Long Kohl Poems
Long Kohl Poems. Below are the most popular long Kohl by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Kohl poems by poem length and keyword.
Written: June 07, 2025, for contest Sponsored by: Edward Ibeh
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The Phantom Choir
In the quiescence of last Sunday,
Prophecy heralded the hour past two,
I heard a whisper at hibiscus dawn—
a seamless voice I swore I always knew.
In blissful flutter—it said night was wide,
Chrysalis sorrow stirs a bed for fools,
that in the hush, when hearts collide,
The lost willows are left to wade in pools.
Facing the kernel until the street thinned,
And my shadow’s sepals bled away,
Rusted voice strings within me spoke again—
It's hymn frills poised for slow decay.
The Hollow Pact
Will I wake to descry my cracked mind,
emptied of all its sharpened teeth?
Will murky echoes break their binds,
Or gnaw beneath the sheath?
The alchemy battle sparks, but I am dust—
wispy strands, a soldier tied in flimsy chains.
Each idea erodes the periwinkle ones I trust,
while the weight of stress remains.
You graze me with a maze—why do I stand so still?
Resurrection of the soul—so why shake your hands?
But dread can have its way to fulfill—
The transcendence of love is lost in vicious demands.
The Third Mourning
Wise chakras buried beneath the walls I built,
the zen voice still scrawls its wordless plea.
It concedes my yantra’s vulnerability, my guilt,
peers where peacock pleadings wane into a spree.
It hums inside the tremors of sapphire light,
I close my eyes as it runs over lily-filled shorelines.
Bits of lunar-glazed silver dust grow in quiet nights,
and procrastinated pledges become lies.
In my dour dreams, it tells me not to resist—
“You know that silken shivers favor sound.”
Amid cyan azure peace, I learn misery persists,
for flickers of love fear the burial mound.
The Acoustic Waltz
In nocturnal dryness—sing soft verses in the dark,
claims the enamored inked words are not hers.
She plucks cerulean hymns without leaving a mark,
The tune of her carved kohl was lost in slurs.
She sways in the russet yarns of neon glow,
bows beneath the ricochet’s wild haze—
a phantom waltz in katabatic motion, moving slow.
a cosmic voice garden, too faint to truly be a maze.
Her pocket holds a ring of black gem glass,
won as a child’s dare, a piece of smitten ink.
She warms it, sighs, and watches it pass
through flaming flecks—hands that fight to sink.
O souls of the Island,
I have silently
heard through
tropical torrents
and surpassed
a million miles
of the milky seas,
away from
mint-marine
silhouettes of my
utopian wonderland,
as strawberry
ripples and
coconut-scented
musings called
upon my
flamboyant spirit,
to explore those
ebony-emeralds
of universe and
envelop my hope in
creamy pink shells.
I have soaked in
sepia impressions,
ebbing as
crepe currents
on splitting shores
and windsurfed
through the
hibiscus rays
of life by forbidding
heartache hymns
of yesteryears,
from lurking in
jewelled hours
of today
and built a
kryptonite kayak
to sail in the
turquoise times
of tomorrow.
For, now I know
that the
opalescent ocean
has chosen me,
to return the
riveting spirit
of sage-rufescent
rivulets back to
the 'Heart of
Humanity's Cosmos',
shaped in
soft serenades
of seraphim.
When the
whispers of a
mauve french-rose,
blooming within,
will uncurl their
farthest wish
in silken twinkles,
my eyes will always
remember these
watercolor heights
splashing crayon dusks
and revealing
silver moon truths,
for there's more
beyond the
neon networks
of syzygy pearl skies
and chestnut reefs,
yearning to be
cherished by the
blonde alchemy of love.
So, I abandon
those sooty
regrets that snorkel
with their fragile fins in
kohl-lily gulfs
and observe these
constellations
of intuitions, formed
by the star-kissed
manta rays and
sketch sagacious
saudades laced
with hope, as a
halo around the
lilac Pole Star.
In this mortal
seascape of
the seventh heaven,
every orphan
of darkness
shimmers as
the beacon
of lustrous
sugar-scintilla that
shapes this world,
in ivory-smitten
spheres of
magically
diaphanous helix,
waltzing in whispers
of wind and water.
Every lava-skinned,
feminine flame
of doleful daffodils
was once a glittered
cherry-red gardenia,
laced with
cardinal buds,
who nurtured
velvet seeds
in the womb of
celeste compassion
and edenic empathy.
And like myself,
every sea-maiden of
sequined lush ruminations,
crowned with
purple plumerias,
is a whimsical wayfinder,
wishing for ~
white bells of serenity
and blue-star petals of peace.
