Long Lantern Poems
Long Lantern Poems. Below are the most popular long Lantern by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Lantern poems by poem length and keyword.
Scintillating hues disperse on blank canvas,
electric essence sparks azure palate mauve;
incandescent lightning leads to the ballroom--
of galactic blaze.
Vivacious seagulls draped in white fly afar,
sing to forlorn sandcastles on tranquil shore;
breathtaking notes vibrate subdued strings of breeze--
pearly mist of harps.
Inhaling sultry waves of hot topanga,
I flicker with burning golden lantern wick;
awaiting tides adorned with velvet mirage--
your silk memories.
Moonbeams rejuvenate my drowning desires,
I write your name on sand to be washed away;
your halo descends to embrace me with love--
on my yearning pier.
June 11, 2020
Pick-A-Title, Vol 19 - 4 Sapphic Stanzas - Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Edward Ibeh
Title Chosen: Simulacrum
~Winner: 1st Place
Life sat before me, a weathered cup of rain,
its crystal ribs catching the pale afternoon,
while shadows gathered like crows on a fence,
counting the losses before the harvest came.
I called the glass half empty,
a moon with a missing face,
a garden where autumn had stolen its roses,
a violin whose saddest strings remembered only winter.
Each disappointment became a pebble in my pocket,
dragging my footsteps through rivers of doubt.
The years were gray ships leaving the harbor,
their lanterns swallowed by fog before farewell.
Yet the old glass never argued.
It held what remained like a faithful well,
keeping fragments of dawn beneath its surface,
where forgotten stars floated like silver minnows.
I learned that life is not a banquet table,
but a patchwork quilt sewn with joy and sorrow,
a lighthouse standing against the salt-toothed sea,
its lamp refusing surrender to the night.
Even barren branches cradle spring in secret,
and snow-covered fields dream of wildflowers.
The heart itself is a cracked lantern,
its broken panes letting compassion escape.
Now when I raise that humble vessel,
I see neither emptiness nor abundance alone.
It is a mirror of mortal day,
half memory, half promise,
and every remaining drop
is a small sun,
still burning,
against the gathering dusk.
All this while things will be better
That is what we heard from our forefathers
Exactly from our elders
In our turn, the same thing on the button
When will we stop this affliction?
Africa cessation power from the
White to have full control of their country
Everyday Billions of money is going out
We only heard of it
Without know it payback
Our companies die down of token amount
Our schools is shack
Lantern to light
Our roads is down at heel
We own fuel yet we are still
Suffering for it
Poverty rampant the country
Derelict house is unaccountable as well as vagrant
Everyday they are receiving medals for serving their country
With all their might
Yet it is lie upon lie
They are riding exotic cars and living in mansion
They are using the interest of all as their own gain
When will you stop putting your people in dangers?
Very soon you will fall, you that are
Taint to our nation
The sea of true is as high as mountain
No matter how fast your lie can run
7/6/2015
Written July 31, 2015
In a land
Unbeknownst to me
With no compass to guide
No lantern to light the path that I seek
I look to the north star for
Milk and honey or a thousand virgins
Either would suit me
'Cause when you're a stranger in a strange land
No god in particular to seek
You may be praying the name of a foreigner's god
So show some respect every week
You'll need all the help you can get
When you're lonely and sick
Dying and weak
Be it God, Allah,
Or some guy named Pete
You'll look to the sky
In times of mourning and grief
So study up on all the Hindu gods
And don't dismiss false idols
Cause worshipping a toilet seat might be in next week
For those stuck on hypocrisy
Will sink in the sands of Sudan
And die in the jungles of Mosambique
No one will hear their cries
No one would even care
It's too late for that stranger in a strange land
Though they're not ready to die
When you're a stranger in a strange land
Rescind your pretentious motif
When you see a stranger in a strange land
Don't tread on their beliefs
Neighborhood
Dawn rises touching the hilltop - new light swelling with the smell of coffee and bacon. Eyes blink away the sandman’s residue, loud yawns like lions, footsteps in pj’s resound on staircases – breakfast - weekly allowance burns holes in jean pockets as neighborhood gang assembles on the first day of the weekend - our gang on Saturday.
