Long Gradation Poems
Long Gradation Poems. Below are the most popular long Gradation by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Gradation poems by poem length and keyword.
Poet: Ken Jordan
Poem: Sun Of Summer
Edited by: Sparkle Jordan
written: June/2015
Winters gone now, and its falling
snow, and icy crystals, have liquefied
to its watery grave.
The once hazardous black ice
that bedded atop the slippery asphalt
streets, is gone too.
Spring, is here, and the late March
Sun, is still ninetythree million miles
away from earth; rotating around a
silver moon-
Flowers are in bloom, in all their
splendour, Cherry tree blossoms are
budding, and the once dormant grass
in winter is now green again.
The familiar gradation of the late
Spring hazy day sky, is slowly beginning
it's change to a cloudless oasis, in the
blue hues of celestial space.
Soon, it's picture perfect looks,
will give way to the relentless dog day's
of summer, and the sweet sounds of
chirping fledgling birds, singing in the
breeze of spring, will migrate to some-
where cool.
Make no mistake about it,
Summer is near, and the invisible
celestial rays of heat, are slowly
beginning to spiral down out the
Sky.
Any day now, the ball of fire
in the universe, will farther distance
itself from the silver moon; moving
closer to earth, to send it's infernal
rays through the atmosphere.
Winters - slush, snow, and ice,
and Springs, beautiful colours of
carnations, and daffodils, will serve
as a far distant memory, that
succumbed to Summer's Sun -
And from henceforth, the planet
will burn, and silhouette's from Sun Rays,
will shadow the orange/blue hues of a July,
August, and September sky -
Earth's axis now rest in Summer;
some will welcome in the most sweltering
season of them all, with beach fun, bbq
party's and family outings in the park -
However, not everyone will welcome
the three months of scorching heat, as the
Mercury Index reaches above three digits -
Nonetheless, the Equinox, will spin
the sun closer to earth, to reach fruition.
and all will know that the Sun Of Summer
has arrived -
(C). Copyright 2015 all rights reserved
She yearned to break free – one day.
To find an escape from the rampart that had held her captive for so long.
That she, herself, had manufactured.
Bricking herself in as the time elapsed.
By now the walls were becoming rather lofty.
Stepping stones that she had implemented along the interior allowed her to climb the tremendous height.
Peaking over the apical, she could observe all that took place outside the bounds of her self-induced prison.
Sometimes she would even sit atop the zenith; gazing, wistfully, upon the world below.
On occasion, someone would approach by happenstance.
Acknowledging her existence, they would converse with her for a while.
Yet soon they would grow weary of it, weary of her.
Unwilling to attempt the laborious climb.
Turning their backs, they would continue about their lives.
Leaving her, once more, in solitude atop her construct.
So back into the bowels she would descend, to begin again.
Mixing the mortar – a recipe all her own.
Concocted from the course granules of pain that rubbed her raw, and the moisture that flowed from her eyes.
The stones she had come to form within herself.
Anxiety and self-loathing – layering themselves one upon the other.
Solidifying under the insurmountable pressure until they became too arduous to bear.
It would be then, that she would expurge them from within herself.
Releasing herself from the immense accumulation that threatened to devastate her humanity.
It was at this juncture, once all had been made ready, that she would yet again commence her upward ascent.
As soon as she reached the apex she would apply the next gradation of mortar and stone.
Ever increasing the elevation of her fortification, knowing well enough that it would someday grow to such altitude that no one would even know she existed at the crest of the monumental structure.
Yet, the futile considerations of deliverance still occupied her quintessence.
Le Squirrel Sat For Le Painter
His canvass set
And oils based,
He zeroed onto her providence.
His lips miming
Rhode Island here
Big Apples there.
She scowled her impatience.
Her eyes dismissing his.
Although,
Him noting her dark chocolates,
Sweet looking,
Cloaked as balls of fire,
And a posture gorgeous and erect.
And so was he.
She was a beauty
And a beast ...
As levity was short on her,
But long on him.
If only she would give in
It would make for better strokes,
A better potrait.
Thus ill fated
In his mind,
This potrait sat on thin ice.
Little squirrels jumping in,
Ski jumping off her nose.
Swoosh!
Another one.
Swoosh!
The third missed.
Crash landing on her lap,
Smiling.
A caricature off and galloping.
His horse neighing in absentee.
Seeds of a lampoon sprouting.
His mind jumping
To conclusions.
He raced.
The potrait moaned.
He dabbled a little oil here,
A little oil there.
A pinch of rouge
On her cheeks and lips,
And highlighting a reflection
In her pupils.
Chocolates never looked so bitter.
He finished with sparkles
In her hair, flaming.
He paused,
Adding a little depth
and gradation to her forehead,
pointed and blunt,
like a squirrel posing at his party.