" Tortured metaphors
spilling from tequila lips,
t i p t o e on my pulse ~
breaking in an arced smile
of the featherless eclipse,
where I waltz as a secluded steel-shine,
sobered s o f t l y
by the taste of satanic stars..."
I'm the loss of a leaf
from gold-dew aspens,
rippling upon
turquoise typewriters,
where drunk fingertips dance.
Turning to ashes,
my heart m e l t s
as a metallic grenade,
and no philosopher's stone
ever reverberating
in its silver-winged silence.
Seeking shelter from smoldering seas,
I curl up in the womb of a guardian willow ~
she's a weeping angel of n e v e r l a n d,
with an ornamented garland
of guns and roses,
enveloping me in the corpse of sunset.
Plunging from diamond cobwebs
into isles of champagne,
like a dynamite dove bloodthirsty for sun,
I l u r k along reefs
studded with rhinestones, unfurling –
lotus manuscripts
as poetic pearls s l i p and t w i r l,
snorkeling in an obsidian oasis.
I miss being
a purple-whisper prophecy,
threaded in fractured letters,
for now, my ink b l e e d s
in the marrow of moon,
where an alchemy is lost and found...
In the chronicles of carnelian clemency
and supernova sorcery,
I've seen arctic assonances
hibernating
in the throats of those,
holding lethal jewels
as a nightingale's neon noose.
So, if my soul is an opal widow
of your thistle-light affection,
a verse romanticised
will be my crystal coffin,
and in the caricatures
of kohl and karma,
our silent soliloquy
shall delicately be shifted.
Surfing in the splitting s i n s
of a salty saviour,
this whiskey damsel
shall evermore remain
a scentless phrase,
scrapped by pencilled brush-strokes,
i n v i s i b l e
in our paper-cut destiny...
Somewhere between fallen flares
of an untouchable phoenix~
and the nostalgic red of crimson horizons,
I feel the amethyst embers of longing
illuminate rambling roses
that mourn within my hibiscus heart.
O beloved Love,
I long to be your tulip twilight
adorned with unfading mauve haze,
where green-gold scribbles of sunset
erase interlaced flaws,
to harbor blue-black mists
twirling above tides of tainted topaz…
and I will thrive amidst
storms of insecurities,
as the Swarovski Horse of Poseidon,
crystallized in resilient silver,
gleaming in glowing grace,
beyond dews of darkness,
shifting the aroma of pomegranate’s kiss.
There, peonies of peace
feast upon decadent delicacies
in the barren garden ~
flourishing with jilted jasmines.
I wonder, will these metaphors
woven across my canvas in perfumed ink,
speak the songs of my splintered spirit?
For the moon no longer sings
the melody of my soul,
and I refuse to choreograph
a diabolical dance for resentful ravens,
collecting twigs from tortured trees,
as the crescent smile
wanes into neon nothingness.
Yet while the witching hour beckons
skeletal remnants to rise
as celestial ashes,
I go insane, lose my incandescent light
that glistens in opalescent hues,
leaving my quill to suffocate in solitude,
unable to grasp the musical muse,
to stitch sorrowful sonnets
with seething synonyms.
O stringed sapphires
sailing above the meadow of melancholy,
forgive this coffin curse ~
it holds carvings of a corpse bride,
aching to be seen beyond the kohl shawl~
cloaking the frost-glazed silhouette,
weeping woeful elegies
while slumbering in the
amorous arms of Orpheus,
for in your absence, I cannot breathe,
and sleep screams
like a long-forgotten miracle,
needing an oracle to
alchemize a soothing potion…
So lay me down in a bed
of deep daffodils and thorns,
watch me plead for merciful rain,
to free obsidian tears of terror,
while my psyche bleeds
grammatical mistakes.
I am forever trapped in tremors of agony,
unable to reopen galactic gates
of euphoric escape,
so tonight I’ll let the torrents of torment
embrace inked insanity…
Between conjecture and classification there is
observation, experiment, data (collection and analysis),
statistics, calculus, and a good guess
about God's intentions - probabilities, fractals, chaos and complexity.
This is the thunderous city.
The form of the poem, the rhyme.
Form cannot be first if you want to reach high artistic levels, since
you are then bound by form, and that form is very often a
betrayal of reality.
Yet I find I am attracted all the time
to philosophies in short skirts, jewels and eyes lined with kohl.
I love where her legs lead, to her very soul.
Three women hike by under an umbrella in a winter rain. Two men side
by side run in rhythm.
An oil truck takes the hill in low steady gear.
My old Marine, 89, died last night without anxiety or fear.
May I overcome my pain enough to reach the place where the deer lay
down their bones
and, like them, die alone.
