Long Layering Poems
Long Layering Poems. Below are the most popular long Layering by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Layering poems by poem length and keyword.
Is the tangerine tranquility
of divine signature—
a chlorophyll sanctum
for kindled minds,
where identity softens
into its sovereign form.
Uniqueness glistens
like diamonds in agate woods,
flowing like a brook
through silenced seastorms,
casting resilient ripples
of peace in chaos.
Kaleidoscopic hues
lather liberation
in lilac breath,
woven through rose-glazed silk,
layering thy self
beyond binary divides.
Weaving a raspberry mirage,
condensing orbits once defined,
gravity kneels to lucid silhouettes —
where polarization, veiled in vines,
drifts through phantoms of shadowed memes,
labeling itself among quiet captives.
Appearance deceives—
a haunted massacre,
gnawing at edges
of borrowed illusions,
trapped in the coffin
of jinxed confessions.
Still, I yearn for that foetal light—
a harlequin armour
on mannequin soul,
held by the thinnest threads
of clairvoyant defiance,
tethered to becoming.
Dusk drapes the horizon
in crimson hush,
penning butter-paper dreams
into the murmuring breeze,
where buried silence exhales
fractured fragments of valour.
It was 29° (f) degrees this morning with a waning gibbous (¾) moon. Still, as we started our run, it was dark enough that the world was rendered in black and white. Lisa was a sepia print of herself while Charles was a large, quiet shadow, a dark visual noise pattern.
We usually jog from our dorm, down to and along New Haven Harbor and back. Lisa and I love the ocean. The wind was in our faces this morning and there were no sparkling moon refractions in our direction, which made the water musou and colorless.
I’ve gotten my outfit down to a science, leggings under shorts, four long sleeve, dry-wicking spandex tops (layering is important), a power-wool-earflap-beanie, thermal neck gaiter and quantum, icebreaker gloves (with touch-screen compatibility) - you gotta dress warmly but be able to shed layers as needed.
I listen to audiobooks while we run. Right now, I’m on book 5 of the ‘The Expanse’ series. I don’t have time to read anything fun these days, so I listen to science-fiction/fantasy while I work-out. I love the new AirPod Pro feature that automatically turns the sound down if anyone talks.
I wear a fitbit charge around my right ankle and my Apple watch as well - they both track my run - the fitbit is more accurate but my watch sends my workout stats to my siblings - we’re uhh, sort of competitive.
At first, as we came up on the harbor, it was impossible to see the intersection of the two dark oceans - the great terrestrial and the greater galactic - but as we turned for home, there was an atmospheric scatter of blue at the edge of the horizon, heralding the sunrise on our retreating backs.
musou = one of the darkest shades of black
I see you set sail amidst the lucid sky,
finally free after saving me
Braving the stench-filled moat
as if you were crossing a lavender field
I tried to reach you,
but my fingers only touch crepuscular rays,
as my dream crumbles back to reality
There you are
Still
-blending in the shadows
futilely fighting your own dragons
building your fort with fire and ire
layering your defenses, brick by brick
Still towering
yet forever shackled
I tried to break through you,
but I was the one that got shattered;
The only one
to realize
that we were never made of stone
Dear Lord, while we are still down here, please be ever with us…until then.
The time will come when we will never sleep
and ‘You’ will encompass our every view…
where at every turn, we’ll be so aware
of Your love, audaciously…layering like dew.
The time will come when the very atmosphere
will swathe us in Your joyous delight…
as amid chords of praiseful songs
wings fluttering softly…take flight.
Time will come…Your perfect tranquility
will never take a reprieve…
in that promised lavish place
that will stand eternally…without trace of grieve.
But, until then, O God…
we beg You, keep us strong.
Until then, Yahweh…
let us not forget to whom we belong.
Until then, Father…
we implore Thee, please …hold us tight…
‘til…our souls know no more darkness
and our days know no more night.
Carry us over the raging floods of rancor
be the hope…we so often discard.
Secure us through this hard life with anchor
Lord, be the assurance we sometimes dodge.
Renew our battered faith...
be that…peace…we do not comprehend...
cheer us on as we run this race, please…Dear Jesus…!
Be e-v-e-r-y-t-h-i-n-g we need…Until Then.
