Long Mane Poems
Long Mane Poems. Below are the most popular long Mane by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Mane poems by poem length and keyword.
In regnis verborum, ubi somnia avolant,
Versum componam virtute purissima.
Calamo in manu, cor meum flagrat,
Narrabo fabulam, notissimam unquam.
Super tabula caelesti gratiae,
Colores amplexus amoris exprimam.
A primo mane ad crepusculi fulgorem,
Tapestry conficiam, poetae somnium.
In pratis aureis, ubi flores saltant,
Rhythmos in dulci somno congregabo.
Odor jasmini, aura mitis,
Arcana flatus inesse susurro.
Cum metaphoris vividis, caelum depingam,
Siderum symphoniam in habitu concors.
Earum tremulas melodias, coetus caelestis,
Ignem aeterni desiderii excitabunt.
E profunditatibus incognitis, animam extraham,
Arcana solvam, spiritus integrabo.
Per gaudium et dolorem, triumphum et desperationem,
Aperiens sensus, sine timore communicabo.
Humana miseria, thema aeternum,
Hae versus decorabunt, vividus rivus.
Cum misericordia et compassione, calamus meus fluat,
Revelans veritates subditas penitus.
Per fabulas antiquas et narrationes fabulosas,
Heroes dierum antiquorum excitabo.
Eorum virtus et sapientia, in aeternum sculpta,
In poeticis stanzae, in perpetuum conservata.
Ab altissimis montibus ad latissimos oceani sinus,
Perambulabo terrae spatia, longe lateque.
Verbis ut navis, maria navigabo,
Narrationes aperiens cum clavibus infinitis.
In echo risus, lacrimarum retentarum,
Historiae patheticae suum nexum invenient.
Melodiae vitae, tam lenes quam clamosae,
Cantabunt carmina sua adoranti multitudini.
Quot verbum scriptum est, universum floret,
Infinite possibilitates, extra aulas nostras.
Nam in regno carminis amplexus,
Mundus expergitur, ornatu gratiae.
Hoc ergo carmen fiat testimonium verum,
Potentiae verborum, magiae quam efficiunt.
Nam in his versibus, studio compositis,
Inest poema maximum, oceanus aeternus.
Bless are we with peace, in the midst of pain or joy, a pet, a joyful,
full of warm loving life, a spirit that finds a place in our heart.
Quote _ by poet
My Peanut, a Yorkie
my pet, also my friend
he is my shadow halve
a puppy that loves his
many toys he does have.
My Peanut, a Yorkie
long silky silver-gray
hair, with russet- blond mane
tiny legs, underfoot,
a continuous pain.
My Peanut, a Yorkie
loves his tasty tidbits
you fulfill his wishes
loves you to pieces with
wet nose and drench kisses.
My Peanut, a Yorkie
his barks echo throughout
the residential walls.
My companion from dawn
arises 'till night falls.
4/7/2022
Form M - Monchielle - New Poetry Contest
1. pet/pets
Sponsored by: Constance La France
xxAxA xxBxB xxCxC xxDxD 6 syllables per line
Candid and fully exposed as the theatre’s light dims
She stands poised, dauntless disciplined and statuesque
A stance both stalwart and defiant yet supple are her limbs
Mango hued flower, shoulder's thrown back thrusting her breast
He sits rapped by intrigue as he studies her movement
A silver fox and raven mane is neatly brushed regally back
To beautify him further would take divine improvement
Only to be bathed in her impassioned embrace does he lack
Swirls of sangria red fabric charge like El toro spark undulating trails
Laced in pearly white with azure blue print mesmerize and highlight
And flow about her generous hips in a rage of billowing canvas sails
Flamenco dancers firm legs are revealed in fish nets that boldly invite
Whilst her furtive glimpse ignites his cavalier bon vivant smile
She bewiles with onyx eyes that glisten and fingers splayed for effect
He connects in a flash with a performers come hither guile
Upon times eternal river this fiery night's tryst they shall reflect
The bright lights flair, outshine the stars.
Your laughter leads me in their sway,
Past ticket booths and candy jars.
We miss our footing, hand in hand,
Leaving the rat-race far away,
We fall like children, down the sand.
The carousel spins horse and mane,
Prances and canters on display
To "Yippee!", "Yahoo!", once again.
