Long Limn Poems
Long Limn Poems. Below are the most popular long Limn by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Limn poems by poem length and keyword.
Feeling lost in twilight schemes through glowing lights of starlit dreams,
raw, my thoughts, like frozen streams, soon melt as mist in iced moonbeams,
and you, your eyes, so grey and grim, yet lips that curl with smiling gleams,
gasping heart cries out and screams through growing cracks and broken seams.
In you I've found my everything, my life, my soul you make them sing,
lost in all the love you bring with gentle breath on soft hushed wing.
Enthralled in dulcet voice I limn with painted words of love I cling.
Held close to breast your voice will ring surcease of pain from burst heart string.
Envisioned aura in my head encircles all my thoughts with dread
as with your words my soul is fed and withers slow from things you've said.
Reduced as if by simple whim, your gentle deeds I've left unread.
Touch me not in days ahead, with your caress I'll be mislead,
so, leave me now with eyes blood red, alone and cold and left for dead.
01-01-17
A door made from the haphazard weaving
of wood, rust, and ivy.
Smudged newspapers flap their wings
in a wayward wind. Bird feathers
emerge from wet claw prints. Faded condoms
spill to feed the mouths of empty cans.
The garden has no house,
rubble and broken verges limn a floorplan.
Weeds grapple, roots maul residual slabs of concrete.
Black bags regurgitate desiccated bacon rinds.
A boy finds treasures,
a nickel can opener,
a pen with a lady, whose clothes fall off
when turned upside-down,
a dog-chewed superman doll.
That night with dreaming eyes
he flew over the city with a half-naked lady.
while a can-opener
slowly opened up his adulthood.
A door made from the haphazard weaving
of wood, rust, and ivy.
Smudged newspapers flap wings
in a heaving wind. Drowned birds
emerge from wet print. Barren condoms
spill to feed the mouths of empty cans.
The garden has no house.
Rubble and verge limn a floor-plan.
Weeds grapple, roots maul concrete.
Black bags regurgitate
bacon rinds.
A boy's found-treasure: a nickel can-opener,
a pen with a lady, whose clothes fall off
when turned upside-down,
a chewed Superman doll.
That night his closed eyes
fly over the city with a half-naked lady.
while a can-opener
slowly opens up adulthood.
Ill-fated crowds neath unchained clouds: the Silent City braved
against a sudden flashing flood, unleashing lashing waves,
which stripped its stony structures, blown with neutron bursts that laved.
Its barren streets, although effete, resound of yesterday
with chit-chat words no longer heard (though having much to say)
since teeming life (at one time, rife), surceased and slipped away.
Within its walls? Whist buildings, tall... Outside the City? Dunes,
which limn its frail forgotten tales, in weird unworldly runes
with symbols strung like halos hung in lifeless, limp festoons.
Above! The dismal ditch of dusk reveals a velvet streak,
through which the winter’s wicked winds will sometimes weave and sneak,
and faraway a cable sways, a bridge clings hushed and bleak.
Thin shadows shift, like silver shafts, throughout the doomed domain
reflecting white, wee wisps of light in ebon beads of bane
which cast a crooked smile across a faceless windowpane.
Wan neon lights glow through the nights, through darkness sleek as slate,
while lanterns (hovered, high above, in silent swinging gait),
whelm ballrooms, bars, bereft bazaars, though no one’s left to fete.
Death's silhouettes show no regrets, 'twixt twilight’s ashen shrouds,
oblivious she always was to cries in dying crowds –
in foggy neap the spirits creep beyond the mushroom clouds.
No ghosts of ones with jagged tongues will sing a silent psalm
nor haunt pale lips with languid quips to pierce the deathly calm,
nor yet redress the emptiness that shifting shades embalm.
Continued in part 2
Whitman grasped it all
where the limns aura crafting
expose themselves
summer thunderstorms, Zeus alive
winter's nor'easter, Poseidon's wrath unfolding
a Robin fallen upon life's path
draws a touch to the heart, deepens sorrow
Spring denied a song, Emily restores a nest
war-torn valleys of scattered dreams
where the fruits of wombs never bloom
while in others the children gather in circles
fall to the ground safe and joyous
the nightingale's complex dawn call
walks in nocturnal songs to a grateful day
beckoning calls from forest paths
where the found are lost in discovering
terminus ad quem, terminus ad quo
the metrodome in fields of grain
dancing in the winds right to remain unsolved
if no sparrow falls, neither is the dove denied
nor the wandering herbivores
or the salubrious claws of their predators
it is in the moon's illusion to life's delusion
lives lost in destination to horizons deceiving
where Alphie is hiding all the answers
at which place questions falter
it is in this admixture of mixture
the muse's breath fills the quills
the poet walks in the invisible visible
Whitman's aura crafting
a garden safely walled, inside a tree
whose fruit bears inspiration
resembling now that i think of it
my mother's reading habit in bed
hand searching a bowl for another fruit
the other never abandoning the book
neither out of command of her gaze
which always reminded me
those blind ne'er leave an unturned page
at no time judge its cover
seeing where sight is intrinsic
the elysium within a limn
Creation's width and breadth
the poet's quill manumitted
Oregon 10/5/26
"Stop this day and night with me and you shall possess the origin
of all poems"
Walt Whitman
"Reading is to the mind as exercise is to the body"
Joseph Addison
In every part of this eastern world, from Pekin to Damascus, the popular teachers of moral wisdom have immemorially been poets.