the weekend routine
our gang gathers for a quest ~
allowances saved
Our street tries to sleep in on the weekend before raucous voices shatter the stillness at the home base telephone pole. Allowance in pockets, a noisy horde moves like locust swarms towards nirvana – free movies at the museum, sliding down granite lions from a Pharaoh’s Egypt, staring at relics from Amazon jungles.
rare artwork displays
jewels treasures of the past ~
wide eyes wondering
Not done yet! An hour for burger and fries. Race down the hill to the Roycroft event. Tickets a quarter, one box of candy – popcorn shared with a best friend. Booing the villains. Cheering Lone Ranger, Number One Son, stealthy Green Lantern, the Shadow and westerns – sheriff saves the damsel, proceeded by Elmer and Bugs. Can you guess who is on first? Just enough quarters left for a bus ride home!
superman batman
saturday at the movies ~
break for tired parents
9-2-20
Let the Pens Flow - Haibun
Sponsor: Jenish Somades
Walking along from the public house late that night
My lantern giving just a little light
My thoughts as I walked, was I very late?
The time unimportant the year eighteen thirty-eight.
A scream I heard, from a far off distance.
Commotion coming my way, do I make a stance?
A lone figure running towards me, I stop dead in my tracks.
Do I move aside or run away, or even turn right back.
My lamp is only a candle; its light is very dim.
I see a tall figure with glowing red eyes; he is tall and very thin.
With a hooked nose and ears, those look as if they are pointed
He bounds past in the lamp light, with a hood and cloak appointed.
I know not what it is, but to me it looks very evil.
Wrapped in cloak with hideous looks, I am sure it is the devil.
The mob that is chasing it, finds me standing in their way
With cudgels and with pitchforks, but they let me have my say.
Satisfied it was not me, the chase begins once again.
I join the mob in the chase; my heart begins to feels the strain.
We chase the devil along a dark narrow path hoping it makes a gaff
We catch up and corner him, he gives a demonic laugh.
The devil turns to the mob; he’s trapped by a fifteen foot hedge.
His laugh rings out his claws are drawn, silver talons, light glistening on the edge.
One of the mob shoots at him, but the devil opens his mouth wide.
Blue flames and fire shoot from it, blinding the shooter, who steps aside.
The devil leaps the hedge with a great agility
I am aghast with fear and shock, a demonic laugh reaches me.
We stand not knowing what it was, will it be coming back?
A voice from the mob, whispers you know what…
That was spring heeled Jack
Spring Heeled Jack was seen during the time of Jack the Ripper in the streets of London in 1838.
If a poet falls in love with you
you will live forever.
Atticus Finch - To kill a mockingbird.
In the midst of conundrums, of 'what ifs.'
I dislike the ocean,
its bitter saltiness, brings no joy.
Perched safely, upon the highest cliff,
watching waves surge upon the shore.
They are a constant reminder of
how you waved goodbye.
Each ripple carried you away - forever.
Lost in reflection,
sentimental memories remain eternal.
Recalling how the sun caressed your face,
mirroring your spirited smile -
like a lantern in my darkness.
Still unforgettable -
the joy in those soulful eyes -
each time you glanced at me.
Nonchalantly, I would follow you.
As we walked without a care -
you never seeming to tire.
In our youthful playground,
rusty see-saws and swings
still remember our laughter and tears -
that first sophomoric kiss
and I can still taste you.
When night would arrive,
there was no fear, hand in hand.
You were like a mystical pixie,
glowing in the enchantment of moonlight -
it would illuminate through your eyes.
We could have danced all night,
our souls ascending to the heavens.
But, I was afraid of new horizons,
because, I knew you would depart -
just like a shooting star.
