Long Kites Poems
Long Kites Poems. Below are the most popular long Kites by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Kites poems by poem length and keyword.
The sky was draped in night’s black cloak,
With a sprinkle of white specks in bloom.
The yellow moon slipped into a gibbous cocoon,
As sunshine fretted in crescent-shaped kites.
But the streets today were painted in bright colours—
They cloaked the rainbow in a toga of envy.
Many danced and sang in melodious harmony,
Dressed like masquerades with neither masks nor veils.
The clouds were clear and gleamed with a faint glow,
Since the last drop of rain they’d stored was in October.
It was the music, played on hand-held instruments,
That shook off harmattan’s dryness from trees and grasses.
"This carnival is like no other,"
A lady in red and white whispered to her husband.
They, like many others, had traveled from far and wide,
To sway their hips and jiggle their feet to Motherland Africa.
The hordes of strange faces mingled with local ones—
Each year, new loves are sparked, and babies are born.
Many a mulatto grows with one half of their roots in photos,
Yet every year brings memories sweet and strong.
Hordes of numbskulls
ride the ether waving on its waves.
Hi kites twirling upon a digital wind.
Each empty head has but one thought,
a desire to be seen.
Hordes watch, flock to the hand-held stage
leer, laugh, get bored with the show
switch to game mode to fight dragons
with dirty fingernails.
What a grand way to die this is!
Shuffle dancing or
ass's twirking, cute or crass
while the kettle of life boils away
and the body pours
until out of gas.
They must,
they simply must be
in every bodies eye,
Must be noticed
and so they preform, risk all
for a dare.
The audience does not care
they are pictures in a camera,
dancing, fighting, or humping,
busy being
the exhibition of the day
minds far away
chattering to themselves.
Money they want for their play or the
paltry currency
of a less than minor celebrity,
a hope that like any bubble
or party balloon
will pop all too soon.
Then what is left? Only this,
the shriveled skin, the idiotic grin
skid marks on a wasteland of time
where they decline.
If you’ll pardon the simile;
My life is like a kite you see,
Blowing up and down, back and forth.
In spite of both my shape and size,
The altitude I’ll realize
Depends on who’s holding my cord.
A metaphor is in that strand:
It’s what grounds me, you understand.
My personal code is my string.
It’s how I was taught right from wrong,
When to resist, or go along.
No kites can fly without that string.
Who do you choose to hold your cord?
Idols, the Devil, or the Lord.
The choice is yours. Who guides your life?
It comes down to who can you trust,
Who has your back, who loves you most?
The Lord, your family, and your wife.
So when dark winds blow you around,
And you feel you’re more lost than found,
Recall how much you’ve got to lose.
Because, Father, Son, Holy Ghost,
Your wife, and family love you most.
Think about them all when you choose.
... said he never didE but said
know dice and know to know
why, you come this way.
I tried I cried with tear in eye
Blinking thinking through a day
Tones of change rearranged a
message, the Indian had to say...
Clef the chef reads to the left
and George was set to sing
Then along came a Cat with
Chaac too Bat, so I chose
to read again.
Come the fun a circus came a
bell was sound and a day was
Named. Kites float high in a
Wind blown sky and Light was
set to be heard... DO, the Path!
Flashed out loud and struck a
Coiled nerve.
Visions come and a Write was
song, sung by Mother Earth.
Channel hear vibrations there
It's Time to Love with Words.
Speak, it's free giving healing
Energy, sharing caring with
Memory, exploring doors within
corridors of E.Turn.it.See....
Form:
THIS IS ALL I HAVE TO SAY
This is all I have to say
Catsup on the garden hose
Too small bifocal's on your nose
A checker board this more than square
A faint pink blue ribbon in her hair
A dog that wags it's tail so variously
A new born babe in a nursery
A breathe of flesh air
A construction worker hammer, saw, and square
User pouring out like rain
Robins and sparrows out to sing
A basketball rim that holds kites
A robber stealing your watch and wallet
A cat that has no claws
An old aged person who snores
A tattled loaf of new bread
This is the just of what I said
And by the way
This is all I have to say
03/04/15
written words by James Edward Lee Sr.
The poet lives life in reverse, like a bird flying backward,
While young, he meditates on death as a distant, somber horizon,
He travels through the dark forests of thoughts,
Where trees are sculpted from shadows and leaves dried by time,
And the wind whispers secret melodies about forgotten endings and beginnings.
But as the years flow like a lazy river through the valley of memories,
The aged poet turns his gaze toward the light, toward life,
In his eyes now shine images of girls laughing under the blue sky,
Of smiles blooming like cherry blossoms in eternal spring,
And of desires rising like kites in the warm summer wind.
For the artist, in the secrecy of his existence, is an alchemist of time,
Transforming the lead of heavy thoughts into the gold of delicate dreams,
He learns to weave the threads of life from the fabric of inevitable death,
To create a tapestry where death and life dance,
In an endless waltz under the moonlight of eternity.
And so, in the flow of his consciousness, the poet bears his burden,
With wings spread toward the sky, seeking balance between beginning and end,
In a world where past and future intertwine,
Like two rivers meeting in the infinite sea of time,
Where each verse becomes a bridge to what was and what will be.
