could even politically bind us to the Teton against their traditional adversaries,
we must avoid inciting intertribal conflict at this juncture,
Morning has arrived with a think fast attitude
the messages between our nations is unequivocal
the Teton are intractable in their belief of invincible independence,
they have their arsenal, warriors, and horses,
feeling that they own the thunder and the fear of their neighbors,
the Chinese and New York fur markets
along with taxing river passage have to date guaranteed them wealth
and the British have armed them for profit,
however, the arrowheads of the United States are aimed to strike their arteries
and we won't stop until they bleed out into oblivion,
the Sioux shenanigans have resumed as we gather up and get ready to push off,
exasperated, we convince Black Buffalo that it behooves him
to persuade his people to let us leave without hostilities
and they do as we toss them some tobacco sticks,
once on Destiny, anchor up,
the southerly winds lift our vessels towards autumn's genesis,
J.A.B.
Disparage not our hearts-- they are God-loved, God-found
This will get mystical -- allow me to propound
Just think-- wherever we pray can be holy ground
Contemplation of His Love always will astound
The Divine Physician can heal us -- He's renowned
Reach for the "hem of Christ's garment" (Mercy profound)
Pull the "thread," don't let go, till there's enough unwound
If too sad to sing His praise, let this poem surround
"Caress the broken heart with threads of muted sound"
Keep it snug and protect it, weave the threads around
For times of desolation, when despairs abound
And the upbeat, carefree feelings seem to have downed
But Mary, Star of the Sea won't let Hope be drowned
This Holy Queen's eyes of mercy see when we're aground
Her Garment of Grace makes us royal kids (uncrowned)
The choice of scapular is not meant to confound
It matters not as much which color she has gowned
Nor is it restricted to groups in a compound
Anyone can ask for her Virtues to redound
As her graces crowd out our sins, vices impound
Belonging to her heart, her Mercy Songs resound
Our Father, Hail Mary... our silent prayers unbound
We must persist when consolation is unfound
Read the quotes below, if you wish me to expound...
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Mark 5:28 "If I can just touch the hem of his garment, I will be healed.”
Romans 5:3-4: "...suffering produces perseverance; perseverance, character; and character, hope..."
"Suffering for love nourishes love.
Let us not always wish to feel the sweetness of devotion to the Immaculata... It is not always time for sweet caresses, be they ever so holy. We also need the trials of dryness, abandonment, and the like. Let her fit the means of sanctification according to her will..."
(pg. 105, #4-5, in Aim Higher!: Spiritual and Marian Reflections of St. Maximilian Kolbe).
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
August 9, 2023
Choose A Line II Poetry Contest (#2)
Contest Sponsored by--- Joseph May
By Cherbo Geeplay
You woke me up when I was dead,
teaching the night stars wantonly
to obey the Atlantic; then slashed
my arteries in flight to Lake Piso,
humbling its boundaries, before
fusing them calmly to a gel.
When the elders speak in parables,
it is a mix of pepper soup which the
fufu welcomes and surrounds. As
the deer is trapped in the undergrowth,
so does it wait to be strapped. —These
are the open arms to the farms, mucking
the deserted mansions decked in chocolate
nuts, covered in honey; the lost spectacles
of yesterday is now over. Once gowned with
cluttered cow-webs and peppered with
shrubs, this, before the revival of the
grimy walls, serenade and greened
with lilies whose aroma calls from
a hundred miles to the carpenter
—the tool man and his bride waiting
to be announced as the sun swell
the hilltops, smiling to the boats
sailing on smooth tides.
ll
Moving quietly to fair waves,
the clouds crushed, hovers,
washing the mud away,
freeing her from the rocks,
bathing the earth and taking
away the dust disguised as
chaffs. the yacht’s inviting voice
is heard throttling along—between
hearty murmurs, chuckling to the
weaving currents, curving the
Atlantic surf, dancing fervidly,
where the fires meet the pits of
burning woods. The hearth in a
melody on the placid shores of Sinkor,
intimately as Monrovia grins to the Atlantic.
lll
Bewitched, racing to the beaches
is a sweetening of the surf stones.
The shells humbled under the rocks.
In trance, the turtles are running
with the whales, the currents,
silvery, the smell of saltwater
overpowering, yet elegant. Your
slender sailing finger rubbing
my rough ankles bring comfort.
—You woke me up when
I was dead, teaching
the night stars wantonly
to obey the Atlantic Bay,
like seashells humbled under the rocks.