Without thinking,
I broke your heart -
before you could heal mine.
I remain in the silence of 'what ifs.'
But, I smile, content -
knowing that once there was a time,
your heart and mine,
merged like day and night.
Simple Musing
4 July 2020
This is a fictional poem.
An example for the 'One who got away' contest.
Written: September 10, 2026, for a contest by Brian Strand
OPEN FORM created by Brian Strand in lowercase without grammatical symbols, uses spaces&breaks relying upon 'the one breath limitation' & as a 'happening' requires the 'reader' (reciter) to input &respond in a two way interplay & interpretatIon unique to the moment& changing according to mood & thus is inherently variable.
**************
a bird I cannot name
hunches on a weathered fence
watching last light
withdraw across field
where earth has healed
evening tarnished amber glow
except when trapped in wheat
where one crimson bloom stays dyed—
small enough to miss
stubborn enough to stay
perhaps we are not meant
to become whole again—
only luminous
where we broke
each fracture
a narrow window—
through which
something unutterable
makes its entrance
I gather no answers
only scattered weather
of who I was
a feather of silence
a little ash of longing
an afterglow of voices
I can no longer hold
yet beyond obvious
a sympathetic spirit sways
in a mood of morning—
not hope exactly
but ancient instinct
of a seed
that has outlived its flower
and yet
keeps reaching
through darkness
I woke
with dust of old selves
still silvering my lungs—
cobwebs
where my heart had once
hung its small lantern
I opened my eyes
nothing miraculous
only pale machinery
of morning
turning
& inside me
a record scratching
against that same sentence—
Lily at the Roots
Today I walked into the lonely house of myself.
That is where my inward journey started.
The doors were heavy with cold and the dust of sorrow.
The windows were locked and rusted,
as if they had seen too many storms
and decided to shut forever.
The floor was cracked and scattered,
covered in dry autumn leaves that whispered of grief.
The walls wore black spider webs like old scars.
Muddy frames held sad paintings behind broken glass.
Worries had settled there like grey ash.
Everything felt broken, dusty and dark.
It was clear no one had come here in a long time.
I climbed the stairs.
Under my feet they felt like desert sand,
shifting and trying to pull me down.
Then in the middle of that grief-filled room
I saw it, a large beautiful tree.
It stood there like a stranger, like a quiet ghost.
Its branches were bare with no leaves,
but still its presence caught me.
I went close and touched it gently.
And it gave my soul peace.
It gave me back a piece of happiness.
At its roots grew a white lily.
The white lily, a lantern in the dark.
The white lily, hope with soft petals.
The white lily, purity learning to grow from pain.
Its scent was calmness. Its presence was healing.
That is when I understood.
This is the light inside me.
This is my courage, my strength, my growth.
Yes there is grief in me. Yes there is pain.
But my soul is still calm. Still bright. Still strong.
I am healing.
And the white lily will remain,
proof that even in a broken house
something pure can still bloom.
Light to the Blind
Light spills like mercy,
but the blind man holds the torch
its glow wasted, meaningless,
a lantern swinging in empty hands,
casting shadows on truth’s worn face.
He wears the crown of power,
eyes veiled behind curtains of greed,
blind to the rivers of suffering,
deaf to the cries of broken souls,
blind to the burning streets
beneath his throne.
Light meant to guide, to warm, to heal
becomes a cruel, glaring weapon,
blinding the lost deeper into darkness,
while he stands unmoved
a king in a realm of night.
Truth flickers like a dying candle,
but his blindness swallows its flame.
No meaning, no warmth, no path,
only cold light thrown on empty promises,
reflections of a fractured world.
The people stumble,
hands outstretched to the unseen dawn,
searching for hope behind his veil.
But light to the blind
is nothing but a cruel joke
a beacon with no sight,
a promise left unfulfilled.
How long will we follow
the glow of hollow lamps,
while the blind lead us blindly?
When will the dawn come,
when the light finds eyes to see
and hands to heal?