Long Hedonist Poems
Long Hedonist Poems. Below are the most popular long Hedonist by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Hedonist poems by poem length and keyword.
What comes next
For the hedonist
When the pleasures in life are gone
When happiness
On its own behest
Quickly moves south in the pond
When all but your name
In life tends to change
Replaced by the aches and pains
Where what used to be fun
All comes undone
And is barely remembered in dreams
What happens when
They lose the bet
On how long happiness sticks around
When they open the door
On no more than bored
And they are handed a rusty crown
When the pinnacle of pleasure
Is feeling under the weather
No longer on the A-list
Where you thought all was fine
Till the day of your dying
Goodbye fun to the hedonist
Listening to a guy on the radio speak of Hugh Hefner's life as a hedonist... I find it very sad.
Springtime facade shines
in embellished topography,
embroidered enshrined on
Monet landscape,
luminous
in effervescent elegance
with sparkle of blue lagoon
in dreaming ebullient eyes,
entranced,
and with lustrous lotus petals
of luscious lips
fervent,
painted on silken canvas
of magnetic countenance,
carved with narcissistic contours
of innate pride
with dormant Dorian Gray syndrome
subdued.
The sands of time
roll over wrinkled canvas,
winter twilight spider weaves
webs of facial furrows
of creased contentment,
empty eyes gaze,
forlorn
at weathered wasteland,
the lips of faded flower lose
passion patina,
enticing once,
hedonist psyche refuses
to gauge the grief of loss,
trapped in transient notion
sanguine,
for what is a face
if not a metaphor
for proclivity panorama,
the enduring snapshot
capturing mesmeric moments
in timeless frame
of concealed charisma,
contained.
Springtime facade shines on convivial tapestry
Monet’s luminous landscape of vibrant vivacity
Within sparkling blue lagoon of dreaming eyes
On luscious lips the petals of blooming lotus lie
Painted on the satin canvas of cute countenance
Designing narcissistic features of innate elegance
With the hues of Dorian Gray syndrome subdued
By pervading pride of indomitable youth imbued.
On the withered canvas the wheels of time creep
The spider of winter weaves web of wrinkle deep
Weary eyes look forlornly at weathered wasteland
Wilted lips lose luster of lotus once luringly grand
Hedonist psyche refuses to accept the fated loss
Even when time comes for the last mile to cross
What is a face if not a metaphor for a panorama
Snapshot shaped in contours of lasting charisma.
_________________
May 1, 2022
For Contest Your Choice 2022
Sponsored by Brian Strand
Sniffed out from foul twisted undergrowth
Encouragement in limelight smile and sundress
Laurel of long advance, deserved antidote
Floral flamboyant signatures his status success
Musk gland masculine, meaty arm amble
Arrogance infuses ropes knotted through chest
Dangerous forest flux of financial gamble
Endeavours decipher chat in distant continents
Retiring sub fifty showcases his ruthless pursuit
Intrepid hunter clutches lithe coloratura
Cherry augmented tiramasu allures taste astute
Hedonist director of theatre spectacular
13th December
Researching Rich
- Self Made Man -
The face of spring shines
On the convivial tapestry
Spread on luminous landscape
Of vibrant vivacity
With the dreaming blue lagoon of the eyes
And the petals of lotus of luscious lips
Painted on the silken canvas
Of charming countenance
Engraving the narcissist features of innate pride
With marks of suppression syndrome subdued.
The wheel of time turns
On the wrinkled canvas
The spider of winter in twilight hour
Weaves the web with endless senile lines
Hollow eyes gaze forlornly
At the weathered wasteland
The lips lose the patina of the wilted flower
Hedonist psyche refuses to gauge the grief of loss
The face morphs into metaphor for panorama
Captured by the snapshot of concealed charisma.
____________
April, 28, 2023
For A Brian Strand Standard No. 1212 Contest
Let’s check what we missed
in our to do list:
touch kind.
As a hedonist,
we merely exist,
confined.
Never by love kissed,
dark desires persist;
we’re blind.
Let us bear in mind,
it’s time we refined
our soul.