William Jones
"Beware; for I am fearless and therefore powerful"
Mary Shelly
My name is rain
But I have many faces.
I am the howling gale
That rattles your shutters
And sends the porch chairs
Skittering across the floor.
I whistle and scream
And drive cascades of water
Against your windows
And down the rain gutters,
Forcing tiny rivulets
Between the shingles
To drip tinnily into buckets
On the floor.
I am shy and quiet,
Misty and mysterious.
I cushion and muffle
The busy noise of life.
My voice is a whisper
Scarcely heard.
My tiny droplets
Fall like downy feathers,
Tickling the upturned faces
Of flowers and children
And lovers
Walking hand in hand.
I am the steady, drenching rain
That soaks the parched ground
And awakes the sleeping
Iris and daffodil,
Crocus and tulip.
I tend the farmer’s crops
And green the fields
And pastures.
I softly beat my drum
In rhythm on your roof
And lull you to sleep
And pleasant dreams.
I am the summer storm
Sweeping in suddenly
Without warning
From the West.
I bring the fireworks
Of crackling thunder
And lightning blazes
That limn the trees
In stark relief,
That send cats and children
Scurrying under beds
With eyes clenched shut.
I am as old as the earth
And as young as spring
I can be harsh and loud
Or so gentle that
Children cavort and splash
In my muddy puddles.
Farmers rejoice.
I send picnickers,
Laughing and wet,
To have their picnic
Under a river’s bridge.
I am both feared and loved.
My name is rain,
And I have many faces.
Skull and Crossbones alumni)
passed along ancestral line when
cock sure rooster spent
however long with a hen
guaranteed supply grunt workers
oxymorons helpless to get even.
“Bosses” male ordure
trained as prospective
male pecking wives,
who with Robbie
didst rig the game to win
endemic nepotism deeply entwined
from one to the next kith and/or kin,
rode shotgun, viz nemesis
resorting to: “silent treatment”
against protesting lumpenproletariat
boot gnome hatch
against hardy thrive
off crene della creme limn
back before thyme
bred from for
gotten slight, min
us school Kudzu, gone
now and agin
gastronomically ferociously carniverous
selected and enveloped
postal stamping brutes
rampant suffocating nin
come poops figurative
thorn in side of aristocracy
heavy-duty industrial strength
pesky original pin
sir blithely festered,
nursed, and stewed
from unforgotten
perceived or actual slight
engendering infinite yawning voids
defying aid of Patch Adams
or Doctor Quinn.
She dances in bright colors.
Her limn's diamond tierra
completely adorns her hair.
Making her lighter than air.
Causing a limn's whirlwind.
She keeps swirling around,
surrounded by her limn's swirling
colors. Sweeping her off of her
feet. Causing her to go
fearlessly flying into the sky.
She is swirling through the
sky in bright colors. Her limn's
completely engulfs her.
She swirls into the her limn.
She becomes one with the
sun, the moon, and the sky.
You can see her limn in
rainbow colors after rainy showers.
Love as always,
Roxanne Lea Dubarry
Roxy Lea 1954
Roxy 1954/ October Country
May 11, 2020
Poetry is a gift and a labor of love.
Beautifully inspired words of
Gentleness. Composing words
Of Kindness. Chasing the
Blues far far away!
Poetry is a gift and a labor of love.
Heavenly angels joyfully singing
Words of Wisdom and words of
Love. Flowing freely!
Poetry is a gift and a labor of love.
Heavenly saints join in their
Chorus of inspirational love.
Rejoicing for all eternity.
Poetry is a gift and a labor of love.
Freely flowing from my mind.
Continually all of the time.
Wonderful words! Beautiful words!
Poetry is a gift and a labor of love.
Dancing queens in bright colors.
Swirling around in circles.
It's their limn! It's their limn!
Love in Christ Jesus!
Roxanne Lea Dubarry
Roxy Lea 1954
Roxy 1954/ October Country
May 24, 2020
A door made from the haphazard weaving
of wood, rust, and ivy.
Smudged newspapers flap wings
in a heaving wind. Dead birds
emerge from wet print. Once full condoms
spilled now to feed the mouths of empty cans.
The garden has no house.
Rubble and verge limn a floor-plan.
Weeds grapple, roots maul concrete.
Black bags regurgitate
bacon rinds.
A boy finds treasures; a nickel can-opener,
a pen with a lady, whose clothes fall off
when turned upside-down,
a chewed Superman doll.
That night his closed eyes
fly over the city with a naked lady.
while a can-opener
slowly opens up his young mind
into puberty.