After all she was.
For hues,a reddish brown, and swirls,
No mistaking that of Le Squirrel.
He had a little ways to go
And a lifetime of laughter.
He added squirrels jetting
From her mouth and ears.
And that bushy tail,
He thought
Wiser of not making
Her into a **** star
His mind thinking,
her seated, the bushy tail
jetting up between her thighs.
No.
Upon realization,
her eyes squinting at the portrait
in disbelief,
Le Squirrel screamed.
The shrill heard around town,
Making the artist rise.
connie pachecho
8/31/17
Inspired to write this poem after reading entries
to the Artwork-Poetry Contest
Red beams of neon outlining us
Red and black intertwining
Intervening
The red thread is still tied to
Our little fingers
Questions were never asked
Nor was anything mentioned
Where can we sell our souls
For a student affordable price
They know where
The shrill of the guitar
The bass of the drum
The black curtains are opening
It’s the commencement of a
Night you won’t remember
At least you don’t want to remember
Halloween is always in town
Twists of orange, black and violet hues
Red paper lanterns with its dim glows
Showing where the ghosts to go
To remember
To relive the past
To haunt the ones in love
The ones in heartbreak
The ones in the between
No holding back
No more excuses
Bad decisions are allowed tonight only
Bottled up emotions are popping
Like rosé
Pink diamonds
Take it down with the Browning
One shot
Two shots
Three
Perfect bullseye
Hazy daisies
Sunflowers in her hair
What’s the difference between
Sweat and tears now
Sign of passion
Sign of sadness
Sign of the times
Out of all of the people she’s held
His embrace of farewell
Was the one she didn’t want to
Let go the most
And he held on
Hand in hand
Knowing the words will
Never be exchanged
Nor the confidence to will
Ever surface
They knew
And once she thought
He was out of her life
He was there again
In the shadows of dancing strangers
Waiting to embrace her again
To only be saying goodbye again
There was something
Always something
Can never be figured out
One left as soon as they embraced
One disappeared into the
Blackness of the crowd
All faceless
Only a gradation of red and black
Spades and hearts
But his was ultra clear in the
Crimson light
Interlocking eyes
"For his invisible attributes, namely, his eternal power and divine nature, have been clearly perceived, ever since the creation of the world, in the things that have been made." - Romans 1:20
The coloured space refracts the Creator's essence
A vision soaked in palettes with threefold lens
RGB, HSV, or Lab—three in dimension, yet one in hue
In every shade and gradation, His light shines through
There are no depths from which He does not gleam
In blackest nights, faint sparks can still be seen
A triune of quarks swirl in quantum lore
Chromodynamic sparks weld together the atoms' cores.
Galaxies ignite where the elements unite
As trichrome charge converges to white
'Til eons pass and the stars cave in
And remnant dusts collide to birth new kin
What wondrous run, what state of art!
The world we tread on beats with iron heart
Fe, atom number 26, is a sacred sign
To the tetragrammaton, YHVH, His name divine
Then to its mass, add neutrons—30 in all
The age when priests (and Christ) are given call
As Iron-56 stands, most stable of time and space
Thus our lives shall be, when yielded to His grace
In all of this the bonds shout eight-point-eight
When fusion peaks, new dawn shall propagate
Through life of stars the Spirit breathes
Through crimson blood that iron sheathes
Abundant life is encoded within the Son's name
As the oxygen in air sparks resurrection's flame
Even the atmospheres bear witness to the cross
The Word is inscribed in all of cosmos
Thus Nature's Laws pulsate with His decrees
Woven in Love, not random debris
From stellar breaths to fermion spins
Every speck of existence are God's fingerprints
God Has A Plan For Me
I came into this world August 12 1986 by the Grace of God. I was Two months early and was only weighting at four pounds then. I didn’t give up then My God has a plan for me.
When I was six months old I was diagnosis with juvenile diabetes and been living with it ever since. My God has a plan for me.
In 1987 to 1988 I would not walk at all I was almost two years old before I decided to started to walk on my own.
My God has a plan for me
At five years old my father died from a massive heart attacked on the same day of my kindergarten gradation I knew something was wrong but I also know that My God had a plan for me
At six years old I was Diagnosis with Major Depression, Anxiety Disorder, Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder (ADHD), Panic Disorder, Separation Anxiety Disorder, and Social Anxiety Disorder. But I knew My God Had a plan for me.