Tree Roots and the Light
The tall Tree was Flying, its leaves high in the sky,
Trying to go beyond the flying kites, towards the light,
Its roots were trying to penetrate the soil,
Heading in the deep darkness, it kept moving without a shine.
Higher its branches touched the Crown of mirth,
Touching the lofty heights of light and the sky,
Its leaves and branches were flying and dancing,
In the joy of touching Light and those untouched, heights.
Some where, not far beyond the skies, lives dearest of our heart and soul,
I saw the Tree kept moving towards that One, it always adored,
While its beloved roots too, were silently busy in supporting,
Without which, the Tree can never even stand to touch the lofty scores.
I thought and wondered, which one contributes more,
In touching the limitless, lofty heights and the glow of the sky,
The stem, which is blessed to touch the sky, or the roots that resembles,
A true beloved without which, the stem even can not stand for a while.
The Tall tree was standing before me, unfolding its love towards the Sky,
With a high and prideful head in the sky, the tree was heading towards the glow,
Far away from its beloved roots, to feel the serene touch in the limitless sky,
Going a little closer to that Glow, which we adore and love and call Almighty.
Ravindra
Kanpur India 22 08 2010
WE DIE WHEN THE CHILD IN US DIES
We do not die when the heart forgets its beat beneath the heavy earth,
we die slowly, on the day the child in us falls asleep,
when we no longer see paper kites stitched into the summer sky,
and the puddle in the yard is no longer a sea of mercury.
We die when rain is no longer a sky of melted beads,
but merely a nuisance soaking shoes polished by worry,
when we no longer fold leaf-boats to drift along the gutters,
and the moon is no longer a coin stolen from the pocket of night.
We die when laughter dries up like a well of jade,
when wonder turns to arithmetic and the dream becomes a bill,
when the falling star no longer asks for a whispered wish,
but only a name for burning rock passing through silent atmosphere.
The child in us is a butterfly caught beneath the glass of cold years,
beating its wings ever more slowly in the dusty display case of age,
we hear it sometimes whispering from the forgotten corner of our being,
a call as thin as the thread of smoke from a snuffed-out candle.
And we bury it beneath suits, beneath schedules, beneath stacks of paper,
beneath the grave faces worn to meetings like masks of wax,
forgetting that it held our hand through the forest without paths,
that it was the light that turned any stone into treasure.
But whoever still hears it singing in the depths of the dry well,
whoever opens its cage to let it fly through the windows of nature,
that one never dies, though the body turns to ash,
for they carry in their chest a child who dreams forever among the stars.
the paddy fields are ready to be harvested,
green crops sparkle freshened by clear early dew,
water lilts its way through channels time tested,
first of South Indian harvests, brings hopes new!
the time of the year that sees a weather shift,
Sun in its northern ride moves to Capricorn,
ushers an yield of plenty and nature’s gift,
cheer grows in the village as the year is born!
far further afield swinging in the warm breeze,
stand tall succulent crops of sweet sugar canes,
cultivated in rich soil they grow with ease,
watered by the monsoons of previous rains!
the farmers have a special joy in their walk,
God gives in plenty when one has worked so hard,
bags of different lentils they load and chalk,
time to celebrate! festivities on card!
14th January Pongal is celebrated,
where everything harvested makes a special meal,
rice, lentils boiled and with black pepper grated,
jaggery from sugar cane is tasty deal!
women wear bright coloured silk with gold jewels,
men are dressed in clean whites for the festive day,
children fly kites, anointed cattle wear new bells,
celebration of Pongal cheers all the way!!
10th Position
Written 14/January/2021
Completely your choice (40)
Brian Strand
11 syllables each line
to introduce others to this beautiful festival
that celebrates harvest and thanks God for the yeild!!
The sky was sunny, the temperature was mild, and the wind was calm and mild. Tornadoes are known to rarely occur here, but the winds can get rather gusty. There is no hurricane season here, but the summer heat can often be rather terrorizing. In these parts, there is a rainy season in winter that often produces very little rain. Earthquakes are widely common in California, but not so much in this valley region.
As I was saying, the sunny sky had created such awesome beauty on a late spring day. As I drove home, I looked up and into the west and observed a sunset in this month of May. I tell you, the bright clouds nesting in the western sky is enough to take your breath away.
Clouds are said to be the 'Dust of God’s Feet'. Perhaps today he portrayed his feet being comforted in the setting sun. The clouds were snowy white and perhaps, they too were staring at their own beautiful sight.
San Francisco once embraced us with beautiful views and captured us with the flight of kites. Whether renting or buying in the City by the Bay, the views were always a part of the price. Clouds? I don’t remember clouds there, but most days, after the fog, turned sunny and nice.
Where I live presently, there’s no Golden Gate Bridge, no super curving street, but there are views. Yes, I miss the fog and the foghorns, and I wish we had the cool San Francisco chills on those hot summer days. But no, I wouldn’t take anything for the cloud views that never cease to overwhelm me.
Yes, my mind sometimes flows to the city of hills and chills and the views from Twin Peaks. But I like Sacramento with views of the High Sierras, and I like the clouds I saw today.
06012015PSContest, Sky Poetry, Anthony Slausen
Contest entry 101620, Old Poems, Free Verse (003)
Sponsored by: Poet Destroyer A. 8P