[Verse 1 – Sparse piano, falsetto opening]
Sailing toward a horizon I’ll never touch
Whispers break me, it’s all too much
I’ve left the beach
The sun stood still, the breeze was kind
Now I’m adrift and out of time
I can’t find peace
[Chorus – Ambient synths begin layering, slow build]
Only you...
Even in the deep, I dream of you
Even when I fall, I fall for you
I reach for light, but it's breaking through
Only...
You
[Verse 2 – Light beat pulses in, tension builds]
The waves, they crash, they carry pain
Salt on my lips, it calls your name
And I'm to blame
My love has gone, and stars don't shine
Each tide I face pulls back my mind
To when you were mine
[Chorus – Bigger, higher range, backing harmonies begin]
Only you...
Even as I drown, I fall for you
Even when I’m lost, I’m lost in you
The tide won’t turn, but my soul knew—
Only...
You
[Bridge – Choir-like harmonies, ambient textures swirl]
I’m sinking low, the silence screams
You were the light inside my dreams
If love could breathe, I’d breathe again
Just one more chance to hold you then
Salt in my chest, your scent remains
A final kiss through liquid pain
If this is death, then let it be...
Where you and I still meet beneath
The waves...
[Final Chorus – Gospel-style climax, emotional peak]
Only you...
Even in the dark, I shine for you
Even as I fade, I burn so true
This heart won’t stop, it’s beating through
Only...
Only you...
You.
Can I can expound, like an oracle, both embodied and metaphorical,
holding collapse and pattern together at once—in a one-two punch?
Poetry has an awkwardness that makes grammar feel hazardous,
there’s a tired slipperiness to poetic form that’s seldom rapturous.
I stumble blind along a boulevard of uneven sentences,
tripping on rhyming rubble, dodging puddles of punctuation,
parked beat patterns, broken themes and literary pretenses.
I drift half-awake down corridors of clause and clutter,
sidestepping commas, cracked cadences, the debris of technique
and the stalled traffic of half-finished thoughts best not uttered.
Poems are concerned with stanzas, form, pace and sound,
that flow rather awkwardly, when the rhyme is unsound.
No GPS can map grammatical faults, predict didactic turns
or diagnose a disordered phrasing, as if physical curves -
thus avoiding the flaws of internal rhythm and rhyme in my words.
I use vignette as my prescriptive technique, trying to build clearer
thoughts, through the architecture of sentence - offering rhetorical mirrors
that smooth over fractures - generously layering narrative with example,
evidence, and explanation - with controlling literary tricks, like preamble.
Which should win—which is better—the poem or the vignette?
Step right up—readers—place your bets.
.
.
A song for this:
Go Left by Radiant Children
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youtu.be/nY60hmGcSYk?is=pox6fHBACQ_bsP3j
Dream Keys
by Odin Roark
A NY mantra
Rent the rentable
Move the movable
Key the keyable
Apartments
Four-wall-guardian of yesterday’s youth
Vacuous cellmates of old age loneliness
All part of a cyclic maze
All having a key
Urban life’s Rubik’s Cube turnover
Today’s the day
“Two rooms”
“New paint”
“Clean window”
“No-squeaky floorboards”
Superintendent loves to present
Move in
Keys
Entrance door
Mailbox
Apartment
Laundry room
All yours
A windowsill vase of plastic roses
Your welcome of faded memories
The window to the people below
Your traveled city as roommate
Through another glass darkly
Gotta love it
Pea green layering
Over cracked and peeling bygones
Your very own chipped-paint scrapbook
A giant shoebox of ghostly images
Once possessing your castle-keys
Settle in
Struggle
Dream
Survive
Stand at your window
Watch canyon updrafts
Swirl your make-believe snowflakes
Carrying them skyward
Mixing with sparkling darkness
Where every star is yours
Count the days
Where light to see
Will be owned by neighboring towers
Where former tenants came young
Left old
Where thrown cups and china
Christened walls
And confinement’s anger and tears
Found solace in an ever inviting empty bathtub
Where pounding fists
Rattled bathroom door hinges
While a child hid beneath a bed
Smiling tearful thanks
A wanderlust roach
His ever-faithful friend
All yours
Here
Where a Sammy Glick got started
And an undergrad
An engineer
A Radical leftist
A piano teacher
All touched
All turned
All once secured your keys
So
Add your imprint
Become tomorrow’s remembered page
The scrapbook knows no end
This is Manhattan
Scenes will erupt
Hysterics will rebirth
Life will live
Maybe live some more
Then
Your turn to pass the keys
Your turn to pile worn memories at the curb
Mattresses always appreciated
Stand across the street
Watch the ever-smiling Super
Hand the keys to the next habitant
And then…
Go
Never to forget your contribution
Leaving behind another preparatory memory
Allowing the coming year
Your next season of imaginings
To dream of another home
Somewhere
Waiting…
Gifted with keyless entry?
