Long Isle Poems
Long Isle Poems. Below are the most popular long Isle by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Isle poems by poem length and keyword.
I don’t want to see you go
But, there is no other choice…
Dancing in the fire of woe,
Trying to find that inner voice…
If you’re looking for some trouble,
Get lost in the midst of my rubble
You left without second glance
You had your chance with me…
Yeah, you had your chance
Please don’t make me wait for You
To shine a little light in my direction
Don’t make me feel guilty and blue
Help me…blow away my infection…
Conquer me with Your gracious hope…
And, if you can, can you help me cope –
Cope with these feelings that kill me softly
I’m addicted to this sorrow that hurts me
That hurts me to the point when I can’t feel anymore
I’m becoming numb…and I don’t know what I’m living for
Wishing hopelessly that I can live my fantasy for a long time as I see fit
Don’t make me wait forever in this terrain – emptiness and tears is what’s left of it
For a while longer, I’d like to see you smile
I’d run the extra mile just to visit your isle
Faking happiness is the last thing that you should do in front of me
Pretend to forgive and forget and move on from the past of vanity
Just pretend…
That this is not the end…
Just pretend…
These scars will mend…
I don’t mind being here
While you hold me dear
But, don’t lie to me in my face…
Making me feel like a disgrace
Believe it or not, we can get along again
As long as we get out of this lion’s den
Under pressure…
Beyond measure…
We’re just pretending…never-ending…
Maybe we aren’t in danger…I can’t believe what I’m seeing
We’re just pretending…never-ending…
Maybe we’re full of anger…let’s separate for the time being
Whilst walking along the beach close to where I stay
Like other beach walkers seeing the washed up display
I stumbled across some driftwood buried in the sand
The feeling when I touched it I began to understand
I knew where it had came from I also knew where it had been
It was part of the bow of a ship, a sturdy cross member beam
The longer that I held it, it told me more each time
When it was shaped from the tree in its scented pristine prime
It was taken to a shipbuilder whom crafted it into the hull
Being part of a glorious yacht that sailed from the Isle of Mull
But on one fateful night in the storm lashed Caribbean
The seas were just to strong for it floundered and let the sea in
All the crew were saved picked up by various ships
Taken to a safe harbour to reminisce about their trip
I'm in the West of Scotland, the Caribbean is way down south
Amazing how this piece of driftwood, lies at this river mouth.
The smiling loch gives a welcome
Along with the vigorous pine,
Time to recharge the soul
And smell the coffee on the Isle of Skye.
Misty mountains of mystery
Are a drug with a natural high,
And offer more to discover
Sipping coffee on the Isle of Skye.
The landscape changes each minute
As clouds give way to the shine,
As the sun whispers the invite
Smell the coffee on the Isle of Skye.
White washed homes contrast colour
Of illuminous mountain sides,
That greet the Cali ferries,
And bring life to the Isle of Skye.
You can almost touch the mountains
As you're touched by the Western Isles,
Three dimensions experienced, while
Sipping coffee on the Isle of Skye.
But the likeness of God in nature
Stirs the fourth dimension inside,
Marries the natural and spiritual, while
Smelling the coffee on the Isle of Skye.
Chaos theory must answer
To the Western Island design,
A place too wonderful for me
While smelling coffee on the Isle of Skye.
The Gaelic heart of Scotland
Melts into the core of mine,
As the wide-eyed little boy
Smells the coffee on the Isle of Sky.
*Past silver groves of willows weeping near a crystal stream,
I move with an excitement flowing in my vibrant dream.
Those colors that I take for granted in the concrete world
shine brilliantly like buds of roses that have come unfurled.
Ahead there is a field of daisies - wild yellow in bloom.
I’m feeling golden; such enchantment whisks away all gloom.
Atop a hill as bright a green as Ireland’s emerald isle -
as day’s last rays of sun shine down - is where I’ll stay a while.
Inside my dream appears white parchment; in my hand a quill!
Across the sky there splashes splendor; all the earth grows still.
A white swan’s feather dips into a hue of cobalt blue.
As sky bursts crimson, I am painting all this dream for you!
