Long Illustrating Poems
Long Illustrating Poems. Below are the most popular long Illustrating by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Illustrating poems by poem length and keyword.
It's the Love, It's the feeling, deeply echoing from my heart!!
O'my sweet little Hazel,
Your deep naughty smile while dreaming,
Laughing damn with pretty open eyes,
Your tiny little feet cycling around,
Are making me insane!!
Gaping a deep yawn,whether its a dawn,noon,eventide or dark,
Up-hilling my emotions, bouncing back to my heart,
Taking a siesta, catching a wink,
Mounting up the chubby cheek,
Making a good day,like Whistling in the harbinger of spring!!
Playing around in the early aurora,
Enjoying the feed, With the morning raga of "pasaydan",
My heart in sync with your heart,
Resonating a divine happiness towards you,
Arousing beam of radiance against my eyes!!
This is the day The lord gave,
Insight in the unenlightened hours,
Planting of God's offspring into the mother's womb,
There by illustrating the bringing forth of new life,
Mellowing my heart,
Thanks to the God ,for making my life more happier with your presence lighting my world !! Love you ~ Mumma n Dadda!!
Fortunate failure of fallacy and regret
Contortionist cartoonist illustrating what id like to forget
Proportions of misfortune that I have to measure then reject
Insubordinate illusions of what the deluded ones project
Brandishing bravery as a tool to confront apathy
Vanishing complacency as a fool faces his own pathology
Diminishing returns on an outstretched Hand for mediocracy
Banishing a word in fear of it infiltrating the autocracy
Wealth of a pleasurable sonnet in the afternoon light
Stealth drones hiding under the bonnet of a bomb struck down in mid-flight
Health gnomes on it to prove they won it as they instigate a fight
Shelf philosophy stacked upon it all as we look up to the blazing night
Illumination of discourse as paramount as breathing
Rumination of recourse as they segregate you for dreaming
Communication without force as non violent resistance is beaming
Aspiration for the dark horse underdog winning as its screaming
Collective remiss furrowed brows and a cocophony of injustice throughout the land
Reflective consensus, wearing dentures as the elderly reach out their hands
Introspective observations and elevations of the grand
Non-objective instigations of the weak struggling to take a stand
Voracious curiosity at the passing of a young life too soon
Loquacious luminosity at the exclamations of a full calendar moon
Tenacious furiosity of lamentations upon true doom
Mendacious propaganda that is formed from a silver spoon
A capitalist nightmare in the dark alley of dismay
A conversationalist who doesn’t care out on socialising display
The transformationalist transforming during a military parade
The educationalist performing another game of indiscernible charades
Wonder forming at the dawning of another blistering sunset
Yonder warning as this conforming crowd is whispering political unrest
Ponder the morning as the yawning wind rescinds over the subset
Sunder tawny climate warning as we disregard the youngest
Platonic solids form the basis of physical uniformity of nature
Masonic torrid storm the moment as adolescents think they are mature
Ironic Euclid geometrically far from stupid as we look for another cure
As the rarest of the chosen ones become fewer and fewer
The End
Copyright Elizabeth Moroz 2025
“Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there, wondering, fearing, doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before”
Edgar Allan Poe, The Raven.
I’m sitting on the cusp
of blazing silence,
watching thick
sullen clouds
swerve in funeral pace,
as ruby reds within
ravishing rainbows,
disappear into depths of
blue laced emptiness,
like silken fire rising from
a diamond-furnace,
illustrating the venom
rushing through
my veins in vain.
The sun always knew
of the pain I swirl to
amongst silhouettes
of burning stars.
I am a mistress
of darkness,
crowned beneath
a fallen sky
sequined in
sinful sapphires
and amaranth angst.
Throned to a kingdom
that has no air
for fragile flowers.
I’ve faced cruel
fangs of reality,
that fed my paranoia
with wistful peonies.
There’s no ray of twilight
for the tormented tears,
I hide behind
the shimmering
horizon, painted with
dandelion dreams in
dreary drowsiness.
And I surrender at
the edge of
doom to an
agony of a pawn.
But there’s no
running from a
lethal kiss that kills,
like the queen’s gambit
that would freeze your
soul into thickened vapors
of bleeding ice.
Yet the moon looked straight
through my soulless eyes,
hoping I would taste
an ounce of her truth.
If only facts would reveal
tiny seeds of grief that
were sprouting steadily
into what they
call "madness"
maybe then they would
have known,
even black roses
bleed the same as red.