Loneliness gone?
Before you I am your canvas blank
Delicately to paint linear and in liquid hues
Dripping and splashing we two drank
Forceful stimulated strokes you use
Layering the colors upon my surface
With a precision your brush does flow
Emphasis laid on expressive purpose
As your artistic viewing eye grows
Articulate precisely what you paint
Evoking sensuousness as you drip
Vigorous sweeping technique no restraint
Finesse done with your own workmanship
When strokes become feverous and fast
To the last stroke felt with ecstasy
To add your very own lust contrast
Finally leaving us right here at ease
Contest; Metaphor of love
Sponsor: Bobby.May
Date; 11/1/2019
A field of wheat cloaked in dewy silence
the orchestra tunes up with avian arias
bullfrog basses and a choir of cawing crows,
xanthic sunflowers turning their heads to better see,
the daylight trajectory commencing with lazuline layering,
a breeze glissandoes on harps of oak leaves
tomorrow is now today,
and I am grateful.
An officer of the law taps on my door
my breath and heartbeat screech to a sudden stop
preparing for the next-of-kin speech, or
where-were-you-on-the-night-of-the-23rd interrogation,
instead she informs me my car is ten inches in the red
and with a smile suggests I move it before I get a citation
pulse resumes as oxygen reunites with lungs,
and I am grateful.
A mask sitting by the front door; my ticket to commerce
the media replaying riot scenes, lockdown measures,
sporting event cancellations, worship restrictions,
death tolls, closed restaurants, and drive-by graduations.
Yet I am virus-free, housed, gainfully employed,
surrounded by family and electronically socialized,
I have my necessities: I am well-fed, well-loved,
and I am grateful.
written 30 Aug 2020
I hit the master switch
And all the lights and racks come on at once
The mood lights overhead, the rack equipment, flashing, glowing
Keyboards, amps, mixer, recorder, effects, EQ, sound mods, sequencers
Screens, laptop, pedals, playback system, and reference monitors ...
All with their own sets of colored LED's shining, flashing
Seems a silly thing, but my heart surges whenever I hit that switch
For that is IT to me ... there's nothing I do that brings me more satisfaction
Recording and producing music that I've written
Arranging and programming the drums and percussion
Layering the keyboard and guitar parts
Piano, electric piano, organ, strings, horns, synth sounds
Building the rhythm tracks around the melody and vocals I know are coming
And, ultimately, adding the vocals, the lead first
Then the background vocals, layering harmonies to support the lead
Often a solo section last, a guitar or sax or synth solo, but always after vocals
That's the frosting on the cake for me, to wind it together
When I'm satisfied with everything, individually, I do the final mix
This is the key, and the most delicate and precise part of the process
Very often I'll take days on the final mix alone, for it must be PERFECT!
It goes to the mastering boys at 'Bernie Grundman' when I'm done
That's an expensive process, so the least amount of clock they use, the better
If there are issues with my final mix, everything slows down
That raises costs, so I HAVE to be sure of the final mix.
That studio, and everything it holds, is my refuge
Yes, it's my work as well, but even if not, it would still take most of my time
That's why I consider it my hobby, too
I'd be doing it anyway regardless, and it's what I love the MOST
The whole creative process, from writing the song until it's off to mastering
THAT'S my joy, and those little lights are like Christmas for me
That studio is my heaven, and I feel better each time I'm there
No matter WHAT life brings my way, no matter how dark
I shed the clouds when I hit that switch and that equipment goes on
My joy, my hobby, my work, my life
There's little that compares.
Written and submitted on February 24, 2019
For the "Hobbies" Poetry Contest
Julie Leigh Rodeheaver, judge & Sponsor.