Long Imageries Poems
Long Imageries Poems. Below are the most popular long Imageries by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Imageries poems by poem length and keyword.
"Thoughts capture fond moments in time-
but those imageries presented in a poem
cherish them fully with the power of words."
by Poet
Cherish- an embracing word that brings to mind,
How those things I love in life should be enshrined.
Each new day brings treasures that for sure unwind
Rich blessings captured- saved memories that bind
In fine ways that stir my mind and heart combined.
So, I cherish writing poems- some sad, most kind-
Hoping to preserve the thoughts of life I've mined.
Framed Soul
Within their frames, like lovely captured dreams,
my art and poems speak of life: green trees,
soft azure skies, sun-sparkled winding streams;
a field of daisies leaning in the breeze.
With paint and words, I often rendezvous,
commingling nature's glory with my own;
those imageries create a window view
thru which my inner joys of life are shown.
I stand apart and contemplate my art...
recall the tedious, long hours so spent
to merge with what dwells deep within my heart.
But, always I am filled with the lament...
of an observer...never meant to win;
forever on the outside looking in.
Sandra M. Haight
~3rd Place~
Contest: The Poet's Own
Sponsor: Greg Barden
Judged: 09/18/2017
Your Rhythm, a gentle breeze
swirls the emotions
and guide me through maze
of life, i learnt lately
Your imageries, a telescope
amplified the bitter truth
But, wasn't it a gem to be seen
Your words, an enchanting soul
sparkle the page, making me whole
brushstrokes of magical art
paints a picture that touches my heart
So does it pierce
with unvarnished truth
a soul crushing existence
hopeless nights and desperate days
2 years ago seems like history
History of glorious times
Lets navigate
Not to the past
but to your poem
Your message, beacon in the night,
shields me like a knight
Oh!I am grateful
A river to flow
deafened by the dose of reality
Your craft, mastery of essence
Echoes emotions that never depart
Your art, a reflection of soul
Inspires to thank you wholeheartedly
Lust and death
Are best of friends,
Stealer of breath,
Tracks to life's end.
Epic story,
Terrific imageries,
Delivering water to your tears,
Offering cold to your spine.
Like a wind blowing dried daffodils,
Her voice took all of your senses,
Lost in lust, not knowing were your sense is,
Margret now a magnet, your pull of attraction.
You now hate the honey of chastity,
Choosing the bile of her bare breast,
You now bare your chest,
Just to wear her on your skin.
Traded your love for God,
For her love of your rod,
And as every sun rises,
You fall to her crises,
Weeping, searching for were christ is.
Lust deep in her lust,
Trapped in her valley of sin,
Only to find what many has seen,
The fossil of men whose soul are now dust.
Oh, my dear honorable poet!
Words recess when I write about you
For, they start loving you
You were a sincere lover,
when you wrote about love;
You were a lovable mother,
when you wrote about a child;
You were a faithful leaf,
when you wrote about trees;
You were the struggling last breath,
when you praised the air;
You were the righteous river,
when you sang about the falls;
You were the boundless sky,
when you sang for the birds;
you were the yearning bare land,
when you wrote about the rain;
You were the trustworthy soldier,
when you wrote about patriotism;
You were the jubilant mother nature,
when you wrote about nature;
You were the powerful priest,
when you praised the lord
Through your worthy words,
you gave life to the abandoned swaying rope;
Your notable notes,
persuaded songs to the singing koels;
Your incredible imageries,
granted countless ideas for the poets;
Your romantic rhythms,
enriched soulful meaning to the ragas;
Your powerful patriotic songs
obliterated the superfluous fears
and your proud personal life
taught us self-respect
Note: September 11 marks the death anniversary of India’s firebrand poet and a revolutionary thinker from Tamil Nadu, Subramania Bharati. In a relatively short life span of 39 years, Bharati left an indelible mark in India’s history as not only a Tamil poet but also as a national icon.
Reined it in twice to bear witness to the gravel reveal.
A secure stronghold lay beneath a few hundred feet of silk sand.
All that needs doing is the digging, then downward slinking from stair to stair.
Allowed passage, Luggage plus one carry-on.
Must I carry on? I must carry on. Carry it on, strap it on back no matter what ton.
My youngin grows, yet
Over shoulder, holstered Atlas-sized boulders.
Still, they over-shared, under-cut a sought after cost.
Upon others splurging with shopping sprees or new tennis tees.
All this while unleashing
unleaded things on the back of a relinquished me.
Involuntarily perhaps
or
otherwise maybe.
It’s best to get better grips
in the face of occasions such as these.
These handles for those dire situations,
while at it get some tassels for em.
Close to chest worn like a cut(kutte) carved to vest
with genuine leather, stitches together
with your ‘no one gives a damn’ effort.
Drone to roam from broken alongside lonely homes.
Trapped in tomes,
distorting imageries
presented in passages a showcase spectacular.
prize pieces, show pieces, priceless pieces.
Making up both mine and your
economic critiques.
On the conference call way up.
Mystique Paraguay, paragliding spectacle
Turned specter
when down wind a down draft
drastically changes
trajectory
to equal
Tragedy.