When my heart
was no longer content in solitude;
I asked;
"Oh my lonely heart,
what is it that you desire?"
Softly it whispered
for her heart beats to ease your breathless sighs,
so softness of her voice soothes suppressed sorrows -
silent secrets still shield.
For, your hearts have no tolerance of time.
In the reality of my reverie,
my soul drifts to a place, 1000 miles away.
In a night without sound,
under a blanket of gazing stars.
Rest your head upon my heart
listen to it beat your name.
Massage it with devotion
let us lay for eternity.
As embers touch the night sky.
Under the modesty of moonlight,
I shall remove your veil of timidness.
With the tenderness of our hands,
dance to the magnetism of nature.
Tones of our eyes reflect like fireflies
illuminating in perfect symphony.
Tongue's lyrics will remain silent.
Craving for those kiss less lips
if we close our eyes it is not a sin.
We will flow like rivers running to the sea,
floating on waves of passion,
illustrating a lushness of love,
deeper than the Pacific ocean
you are the canvas and I, the strokes of your brush
As the innocence of night is lost,
we merge like dusk to dawn.
Yet daylight does not disappoint
open your eyes my love, I am here.
Once we were homeless,
now we live in each other's heart.
Simple sensual musing
Silent One
23 November 2019
Mesmerised
My eyes are glued
I take in every detail
His sea
His sky
His movement
I hear the sounds
Pervade the air
As if myself
As if I’m there
I’m standing back
So much to see
It gently pulls
I stand within
A bystander
As I meander
Betwixt this daily scene
As they prepare
The fisherman
For they are everywhere
Exquisite detail
In the distance
A windmill I espy
Still here today
Upon the cliff
I passed it on my way
His sky so atmospheric
The best or so they say
To see his work
Is such a treat
Now etched inside my head
He painted it so long ago
How much has changed since then
The Chain Pier
'tis no longer here
But in 1826
He painted it
Recorded it
Kept this scene alive
His image has survived
From whence he strolled along the prom
Sketching every detail
Returning each and every day
His work of art now on display
So honoured to observe
As I gaze upon his masterpiece
Now displayed in London’s Tate
But for this new exhibition
Called ‘Constable in Brighton’*
For the summer months at least
Just like a truly scrumptious feast
I partake a bite most every day
Feeding my soul
it takes my breath away…
Written 7th January 2021
Contest Podium Placing Promise (5)
Sponsor Brian Strand
FIRST PLACE
*Constable in Brighton brings together over 60 of the artist’s sketches, drawings and paintings from his time in Brighton between 1824 – 1828 for the first time, in the place where they were created. Focusing on his family life and walks, it will explore the impact and influence of the work he made here; as well as the working practices he developed and the locations and people who inspired him.
Uniquely, the display will follow Constable’s own walking and painting sequences, illustrating the series of paintings he produced as he explored the Brighton landscape. Highlights will include:
• Chain Pier, Brighton (1826–7, Tate), a fine oil painting featuring the early Brighton landmark which was swept away in 1896, in its first exhibition in the city for 20 years.
For teaching me of unknown paths
For hinting to me of fogs at feet
For reminding me of sunrise tea
For showing me both ink stain and light rain
For simply savoring the simple life
For illustrating the service of the eremite
For singing to paulownia blossoms
For dancing with loneliness
For sculpting sorrow and joy
For nights in caves
For ragged cloths pulled tight against
the biting, bitter frosts
For wondering at tiger tracks
and losing foods to monkey packs
For hunger days
and thirst nights.
For solace found in the brethren-free,
high mountain, echoless and grand...Lonely...
For smiling to passing clouds
For bowing to bent bamboo
For conversing with berries
For chorusing with birds
For sitting at the feet of pebbles
For asking deep of puddles
For taking advice of flocks,
both goats and geese. (And gnats, as well.)
For taking as their audience
the empty Valley
the midnight Sun
the empty bowl
and the passing breeze
I wish to not ever visit
each and every hermit.
Not ever.
Not ever.
Forever.
No, never.
Imagine they find your bones
in a boggy field -
it happens all the time,
speaking of which,
time is your pocket handkerchief,
your wristwatch,
and your best evening pants
all reduced to insect dust.
Only a fragment
(a rust-addled skimpy second hand)
remains to be picked up
by the pale flesh
of a much more efficient brain
than you or your many cousins
ever had.
The rest of you is much scattered,
much distributed among the small
bog dwelling children of lesser gods.
