Long Idyllic Poems
Long Idyllic Poems. Below are the most popular long Idyllic by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Idyllic 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.
Written: September 12, 2023
Ocean Poetry Contest Sponsored by: Ink Empress
“The sea is an underwater museum still awaiting its visitors.” – Phillip Diole
______________________________________________________________
In the endless expanse of the ocean's domain.
Calm, circumfluous crystal collides coiling terrain.
A bed of iridescence behests the view.
Turquoise riddles, azure feral, and true
Humpback whales waltz on the horizon stage.
Their majestic demeanor, the ocean's sage
Waves akin to a shroud, coral reefs below.
In a cerulean ebony, enigma utopia to know
Tidal waves waltz ripples in a twirling thunder.
Foams that fizz and fatuous horses canter under
An aphrodisiac shore, paradisal and grand.
Where quicksilver spume kisses saffron sands.
Barefoot on the shore, spate, and pelagic breeze
The brine in the breeze, a savor of the seas
Seaside pearls and garrulous nautical dreams
A seamount allure, where kelpies do gleam.
Waves wreck as cymbals, water splashes spray.
Unplumbed bedrocks where sunfish play.
Blase naiads and abysmal gaunt cries
In the abyss, the embrace of diastrophism rises.
Swell of the abyss, corrugated, and red.
Balboa sails in pits due to intricate coastal spread.
Nebulous littoral shores, worldly and true
In Japan splurge, a seabed quells the view.
With a caper and a queen, the gulf turns alive.
Natal seaboard, where nexus coldness does thrive.
Beyond the gloom, where ocean waves are silver,
Moonlight pulsates, spritzes, and yelps as a river.
Whipping and splashing, an aqua symphony
The ocean's orchestra in idyllic harmony
From abyss to surface, the music does swell.
A symphony of water, where stories do tell.
In the moonlit dusk, waves waltz and sway.
Their silvery, pellucid shimmer steers the way.
With every pulsating and splashing sound.
Ocean's placate melodies and quiddity abound.
Abyssal symphony is a seraphic sight.
Where nature's cynosure beauty bears flight.
Waves, akin to dancers, gracefully behoove.
In a rhythmic squirm, their sapidity grooves.
Susurrus slipshod secrets of the steep
Splashes of euphoria, sojourn, and sweep
A symphony of splendor, a chorus of grace
The ocean's melody is in every embrace.
2nd place contest winner
When I was very young
All I really wanted
To be was an Indian.
My mother always read to me -
Stories of fairies and elves,
Of princesses and ogres, witches,
And brownies who did good deeds.
Poems, “Wynken, Blynken and Nod”,
“The Gingham Dog and the Calico Cat”,
And “The Sugar Plum Tree”.
Books, Alice in Wonderland,
The Little Colonel stories, and
The Five Little Peppers.
(I wonder if my grandchildren
Have ever heard of any of the
Old-fashioned stories and poems
Which were all magic to me.)
But, most of all, I loved
Longfellow’s poem Hiawatha.
“By the shores of Gitche Gumee,
By the shining deep sea water,
Stood the wigwam of Nokomis…”
I hear my mother almost singing
Those magical words from
“The Childhood of Hiawatha”.
I could see Hiawatha growing up
And learning Indian ways in
The woodlands of his youth.
I wanted to live in the woods,
To learn to talk with animals
And know their secrets.
I wanted to wear moccasins
And build a birch bark canoe!
One Christmas my brother got
A cowboy suit and hat and holsters,
But I, wonder of wonders,
Got a “real” Indian dress
With designs of tiny beads,
A fringe on the skirt,
And a headband with feathers!
I told my friends I was part Indian,
That my great grandmother
Was a real live Indian!
When it got back to my mother
She just said, “What stories you tell!”
Although I outgrew the dress,
The dream stayed with me
Throughout my childhood -
Sort of wishful thinking.
I always wanted to
Be close to nature.
Much of my childhood
I spent by myself, somewhat
Of a loner, climbing trees,
Making hideouts in the woods,
Walking in streams
To “cover my tracks”.
That “Indian child” I was
Still lives on in the
Recesses of my memory.
Maybe that’s why now, “grown up”,
I love walking in the woods
Or foraging by the ocean,
Why Stalking the Wild Asparagus
Is one of my favorite books,
Why I love picking wild blueberries
And grapes and making jam, or
Digging for clams and mussels.
Why I HAD to experiment with cooking
Slipper shells and making
Seaweed pudding and “Sumac-ade”.
Of course, I realize,
As well as anyone, that
The life of an Indian was not
As idyllic as I had once believed,
But, even now, after
All these years have passed,
It appears that
My “inner Indian”
Is alive and well and
Living on Martha’s Vineyard!