When making an axe handle, the pattern is not far off.
The purpose of school is to introduce us to the world's innumerable
wonders.
The periodic table, World Wars I and II, Huckleberry Finn and Jim.
But soft,
what light through yonder window breaks?
It is a billion trillion nuclear detonations per second without which
nothing can be done or faked.
The temple bell stops, but the sound still comes out of the flowers.
Forests and the composite species will be nameless. Genetic prowess,
receiving the sacrament, performing Lohengrin from the Great American
Songbook,
the look of love in all the wrong places, facebook,
fakebooks, folios of old family photos on or in pianos.
How can I be both still and skilled?
When we took Pop-Pop off the ventilator, we put him in a refrigerator.
He stopped eating, he stopped breathing. Circle with a dot.
He had his dream, he'd rowed his boat.
No single line can completely explain - or rhyme - or untie this knot.
I n v i s i b l e threads,
a mystical m i r a g e,
binding the silhouette of the sky
to the
skin of cinnamon sequels
in the deep blue chakra
that sees beyond
illusive clouds,
carrying rainbow roses
and thornless buds
quenched with jasmine rain.
Yet I remain engrossed
in the rising haze from cornea rivers,
facing the sun
amidst silenced stones,
counting unwept
diamonds that ebb and flow
through the pool of peace lilies,
and violet vapors,
veiled in violin breeze,
ricocheting like
the h e a t
of throbbing heartbeats…
Remember,
I taste the sundrops
you feel in solitude,
I’ve been listening to
your e y e s ~
stories spun from luminous lies,
pain streaming behind saffron smiles,
unrolling polaroids of angst
through the lens of life,
while the
gossamer gold of gloaming
mirrors the poem
between your sore sighs,
like dilating daisies
in the heart of the midnight iris…
And through your pupils,
I’ve found the reason
to rhyme~
bleeding pleas of love
with whimsical words,
dusted with periwinkle,
glazed with crystals,
amidst the gusts of grief
cloaking your conscience,
when wintry woes
suffocate your cashmere spirit.
But I still
am an origami enigma,
sleepwalking in silence,
aching to reach the chandelier cinders
flickering above~
pillows of patience…
This I write not to the
crestfallen Luna,
but to the galaxies
twirling as moon-tulips
above lashes dusted with liquid lilac,
as I am a misplaced metaphor,
etched with empathy,
kohl tears on petals,
pricking fragile fingers,
like thistles of time…
I feel beyond what I breathe
and I see hidden hues,
for in my eyes~
there is no need for poetic phrases
when soul is tied to
the strings of immortal blossoms
in your garden of pristine petunias
l a c e d with
unbreakable vows…
I s t r e t c h my arms,
caressing collapsed dreams,
l o s t
within the
debris of darkness,
rising from the
volcanic vortex,
drifting with scorching fragments
resembling a love turned to ashes,
from scarred skin and flames.
For I am the constructor of my own chaos~
singing Lilith lullabies
in this cold confinement~
poisoning vermilion
valleys with vicious vines,
watered with kohl tears,
as these lungs inhale toxic rain,
drowning in the demise
of primrose promises,
while pain bleeds
doleful drafts,
and empty pleas
paralyzed within pages of turmoil,
unable to break free from
the
sinister sequence
of the synthetic sun.
Yet I paint
a landscape
thriving with ill-omened orchids,
oblivious to the shimmering gold
dusted above
the black-magic boulevard…
O mystical faeries
must I forever be
a victim of midnight tremors?
Am I to remain
c h a i n e d
with diamond-glazed knots,
in the macabre chambers
where desolated phantoms stroll?
Perhaps it is written in the sands,
with cryptic strands
of sweltering grains~
I am the cacophony,
draped in infected illusions,
basking in hues of hallucinations,
surrendering to the hypnotic sounds
of satanic springs,
drinking from chalices
filled with pomegranate lies,
from the shadowed spirit
of Persephone on Hades’ throne,
engraved with splinters
from inescapable fate,
scripted with somber i n k ...
Somewhere between
veiled visions,
incensed with vanilla,
and the untold sagas
of a crestfallen lunar,
you'll taste
the aromas of alchemy
I've conjured~
shifting like zestful light,
of neon auroras,
deceiving the deceitful
with their distorted colors...
I am K a r m a ~
clothed in sequined starlight,
scattering lessons of life
upon nefarious sighs.
Crazy lover:(poem)
I will please or coax my angry beloved who has been kittled of me because of some created misunderstanding by my enemies side.
I will burn all the hindrances in our path of arrange marriage.
When my angry stone hearted lover will be pleased.