Alone in a life threatening ocean.
If it wasn’t meant for me then whose it have to be?
Zero paddle.
No Floaties.
Gold or gladiolus or golden sapphire fine;
Delighted, even if I divine light define;
If, like an orange, the details I do not peel,
Will my rhyme-lyric like an angelus-bell, peal?
Like a disciplined mother rearing her infant,
Timely sleeping, rising, nourishing comprehend;
Shaping each brick of my creation if I build,
Will my greatest works as unskilled ever get grilled?
Is my concept clear as a transparent crystal?
Does my thought target, shoot as sure as a pistol?
Do my ideas, views flow like fluent rivers?
Are my imageries as reflected as mirrors?
If I write 'pudding' when I need to write 'wedding'
When it necessitates making the amending;
If my ego, like a wall, stands strong on the way,
I'm not a poet perfect; I should get away.
As the wave-sound of the sea both feeble and rough,
As the chirping of birds are coarsely sweet enough;
As wild animals have roars, gibber, brays, and hums,
My words should vary from simple to complex-sums.
Is a writer full in him that he should not read?
Do the shores of the seas ever a limit need?
Voraciousness in keenness make my wisdom vast,
The wisest of wisdom should be my true breakfast.
11 August 2021
The Writer In Me, Wants You To Know Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Mystic Rose Rose
POEMS SLIP ON SLIME
You claim you’re a poet of modern generation
Specialize in making love sonnets of your time,
Words shape the theme of deformed relation
Syllables succumb to the strike of forced rhyme.
Fragile imageries borrowed from alien nature
Sliver sentences of parody the meaning mimes,
Love in heartless sonnets can’t stand the torture
Escapes unexpressed through the holes in rhyme.
The grimy ink from your pen doesn’t stop to flow
Even if the lame poems break slipping on slime,
How to put words again in place you don’t know
For you’ve sunk in sonic cacophony you call rhyme.
The rhythmic pulsation of the poet’s warm heart
I don’t feel, your frail words fail to transmit to me,
It’s time in your inert poems you need to start
Imbibing vibrant cadence the way it should be.
April 16, 2018.
Master Poet - This has been how I have been addressing,
Harry Horsman - who has been, to the verse world, a blessing;
Depth, decorum, delightfulness, and dovish dynamism,
Shines and reflects on his personality like a prism...!
‘A Voice In The Wilderness’, ‘Phobia’, ‘The Old Oak Tree’,
‘Rainbow Ride’, ‘Eyes’, ‘Scars Left Behind’, and ‘You May Not Agree’...
Horsman's works have, images and imageries in plenty,
Figures of speech of all kinds, in him, are cognoscenti...!
In 'An Agendaless Age', or 'In So Many Ways’,
His genuineness, like the summer sun, does always blaze;
In 'Jesus Christ' he sings delightfully of the savior,
In his love for the poor, 'The Gravedigger' finds favor...!
'Death Is Not The End’ - he said, I do not think death has won,
In snatching him off from this world, no great work he has done;
Horsman dwells in the blissful presence of angels and saints,
Physically and psychically, he’s free of constraints...!!!
27 May 2023
Tributes to Harry Horsman: An Uncontest Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Andrea Dietrich
Nasty ME hypocrite
From the looks of things
For I have looked deep down my soul
And it only give rise to pain
You see
I am the shadow that consumes your light,
A toxic lover, poisoning your sight.
My touch, a flame that burns with deceit,
Melting trust, and freezing hearts that beat.
My life only paves a way for pain
Sorrow evolves around my circle
Its nurture and breed vindictiveness
It drinks oceans of bitterness promises
eating the bread of hostility
I'm that jealous lover that stocks you and brings nothing but pain
To your living life
My words, a venomous whisper in your ear,
Sweet nothings that bring only fear.
I'll pull you close, then push you away,
Leaving scars that never fade.
I am the embodiment of mass destruction
On reality of unpleasant catastrophe
I sow seeds of discouragement
watered it with rivers of agony of
Nothing but sadness
I'll make you doubt your worth, your mind,
A maze of self-doubt, forever left behind.
My love, a suffocating, crushing weight,
A prison where freedom's just an illusion's date
I am the terror behind your nightmares
The Imageries you refused to envision
That wages war of warfares
And rain down causalities and division
I'll feed on your insecurities,
Nourishing my power, your weaknesses.
My love's a game, where you're the prey,
A hunt where I'm the predator, night and day.
I am the scorching sun
That pierced and smeared your soul with evil
I find pleasure in your misery
And joy in suffering
I am a righteous sinner who
wear the coat of righteousness
Beneath, lies devil's concoction
Seasoned with ingredients of vices
I'm the creativity of negativity ?? not positivity
In my comfort, I orchestrate iniquity
I befriended light to see darkness;
to concoct wickedness so easy to judge
Always preaching perfection but living with an infection
But still, you'll stay, trapped in my snare,
A moth to flame, unable to bear.
The pain, the hurt, the endless fight,
A toxic dance, where love's just out of sight.
@kc
H2O
Owen thepoet 2019