Long Meanders Poems
Long Meanders Poems. Below are the most popular long Meanders by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Meanders poems by poem length and keyword.
A Star-Studded Escapement
The foot of this lookout begins with a range of mountains and valleys in a tangle,
Juxtapositions alight that fills the mountain veins with snow at various angles,
The trees run wild through the valley covered floor,
This forest of green meanders along, as the paths’ core,
Clouds circulate and dapple the sunlit horizon in shades of light,
Their movement conjures up a gesture of continuous flight,
Creating shadows on the mountainous cape, at bright of day,
Plays on painted colored contrasts, illuminating as they may,
The snow caps reach to heaven as their eroded surfaces are shaped,
Flowers linger through the valley, where the forests drapes,
Engulfing the mystery of this scenic arrangement,
This fair path free of hindrance makes a great escapement,
The floral tapestry weaves throughout the treed mountain base,
Enjoying the view and the culmination of beauty is what we face.
An ode to the gustatory ******
My mouth meanders through this dream
This memory of breakfast in bed
A lover seducing my every desire
Sweet maple, slight hint of flannel
A light crispness of waffle
Caressed by firm red breasted berries
A passing breath of hickory smoke
To mingle light sweetness
With the tingle of strawberries
Bathed in Vermont’s best maple
Eggs, uncaged, unfettered by shells
Sunrise yolks spreading across crisp waffles
To quell the insatiable beast of morning
Palate cleansed by the darkness
Of steaming hot black coffee
A tremble at the first taste of
Egg-stasy kissed by syrup
Teased by a sharp berry bite
Placed upon the edge
Of hickory salty ham
My taste buds shriek
As each bite intensifies
My gustatory ******
.....
As my eyes get too heavy, with the weight of each lid
My dreams start to travel to where an alter me lives
My head on my pillow, I am floating in clouds
The sky is my ocean, where the waves sweep me out
Like a sea washing up at the base of a cliff
I feel ocean breezes, with the tides of ‘what-if ’…
The places I visit, at the douse of the light
Are dreams where I wander, in the thick of the night
There is a path that meanders, that is woven with flowers
Where the sun keeps on shining, no matter the hour
I can lie in the sand, feel the warmth of the sun
Tho’ the thunder clouds rattle my window like drums
Often forgotten by morning, each place that I’ve been
It is not easy by daylight...., to hold onto dreams
........
Inspired By Brian Strand's Contest: Your Pick/14 Lines
Sometimes I feel a loosening,
not a rise or fall
but a sideways slip
into the body’s secret dream~
the one it keeps folded
behind the pulse.
Inside, everything is surreal.
The ribs bloom like pale petals,
opening and closing
with a slow botanical breath.
Capillaries curl like red vines,
twining around thoughts
I haven’t had yet.
I wander deeper,
past the soft machinery
of muscle and memory,
where neurons spark
like tiny bioluminescent fish
darting through a midnight reef.
The heart meanders by~
not beating, but floating,
a warm, wandering lantern
in search of its own echo.
I follow its glow
into a chamber~
where cells gather like pilgrims,
trading stories in chemical syllables
I almost understand.
Here, my body feels ancient~
a living archive
of every dream, wound, wonder
I’ve ever carried.
And as I move through it,
I realize I’m not leaving myself
but meeting myself
in places I never knew existed.
An inner-body experience~
not escape,
but entry
into the surreal biology
that has held me
all these years.
Am I humble enough to say,
I still wonder where to go?
The path that I must travel,
Surely, someday, I will know ...
I build my sand-walled castle,
For what more can I do?
And the sea erodes my workings;
I must turn my gaze to you.
My mind meanders aimlessly,
Attempts in vain to trace,
The outlines of your majesty -
The meaning of your grace.
This heart of mine is broken,
Fallen, chasing lesser things.
Alone, I can't repair it.
Angels, lift it with your wings -
To God. My Lord, behold -
Your servant kneels to you;
His purpose quite uncertain,
His actions flawed and few,
His thinking caught in circles,
His heart broken in a gyre,
So put him in the crucible;
Unleash your righteous fire!
I suspect, though hardly claim,
That there is something there,
Worthy of refining.
So I submit to your care.
Written 6 January 2019
In the dark opaque night,
across the sonorous space of solitude,
enfolding the languid landscape of existence,
bereft of the beguiled spirit in indolent life,
my forsaken journey’s pathway meanders
in the gloomy labyrinth of agony.
The self-obsessive free-will, ever seemingly dormant,
envelopes the mind with an illusory immanent veil,
obscures the ordained destination.