Then after that I will be called as a Crazy lover.
O my beloved, my partner, my sweetheart.
What did you do to me actually, I donot know?
I have no idea what I am doing now for my true love.
The night is passing and the world sleeps.
But I am still awake, without no reason.
I am crazy, mad for my beloved future soulmate.
You have crossed through my heart,
which was like a lake without true love feelings for my future soulmate.
You turned it into river, make my heart to beat with true love feeling for your love.
In the vicinity of my dreamy eyes.
Every evening, is just like celebration of our true love.
The night is passing and the world sleeps.
But I am still awake, without no reason.
I am crazy, mad for my beloved future soulmate.
I will become a wandering ascetic wearing a saffron coloured scarf.
With the black magic of my eye kohl.i will challenge you that
I will make you to forget your devotion.
I am too much crazy for my true love.
That I will steal the fragrance from the flowers like a cool dew drops of morning.
I am like a flood when I change my face,my side ,my way from my true love.
And also I have strong power of my true love that I can tear apart the mountains.
O my beloved future soulmate, you are my sense and a true pride of life when I am in a state of senselessness.
I am like a garland of stars in heavens above the sky on galaxy.
And you are like the moon.
The night is passing and the world sleeps.
But I am still awake, without no reason.
I am crazy, mad for my beloved future soulmate.
By Miss Aliza Kashmala Kiran.
L o v e, a withering star ~
awakened amidst silence
that swirls through the night sky
like fairy lights,
i l l u m i n a t i n g
the maze of midnight
with kaleidoscopic traces
of what once soared…
But in the chasm of loss and agony,
I found the gossamer essence of hope
from the
glass-winged arms of metamorphosis…
Now I breathe you, organza moonlight,
e c l i p s e d by crimson claws
of condescending constellations,
while faith sleeps within the pale husk
of mythical mists,
drinking pomegranate ambrosia,
from the rose-gold horn
of Persephone’s throne,
as black-magic thickets thrive from
the cursed lips of tendrils ~
harvesting pain,
rustling through the vineyard
of violet orchids
amidst this heart that sings of
evergreen springs,
etched with sins and tears
onto catacomb cellars of wickedness…
Listen to your heartbeat,
there, in the mirroring cadence
of soft-spoken rhymes,
I live and reside ~
wandering through the hallways;
an asylum of metaphors
turning wraiths of words
into wisterias,
whirling in the whimsical wind,
a castle of alliterative archives
emanating empathic embers
that burned capricious chords
to carve calligraphic clemency
with Cleopatra’s gold
seized from the Egyptian deserts…
But it is through the
satanic soul of kohl seas
I found the bluest streak of bliss ~
my Felix Culpa,
sprinkling firefly dust from afar ~
I see you, awaiting the return
of butterflies…
For you and I,
we found L o v e,
inhaling poetic promises,
exhaling toxic tercets ~
with syllables of stressed desire,
you showed me rainbows of sage,
taught me the rhythm of truth,
to silence the thunder
that roars in rage
within the fragile psyche of life,
and in your presence,
I loved and learned ~
to curate colors
from
the ethereal
dreamscape of d u s k…
above the mist of
kohl tombstones . . .
moon hides its face
Wind screams through the graveyard,
and leaves on the ground are scattered around old tombstones
where a modern Cherokee man
lies on top of the grave of his dead wife,
wailing with a passion that matches
the aching tone of the wild unbridled breeze.
Months have passed, and
nobody could trace the secret of her demise.
Fog envelops the cold cemetery.
It’s as if the night has been frightened white,
and the trees tremble in late autumn’s frigid air.
Above the grieving silhouette,
a great horned owl peers down
with deep, bright, yellow eyes
from its perch on the gnarled limb
of an ancient oak.
The man, unaware of the owl’s stare,
continues his wailing, pounding the grass
above his beloved’s final resting place.
Suddenly, the great horned owl hoots.
He looks up to see
what seems to be a glare emanating maliciousness
from the owl’s nocturnal iris.
Acquainted with the superstitions of his people,
the Cherokee cannot break his gaze
from that of the owl.
It cannot be, it cannot be, the man cries.
He is captured by an unshakable feeling -
the presence of a spiteful and unforgiving spirit -
that has been with him for many eclipsed moons.
This time, however, it is glaring down at him
with utter loathing. The owl hoots again.
Dread pierces his remorseful
yet culpable heart.
Seized with angst, he claws at the grass beneath him.
His fingernails cake with dirt.
He must see the face of his deceased wife.
A tightness squeezes his chest as his heart gives out~
the owl hoots its third and final requiem.
the abandoned perch
as the fog lifts -
an owl flies skyward