Long Lilt Poems
Long Lilt Poems. Below are the most popular long Lilt by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Lilt poems by poem length and keyword.
It was a memorable evening, bright
with my beautiful, charming fiancé
(once my wretched, tormented heart's delight)
near the old village of Fatheringay.
Drawn by the lilt of a whispery voice,
we found ourselves in a dark, rustic pub.
An inner misgiving questioned our choice.
A man served drinks from a hook on a stub.
After imbibing a strange, bubbling brew,
we dawdled the full moon-lit countryside.
In the lunar light, her eyes shone light blue -
mine, a phosphorus glow, like Mr. Hyde.
We gazed at the Hydra constellation,
where the Ghost of Jupiter nebula
somehow unfastened my reservation,
as its image fell on my retina.
That my grandfather was a lycanthrope,
and a mad cascade of serpentine thoughts,
this myriad of disclosures doused hope
(a demented disconnection of dots).
The vile dreams would slither back to their hole
too late for my near bride of eighteen.
The strong brew's effects had taken their toll.
My love was never again to be seen.
No, my true love was no more to be seen.
The migratory mind
indomitable,
of the spirited surfer
possessed,
waltzes on waves of life,
curled crests climb
demented,
fling the fractured moon,
dark troughs descend
despondent,
with sequins of sunk stars,
recede with the ebb of time,
seek the seraphic shore
of the passionate past,
entranced.
The shifting sands
sculpt seaward footprints,
contoured as the corroded
design of decay,
time arrow finds
the designated course
destined,
to the temporal topography
denuded at the edge
of the fading timeline,
framing flaked facsimile
of eroded existential wasteland
abandoned,
where emptiness engulfs
enthused,
the splintered spectrum
of the sanguinity rainbow,
crumbled.
The disillusion-tangled terrain
within hollowness deep
piles up the wreckage
of languished lilt of life
unlived,
turns the chromatic garden
to debris dump
in the winter of discontent
invasive,
the pathway paved
outside its frail fence
waits to be walked
fascinated,
to the mesmeric meadow
of turquoise tomorrow,
waiting.
Innate invention intuition
permeates perceptive memory
innovative,
with arcane acumen,
the art of alchemy
enigmatic,
glitters gold
in the rusted crust of ruins
where marigold blooms
in the junkyard
on the scrap stack
of the bleak being,
with the transforming touch
of the Midas mind,
masked.
h e a r this h e a r t …
as hurt hangs low
with cursed fidelity
of fame-lit fakeness,
attached to expectations ~
as wraith-leaves coil
around my neck,
under the veil
of mockingbirds,
wearing a cape of blames
and futile boldness,
caught up in
the hypocritic hisses,
where life is tangled
in a sprawling spool
of moon-moths ~
dwindling in
dreamless desires
where materialistic
monks lilt away
in fatal laughs,
and your crimes
remain lethal,
mummified like a
feather-dressed devil,
taming the loyalty
that laments
without the lustre
of Lucifer
in calcified flames …
lifeless … I lurk ~
in the estuary
of dyslexic dialects
running across
those spinal clusters ~
stemming aimlessly,
from the
kryptonite backbone
of kohl-kissed sky,
these headless
accusations
cannot kill me
with the haunt
of telepathic terror,
because, I am
massacred till the
apocalypse of ashes,
pressed between
barbaric petals
of sunset sapiens
and sea-smiths,
one amongst the
awakened dead ,
feasted upon
and forgotten ~
by those
opportunistic
omen-keepers
roaring in the
carcasses of
vivacious vultures …
some skeletons
do not weep
waning fossils ~
within fondescent tombs,
rather, they
metamorphose
into a twilight-
tipped tree ,
bearing the burden
of unblossomed
spirits who refuse
to let go ~
of their delusional
weightlessness,
as they remain
a shackled souvenir
of satanic inflictions,
that the reaper
could not obliviate.
so, you cannot
set me aflame
with aries eyes,
for, there … uprooted,
I am the Madonna ,
the skull of a
hopeless sorceress
left abandoned ,
as an obsidian oasis
of the femme fatale,
shipwrecked
in your deserted heart …
for, this horizon is nothing,
but a vessel of venom,
a framework
made of bones
and stardust frost ~
where poets perish
pulse by pulse ,
and souls lurk
in osteoporotic caves,
like ticking grenades
in the monet of time …
" but I wish,
if only my satanic tears
could be touched by painless paint ~
unafraid to the horror ,
of the artist's frozen eternity … "
*** Inspired by the artwork ~ Ghosts on a Tree, by Franz Sedlacek, 1933.
My song at daybreak is abundant with optimism.
The dawn brings gentle melodies,
As the sun peeps over the darkened horizon,
My song embarks on a song of grace,
As the suns golden orb is appearing
And lightens the darkened sky.
It brings vibrant colour to a sleeping realm.
My song springs into full illustrious voice.
Lyrics flooding the countryside with hope for a joyful day.
Welcoming the day with words of wonder,
Its clear voice waking the birds and all that slumber.
The wafting breeze brings tuneful chords,
And the lilting song takes flight with a symphony of sound.
Percussion breaks the sweet serenade with thunderous excitement,
as the earth proclaims its power dominating the land,
with a brief thunderstorm with tumultuous baritone resonance,
As the vibrato heralds the peace resuming her sway.
The somber soulful song entered by a soprano’s lilt,
And lingers into a delightful aria pronouncing the relax of the day,
Embraced by the landscape falling into shadow,
As the sun slides lower, the tune is carried by the flute’s sweet array.
The crimson sphere sinking below the hills and the serenade fades away.
As the light is engulfed by the silence of the dark night once more.
A Collaboration betwixt J. Webb and memself.