Ten or a hundred years later they may find
a distant tooth with its crown intact,
later still, a being reports your broken jaw
unearthed by the sludging rain.
Will they then have enough of your head
to commence a plaster likeness of your
drunken grin after a cocktail party,
or will they find the rest of your skull
in a deeper layer of dirt
with an old crack across its dome.
Perhaps they will assume you died
at the hands of an axe wielding foe,
never guessing
you fell heavily off your girlfriends Honda
practicing one last incautious wheelie
on a minor road in darkest Derbyshire?
Will the few decimated parts of that Honda
be thought to be a primitive metallic skeleton
of an ancient sacrificial temple?
When the elements finally reveal
more fractured bits of you
will an artificial intelligence
reassemble your last moments
while misinterpreting
the age and time of your mediocre your life?
Will they solidify your that life
the way we reconstruct diorama’s
of mastodon herds grazing in tall grass,
while illustrating for dramatic effect,
menacingly concealed packs
of saber tooth tigers lying in wait.
Be very sure to care of your wrist watch,
for they who excavate your posterity
will probably misplace your existence
by at least ten thousand years,
not that you, like the mastodons, will care,
but they might.
Intentions keep hitting
a little bit different
Encouraged by diversity
in voices of interest
Glances of colors in the
language of poets
Producing a symphony
and didn’t quite know it
Inspired dialogue of time,
past and future
At times serious or heard
with humor
A philosopher with a
uniqueness expressed
The gift of rhyme & rhythm
so very blessed
Illustrating feelings that
once had existed
Inventive style leaving
one feeling twisted
Embodied deep secrets
all which are unknown
Created intelligent
reasoning design shown
How the thundering
echos eventually fade
Yet remain, in written
form verse now laid
Speaking to me in
shades of deja vu
Stroking my attention,
and imagination too
Alabaster snowflakes scattered over
Brindled patches of frozen forest floor
Cover Autumn's fragmented tapestry.
December fluffs up Winter's white duvet,
Eager to embrace the bitter cold and
Fierce winds, snug in a thick blanket of snow.
Gone are the crinkled crimson and gold leaves,
Hidden under a glistening coat, an
Icy glaze that sparkles like diamond dust.
Jesus, it's said, was born in December,
Kindling the celebration of Christmas.
Long nights and short days bring families close,
Marking this as a festive time of year.
Night skies are encrusted with twinkling stars
Offset by the deep ebony of space.
Pines and cedars remain green year-round, so
Quail and Partridge shelter in their branches.
Ravens caw, illustrating the profound
Starkness of Nature's hypnotic beauty,
They feel compelled to give voice to their awe.
Under crystalline skies of cackling blue,
Vistas of evergreen contrast with the
Washed-out monochrome landscape and faded
Xerox copies of an elapsed moment.
Yet, such pristineness is what fuels our
Zeal, to confront Winter on Her own terms.
My heart remains asleep, until you touch it... (poet)
You are the most' enigmatic existence,'
which will never be mine.
I remain a million waves away,
trying to make beauty from your scars.
Love is a reflective remedy in a world
veiled behind hateful hallucinations.
Envious eyes are an enemy
in episodes of egression.
As you are a mistress of midnight,
and I, a dahlia rejoicing in daylight.
To the one who has composed an
enchanted poem with silken whispers,
concealed within the silent
chambers of my sentiments,
lets go to a place where we can engrave
our own molten bronze memoirs,
where death can never keep us apart.
An eternal paradise for just me and you,
where the hidden passages of unheard chapters,
no longer remain unspoken and untouched.
Kiss me like moonlight on meadows,
caressing each blade of my oasis
in shimmering, silvery sensations.
Knowing my memories will appear
at dawn, in the form of dewdrops.
When aroused embers emerge,
uncontrollable words flow on virgin fibers,
as each intimate beat of hypnotic hearts,
floats along psychedelic paths of harmony,
where perpetual petals blossom like rainbows.
Heavenly scents scintillate senses,
as glittering butterflies float like our souls,
with shadows of satin stars serenading
our spellbound, sensual, sparkling spirits,
in realms with breathless nights and
velvet sighs echoing like lulling lullabies.
Each scribe springs into life in vivid visions,
like a divine dance, easing us into a tranquil trance.
A place called forever, illustrating immortal vows,
overwhelming like a Michelangelo masterpiece,
outliving the breaths of time in pristine clarity.