The roller coaster swirls its arc,
Climbs up, then drops, without delay,
Leaving our screams, lost in the dark.
The Ferris wheel turns crystal pods,
Stealing our breath with its display
Of all the lights, beheld by gods.
The gates swing shut, the lights burn low,
Yet we still yearn to ride and play,
For lovers, tumble as they go.
The Salt Horse
Her body brushes the forest's bark like a clock made of dew,
her skin trembles thin, a flag of water beaten by the wind,
through the wood's fingers pass warm trade winds like a breath,
the trees' hands cool themselves in her as in a hidden spring,
beyond so much touching sleeps a horse as vast as the horizon,
his flesh is violet like a jellyfish dreamed in the sea's sleep.
From his mane living tentacles are born, serpents of salt and light,
they gather the bodies around and drink them like wells,
the chests break free alone, running bare like stray dogs,
they carry on their skin bruised imprints, old kisses of fire,
the fields bare their great teeth and bite into memories,
and the marks left behind burn like mouths that can't be filled.
Those immense mouths swallow the vines fleeing in fear,
cut into pieces, the vines rise up straight like candles,
at their tips small suckers grow, blind eyes searching the sky,
everything trembles in an ancient rhythm, a boundless dance,
I watch you from the horse's shadow, from his violet flesh,
not knowing if I'm dreaming, or being born from his salt-womb.
We are only shape and longing, living clay under a mercury moon,
blood runs through the trunks like a liquid smoke, white and heavy,
your hands are roots, your mouth a crystal made of dew,
inside you the trade winds burn as in a templeless temple,
and the erotic horse dreams he might become a forest,
and the forest, in turn, dreams it wears a mane of jade.
The bare chests remain, knocking at the gates of evening,
the bruised imprints remain, writing their story across the fields,
the horse remains, silent, his flesh a jellyfish gone dark,
and we remain, longing and ash, inside the body that forgets us,
somewhere on the horizon a new vine climbs again toward the light,
and at its tip grows a sucker-flower, red, mystic, alive.
In the morning that doesn't know its name yet and fumbles through the clay,
a thought unravels slowly like the smoke of a song that's drifted away,
and starts to overturn old skies in the palm of a wind that's been shut tight,
from the mane of time, tearing loose a mirage from the bone of paradise's light.
In the morning of the grass that grows both up and back, strand by strand,
a thought sharpens its scythe and draws it softly through the air like a breath unplanned,
and starts to gather into an empty hood the moments that no longer have a face,
from the mane of time, cutting off a warm slice like a cry lost in eclipse's space.
In the morning of the water that turns back into cloud and forgets it ever ran,
a thought pulls the twin rains apart and hides them deeper than any map or plan,
and starts to swallow in its wet palm the seconds, raw and bitter as old brine,
from the mane of time, lifting from the shell of the seas the last late light to shine.
In the morning of the moon that leaves and trails behind it just a ring of haze,
a thought goes wandering, bends its spine, and drinks down melancholy for its days,
and starts to melt down salt-scorched dreams and fold them up in autumn's leaving,
from the mane of time, gathering royal nostalgias written in prayer and in the cleaving.
In the morning of the tear that falls through sleep and never touches any sill,
a thought kneads the bookmarks written in the ink of beaded coral, dark and still,
and starts to dew the horizon, weaving cloud on cloud along a lash of sky,
from the mane of time, wringing out loneliness like a fruit with longing's taste gone dry.
In the final morning, when time sheds its worn coat and goes quiet and bare,
a thought becomes the dust of memories that no longer know what peace is there,
and starts to turn back, thread by thread, into the first night, into nameless clay,
into the mane of time — where silence is older than the world by far away.
Dreams frolic
in the basket of the mind.
Like Easter eggs on Sunday grass
pastel hands for slowing time.
A misty- trusting face
just beyond the frosted glass.
A spirit mare with fiery mane
that licked the heart with lips aflame...
then backhanded
your naive face into the fangs
of loneliness, refrain.
In place of friendly smiles
were sirens with hollowed hearts, void of any grace.
The leather-souled elders taught you the art of
kneading hope then weaving scars.
Turning a room of bitter spirits into angels
taming the bucking flanks of moody stars.