*Past silver groves of willows weeping
is a line I borrowed from Heather Ober's "Into the Gloaming"
For Richard Lamoureux's Pick a Line Any Line Poetry Contest
Everything around me is still
The soft lights ward off the cold
My worried heart is unsettled
Every minute makes me old
Time seems to drag on and on
Not sure I can take much more
I’m waiting for my angel
to walk in through that door
There is nothing to do but wait,
so I wonder about her day
but what’s taking her so long?
Did she somehow lose her way?
I think about my visit
My first time to see her place
In my glimpse into her life,
a weariness I can trace
She flew away to this isle
to try out her angel wings,
and in following her dreams
she untied the home spun strings
“Our children are not our own.”
Oh, great Gibran*, can’t you see?
My precious 18 year old,
Will always belong to me!
Oh yes, she may live elsewhere
Have a family of her own,
but she’s my little baby
and in my eyes she hasn't grown
I wait and wait and wait
Please, God, let her be alright!
I look out of the window
at the blackness of the night
I think of all those mothers
who wait for their children dear,
whose tired and aching arms
long to hold their loved ones near
The wait for them is fruitless
Its end is a tragic woe,
for death holds back their loved ones
The "Wait of Pain" will not go
My heart shares in their sorrow
My soul weeps for their plight
For though my daughter is late
She’ll be coming home tonight!
For Waiting Contest by James Rogers
September 9, 2015
*Khalil Gibran was a Lebanese-American artist, poet, and writer of the New York Pen League. There recent move, The Prophet, was about him.
The Lotus Eaters page 1 of 2
(This is an original fiction by Earl based on the fiction by Homer. Part 2 of this is in a 2nd. posting)
Northern unkind gales forced, with no care to man or nature
The cunning, the brave, the great King Odysseus and his crew to draw off course
From Ithica, their home and one true destination
A strange land happened upon them by fate and chance
Appeared from nowhere, but did enchant them one and all
We’ve come to learn this is the Isle Lotophagi.
Glorious scented lotus fields rolled up, waving against moving vast hills
Winds gave them life over flowing there
With majestic summer’s heated wilds
Holding the world intact
Boulders lined up as giants against the ancient unencumbered breathing skies
Virgins in yellow and pink silk, filled in the silence of morn with vigilance
While gathering sweet cold water in fragile jugs along the foreign stream
Within the golden landscape scene the lotus eaters lived
In tender innocence, no cares in the world, or of their fate awaiting
Hectic red steadfast on earth this day as sun rose stronger than venues of time
But not too late
To mold the landscape in its style in brightness that takes the sight of man to shelter
The cunning Odysseus, and his men are hungry, tired, worn of war and lust for water from that shore
Before they sail to Ithica with furor to their missions end
Determined one and all
They must rest, take in splendors of this world and learn their love and lore
The king and sailors did much more. The lotus eaters, as they’re called
"The Price of Pearls"
a strange time
just as a dream
to a place of strangeness
strangers
walking contretemps' fine lines
composing invisible footprints
away from life
into the loud silence within
The Chronicles of The Forgotten
lost in the mists
oars plunging grave tomes in
The Tombs of Sad Poetry
some gently fierce
soft grey broken bad blue sky
reflected in a lake of tears
a sense of haunting
romance to allay
impending fears
acknowledging minds
for a short while
dipping deep within
the short measured
confronting uncomfortable
pools of sincere welcomes some sin
playing the forgotten
heart strings
light sensitive fingers pluck violins
reeling in the pleasure
swoon swimming the skinny time
with cool investiture
the Siren sings
dropping chords
divesting smiles, a serious business
arresting life, love and lust
sensual eyes read his
for good measure
where diaphanous
pages drop like
silken Selkie skin
naked she swims
to shore clutching
a fistful of pearls
wisdom comes
at the price of
freedom
lost in the depths
of drowning
all the ghosts
dead
reborn
in his eyes, they are
Her glistening
new Ocean
now her feet planted on the sure
Now the Lark Ascending
She opens the
locked door
symphonic pleasure
maestro is
leading
(LadyLabyrinth / 2020)
Rachmaninov: "The Isle of the Dead"
Symphonic Poem Op. 29 - Andrew Davis
https://youtu.be/dbbtmskCRUY
Vaughan Williams: "The Lark Ascending"
https://youtu.be/ZR2JlDnT2l8
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Selkie
I cannot lie, I’m not that spry
still angling is my game
but never had luck with walleye
pickerel by Ontario's name.
