Long Lily Poems
Long Lily Poems. Below are the most popular long Lily by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Lily poems by poem length and keyword.
Blessed is the man who trusts only in the Lord,
and whose confidence is in the Lord.
For he will be just like a tree that's planted by a stream,
and will not fear the heat for his leaves will be green.
Give up your life, be molded by the Potter's loving hand,
give to Him your heart, and let Him start His master plan.
When I get near sighted, Lord and can't see past today,
remind me that your master plan is always the best way.
Take a look at the birds of the air, they don't sow nor reap nor store
and yet your Father feeds them, are you not worth much more?
See the lilies of the field never worry for they know
that the master plan is in God's hand.
We know that all things work for good for those who love the Lord,
who are called according to His will to act upon His Word.
Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death,
I will fear no evil for He is my life and breath.
And when my dreams are shattered, it's because they're made of glass;
dreams built by the Carpenter are made to last.
Then when my castles crumble it's because they're built on sand,
I've got to build my home upon the Rock, just like the Master planned.
Take a look at the birds of the air, they don't sow nor reap nor store
and yet your Father feeds them, are you not worth much more?
See the lilies of the field never worry for they know
that the master plan is in God's hand.
written 1 Nov 1979
Every year from spring through fall, if you peered between the cattails you could see the swans in the center of the pond, head to head, their love peering back. On the pond's edges, from the tops of lily pads, frogs were singing of love's song as dragon flies frolicked gleefully above. We would sit and watch them countless hours, day after day as they gracefully swayed to the rhythm encircled in the reflections of love. One year in the dawning of spring, he returned alone, we watched him slowly swim with downcast head to the center of the pond, within the shadows of lost love he'd pause in the ripples that surrounded him, his sadness reaching the edges of the pond, where abandoned lily pads tilted downward caught in the spirals of his lonely tears. He still comes to the pond, muddied and alone from spring through fall, through clouded eyes we still watch him swim, wreathed within his pain we taste his loneliness.
head downcast, he swims
enclosed in the pond's ripples
his tears splashing back
October 12, 2019
Writing Challenge, October, 2019 -Bird-
Sponsor, Dear Heart - Wiishkobi Ode
People said she was ugly,
this simple girl of fifteen springs.
At home she didn’t have a mirror,
because her parents thought
her fragile heart would break
if she saw her face so very ugly.
She liked to be alone
with herself, often going out,
to swing her legs in the clear water
of the nearby placid pond,
and play with the floating water lilies,
but never ventured to go in the deeper
waters for she didn’t know how to swim.
One full moon night
when the shining water was calm,
she saw the pond turn into a mirror,
reflecting her ugly face
onto her shocked eyes.
She then decided not to look
in the water mirror ever again,
but would make a special mirror
of her own that would show
her a beautiful face she longed to see.
She earnestly did this
polishing a steel plate
with the sturdy stems of water lily,
and made the magic mirror of her own,
where she saw her smiling face
as beautiful as the flower.
She then told people,
her mirror could magically turn
all faces into lovely flowers.
People said she had become insane.
This made her inordinately sad,
but found consoling refuge
and joy in her image she saw,
smiling like the water lily
in the magic mirror
One spring, in the gleaming twilight hours,
when the pond water was rippling the hues
of the setting sun, she was plucking the water lilies,
her magic mirror she carried always with her,
slipped from her unwary hand,
and as it submerged and disappeared
in the deep waters,
she immediately plunged
on an impulse in the pond,
and sank with the mirror at the bottom
and lay motionless to see
for the last time her smiling face lying beside
her magic mirror.
On her sixteenth birthday
people found the pond
covered with blooming water lilies,
they said beautiful.
__________________
January 14, 2023
Contest : Metrical Tale
Sponsored by : Hilo Poet
The Dilettante Diaries: "In Stasis, Black Iris"
Oriental Lily's
Stamen bleeds
blush ochre dust
like icing sugar
duelling tongues
sweet captive
musk
over stagnant
white pure perfume
Stains soft feather fingerprints
sweet bruises across warm velvet skin
imprints a new story
a kiss lingers
there just there
you know where
secret whispers begin
Again
Again
Ripe Tiger Lily
purrs
petals opening
languid longing
Luscious
Laugh
Vibrant
Sin
Again
Again
Velvet revolver
deep
like
Turin
Worships
the
Holy Ground
She grows in
new secrets sown
something grows
something begins
Again
Again
Aquarius eyes
languid pools
for windows
drinks her in
like a
hummingbird
drinks her
charms within
Leo addictive deep
crimson
she is vibrating
Life
draws you in
Luna cool
kisses her
heat
she is the
Sun
revolving
you her muse
a lesson for now,
lean in
A revolver cocked
for killing past hurts
opens petals
ruinous
deep ripe purple
plum
unfurls
begins
begins
again
again
Evergreen
Verdant
Elixir they
sleep to dream
Just words
in the
luminiferous aether
waiting
waiting
waiting
intoxicating
New Chapter
In Stasis is
Black Iris
Surrenders
control
relenquished
Souls are
transforming
trading
Black Iris
lies in waiting
(Lovejoy-Burton/September, 2018)
1. Georgia O'Keeffe, "Black Iris", 1926
2. https://www.georgiaokeeffe.net/
3. https://www.npr.org/2011/07/21/138467808/stieglitz-and-okeeffe-their-love-and-life-in-letters
4. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QEdKPHGHoMc
I was caught up by her blaze
From the very first day
All that night it was her face
That kept reflecting while I lay
I tried to write to her a verse
Be that as it may
It didn't worth her gracious grace
She is brighter than the day
She's the sun in the morning
And the stars that shines at night
She has taken away my frowning
And at night she is my light
She is a lily, she's a rose
She is priceless to her toes
She is no mortal, she's an angel
To be vocal, she is my angel.