Trudging at the fringe of trying tolerance,
I hear the whispering wind of innate wisdom
tell me, this journey has no meaningful end.
I’m in the nebulous ambit of ambiguity,
find the desolate soul in the grip of anguish shadow.
As I see the overcast bleak sky crash down,
I collect fortitude in darkness from the debris of hope,
pray for the eternal light God to illumine.
I travel liberated out of the murky abyss of anguish
on the inward blessed journey,
through the pious layers of consciousness,
perceive in the essence of the devout soul
the radiance of the divine beacon,
lighting up the screen of the enacting life.
The portals of the inner domain then open,
where the piety lotus blooms for me,
suffused with omnipresent gleam of God’s grace.
My lighted soul shines with the ethereal radiance
in the infinite depth of the discernment space,
like the flaring brilliance of a thousand suns.
In my self-searching spiritual odyssey
toward the edge of the enlightened eternity,
I perceive the glow of the inner galaxy
lighting all lights in the serene sanctum of stillness
that turn me into a living light.
Life is a long walk,
The path meanders,
The path undulates.
Life is a sequence of doors,
They open of their own accord,
Until the final closure.
Life is a book,
Ancient and voluminous,
No one has read to its end.
Life is a hill,
Our purpose makes us climb,
Our ambition pushes us further.
Life is a battlefield,
We don’t fight with guns and knives,
Our weapons are our will and determination.
Life is a mystery,
Some things can’t be comprehended,
The deeper we search the
more intricate they become.
Life is a race,
We run at different speeds,
Some fall out in the race.
Life is a train,
We embark and disembark,
At our various stations.
Life is a tussle,
The evil against the good,
The unseen against the seen.
Life is a timeline,
It can’t be trapped,
It flows like a stream.
June 26, 2022.
The meeting point. Where candle smoke, mixed with incense, meanders through the air. A latent image developing, like a polaroid of prayer, into microscopic particles of silver, weaving into an undulating bridge reaching to heaven. This writhing wreath of smoke, twisting in the sun’s rays, that probe with bright fingers, through slatted windows high above. Here, in this place, the fears, the worries, the kaleidoscope of chaos we call life, melts and dissipates, like the drifting, venerable vapours. I am emptied but enriched. In the presence of a love that bids me return, that reassures me, gives me courage, fulfilment and peace. The spirit surges, firing up within me like the old boiler in our hallway, roaring with love, re-igniting the flame planted within in me long, long ago.
Renewed, forgiven.
Reconciled. I understand.
I am not alone.
Eight long decades I’ve taken
To know this life’s touchstone like truth:
Man loves to live anywhere
But at life’s battle-hardened booth.
Yea, we scarce want to be
Where life for reason has brought us,
And wishing to migrate
There, there to fish for no cause.
Old age, as is inevitable,
As it brings me to brood,
And mind being unstable,
Ambles back to my childhood,
Which, without the least of doubt,
One of the pleasant most,
Though not always sugarcane sweet
That be chewed till void of its boast.
I recall still when I was there—
A child in flesh and blood and mood,
Not an apparition of thought,
My thoughts centred oft on adulthood.
Today I wonder, not just childhood,
Life’s every stage is such a swell time,
Which, when one gets older feels good,
But mind meanders, reason nor rhyme.
Not at life’s battle-hardened booth…
It’s taken me eight long decades
To know this life’s touchstone like truth:
Leaving all jewels, man chases jades.
__________________________
Musings | 06.05.2026 | age, birth/brood, childhood, old, quatrain
Fragile resolve aspires
to capture the residual rainbow,
weaves the lattice of life
with spectral ribbons,
turns into a self-destructive
psychosis syndrome
that fails to fling
the insane illusion
in the cloud of dreams,
for it has hypnotic leverage
on the mind,
mangled by
s t o r m.
Wedged by the splitting bevel
of slashing time,
the frail fragments of failure
get lacerated from life,
scatter on the path
to the rainbow,
yet untraveled,
meanders marooned
in debris of derelict dreams,
disappear down the deep sinkhole
of dusky oblivion.
In lucent mystique mind,
transmuting thoughts
flash on
ebony emotions.
Absolved of self-qualm
psychic crystal sparkles
in sense stars’ aurora flare,
traces the prime trajectory
from the cosmic soul’s
nebulous abyss,
within.
In the mesmeric meadow
of the inner topography,
seraphic shadows dance mystified
with gorgeous sequined glitter
of the sensuous stardust
in the tune of
buoyant bliss.
The discernment mindscape
makes the montage
of the existential rainbow,
d i s m a n t l e d.