At seven years old a close family member sexually assaulted me and I kept that secret with me now. But I know that My God has a plan for me
At ten years old I got diagnosis with OCD (Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder). But My God had a plan for me
At sixteen years old I was diagnosis with Bipolar Disorder I used to fight and yell at any adults and teachers who talked to me and put holes into walls of my room. But I knew My God had a plan for me
At twenty-three years old I was diagnosis with hypercholesterolemia, MRSA but My God has a plan for me
At twenty-eight I was diagnosis with Inflammation of the Bronchial Tubes, Major Depression, Bipolar Disorder the one I have is the Rapid-Cycling, Schizophrenia and I am on Suicide Watch But I am Still here.
My God Still Have A Plan For Me.
Form:
Daily we face different kinds of aggravation,
but there is one type which by man has its causation,
and it merits an immediate termination.
But because of modern “civilization”
and the greed of many a corporation,
it’s doubtful we shall have the consolation
of ending modern man’s contamination.
I’m not talking parasites or the visitation
of bacteria from eating a crustateon.
I mean the one of worsening gradation.
It’s environmental, and in my evaluation,
is the worst of all, for it has manifestation
in things consumed by us or by our inhalation
of air of course! It’s an abberation
for which we need to have more constertnation!
Society should have mortification
for what is being done. There’s no good explanation
to offer our descendents. The concentration
of chemicals and also of radiation
along with nitrates in our soil’s fertilzation
is cancer-causing, and now inflammation
is affecting nearly all the population.
Politicians do not act. Procrastination
may very well end in our obliteration!
It’s like murder through premeditation.
And this murder uses no discrimination.
What do you think? Is it this country’s destination
to leave our kids with total devestation?
Surely in this mortal realm there can be salvation!
And so I finish with this small summation:
Unless we act, we’ll remain, for the duration,
in our station of a Contamination Nation.
4/4/18 for the Contamination Contest of Kai Michael Neumann
My name is dreaming
as a verb
but I have spent my whole life as an adverb
like a side dish
that prepares you for the main one
and I don’t know
which paths led me here
or it’s because of all those paths that I missed
my spatial orientation is fuc*ed
mind has it’s own will
it aligns according to the needs and desires of other
just like a side dish
sometimes I'm too much
so they postpone me aside
or I’m used for digestion layering
paving the way for the chef's recommendation
in other scenario they just skip me
as I "value" less then the preferred main course
value
such a discriminating word
forcing gradation division between two poles
creating binary emulsion where we all suffocate eventually
I can’t breathe
accumulated stress from constant apprehension
whether I’ll be delayed, ignored, or consumed
constructed thick cobweb layer above my larynx
which caught me in the adverb matrix where you don’t have time
to rebel against side dish label as you’re occupied by grasping air
I can’t breathe
my bio is laid on the last page of the menu
I’m tired
I’m so tired of being accompaniment for someone else’s happiness
I just can’t breathe
my heart is trauma bonded
mind is living in side dish delusion
and lungs have misplaced their confidence beneath that cobweb
I want to fire the match
and start my own private big bang
I need to
LEST YOU YOURSELF BE JUDGED
If my game is to be judged, let it be in the way
I hesitatingly judge other people’s play.
Perhaps the ultimate judgement of my game
Will be merely a replica of my own past – the same.
When I judge a child or even an adult
I allow for all the pressures difficult
And every opportunity and gift
Which were thrust upon him swift.
And then I try to assess how well he did.
A teacher likes an always-does-his-best kid.
What about the smart kid who doesn’t have to try?
No teacher I know will judge this kid very high.
In card-playing terms, it’s understood:
Did he play his hand the best way he could?
All bridge players know from contending
That a hand is a winner or a loser depending
Not on king, queen, ace or other boss card,
But on who plays it with skill - and how hard.
After all, the cards come to us at random
And we must take them and use them with wisdom.
No such thing as fate or luck or chance.
Chance always favours the prepared stance.
That seems only fair to me: and if to me, then
Hopefully also to the Ultimate Judge of men.
If I am wrong, and the final summation
Of my life is measured with a different gradation,
Then I feel that there probably was no Creation:
And there is no Ultimate Judge. It is all imagination.
Wobbly knees wheeze and tease
Dark thoughts fumbling, tumbling and rumbling in the mind
Which can no longer squeeze proportion peas
From thought processes, procedures and systems gone blind
In the wake of the disaster
Determined to scupper efforts
I summon to master faster
Techniques and strategies to rescue ports and forts
In which hides the succor
With the potential to dismiss the blues
Whose rancor
Fed up with queues and incomplete clues
Threaten to overwhelm vestiges of peace and calm
My world once knew
As avalanches of harm
Primed to strike anew
Sweeping, wiping off from my soul
Traces of confidence
Whose sole goal stole
From my predicament the credence cadence
That slowly began to pave the way for hope
To return
My state of affairs to normalcy to prop
Up the urn
In which ashes of despair
Began to evaporate
To initiate by gradation the repair
Process and flair in which dark thoughts could neither elaborate harm nor collaborate.