Lest we fall behind,
release thoughts unkind:
be whole.
Our form’s so designed,
God in heart’s enshrined;
our goal.
Playing our life role,
let love we extol,
assist.
Remain in control,
love has no loophole;
life’s gist.
Love doth love cajole,
reclaim joy fear stole:
bliss mist.
23-March-2023
____________
Write Me a Virelai Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Kim Rodrigues
Sleepless nights keep piling up.
Always in a foul mood,
I poison myself with nicotine, caffeine, ethanol, and cannabinoids.
I live like a hedonist with suicidal urges.
I won’t bequeath my body to science.
The wreck will be too battered by my twilight.
One life, one ride—no concessions, no compromise.
I'm on alert, constantly in crisis mode.
I sleep with the windows open, like every criminal does,
A machete under the bed, a firearm beneath the pillow.
I will never trust the human species.
I've been repeating this deadly routine since I became a man.
Its consequences will deliver me into the devil’s arms.
I wasn't born to be anyone’s mop on this Earth.
I automatically break the law when my interests are threatened.
I unwind at the shooting range, my brain scented with cannabis.
I'm a paranoid forced to sleep with one eye open.
I don’t believe in love—only in the freedom money buys.
Forever alone, I blend into crowds only when it's time to grab without counting.
I came to make my name immortal.
Visage of spring time shines on convivial tapestry
Monet’s luminous landscape of vibrant elegance
With the sparkling blue lagoon of dreaming eyes
And the petals of blooming lotus of luscious lips
Painted on the satin canvas of cute countenance
Engraving the narcissistic features of innate pride
With the hues of Dorian Gray syndrome subdued.
The wheels of time turn over the wrinkled canvas
The spider of winter weaves webs of endless lines
Hollow eyes gaze forlornly at weathered wasteland
Wilted flower loses the patina of lips longed once
Hedonist psyche refuses to gauge the grief of loss
What is a face if not a metaphor for a panorama
Snapshot contoured in lines of concealed charisma.
December 27, 2019
Contest : Completely Your Choice (39)
Sponsor : Brian Strand
Of all I hear of wild Amazon lands,
Of terraces and quiet shores of Bali,
Of Rome, where past and present join their hands—
Unless both seen and known, they seem but folly.
Of Stoic, hedonist philosophies;
Tall structures rising behind scaffolding;
And emblematic, vast theosophies—
Unseen, they fall to heavy dust-gathering.
How might I feel within the quiet tomb-womb
Of Mother Earth, wrapped in the final dust?
From here, like a pure lotus, I shall bloom;
Unseen and known, how can I grow in trust?
Can soul-deep truth be reaped from glance and eye,
When boundless streams of unseen wonders sigh?
The face of sparkling spring shines
on the convivial tapestry,
spread on the luminous landscape
of the vibrant vivacity of the face,
engraved with the dreaming blue lagoon of eyes
and the lotus petals of luscious lips,
portrayed in the pulsating photograph
of the charming countenance,
desgning the narcissist features of innate pride.
The ordained kaleidoscopic turn
of the timeless wheel of transformation
vacillated the vista of life’s lattice embedded
in the mindscape, mimicking chameleon skin colors
of the ash wasteland or the emerald meadow.
On the journey across desolate desert dunes,
or along the glittering garden path in spring,
my mind’s shutter opened in lightning speed,
capturing the picture of beauty in collage.
The turmoil of time scraped
on the wrinkled photograph,
the spider of winter in twilight hour
weaved the web with endless senile lines.
As the hollow eyes gazed forlornly
at the weathered wasteland,
the lilac lips lost the patina
of the wilted flower’s wasted fervor.
My hedonist psyche refuses to gauge
the grievous grief of loss,
as the face morphs into metaphor for panorama,
sculptured within the snapshot
of untarnished concealed charisma.
The shards of the splintered sky
in the swirling gale of sordid sense,
roll on the dismal waves
of the curled up onyx cloud.
The remnant rays of sanguinity survive still
in the departing flashes of the sinking sun,
fabricate the latent lattice of unframed dream
within the petrified visage,
alive in the fading photograph.