I grew up in a garden paradise
large white house in the country
sheltered by ancient oaks and naievity
passed idyllic days in childhood bliss
never ran it much through my mind before
until the day
I walked two hours with my life packed up on my back
set out on a sunny autumn morning
running on a four days empty belly, and some strong black coffee
met a tall, thin man along the way
asked me if I could play the bass slung over my back
I replied yes and he gave me his number
Three quarters of the way there the baby's stroller
gave one last groan of protest
and buckled under the weight of the bags hung on the handle
spilling everything onto the street
"These things can be kind of tricky,"
said the young man who helped me scoop everything up,
explaining how it used to happen
when he pushed around his younger siblings.
"See you around sometime,"
he offered up
Later we arrived,checked in at the front desk
no one else knew we were at the shelter
days here are passed aimlessly
in sedated daydreaming
nights are spent shivering with cold
and exhaustion
I can no longer count
the number of times I've been broken before
(I try not to think about it)
and pieced back together, but never quite the same,
I could tell you how the closet floor smells like mildew
when soaked through repeatedly with tears,
or describe the way his black eyes bulge in anger,
describe how every little fleck and bubble gathers at the corners
when his mouth froths white with hate,
and the vilest obscenities, and how after a while
you start to ask yourself if they're true
Armed with all the pamphlets from the front office
I was gonna do all the right things
they say it takes about five tries before you're successful
but what do you tell to the child who says, "Daddy bad, daddy gone?"
I almost made it this time, and then
He dropped by, told me to pack up my stuff,
we took the bus home
past the place where the young man helped me gather up my life off the road
past the spot where the tall, thin man gave me hope
and his number
- The baby was excited about his first ride
I'm back in the same old spot again,
little has changed but time
and knowing that once, just once,
I almost made it
...now I watch the birds out my kitchen window
close my eyes and ...
I'm almost free
Mideast Peace: Oxymoron
Though descendent of Jews,
I feel boggled at the brutal,
nasty and wanton war between
Israelis and Palestinians.
Many innocent victims
bred to know and hate their enemy
impossible mission
to reconcile one Semitic
group of peoples from another.
The bloody English
begat and fomented
debacle between Israelis and Palestinians.
little more than a century ago,
particularly usurping territory
courtesy aggressive premise
might makes right.
The human species
hell bent on making war
reprisals rank as a ,
and can never even the score
I harken back to childhood,
when our family lived
at Lantern Lane, and the Dailey's
(who threw rocks at Georgie
our Dalmation/Boxer)
rightfully earned before their time
the title fear thy neighbor
an altercation such
as aforementioned above,
would easily earn a spot
on Investigation Discovery
though deadly crimes violently hardcore
reenacted minus the explicit killing
fields not healthy for children
and other living things,
nevertheless even the most pious
and peace loving
exhibit fervent bloody ardour
if kith and kin held at gunpoint.
The annals of civilization
since time immemorial
replete with chronicles
of battlefield bravura
touting (with laurels of profuse praise)
for ultimate sacrifice
unnaturally, unstintingly, and unwaveringly
bravely giving oneself
to father/mother land.
Beneath the surface of the skin
we all bleed;
mortal kombat inked
in Mesolithic Europe
likewise dates to circa 10,000 years ago,
and episodes of warfare appear
to remain "localized
and temporarily restricted"
during the Late Mesolithic
to Early Neolithic period in Europe.
Idyllic as the fantastical utopian yen,
I feel pessimistic patriarchal wheelman
who steer autocratic
leviathan of state (witness Tiananmen
Square student-led demonstrations
known in Beijing, China
as the June Fourth Incident
lasting from 15 April to 4 June 1989)
cuz twentieth century ruthless demagogues
wanted to squelch
pro-democracy movement,
and not only stole demonstrators thunder
but forcefully co-opted with lightning force
their toys such as:
sophisticated erector set and playpen
for dolls loving buoys Barbie and ken
the former coming to life
as a miniature equestrienne
experiencing magical realism.
Written: May 13, 2023
3rd contest winner
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Lichen lilies lavishness,
outwardly shine as canorous core,
an idyllic sight of buds bursting
a ballet of aromas filled the sky,
as dulcet spring hues dump down.
Butterflies seduce
with trellised wings
amid ethereal sapphire
mist of Elysium,
I tossed my amorous nexus gloss,
countless metaphors emerge
an abyssal-rooted niche of insight,
a sporadic charm is startling
and delightful.
At sunrise, red orioles flutter
garden spring on my balcony,
ushering with cheerful chirps.
Emerald lime stains all that,
wild geese honk loudly,
ebbing from tropic migration
a cluster of violet fern flowers
zestful azure azaleas
vibrant daffodils are in bloom
fluffy tulips in all their glory
buoyant spring hues aurify the clay.