DATE: 24/04/2019
NAME OF CONTEST: 'I’m Crushing On You' Contest Info
NAME OF CONTEST SPONSOR: Julie Leigh Rodeheaver
(Dedicated to one of my childhood friends)
You were one of those charming lilies
that bloomed, so fresh, in my springtime pond;
when my homesick wings of longings flutter and soar,
and my mind alights
on the periphery of the playparks of the past,
I reminisce all the little fun we had
along with our other friends -
as we strolled through the narrow trails
in the verdant flowery meadow
that sprawled near our school
during the tender years of our lives.
The giggles and the laughter
the chuckles and the chatter -
those shrieks and the squeals
that baffled even the needles of time
to forget their own pace
and hop and waltz along with us.
Then roads diverged, new air we breathed
as we took new paths to pursue our purposes in life.
Years later, you arrived once very near my place
yet we could not connect and get ourselves to meet.
That day when we talked on the phone
and I heard your voice after a very long time,
my mind leapt for joy and soaked for some time
in a summer drizzle of rainbow memories -
of those I had long forgotten
as you reminded them to me in our chat -
they linger on like pleasant petrichor.
Later, I tried to recollect and sing our childhood songs
rhyming it perfect with the
unrhyming clamor of our choruses.
When commitments in work and family responsibilities
seem to have rusted the gate to my nostalgic dam -
your call was the key to open it - and when creaking opened
wistful emotions gushed forth
to form an ocean of yearnings
to be a child once more.
You revived the puddles of my mind with paper boats
that carry leaves, stems, and flowers of fond memories.
I felt like a gleeful kite in the vast blue,
fleeing for a moment from the humdrum day.
You will forever be the same charming lily
adorning my little lake of most treasured blossoms.
My bestie, my soul-sis.
Remember
when they thought my heart will commit a suicide
ramming at the ribs
but you prevent opening my chest
saying how heart just need some more time
you knew how people change
when they cut them open and bleed them out
then the tissues collide and some new fluid fills the void
you didn't want me to change
and loved me just the way I am
mother of my mother
I apologize if I have interrupted the cycle
couldn't let you go
(with unwashed hands)
then wingless horse died in my arms
now discontinued souls
lay scattered all over the chessboard
and I don't know will love endure
mother of my mother
your body was fully equipped for death
(couldn't let you go)
so I tried to seize that residual ray of hope and paint the light
but you missed the number
lily from our garden faded away
and our family puzzles went on a rampage
the absence flipped their masks
(you always said nothing is for nothing)
I saw them in the churchyard
they had currency in their cry
as your face changed
I could felt how all voids went drained
and the last piece of my tears fell next to the resting
(there was no new fluid)
Nette Onclaud’s contest, Seasons Now and After,
August 11, 2025.
Autumn is here! some flowers still blooming,
but the first freeze is forecast in the news.
Gorgeous flowers face gardeners’ fuming;
every autumn we mourn the garden blues.
The next few days display the dreary glimpse
of what autumn’s coolness chose to unlock.
With sword-like sudden drop in autumn temps,
we find free growth is foiled by yearly shock.
And yet my whimsi-calla lily thrives.
Out of habit, she holds sway o'er first frost.
Like my precious baby’s breath she survives.
I savor these days, summer is not lost.
Sweet Rose of Virtue
by William Dunbar [1460-1525]
translation by Michael R. Burch
Sweet rose of virtue and of gentleness,
delightful lily of youthful wantonness,
richest in bounty and in beauty clear
and in every virtue that is held most dear,
except only that you are merciless.
Into your garden, today, I followed you;
there I saw flowers of freshest hue,
both white and red, delightful to see,
and wholesome herbs, waving resplendently,
yet everywhere, no odor but rue.
I fear that March with his last arctic blast
has slain my fair rose of pallid and gentle cast,
whose piteous death does my heart such pain
that, if I could, I would compose her roots again,
so comforting her bowering leaves have been.
Desdemona
by Michael R. Burch
Though you possessed the moon and stars,
you are bound to fate and wed to chance.
Your lips deny they crave a kiss;
your feet deny they ache to dance.
Your heart imagines wild romance.
Though you cupped fire in your hands
and molded incandescent forms,
you are barren now, and?spent of flame?
the ashes that remain are borne
toward the sun upon a storm.
You, who demanded more, have less,
your heart within its cells of sighs
held fast by chains of misery,
confined till death for peddling lies?
imprisonment your sense denies.
You, who collected hearts like leaves
and pressed each once within your book,
forgot. None?winsome, bright or rare?
not one was worth a second look.
My heart, as others, you forsook.
But I, though I loved you from afar
through silent dawns, and gathered rue
from gardens where your footsteps left
cold paths among the asters, knew?
each moonless night the nettles grew
and strangled hope, where love dies too.
Published by Penny Dreadful, Carnelian, Romantics Quarterly, Grassroots Poetry and Poetry Life & Times
there is a shine to the window way up high
I scoot up there to watch the sky
It’s gray today, and wind is playing the trees
I watch large limbs waving in the breeze
The grass is verdant, so marvelously green
I hear some voices, the people unseen
I raise the window to better hear
the neighbors, whose voices are most clear
My flowers look pretty, especially the lily
An upside-down statue looks pretty silly
rain hits me in the face as it starts to sprinkle
the asphalt driveway has nary a wrinkle
from safety of this window, I preview my land
redness of cardinal reminds me tomatoes need canned
There is a smell of summer brought inside through this square
A portal to the outside, honest, lovely, and fair.