Copyright 2018, Adelaide Literary, NY
In the boxed gilded frame exists the residue of
A painter’s vision, of his nightmare placed upon
Canvas.
Locked within the cells of four square,
Lies a view into the ethereal world beyond our
Conscious mind.
A heckling demon does laugh, as she the white
Gowned maiden of innocence lies slain, as her bloods
Warmth slips silently away, and life's flash memory,
Closes around her for the last time.
Hear the thundering sounding. From the heavy laden hooves,
As hell's white steed, claims the vanquished heart of
The innocent, and riding unto the gates of black ebony,
He does so bare a rare prize, the soul of purist beauty.
Oh so do the angels cry in heaven, weeping in tandem's chorus.
For death's fallen will know the torments hidden in
The mighty halls of hell's keep, for dark has over come
The light, and at its flickering the last hope of mankind,
Has become one of the shunned.
Seductions father of evil, takes the white hands of
The maiden of innocence, for one last waltz, as life leaves
Her damaged shell, behind a phantom spirit of betrayal,
Is left at the threshold of the forgotten, and salvation's door
Slams shut unto her; she is suicide's victim of the broken
Hearted, never to know the taste of Eden, or to see the glory
Of Gods kingdom beyond.
Nipping beneath the ladies gown of white, the demon
Chastises her, belittling a life so sacrificed for what
He does so scold; it is a minor thing, this emotion called love.
Tears fall, be you so quiet, demon, I've suffered enough, but he
Is the hell's jackal, and is her greatest tormentor.
Awaken painter, she pleads from the ethereal realm,
In sweats uneasy slumber, but the artist shields his eyes to late,
And he has seen too much, for a mortal to so easily forget.
Upon the canvas is a dreams vision,
And trapped within, is she the soul of innocence,
Forever encased within this prison, a
Painter's revelation, called the portrait of a
Nightmare.
BY: CHERYL ANNA DUNN
Sometimes, I find myself on a battleground
in the present or in sieges from the distant past
It may be a war I've been waging within myself,
a thorn that needs plucking so that I might heal
I wear no crown, nor do I wish to be gowned
in regal robes and sit upon a throne looking down
on anyone. For me, those things hold no appeal
I am rebellious against the many wrongs I've seen
and if you think it's mean of me to feel that way—
You don't know me well enough to pass judgement
With regret, I've been the cause of an Angel's weeping
when down a misguided path I chose to walk
Mistakes? I've made my share of them, maybe more
but I've always tried to amend my faults in some way
Indemnity is not always reimbursed with coin
More often than not, my tears the price to pay
Sometimes, even I have not found the sentience of it—
things I do; emotions I feel. No reason as to why except
that I am compelled without restraint or prudence to try
I refute the need to live by the creed of the golden rule—
for only a fool would claim the world is a righteous place
where smug faces play fair in games of love and war
If I am defeated, I never hesitate to stand again
for I've always despised the thought of white flags
and retreating like a coward again and again, in sad refrain
I garner resilience and strength from every enemy I meet
and in defeat, my stratagem sharpens much keener
I am not a warrior; that's not the path I want to take
I've been storm tossed in seas of turbulent weather
When faced with animosity, I will not shiver and quake
Offered silk or suit of armor— I prefer a softer demeanor
Self-professed I am supple of breast
Heart not crafted from leather
From flesh, blood and bone
Of the gender called woman
I was not chiseled from stone
Neither puppy love nor lust, each insists
in its imperfect play. Their hearts resist
both by clinging in its barbaric way.
Youth forgiven. The wolf begs her to stay.
But a commitment is made in marriage.
It is not found in a baby carriage.
What do we know of love - it’s not first sight.
It is the highs and lows - bond holds on tight.
Love’s patient, kind, not selfish nor boastful.
It’s the making of memories - joyful.
To let go of bitterness’ a decision.
Poof like magic, the wrongs are forgiven.
Black and blues, the stumbles and falls, gets up
on the horse - believers climb to the top.
~
Now what of those years, of the worse decrease?
Does the sorrow make the better cerise?
Does the white-gowned wife, handsome groom resume
as if the bond is pruned, roses in bloom?
Yes, the rivulets of tears reverent.
The jubilee melody resonant.
When love is stirred with sugar and nettles,
sorrow’d years melt. Felicitous petals
land on silver hair and wrinkles. O God!
Yes, three cords complete and restore the flawed.
Love protects, hopes, perseveres in trials.
The truth of a lifetime's years in their smiles.
Shakespeare regales Summer’s hot gaze, short days.