The golden-mouthed flutist
whispers of a long- forgotten dream,
when ice cream trucks and noon church bells
flowed into the soul like rose petals on the wind...
When streams of angels waltzed with innocents....
upon a stage of gilded rosaries.
Now, everything is forever lost.
The flesh-the bone- the burlap- the silky sweet.
The heavy metal of our youth
minced into the thinning cloth of age.
Most every soul is gifted to the silversmith,
who forges halos and shimmering wings...
while a few are hung upon the tusk of
the icy, gray slag heap.
The human body was built with a stretching ability. Skin and muscles are very elastic and prepared for adversities. Bones can be fractured and broken, but mends back in time. Ache me; bend me; mend me; brake me; mane me; pain me; I bounce back. Everything within me connects, communicates, and confers with each other. But I am wondering about 'the goings on' of a can of corn, if dented. If a dent is made in a can of corn, does it force the kernels to draw closer together? It's like this. While cleaning our food closet one day, I overheard a most interesting dialogue between designated speakers for the corn and the water.
"What just happened here?" said the whole kernel can of corn to the water in the can. "I felt a deep stump that shook us as you moved like a high tidal wave." "I know! said the water, it was as if someone just threw us into a large tote of other cans". "I don't know what's going on here, but I sure wish it would stop. We have feelings too?" They seem to care more about a dent in their cars than one in a can containing their food supply. Go figure".
After a pause, the corn kernel said, "Anyway, the dent they caused just took away some of our already crowded space. Moreover, I suspect before long someone will come looking to eat us, notwithstanding the dent in the can. Until then we'll just have to deal with the way things are. "On the other hand, said the water, they might decide to eat us as a last resort, like when things are bad and money is tight. In that way we'll last longer. I must say that as a result of our can being dent, not only have we both been stirred, but we have been forced to communicate like humans do. Maybe we'll also learn to bounce back like humans". And the corn kernel said, "Perhaps so, and I guess if you are going to get eaten, later is better for us."
12242017 PS Contest, Dented Cans, John Lawless (Personification)
You come to me through breathing nuances of your soul
Pinpricks of laughter, tears, and excitement
Memories buried deep within
Trickles of blood
Moments of loss
My body warms
My heart expands
I am a conduit
To receive the gifts you bring
Dancing cells before my eyes
Seducing me with their movement
Our beings so blessed with
Magic and purpose
We function, often without thought
To the complexity of the mechanisms within
That pump our hearts
Containing light years of wisdom
How precious life is
How fortunate we are
To feel bliss, love, anger, and loss
We are capable of gazing into each other’s eyes
With compassion and acceptance
Able to feel the touch
Of another’s lips on ours
Miracles happen before our eyes
We can grab a tendril, a tailfeather,
A mane, or a hand
And surf the wave to gratitude
Anticipation ignites within my soul
Understanding the delicate balance of nature
Encompassing man, woman, child, and animals
Brings welcome sweet tears to my eyes
To receive the offerings of compassion, kindness, and humility
And sharing them with others brings joy
I am one
We are one together
All of us making our way
Through darkness and light
Fluttering monarch butterflies fill the air
As we gather and rise upwards
Riding the wings of the ancient bird tribes
Unspoken words fill the gauzy lavender sky
A pod of whales below guides us
Gentle giants leading us towards
Promise and new horizons
Ushered by the heartbeats of wonder within
Down the gradient of meandering verdant valley
Draining down the dregs of the fading dusk
Beyond the threshold of the wild woods thick
My white stallion gallops in the emerald prairie.
Gossamer gloss sparkles on the supple skin
Wisps of silky cloud swirl on the satin mane
Tossing on swinging waves of the south wind
The equine beauty canters out of my heart.
Bent blades of jade grass sway in sinuous ruffle
In sync with the rhythm of the bolting ivory grace
The tilted hooves hover in the transfixed air
Panorama of motion captured in sublime silence.
Soaked in twilight glow we cross the last pasture
Floating on cascading spectrum of the setting sun
Beyond the glowing horizon of grandeur I see
The portal of heaven opens for my horse and me.
March 30, 2020
Contest : Completely Your Choice (42) Any Form Any Theme
Sponsor : Brian Strand