The New Boy
David J Walker
The boys playing in the alley
Turned into a prehistoric combat team
As soon as they learned
That a New Kid was in town and
Had stepped on their turf
The Rock Fight was four on one
When it begun and could not
be avoided even though
Most rocks flew through the air
Hitting inanimate objects everywhere
untargeted
I drew the only blood spilt
In the killing zone when the lilt
in one little boy's voice cracked in pain
and went crying home with a
Bloodied Lower Lip
There was a truce for the night and the
Next day the leader of their gang fight
Became
My new best friend
When Dad heard
He just said
You could have put his eye out
You know
And that’s when the threat
of another rock fight
Came to an end
Until another new boy moved in
A child of the Living King
A tune of praise she'll often sing
Her cup filled with the Living Water
She shares with all,
She's the King's daughter
Dancing from poem to poem,
Like a butterfly serenely
The poetess Regina
Humble, yet so queenly
A child of the Living King
A tune of praise she'll often sing
A lilt of joy within her praises
She shares with all,
His banner raises
Pouring gently from her flow
Of beauty that we always know
Flows genuinely from her soul
Serving Him, her upward goal
A child of the Living King
A tune of praise she'll often sing
Lifting hearts, we sense a smile
That shines out as we read awhile
River flowing poem by poem,
His kingdom vast, her heart His home
Sharing joy, faith, hope and peace
Her lovely writings do not cease
A child of the Living King
A tune of praise she'll often sing
To read her poems, is; o' my gosh
We love Regina McIntosh!
Posted June 15th 2021
I hear the mesmeric music
of leaves in autumn concerto,
where fall’s melody ripples with the rustle of rejoice,
for each leaf is a feather “foliage of farewell”,
painted with the flowing glint of gold
on the morning mural of diamond dew diadem.
You’re a lone tree in the fawn forest,
the branches taking to the pale sky your gleaming green.
For a while in your cool shade I want to rest,
“as the leaf of life sleeps upon my lips...”
I see the crimson canopy play with the sun,
hear the song the leaves sing with the lilt of breeze.
With the ambrosia of autumn romance
you come floating in my sky
like the wisp of chromatic clouds.
Its flushed fringe fashions the lattice of yearning,
turning my love into a beguiled butterfly,
flittering in the garden of fervor,
where with the lyric of the lilac leaves ends with the ode,
“O fall, let this lore of love be the last...”
You glisten in the golden gleam of twilight,
your smile retains the slender slivers of sunrise
in the cloud’s silver lines shining in my sanguine sky,
“for neither dusk nor dawn can delude me.”
With the storm surge of yearning
from autumn’s color mélange you emerge
as the fallen leaves embrace your aureate face.
My love weaves the mystique motif of desire
“when the soul-stars dream and die...”
It came to come;
with no trumpet call,
no fanfare flair,
no grand parade,
just dust, after all.
It came to be;
without a plan,
without a dream,
of what becoming
really means.
It came to pass;
a lingering lilt of longing,
played with a chorus,
of echoes coming
from distant thrills.
It came to ask;
why no answers given,
to questions asked,
about why your dreaming
has not moved on to deeming.
It came to fate;
which begins with -
what's to come of me,
and ends with -
see what you made me do!
It came to end;
with a full stop, period,
a pirouette, soiree spun;
a gasp, a blink, a sigh,
then, it came to come.
a bouquet …
exquisitely exquisite
like naught else on this gilded planet
blooming on tender branches
supple and swaying
‘una flor fragante’
silken and sweet
pink petals open to entice … entirely
it’s lilt, aromatic
whirls thoughts like an eggbeater into
a carnal chaos
it’s synergy directing a
divine dermal dissolution of discretion
bane of the omnipotent
the fearless turned fools for its magic …
and madness …
inviolate or prurient
it has made kings out of paupers
twisted wills to wars
spun orbs on their axes
and made the universe of unions
ache for its aspect
the imperfect perfection of its
bewildering allurement
and the satiny seduction of
it’s beguiling floret -
the flower …
feminine.
( photographic art created copyright-free by the author with GALA AI software )
* This form is called BOOKEND FREE VERSE, which is simply a free verse poem that starts and ends with the same word or phrase. *
~
oh, heaven …
I beg atonement -
she is your dear sister
and had you and I met first this tragedy of
fates would not have
found purchase
we would not be cursed to
this horrid … ache
this pain of passion’s abnegation …
for whenever I hear her edgy vocalizations
it turns to the lilt of your whisper in my ear …
when I hold her hand
I pretend your fingers have twined the
perfected spaces between mine …
each time I look in her eyes
I see the mirror of my love for you
swimming in the dark music of your gaze …
and when she presses her
mouth to mine, I close my eyes and
dream that it is the sugary fruit of
your lips and tongue that are
playing a sexy game of hide-and-seek
with mine …
I have tried with
every cognitive effort I can rally
to deny this twist of fate -
to squelch these feelings that churn so
deeply within my heart and core
and to channel the firing of the synapses
within my brain in directions that flow away
from this horrid crossing of our stars
but every waking, (and sleeping), moment that
I live and actualize, is filled with
your visage, your aroma, the very essence of
all that encompasses you
and I am doomed -
ill-fated beyond ransom
to battle this compulsion for the rest of
my days … and nights …
and today, with just a touch -
just a deliberate brush of
your silky fingers upon my cheek
and a coy bat of your eye
you proved to me that you share in this
dream that can never be -
that your heart and flesh yearn
for mine the same way I desire yours
and that is the one truth I did not want to realize -
ever …
for the only thing that
made it all bearable was the thought
that you didn’t care -
that you didn’t see me the same way …
now …
now I know you DO
and what was just an ache has
become an obsession and a torturous need
and I fear I’m not strong enough -
not nearly strong enough
to keep resisting …
oh, heaven!