Beyond that, there is no bounds
amid hypnotic Eve and pinnacle
from a charmed sight
my gaze is wide and riveted,
through this impressive display,
an exuberant plethora of shades
glistening on rain-washed skin,
sky-smitten, diaphanous blithe
melting into mesmerizing shapes
strange sights subdue my mind,
as my heart beats with delight,
emerging from its hushed cocoon.
a vision of ageless grace.
Initiating sensory stimulation.
witness the marvelous artwork.
carefully crafted by a skilled hand
to bequeath a masterpiece
beaming with the spirit of love
a mesmerizing charm
a live sculpture in motion
& a pure symphonic melody
embrace a cosmic radiance
amidst a celestial daydream,
dazzling in a blaze of sequins
my heart is yearning,
an enthralling rhythm echoes within
optimism surrounds splendor
this exquisite ruffle relic,
a morphing metaphor draws on forever
clarifying the layout of magnificence.
Beads of lilac amethyst
observe a lunar synodic cycle
debunking twilight
desultory musings
an auric haze wrapping
jubilant jewels are in motion
I am an awe-struck artist
weaving a quilt of love,
a dazzling aura of shining words
playing a whispering debate
under dulcet moon glow
In unique words,
stars are willing to shine for us
our love outshines all else
even most dazzling clusters,
an equally bright radiance
all over, a billion red diamonds
under oriental lily skies.
The regressive Supreme Court decision
hustled, proclaimed, and voiced
June 24th, 2022
immediately quashing pro choice option,
struck down constitutional right
(upheld for half a century -
formerly allowing, enabling and providing
the muliebrous population
access to secure and safe abortion)
and sent a chill into the air.
A woman of childbearing age
within the United States trade
risk seeking abortion if she
unwittingly finds herself pregnant
resorting to desperate measures
sans mortality written
courtesy blood and gore costly paid
for ownership of body electric
autonomy usurped to choose abortion,
especially females representing
low income statistic,
whose chaotic, frantic, hectic..., existence
quite unlike bucolic, idyllic, poetic
lifestyle exemplified, exhibited, and exuded
by Thomas Kinkade
impossible (aery) mission
to buzzfeed another mouth
hence unlucky gal
now faces criminal charges,
whereat strong arm of the law
one lass unable to evade.
Despite being an older
long haired pencil necked geek male,
(a genetic product
of the baby boomer generation)
albeit one dazed and confused man,
whose body resembles
a miniature lead zeppelin
I a baby boomer guy
always inclined toward
remaining aforementioned gender,
nevertheless can empathise
with red hot poker anger
fecund women most likely experience,
when in the heat of passion
birth control measures vehemently
even non verbally overruled,
when an aggressive partner
thwarts such rational precautions
exerting patriarchal domination
loosing abundant seminal fluid
with deliberate intent to impregnate.
Many instances abound,
(since time immemorial)
whereby linkedin couples
ardently, fervently, maddeningly
strive to beget offspring
and thus shuck off
the application regarding
accessing, kickstarting, wielding
invocation of divine spirit,
thus their sexual relations
forfeit applying prophylactics,
oftimes feeling down and out
when biological fertilization
breeds despair, grief, mourning...
yet no sooner does adoption
appear as the last best hope
the maternal hormonal gonadal
secretion agency, propensity, viscosity....
and quirky unpredictability,
where unsuspecting latent virility
to procreate ironically occurs.
To alchemize an attachment
Let me sit with it.
Here comes the fear again.
Why do you care?
Stop imagining people are there.
It's just an attachment, cloaked, trying to make you scared.
They are going to talk about me
Well, there is no proof; that's bad programming. Don't you see?
Let them do what they do if that is true.
So what if they will talk about you?
What if they will throw evil eyes at you?
Send them back to God with gratitude and lovingly.
They are on their job.
Be glad that I took the time and thought of you.
Be glad something stirred in them to resonate with you.
They don't realize the attachment they have living beside them.
It's not their fault. I repeat it: give them back to God.
Worrying about past presence never will keep you in your present.
Worrying about any future action is a false idyllic satisfaction.
Worrying is my form of addiction. My heaven
It's the place where I threw my sins in. Worrying was like my tempting friend.
I didn't want to, but I had to have that repeated feeling within.
Worrying had me on rose-colored glasses.
It had me thinking all these people were straight lies.
It had me assuming and playing out the fool in me.
Worrying is one of the biggest mockeries.
It covered me and cloaked me, at times even choked me.
Worrying didn't allow for any control, and it took hold.
It is coming back for me more and more.
It is coming back for me, leaving me quite sore.
It's painful to admit I couldn't stay in my present self.