Yet love stoked in the Winter’s hearth - O blaze!
1/30/2021
What Is Love
Sponsor: Unseeking Seeker
Hybronnet is similar to a sonnet, can have a variable rhyme scheme,
does not have to be iambic meter. The poet is given liberty to choose how to structure the rhyme of the Hybronnet poem into a combination of rhymes be it slant, feminine, masculine, etc. or apply it in any design deemed appropriate
The Highland Princess
Sails again
Its captain and dove
To the Mediterranean
Now so much in love
To an island they go
To celebrate their engagement
For their love truly flows
This archipelago of seven
In this sea of blue
Aboard our babe
As we enjoy the views
Marina we berth
Settle in for the night
For tomorrow, our interests
Its historic sights
Early start
To the blue lagoon
For in the evening
We will love in tune
History surrounds
Every where we go
In its harbours and towns
Evidence shows
This island of class
With it's World Heritage sights
The Megalithic Temples
Still stand upright
These icons of age
To this island their worth
They are the oldest free standing structures
On this planet Earth
As the evening draws in
We head back to our yacht
To absorb our day
And what Malta has taught
Dinner and drinks
As we settle down
In comfy pose
Naked, but gowned
I take the hand
Of my golden dove
As we know in our eyes
Our evening of love
To our cabin we go
As our gowns are thrown
This captain and dove
Whose love keeps growing
Naked we fall
On our heavenly bed
Spooned together
To be sexually fed
Our bodies merge
As i grow inside
This gyrating two
Flowing with the tide
As i caress my dove
Her body and breasts
Nibbling her nape
In wanting zest
Our souls release
Potion so pure
Our bonding engagement
For future, sure
In the morning we awake
To the sounds of life
On our next voyage
She will be my wife
http://www.thehighlanderspoems.com/love2.php
*Image of Horse Carousel by Pixabay.
Paradise Holds A Horse's Crown
~o~ ~o~ ~o~
Tis naught mere magic to be found,
for they have lept beyond the ground,
All in plastic they wore as gowned,
smiled in pretense confused the frowned,
Paint ashen white and horsey browned,
ere their lift dips flowerbed drowned,
All earlier had been preowned,
earned their freedom per pound by pound,
For they had pranced purposed meant clowned
froze on carousels round and round,
~o~ ~o~ ~o~
Paradise holds a horse's crown,
~o~ ~o~ ~o~
Naught to gait frolic fixed they wound,
gift with horse sense made naught a sound,
In righteousness, they did expound,
wonders commenced and made a mound,
That they grew from merry-go-round,
launched by faith be now Heaven bound,
Sought was you deservingly hound,
enwrapped in dreams had you been found,
Enjoined in quest blessings surround,
collectively after fairground,
~o~ ~o~ ~o~
Paradise holds a horse's crown,
~o~ ~o~ ~o~
Upon a steed saw you profound,
rewards a lift be him spellbound,
Comes opened gate all are inbound,
a genteel spot e'er a playground,
Boy gifts release gaits all around,
beset in gold placed out a crown
Views linger as a boy propound,
a fostered life former background,
A boy realized belonged crown,
rightfully his steed be renowned,
~o~ ~o~ ~o~
Paradise holds a horse's crown.
~o~ ~o~ ~o~
it was the night before Christmas. and all in my house. Everyone was sleeping
even my pet mouse. The year before I was bad all year. I did not
want much hardly nothing at all .just a big box of Legos and a brand new ball. but
I did not get a present at all last year. I vowed never again would this happen to
me .next year I will set traps I will get him you see. so I placed the bear trap in the
chimney with care. in hopes that ST NICK would soon be there.so I rigged all the
stockings to give him a shock.put his ex-lax cookies on a plate with glee. then
laced his milk with castor oil you see. then it happened I heard a bone snap. He
yelled out in pain .but a weird thing happened on the way to see .Santa's voice
sounded familiar to me. for it was not Santa it was my dad . and before I
could stop her before I could speak my mother was blown right off her feet. She
lay on the floor my stocking in hand. her hair was all standing on end . grandma
was sitting in my dads favorite chair mouth hanging open all she could do was
stare. she ate all the cookies god bless her heart she drank all the milk then
let a big fart. her eye started twitching she wiggled and gowned then all at once .she ran for the throne .she all most made it god bless her heart .but
all it took was one more fart. there was a brown trail from the chair down the
hall. But there is a lesson here for us all .if you don t get a present
do not do what I done because cleaning up crap on Christmas is never fun ….merry Christmas