We're windbound on Wasaksina
waiting for the west wind to wane
We're windbound on Wasaksina
with walleye all to blame.
Wasaksina Lake up Temagami way
has a wicked western fetch
there's trout, pike and bass, but hey
was walleye we came to ketch.
We're windbound on Wasaksina
waiting for the west wind to wane
We're windbound on Wasaksina
with walleye all to blame.
Came in late fall, paddling two canoes
made camp on the big middle isle
then west wind blew and waves tall grew
we knew we were there for a while.
We're windbound on Wasaksina
waiting for the west wind to wane
We're windbound on Wasaksina
with walleye all to blame..
Grub was short so we fished the lee
in hopes of a good fish fry
jigging for a few crappie
but felt the tug of a good walleye
We're windbound on Wasaksina
waiting for the west wind to wane
We're windbound on Wasaksina
with walleye all to blame.
The fish it started a good strong run
to the screech of my fishing reel
if we lost the lee, knew we were done
tightened drag to bring fish to heel
We're windbound on Wasaksina
waiting for the west wind to wane
We're windbound on Wasaksina
with walleye all to blame.
The reel smoked, thought all was lost
but then the fish she turned
slack line, a gust, canoe was tossed
empty hook was all returned.
We're windbound on Wasaksina
waiting for the west wind to wane
We're windbound on Wasaksina
with walleye all to blame.
Dewey decimals assemble
our common presence.
Your horticulture hands hide
that landscaping manual's lengthy title,
but this is my isle
and I've held that identical gardening guide
like a potted plant.
Your sensuous musk spirals through
the once stale library air,
as cedarwood, cinnamon, and clove
collectively caress my nose.
So close, we coincide.
If I were to peruse my pastime picks,
our bodies would overlap,
but I keep a refrained, respectable,
reachable distance.
A confident curiosity
draws my gourmet gaze your way,
and your eyes likewise look away
from their once preoccupied page pondering.
An electrifying glance expands
beyond our common hobby.
Your earthen eyes instantly grip mine
like roots to soot.
Our hushed "hi"s
collide simultaneously.
I bite my winter mint incensed lips
with an instinctual hint of interest,
then a giggly schoolgirl smile follows.
I glance down to disregard
that massive moment,
motioning my fantasy fingers toward
a farther away publication,
diligently dragging my eyes to
a divergent direction,
suddenly spinning my slim figure toward
the chemical science section.
Like a centrifugal force,
your tall stature turns toward mine.
Your strong hands of provision
skim the selection, then
deliberately, teasingly reach
for the same spine.
Our hands collide
in a glorious alchemy.
3-27-19
The Last Shift
I worked because I needed the money.
That was my only reason.
Who else would want to work the holiday(s)?
No one, surely not anyone.
My first job as caretaker, taught me…
everything I needed to know, but never…
leaned until my shift.
The old people were quiet, most of them.
Not all of them. Some of them.
Room six was sadly coughing. It seemingly would not stop.
Room seven had taken a bad fall and was sleeping fitfully.
Down the hall there was Ms. Burner, “Is that you Henry?” weeping…
I thought I was going to die. No one told me what to expect.
What things were really like.
I prayed, “Lord, get me through until the sun comes up.”
The music was very low, and far away. Christmas…
How nice? The director, had put up a Charlie Brown tree,
and a few cards were sparsely placed about at the entry desk.
My job… to walk the isle, check the board, and make sure…
nothing happened.
Down the hall I walked. Nervous, my first day on the job, even if it was a night.
A beeping far away. Then water running. A rush of wind.
The smell of a storm, mixed with flowers?
My heart thought to call out, but I did not.
The night went well.
There were cheerful smiles in the morning, as if someone had switched a light…on.
Six had stopped coughing. She got better in the weeks that followed and went home.
Seven, had no break at all. At the next doctor visit they could not find any injury no matter what test they gave her.
Ms. Burner. She died that first night I was on duty. The angels came. She was not crying.
She was laughing and smiling…
Now I work all the holidays.
I also pray every night, “Lord, get me through until the sun comes up.”
as I believe he was listening very closely.