I was paralyzed and couldn't scream for help.
Curiosity exposed me. It was worrying, that facade by me.
A distortion of my face that was a mask.
As honest as I could, it was hard to reveal that truth in me.
A hard truth that I embrace with no regrets.
I'll turn it around, clean it up, and command it to bow down.
Command it to be used for a real purpose.
It will be a novel new focus.
Look at me, haha; look how I wrote this.
Energy goes where attention flows, as the adage conveys.
These words I divulge are from my heart, my truth, and sure, they are powerful.
I needed to sit with this piece.
I needed to sit and take back my peace.
There is hope. Acknowledge it, notice where that comes from, and embrace it. Take Care. ????
TAKE A STROLL
by
JOHN M. ARRIBAS
Take a stroll through the forest in early spring
Nature will stun you, it’s a beautiful thing
A walk in the woods will fill you with awe
The fresh smelling air not savored before
Its early morning the ground is still damp
I’m causing damage where ever I tramp
Minuscule plants growing under my feet
Tiny flowers and petals, an optical treat
A bird is warbling his good morning tune
Soon he is countered with a call from a loon
When I stand still there’s a noticeable din
But when I move a new silence begins
A bee is searching for a succulent bloom
A myriad of flowers all his to consume
Buds are sprouting from bushes and trees
The rebirth of nature as cold weather flees
Continuing my walk I encounter a glade
Covered with flowers every color and shade
Tall reeds and grasses still sporting dew
Reflect the suns rays like crystals often do
Tiny rainbows appear as the dew beads glisten
Then fade away as the breeze moves the prism
This pristine meadow under azure skies
Home to insects and thousand of flies
Take A Stroll (2)
Flocks of birds soon will descend
Devouring the buzzing meals to the end
A snapping twig reaches my ear
A young buck and an six point deer
They stand there frozen an idyllic display
Then in an instant they’ve bounded away
This magnificent scenario occurs every day
A tiny sampling of natures endless arrays
There’s still some mist hovering over the glade
The warming sun will soon join the parade
A mixed treasure of flowering scents
Changes with each zephyr and never relents
With so much activity its hard to explain
The peaceful tranquility continues to reign
Ludwig created images that seldom exist
He painted these pictures while penning his sixth
The feeling and sense of harmonious bliss
Nature unblemished, soon to be missed
Man will soon discover this untouched paradise
This heaven on earth is a treat for anyone’s eyes
They’ll develop home sites so all can enjoy
Unfortunately all of this beauty they will destroy
Big square houses with manicured lawns
The fish in the stream no longer spawns
A gated community with pools in the rear
A local commented “ what the hell happened here?”
Written: May 12, 2025, for contest Sponsored by: Kai Michael Neumann
Quote: “Set yourself on fire and seek those who fan your flame.” By Rumi
**********************************
I sliced through the strings
that thawed my dreams in shadow,
tossing them into the time tiara
of celestial orbs and supple styles.
Periwinkle-plum dawns defy time;
Bright blooms grow in cosmic cracks.
Dusk falls on barren land, esoteric embers;
With an aching heart, I walk alone,
serenading with blue lotus meteors.
The wand of Kismet gleams akin to stone,
as cinnamon-glazed magic unravels.
Each shift is a fascinating fight—
light-flecked drape, lyrical elixir, elegies;
curling mulberry-leaf marrow fades.
After the kernel, I strive for clarity
without crash or catharsis, without pain.
A lovely wind touches my smile—
In the pulse of erased promise.
An impending divorce is stipulated.
In echoes of exquisite and ubiquitous,
lavender-sequined crystals of shift,
I sail beyond the rhyming reefs to embrace divorce.
Cut wistful strings, salty lines, diving into rhapsody...
Torn uncanny links below heavy waves,
free to explore unmet routes
amid vanilla plankton tears.
May I find solace in every crooked teal smile.
O, if sepia pearls and reverie state a split,
I release and love what is not meant to stay.
Even with moon megalomania, using past wisdom,
the plants wide wings amid the warm sky
and herbs flexed with a deceased breeze of joy.
I sip in the glorious, gold-and-cherry air,
Clouds of bewilderment have dissipated.
In a captivating cosmos, clarity clings.
Hunger, turmeric-tinted roses follow an idyllic climb,
and whispers shout boldly—unafraid, Nix!
Ominous night glows appear as we fly across the sky.
We claim our position under brilliant beams
and the rose-glazed moon,
while myths merge across endless twilight.
Heartbroken after its fateful odyssey,
among the stars, free from a fixed kismet.
I will sleep calmly, wishing for plum rings
to create a pearlescent paradise.
The Estuary of Esoteric Embers
laces my home with soul-searching chimes,
whistling away in flavors of forgiveness.